Chapter 46, Part 2 of Life and Adventures of Martin Chuselwit. At first he gazed angrily upon her, as upon a stranger who endeavored to deceive him. But peering into her face, and seeing that it was indeed she, he shook his head in sorrowful compassion. You think not, but they don't tell you. No, no, poor thing, they don't tell you. Who are these, and why are they merry-making here, if there is no one dead?  She made a sign to them not to speak to him, which indeed they had little inclination to do, and remained silent herself. So did he for a short time, but then he repeated the same question with an eagerness that had a peculiar terror in it. There's someone dead, he said, or dying, and I want to know who it is. Go see, go see, where's Jonas? In the country, she replied, the old man gazed at her as if he doubted what she said or had not heard her, and rising from his chair walked across the room and upstairs, whispering as he went, foul play! They heard his footsteps overhead, going up into that corner of the room in which the bed stood. It was there old Anthony had died, and then they heard him coming down again immediately. His fancy was not so strong or wild that it pictured to him anything in the deserted bed chamber which was not there, for he returned much calmer and appeared to have satisfied himself.  They don't tell me either, but I'll watch, I'll watch.  When you have sat up watching, I have sat up watching too, I, I, I have. He piped out, clenching his weak, shriveled hand. Many a night I have been ready. He said this with such trembling gaps and pauses in his want of breath and said it in his jealous secrecy so closely in her ear that little or nothing of it was understood by the visitors. But they had heard and seen enough of the old man to be disquieted and to have left their seats and gathered about him, thereby affording Mrs. Gamp, whose professional coolness was not so easily disturbed, an eligible opportunity for concentrating the whole resources of her powerful mind and appetite upon the toast and butter, tea and eggs. She had brought them to bear upon those viens with such vigor that her face was in the highest state of inflammation, when she now, there being nothing left to eat or drink, saw fit to interpose. Why hidey-tidey, sir, cried Mrs. Gamp, is these your manners? You want a picture of cold water-throat over you to bring you round, that's my belief, and if you was under Betsy Prigg, you'd have it, too. I do assure you, Mr. Chuffy.  It wouldn't be no grievous loss if someone was, I think. He's quiet now, Mrs. Gamp, said Mary, don't disturb him. Oh, bother the old victim, Mrs. Chuzzawit, replied that zealous lady. I ain't no patience with him. You'll give him his own way too much by half, a worten, what, say, just creed her. No doubt, with the view of carrying out the precepts she enforced and bothering the old victim in practice as well as in theory, Mrs. Gamp took him by the collar of his coat and gave him some dozen or two of hearty shakes backward and forward in his chair, that exercise being considered by the disciples of the Prigg School of Nursing, who are very numerous among professional ladies, as exceedingly conducive to repose and highly beneficial to the performance of the nervous functions. Its effect, in this instance, was to render the patient so giddy and adelheaded that he could say nothing more, which Mrs. Gamp regarded as the triumph of her art. There, she said, loosening the old man's cravat, in consequence of his being rather black in the face after this scientific treatment. Now I hope you're easy in your mind. If you should turn it all faint, we can soon revive you, sir. I promise you. By the person's thumbs or turn their fingers the wrong way, said Mrs. Gamp, smiling with the consciousness of at once imparting pleasure and instruction to her auditors. And they come to wonderful, Lord bless you. As this excellent woman had been formerly entrusted with the care of Mr. Chuffee on a previous occasion, neither Mrs. Jonas nor anybody else had the resolution to interfere directly with her motive treatment, though all present, Tom Pinch and his sister especially, appeared to be disposed to differ from her views, for such is the rash boldness of the uninitiated, that they will frequently set up some monstrous abstract principle such as humanity or tenderness or the like idle folly in obstinate defiance of all precedent and usage, and will even venture to maintain the same against the persons who have made the precedents and established the usage, and who must therefore be the best and most impartial judges of the subject. Ah, Mr. Pinch, said Mrs. Pexniff, it all comes of this unfortunate marriage. If my sister had not been so precipitated and had not united herself to a wretch, there would have been no Mr. Chuffee in the house. Hush, great Tom, she'll hear you. I should be very sorry if she did hear me, Mr. Pinch, said Cherry, raising her voice a little, for it is not in my nature to add to the uneasiness of any person, far less of my own sister. I know what a sister's duties are, Mr. Pinch, and I hope I always showed it in my practice. Augustus, my dear child, find my pocket, handkerchief, and give it to me. Augustus obeyed and took Mrs. Todgers aside to pour his griefs into her friendly bosom. I am sure, Mr. Pinch, said Charity, looking after her betrothed and glancing at her sister, that I ought to be very grateful for the blessings I enjoy and those which are yet in store for me. When I contrast Augustus, here she was modest and embarrassed, who, I don't mind saying to you, is all softness, mildness, and devotion, with a detestable man who is my sister's husband, and when I think, Mr. Pinch, that in the dispensations of this world our cases might have been reversed, I have much to be thankful for indeed, and much to make me humble and contented. Contented she might have been, but humble she assuredly was not. Her face and manner experienced something so widely different from humility that time could not help understanding and despising the base motives that were working in her breast. He turned away and said to Ruth that it was time for them to go. I will write to your husband, said Tom, to Mary, and explain to him, as I would have done if I had met him here, that if he has sustained any inconvenience through my means it is not my fault, a postman not being more innocent of the news he brings than I was when I handed him that letter. I thank you, said Mary, it may do some good. She parted tenderly from Ruth, who, with her brother, was in the act of leaving the room when a key was heard in the lock of the door below, and immediately afterwards a quick footstep in the passage. Tom stopped and looked at Mary. It was Jonas, she said timidly. I had better not meet him on the stairs, perhaps, said Tom, drawing his sister's arm through his and coming back a step or two. I'll wait for him here a moment. He had scarcely said it when the door opened and Jonas entered. His wife came forward to receive him, but he put her aside with his hand and said, in a surly tone, I didn't know you'd got a party. As he looked at the same time, either by accident or design, towards Miss Pexnip, and as Miss Pexnip was only too delighted to quarrel with him she instantly resented it. Oh, dear, she said, rising, pray, don't let us intrude upon your domestic happiness. That would be a pity. We have taken tea here, sir, in your absence, but if you will have the goodness to send us a note of the expense receded, we shall be happy to pay it. Augustus, my love, we will go, if you please. Mrs. Todgers, unless you wish to remain here, we shall be happy to take you with us. It would be a pity indeed to spoil the bliss which this gentleman always brings with him, especially into his own home. The charity, charity, remonstrated her sister in such a heartfelt tone that she might have been imploring her to show the cardinal virtue whose name she bore. Mary, my dear, I am much obliged to you for your advice, return to Miss Pexnip with a stately scorn. By the way, she had not been offered any, but I am not his slave. No, nor wouldn't have been if you could, interrupted Jonas, we know all about it. What did you say, sir, cried Miss Pexnip sharply? Would you hear, retorted Jonas, lounging down upon a chair? I am not going to say it again. If you like to stay, you may stay. If you like to go, you may go, but if you stay, please to be civil. Beast, cried Miss Pexnip, sweeping past him. Augustus, he is beneath your notice. Augustus had been making some faint and sickly demonstration of shaking his fist. Come away, child, screamed to Miss Pexnip, I command you. The scream was elicited from her by Augustus manifesting an intention to return and grapple with him. But Miss Pexnip, giving the fiery youth a pull, and Mrs. Todgers giving him a push, they all three tumbled out of the room together to the music of Miss Pexnip's shrill remonstrances. All this time Jonas had seen nothing of Tom and his sister, for they were almost behind the door when he opened it, and he had sat down with his back towards them and had purposely kept his eyes upon the opposite side of the street during his altercation with Miss Pexnip, in order that his seeming carelessness might increase the exasperation of that wronged young damsel. His wife now faltered out that Tom had been waiting to see him, and Tom advanced. The instant he presented himself, Jonas got up from his chair and, swearing a great oath, caught it in his grasp as if he would have felled Tom to the ground with it, as he most unquestionably would have done, but that his very passion and surprise made him a resolute, and gave Tom and his calmness an opportunity of being heard. You have no cause to be violent, sir, said Tom, though what I wish to say relates to your own affairs I know nothing of them and desire to know nothing of them. Jonas was too enraged to speak. He held the door open and, stamping his foot upon the ground, motioned Tom away. As you cannot suppose, said Tom, that I am here with any view of conciliating you or pleasing myself, I am quite indifferent to your reception of me or your dismissal of me. Here would I have to say if you are not a madman. I gave you a letter the other day when you were about to go abroad. You thief, you did! retorted Jonas. I'll pay you for the carriage of it one day and settle an old score besides I will. Tot, tot, said Tom, you needn't waste words or threats. I wish you to understand plainly, because I would rather keep clear of you and everything that concerns you, not because I have the least apprehension of your doing me any injury, which would be weak indeed, that I am no party to the contents of that letter, that I know nothing of it, that I was not even aware that it was to be delivered to you and that I had it from by the Lord, cried Jonas, fiercely catching up the chair.  Tom, nevertheless persisting in his intention and opening his lips to speak again, Jonas set upon him like a savage, and in the quickness and ferocity of his attack would have surely done him some grievous injury, defenseless as he was, and embarrassed by having his frightened sister clinging to his arm, if Mary had not run between them crying to Tom for the love of heaven to leave the house.  Tom shook the dust of that house off his feet without having mentioned Nadget's name. If the name could have passed his lips, if Jonas, in the insolence of his vile nature, had never roused him to do that old act of manliness for which, and not for his last defense, he hated him with such malignity. If Jonas could have learned, as then he could and would have learned, through Tom's means, what unsuspected spy there was upon him, he would have been saved from the commission of a guilty deed, then drawing on towards its black accomplishment.  His wife had closed the door and thrown herself before it on the ground upon her knees. She held up her hands to him now and besought him not to be harsh with her, for she had interposed in fear of bloodshed. So, so said Jonas, looking down upon her as he fetched his breath. These are your friends, are they, when I am away? You plot and tamper with this sort of people, do you? No indeed, I have no knowledge of these secrets and no clue to their meaning. I have never seen him since I left home, but once, but twice before today. Oh, sneered Jonas, catching at this correction, but once, but twice, eh? Which do you mean? Twice and once perhaps, three times? How many more, you lying jade?  How many more times, he repeated, no more, the other morning and today and once besides. He was about to retort upon her when the clock struck. He started, stopped, and listened, appearing to revert to some engagement or to some other subject, a secret within his own breath, recalled to him by this record of the progress of the hours.  Having helped her to rise, or rather hauled her up by the arm, he went on to say, listen to me, young lady, and don't whine when you have no occasion, or I may make some for you. If I find him in my house again, or find that you have seen him in anybody else's house, you'll repent it. If you are not deaf and dumb to everything that concerns me, unless you have my leave to hear and speak, you'll repent it. If you don't obey exactly what I order, you'll repent it. Now attend, what's the time? It struck eight a minute ago. He looked towards her intently and said with a labored distinctness, as if he had got the words off by heart. I have been traveling day and night, and I'm tired. I have lost some money in that. Don't improve me. Put my supper in the little off room below and have the trucker bed made. I shall sleep there tonight and maybe tomorrow night. And if I can sleep all day tomorrow, so much the better, for I've got trouble to sleep off if I can. Keep the house quiet and don't call me. Mind, don't call me. Don't let anybody call me. Let me lie there. She said it should be done. Was that all? Oh, what? You must be prying and questioning. He angrily retorted. What more do you want to know? I want to know nothing, Jonas, but what you tell me. All hope of confidence between us has long deserted me. You could I should hope so, he muttered. But if you will tell me what you wish, I will be obedient and will try to please you. I make no merit of that, for I have no friend in my father or my sister, but I'm quite alone. I am very humble and submissive.  Do not break my heart, too. She ventured as she said these words to lay her hand upon his shoulder. He suffered it to rest there in his exultation, and the whole mean abject sordid pitiful soul of the man looked at her for the moment through his wicked eyes. For the moment only, for with the same hurried return to something within himself, he bade her in a surly tone show her obedience by executing his commands without delay. When she had withdrawn, he paced up and down the room several times, but always with his right hand clenched as if it held something which it did not, being empty. When he was tired of this he threw himself into a chair and thoughtfully turned up the sleeve of his right arm as if he were rather musing about its strength than examining it, but even then he kept the hand clenched. He was brooding in this chair with his eyes cast down upon the ground when Mrs. Gamp came in to tell him that the little room was ready. Not being quite sure of her reception after interfering in the quarrel, Mrs. Gamp, as a means of interesting and propitiating her patron, affected a deep solicitude in Mr. Chuffy. "'How is he now, sir?' she said. "'Who?' cried Jonas, raising his head and staring at her. "'To be sure,' returned the matron with a smile and a curtsy. "'What am I thinking of? He wasn't here, sir, when he was took so strange. "'I never see a poor dear creedor took so strange "'in all my life except a patient much about the same age "'as I once nust, which his calling was the customus. "'And his name was Mrs. Harris's own father, "'as pleasant a singer, Mr. Chuzzawit, as ever you hear, "'with a voice like a Jew's harp in the base notes, "'that it took six men to hold at such times, "'foaming frightful.' "'Chuffy, eh?' said Jonas carelessly, "'seeing that she went up to the old clerk "'and looked at him. "'Ha!' "'The creedor's head so hot,' said Mrs. Gamp, "'that you might heat a flat iron at it. "'And no wonder I am sure considering the things he said.' "'Said?' cried Jonas.  "'The awfulest things, Mr. Chuzzawit, as ever I heard, "'which Mrs. Harris's father never spoke a word "'when took so. "'Some does and some don't, except saying when he come round, "'Where is Sarah Gamp? "'But rarely, sir, when Mr. Chuffy comes to ask "'who's lying dead upstairs, and...  "'Mrs. Gamp nodded, made as if she were swallowing "'and went on. "'Who's lying dead upstairs?' said was his Bible language, "'and where was Mr. Chuzzawit, as had the only son? "'And when he goes upstairs, looking in the beds "'and wandering about the rooms, and comes down again, "'a whisperin' softly to his self about foul play in that, "'it gives me such a turn, I don't deny it, Mr. Chuzzawit, "'that I never could have kept myself up "'but for a little drain of spirits, which I seldom touches, "'but could always wish to know where to find "'is so disposed, never knowin' what may happen next, "'the world bein' so uncertain.' "'Well, the old fool's mad,' cried Jonas, "'much disturbed. "'That's my opinion, sir,' said Mrs. Gamp, "'and I will not deceive you. "'I believe as Mr. Chuffy, sir, requires attention "'if I may make so bold, and should not have his liberty "'to wax and wort your sweet lady as he does. "'Why, who minds what he says?' retorted Jonas. "'Still, he is wortin', sir,' said Mrs. Gamp. "'No one don't mind him, but he is a ill-convenience. "'He codged your right to Jonas, "'looking doubtfully at the subject of this conversation.   "'Our charge is not bein' high, "'but wishin' they was lower, and allowance made, "'considerin' not strangers. "'Me and Betsy Prigg, sir, would undertake Mr. Chuffy, "'reasonable,' said Mrs. Gamp, "'looking at him with her head on one side, "'as if he had been a piece of goods "'for which she was driving a bargain, "'and give every side its faction. "'Betsy Prigg has nust the many lunacies, "'and well, she knows their ways, "'which putin' them right close before the fire, "'when fractious is the certainst and most composing. "'While Mrs. Gamp discourse to this effect, "'Jonas was walking up and down the room again, "'glancing covertly at the old clerk, "'as he did so. "'He now made a stop, and said, "'I must look after him, I suppose, "'or I may have him doing some mischief. "'What say you?' "'Nothing more likely,' Mrs. Gamp replied, "'as well I have experienced. "'I do assure you, sir. "'Well, look after him for the present, "'and let me see three days from this time, "'let the other woman come here, "'and we'll see if we can make a bargain of it. "'About nine or ten o'clock at night, say. "'Keep your eye upon him in the meanwhile, "'and don't talk about it. "'He's as mad as a March hare. "'Matter,' cried Mrs. Gamp, "'a deal matter. "'See to him then, take care that he does no harm "'and recollect what I have told you.' "'Leaving Mrs. Gamp in the act of repeating "'all she had been told, "'and of producing and support of her memory "'and trustworthiness, many commendations selected "'from among the most remarkable opinions "'of the celebrated Mrs. Harris, "'he descended to the little room prepared for him, "'and pulling off his coat and his boots, "'put them outside the door before he locked it. "'In locking it, he was careful so to adjust the key "'as to baffle any curious person "'who might try to peep in through the keyhole. "'And when he had taken these precautions, "'he sat down to his supper. "'Mr. Chuff,' he muttered, "'it'll be pretty easy to be even with you. "'It's of no use doing things by halves, "'and as long as I stop here, I'll take good care of you. "'When I'm off, you may say what you please. "'But it's a damn strange thing,' he said, "'pushing away his untouched plate "'and striding moodily to and fro, "'that his driveling should have taken this turn just now. "'After pacing the little room from end to end "'several times, he sat down in another chair. "'I say just now, but for anything I know, "'he may have been carrying on the same game all along, "'old dog, he shall be gagged. "'He paced the room again in the same restless "'and unsteady way, "'and then sat down upon the bedstead, "'leaning his chin upon his hand and looking at the table. "'When he had looked at it for a long time, "'he remembered his supper, "'and resuming the chair he had first occupied, "'began to eat with great rapacity, "'not like a hungry man, "'but as if he were determined to do it.' "'He drank, too, roundly, "'sometimes stopping in the middle of a draft "'to walk and change his seat and walk again "'and dart back to the table and fall, too, "'in a ravenous hurry as before. "'It was now growing dark, "'as the gloom of evening, deepening into night, "'came on, another dark shade emerging from within him "'seemed to overspread his face and slowly change it.  "'The room in which he had shut himself up "'was on the ground floor at the back of the house. "'It was lighted by a dirty skylight "'and had a door in the wall opening into "'a narrow-covered passage or blind alley, "'very little frequented after five or six o'clock "'in the evening, and not in much use "'as a thoroughfare at any hour. "'But it had an outlet in a neighboring street. "'The ground on which this chamber stood had, "'at one time, not within his recollection, "'been a yard and had been converted "'to its present purpose for use as an office. "'But the occasion for it died with the man who built it, "'and saving that it had sometimes served "'as an apology for a spare bedroom, "'and that the old clerk had once held it, "'but that was years ago, as his recognized department, "'it had been a little troubled "'by Anthony Chuzzlewood and Sun. "'It was a blotched, stained, "'moldering room like a vault, "'and there were water pipes running through it, "'which, at unexpected times in the night "'when other things were quiet, "'clicked and gurgled suddenly as if they were choking. "'The door into the court had not been open "'for a long, long time, "'but the key had always hung in one place, "'and there it hung now. "'He was prepared for its being rusty, "'for he had a little bottle of oil in his pocket "'and the feather of a pen, "'with which he lubricated the key "'and the lock, too, carefully. "'All this while he had been without his coat, "'and had nothing on his feet but his stockings. "'He now got softly into bed in the same state "'and tossed from side to side to tumble it, "'in his restless condition that was easily done. "'When he arose, he took from his portmanteau, "'which he had caused to be carried into that place "'when he came home, "'a pair of clumsy shoes, "'and put them on his feet. "'Also, a pair of leather leggings, "'such as countrymen are used to wear, "'with straps to fasten them to the waistband. "'In these he dressed himself at leisure.  "'He then sat himself down by the door "'with the key in his hand waiting. "'He had no light. "'The time was dreary, long, and awful. "'The ringers were practicing in a neighboring church, "'and the clashing of the bells was almost maddening. "'They cursed the clamoring bells. "'They seemed to know that he was listening at the door "'and to proclaim it in a crowd of voices to all the town. "'Would they never be still?' "'They ceased at last, "'and then the silence was so new and terrible "'that it seemed to prelude to some dreadful noise. "'Footsteps in the court, two men. "'He fell back from the door on tiptoe "'as if they could have seen him "'through its wooden panels. "'They passed on, talking, he could make out, "'about a skeleton which had been dug up yesterday "'in some work of excavation near at hand, "'and was supposed to be that of a murdered man. "'So murder is not always found out, you see, "'they said to one another as they turned the corner. "'Hush!' "'He put the key into the lock and turned it. "'The door resisted for a while, "'but soon came stiffly open, "'mingling with a sense of fever in his mouth, "'a taste of rust and dust and earth and rotting wood. "'He looked out, passed out, locked it after him. "'All was clear and quiet as he fled away. "'End of Chapter 46. "'Chapter 47 of Life and Adventures of Martin Cheslowit.' "'This is a LibriVox recording. "'All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. "'For more information or to volunteer, "'please visit LibriVox.org. "'Life and Adventures of Martin Cheslowit,' "'by Charles Dickens. "'Chapter 47. "'Conclusion of the Enterprise of Mr. Jonas and his friend. "'Did no man passing through the dim streets "'shrink without knowing why "'when he came stealing up behind them? "'As he glided on, had no child in its sleep, "'an indistinct perception of a guilty shadow "'falling on its bed that troubled its innocent rest. "'Did no dog howl and strive to break its rattling chain "'that it might tear him? "'No burrowing rat, senting the work he had in hand, "'as they to know a passage after him "'that it might hold a greedy revel "'at the feast of his providing. "'When he looked back across his shoulder, "'was it to see of his quick footsteps "'still fell dry upon the dusty pavement, "'or were already moist and clogged "'with the red mire that stained the naked feet of Cain? "'He shaped his course for the main western road "'and soon reached it, riding a part of the way, "'then a lighting and walking on again. "'He traveled for a considerable distance "'upon the roof of a stagecoach, "'which came up while he was a foot. "'And when it turned out of his road, "'bribe the driver of a return post-chase "'to take him on with him, "'and then made across the country at a run, "'and saved a mile or two "'before he struck again into the road. "'At last, as his plan was, "'he came up with a certain lumbering slow night coach, "'which stopped wherever it could "'and was stopping then at a public house "'while the guard and coachman ate and drank within. "'He bargained for a seat outside this coach "'and took it, and he quitted it no more "'until it was within a few miles of its destination, "'but occupied the same place all night, all night. "'It is a common fancy that nature seems "'to sleep by night. "'It is a false fancy as who should know better than he.' "'The fishes slumbered in the cold, "'bright, glistening streams and rivers, perhaps, "'and the birds roosted on the branches of the trees, "'and in their stalls and pastures, "'beasts were quiet and human creatures slept. "'But what of that when the solemn night was watching, "'when it never winked, "'when its darkness watched no less than its light? "'The stately trees, the moon and shining stars, "'the softly stirring wind, the overshadowed lane, "'the broad, bright countryside, they all kept watch. "'There was not a blade of growing grass or corn but watched, "'and the quieter it was, the more intent and fixed "'its watch upon him seemed to be. "'And yet he slept. "'Riding on among those sentinels of God, "'he slept and did not change the purpose of his journey. "'If he forgot it in his troubled dreams, "'it came up steadily and woke him, "'but it never woke him to remorse "'or to abandonment of his design. "'He dreamed at one time that he was lying calmly "'in his bed, thinking of a moonlight night "'in the noise of wheels, "'when the old clerk put his head in at the door "'and beckoned him. "'At this signal, he arose immediately, "'being already dressed in the clothes "'he actually wore at that time, "'and accompanied him into a strange city, "'where the names of the streets were written on the walls "'and characters quite new to him, "'which gave him no surprise or uneasiness, "'for he remembered in his dream to have been there before. "'Although these streets were very precipitous, "'insomuch that to get from one to another "'it was necessary to descend great heights "'by ladders that were too short "'and ropes that moved deep bells "'and swung and swayed as they were clung to. "'The danger gave him little emotion "'beyond the first thrill of terror, "'his anxieties being concentrated on his dress, "'which was quite unfitted for some festival "'that was about to be holed in there, "'and in which he had come to take a part. "'Already great crowds began to fill the streets "'and in one direction, myriads of people "'came rushing down an interminable perspective, "'strewing flowers and making way "'for others on white horses. "'When a terrible figure started from the throng "'and cried out that it was the last day for all the world, "'the cry being spread, there was a wild hurrying "'on to judgment, and the press became so great "'that he and his companion, who was constantly changing "'and was never the same man two minutes together, "'though he never saw one man come or another go, "'stood aside in a porch, fearfully surveying "'the multitude, in which there were many faces "'that he knew and many that he did not know, "'but dreamed he did. "'When all at once a struggling head rose up among the rest, "'livid and deadly, but the same as he had known it, "'and denounced him as having appointed "'that direful day to happen, they closed together, "'as he strove to free the hand in which he held a club "'and strike the blow he had so often thought of, "'he started to the knowledge of his waking purpose "'and the rising of the sun. "'The sun was welcomed to him. "'There were life and motion and a world of stirrer "'to divide the attention of day. "'It was the eye of night, of wakeful watch, "'full silent and attentive night, "'with so much leisure for the observation "'of his wicked thoughts that he dreaded most. "'There is no glare in the night. "'Even glory shows to small advantage in the night "'upon a crowded battlefield.  "'Eye, he made no compromise "'and held no secret with himself now. "'Murder, he had come to do it. "'Let me get down here,' he said. "'Short of the town, eh?' observed the coachman. "'I may get down where I please, I suppose. "'You got up to please yourself "'and may get down to please yourself. "'It won't break our hearts to lose you "'and it wouldn't have broken them "'if we'd never found you. "'Be a little quicker, that's all.' "'The guard had alighted and was waiting in the road "'to take his money. "'In the jealousy and distrust "'of what he contemplated, he thought this man "'looked at him with more than common curiosity. "'What are you staring at?' said Jonas. "'Not that a handsome man returns the guard. "'If you want your fortune told, I'll tell you a bit of it. "'You won't be drowned, that's a consolation for you.' "'Before he could retort or turn away, "'the coachman put an end to the dialogue "'by giving him a cut with his whip "'and bidding him get out for a surly dog. "'The guard jumped up to his seat at the same moment "'and they drove off, laughing, "'living him to stand in the road "'and shake his fist at them. "'He was not displeased, though, on second thoughts, "'to have been taken for an ill-conditioned, "'common country fellow, "'but rather congratulated himself upon it "'as a proof that he was well disguised. "'Wandering into a cops by the roadside, "'but not in that place.  "'The day passed on, noon, afternoon, evening, sunset. "'At that serene and peaceful time, "'two men riding in a gig came out of the city "'by a road not much frequented. "'It was the day on which Mr. Pexnip "'had agreed to dine with Montague. "'He had kept his appointment and was now going home. "'His host was riding with him for a short distance, "'meaning to return by a pleasant track "'which Mr. Pexnip had engaged to show him "'through some fields. "'Jonas knew their plans. "'He had hung about in the innyard "'while they were at dinner "'and had heard their orders given. "'They were loud and merry in their conversation "'and might have been heard at some distance, "'far above the sound of their carriage-wheels "'or horse's hoofs. "'They came on noisily to where a style and footpath "'indicated their point of separation. "'Here they stopped. "'It's too soon, much too soon,' said Mr. Pexnip, "'but this is the place, my dear sir. "'Keep the path and go straight through the little wood "'you'll come to. "'The path is narrower there, but you can't miss it. "'When shall I see you again? "'Soon, I hope.' "'I hope so,' replied Montague. "'Good night. "'Good night and a pleasant ride. "'So long as Mr. Pexnip was in sight "'and turned his head at intervals to salute him, "'Montague stood in the road, smiling and waving his hand. "'But when his new partner had disappeared "'and this show was no longer necessary, "'he sat down on the style with looks so altered "'that he might have grown 10 years older "'in the meantime.  "'His scheme had succeeded, but he showed no triumph. "'The effort of sustaining his difficult part "'before his late companion had fatigued him, perhaps. "'Or it may be that the evening whispered to his conscience. "'Or it may be, as it has been, "'that a shadowy veil was dropping round him, "'closing out all thoughts but the presentiment "'and vague foreknowledge of impending doom. "'If there be fluids, as we know there are, "'which, conscious of a coming wind or rain or frost, "'will shrink and strive to hide themselves "'in their glass arteries, "'may not that subtle liquor of the blood "'perceived by properties within itself "'that hands are raised to waste and spill it, "'and in the veins of men run cold and dull "'as his did in that hour. "'So cold, although the air was warm, "'so dull, although the sky was bright, "'that he rose up shivering from his seat "'and hastily resumed his walk. "'He checked himself as hastily, "'undecided whether to pursue the footpath "'which was lonely and retired "'or to go back by the road. "'He took the footpath. "'The glory of the departing sun was on his face. "'The music of the birds was in his ears. "'Sweet wildflowers bloomed about him. "'Thatched roofs of poor men's homes "'were in the distance, "'and an old gray spire surmounted by a cross "'rose up between him and the coming night. "'He had never read the lesson "'which these things conveyed. "'He had ever mocked and turned away from it. "'But before going down into a hollow place, "'he looked round once upon the evening prospect, sorrowfully. "'Then he went down, down, down into the dell. "'It brought him to the wood, "'a close thick shadowy wood "'through which the path went, winding on, "'dwindling away into a slender sheep track. "'He paused before entering, "'for the stillness of this spot almost daunted him. "'The last rays of the sun were shining in a slant, "'making a path of golden light "'along the stems and branches in its range, "'which, even as he looked, began to die away, "'yielding gently to the twilight that came creeping on. "'It was so very quiet that the soft and stealthy moss "'about the trunks of some old trees "'seem to have grown out of the silence "'and to be its proper offspring. "'Those other trees which were subdued "'by blasts of wind in wintertime had not quite tumbled down, "'but being caught by others lay all bare and scathed "'across their leafy arms, "'as if unwilling to disturb the general repose "'by the crash of their fall. "'Vistas of silence opened everywhere, "'into the heart and innermost recesses of the wood, "'beginning with the likeness of an aisle, "'a cloister or a ruin opened to the sky, "'then tangling off into a deep green rustling mystery, "'through which gnarled trunks and twisted boughs "'and ivy-covered stems and trembling leaves "'and bark-stripped bodies of old trees, "'stretched out at length, "'were faintly seen in beautiful confusion. "'As the sunlight died away "'and evening fell upon the wood, he entered it.  "'At intervals, a narrow opening "'showed him passing on, or the sharp cracking "'of some tender branch denoted where he went. "'Then he was seen or heard no more. "'Nevermore beheld by mortal eye "'or heard by mortal ear one man accepted. "'That man, parting the leaves and branches "'on the other side, near where the path emerged again, "'came leaping out soon afterwards. "'What had he left within the wood "'that he sprang out of it as if it were a hell? "'The body of a murdered man, in one thick solitary spot, "'it lay among the last year's leaves of oak and beech, "'just as it had fallen headlong down. "'Sopping and soaking in among the leaves "'that formed its pillow, "'oosing down into the boggy ground "'as if to cover itself from human sight, "'forcing its way between and through the curling leaves, "'as if those senseless things rejected and foreswore it, "'and were coiled up in abhorrence "'when a dark stain that died the whole summer night "'from earth to heaven. "'The doer of this deed came leaping from the wood "'so fiercely that he cast into the air "'a shower of fragments of young boughs "'torn away in his passage, "'and fell with violence upon the grass. "'But he quickly gained his feet again, "'and keeping underneath a hedge with his body bent, "'went running on towards the road. "'The road once reached, he fell into a rapid walk "'and set on toward London. "'And he was not sorry for what he had done. "'He was frightened when he thought of it. "'When did he not think of it? "'But he was not sorry. "'He had had a terror and dread of the wood "'when he was in it, "'but being out of it and having committed the crime, "'his fears were now diverted strangely "'to the dark room he had left shot up at home. "'He had a greater horror, infinitely greater, "'of that room than of the wood. "'Now that he was on his return to it, "'it seemed beyond comparison "'more dismal and more dreadful than the wood. "'His hideous secret was shut up in the room "'and all its terrors were there, "'to his thinking it was not in the wood at all. "'He walked on for ten miles "'and then stopped at an ale-house for a coach, "'which he knew would pass through "'on its way to London before long, "'and which he also knew was not the coach "'he had traveled down by, "'for it came from another place. "'He sat down outside the door here on a bench "'beside a man who was smoking his pipe. "'Having called for some beer and drunk, "'he offered it to this companion, "'who thanked him and took a draft. "'He could not help thinking that if the man had known all, "'he might scarcely have relished drinking "'out of the same cup with him. "'A fine nightmaster,' said this person, "'and a rare sunset. "'I didn't see it,' was his hasty answer. "'Didn't see it,' returned the man. "'How the devil could I see it if I was asleep? "'A sleep, aye, aye.' "'The man appeared surprised by his unexpected irritability "'and saying no more, smoked his pipe in silence. "'They had not sat very long "'when there was a knocking within. "'What's that?' cried Jonas. "'Can't say, I'm sure,' replied the man. "'He made no further inquiry, "'for the last question had escaped him in spite of himself. "'But he was thinking at the moment of the closed-up room, "'of the possibility of their knocking at the door "'on some special occasion, "'of their being alarmed at receiving no answer, "'of their bursting it open, "'of their finding the room empty, "'of their fastening the door into the court "'and rendering it impossible for him to get into the house "'without showing himself in the garb he wore, "'which would lead to rumor, rumor to detection, "'detection to death, "'at that instant, as if by some design "'in order of circumstances, the knocking had come. "'It still continued, "'like a warning echo of the dread reality he had conjured up. "'As he could not sit and hear it, "'he paid for his beer and walked on again, "'and having slunk about in places unknown to him all day "'and being out at night in a lonely road, "'in an unusual dress, "'and in that wandering and unsettled frame of mind, "'he stopped more than once to look about him, "'hoping he might be in a dream. "'Still, he was not sorry. "'No, he had hated the man too much "'and had been bent too desperately "'and too long on setting himself free. "'If the thing could have come over again, "'he would have done it again. "'His malignant and revengeful passions "'were not so easily laid. "'There was no more penitence or remorse within him now "'than there had been while the deed was brewing. "'Dread and fear were upon him, "'to an extent he had never counted on "'and could not manage in the least degree. "'He was so horribly afraid of that infernal room at home. "'This made him in a gloomy, murderous, mad way, "'not only fearful for himself, but of himself. "'For being, as it were, a part of the room, "'as something supposed to be there, yet missing from it, "'he invested himself with its mysterious terrors. "'And when he pictured in his mind the ugly chamber, "'false and quiet, false and quiet, "'through the dark hours of two nights "'and the tumbled bed and he not in it, "'though believed to be, "'he became in a manner his own ghost and phantom "'and was at once the haunting spirit "'and the haunted man. "'When the coach came up, which it soon did, "'he got a place outside "'and was carried briskly onward towards home. "'Now, in taking his seat among the people behind, "'who were chiefly country people, "'he conceived a fear that they knew of the murder "'and would tell him that the body had been found, "'which, considering the time and place "'of the commission of the crime, "'were events almost impossible to have happened yet, "'as he very well knew. "'But although he did know it "'and had therefore no reason to regard their ignorance "'as anything but the natural sequence to the facts, "'still this very ignorance of theirs encouraged him. "'So far encouraged him "'that he began to believe the body never would be found "'and began to speculate on that probability. "'Setting off from this point "'and measuring time by the rapid hurry "'of his guilty thoughts "'and what had gone before the bloodshed "'and the troops of incoherent and disordered images "'of which he was the constant prey, "'he came by daylight to regard the murder "'as an old murder "'and to think himself comparatively safe "'because it had not been discovered yet. "'When the sun, which looked into the wood "'and gilded with its rising light, "'a dead man's lace, had seen that man alive "'and sought to win him to a thought of heaven "'on its going down last night. "'But here were London's streets again, hush. "'It was but five o'clock. "'He had time enough to reach his own house, unobserved, "'and before there were many people in the streets, "'if nothing had happened so far, tending to his discovery. "'He slipped down from the coach "'without troubling the driver to stop his horses "'and hurrying across the road "'and in and out of every byway that lay near his course "'at length approached his own dwelling. "'He used additional caution in his immediate neighborhood, "'halting first to look all down the street before him, "'then gliding swiftly through that one "'and stopping to survey the next and so on. "'The passageway was empty "'when his murderer's face looked into it. "'He stole on to the door on tiptoes "'if he dreaded to disturb his own imaginary rest. "'He listened, not a sound. "'As he turned to the key with a trembling hand "'and pushed the door softly open with his knee, "'a monstrous fear beset his mind. "'What if the murdered man were there before him? "'He cast a fearful glance all round, "'but there was nothing there. "'He went in, locked the door, drew the key through, "'and threw the dust and dampened the fireplace "'to sully it again and hung it up as of old. "'He took off his disguise, tied it up in a bundle, "'ready for carrying away and sinking in the river "'before night, and locked it up in a cupboard. "'These precautions taken, he undressed and went to bed.  "'The agony of listening, in which he paid in forced regard "'to every sound, and thought the most unlikely one, "'the prelude to that knocking, which should bring the news. "'The starts with which he left his couch, "'and looking in the glass, imagined that his deed "'was broadly written in his face, "'and lying down and burying himself once more "'beneath the blankets, hurt his own heart, beating, "'murder, murder, murder, in the bed. "'What words can paint tremendous truths like these? "'The morning advanced, there were footsteps in the house. "'He heard the blinds drawn up and shutters opened, "'and now and then a stealthy tread outside his own door. "'He tried to call out more than once, but his mouth was dry, "'as if it had been filled with sand. "'At last he sat up in his bed and cried, "'Who's there?' "'It was his wife. "'He asked her what it was o'clock. "'Nine. "'Did no one knock at my door yesterday?' he faltered. "'Something disturbed me, but unless you had knocked the door "'down, you would have got no notice from me.' "'No one,' she replied. "'That was well. "'He had waited almost breathless for her answer. "'It was a relief to him, if anything could be. "'Mr. Naget wanted to see you,' she said, "'but I told him you were tired "'and had requested not to be disturbed. "'He said it was of little consequence and went away. "'As I was opening my window to let in the cool air, "'I saw him passing through the street this morning very early, "'but he hasn't been again.' "'Passing through the street that morning very early?' "'Jonas trembled at the thought of having had a narrow chance "'of seeing him himself. "'Even him, who had no object but to avoid people "'and sneak on unobserved and keep his own secrets, "'and who saw nothing. "'He called to her to get his breakfast ready "'and prepared to go upstairs, "'attiring himself in the clothes he had taken off "'when he came into that room, "'which had been ever since outside the door. "'In his secret dread of meeting the household "'for the first time after what he had done, "'he lingered at the door on slight pretext "'that they might see him without looking in his face, "'and left at a jar while he'd dressed "'and called out to have the windows open "'and the pavement watered "'that they might become accustomed to his voice. "'Even when he had put off the time "'by one means or other so that he had seen "'or spoken to them all, "'he could not muster courage for a long while "'to go in among them, "'but stood at his own door, "'listening to the murmur of their distant conversation. "'He could not stop there forever and so joined them. "'His last glance at the glass had seen a tell-tale face, "'but that might have been because "'of his anxious looking in it. "'He dared not look at them to see if they observed him, "'but he thought them very silent. "'And whatsoever guard he kept upon himself, "'he could not help listening and showing that he listened. "'Whether he attended to their talk "'or tried to think of other things, "'or talked himself, or held his peace, "'or resolutely counted the dull tickings "'of a horse-clock at his back, "'he always lapsed as if a spell were on him "'into eager listening, for he knew it must come. "'And his present punishment "'and torture and distraction were "'to listen for its coming.'" Hush. End of chapter 47. Chapter 48, part one of Life and Adventures of Martin Chuselwit. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Life and Adventures of Martin Chuselwit by Charles Dickens. Chapter 48. Bears tidings of Martin and of Mark, as well as of a third person, not quite unknown to the reader, exhibits filial piety in an ugly aspect and casts a doubtful ray of light upon a very dark place. Part one. Tom Pinch and Ruth were sitting at their early breakfast with the window open and a row of the freshest little plants arranged before it on the inside by Ruth's own hands. And Ruth had fastened a sprig of geranium in Tom's buttonhole to make him very smart and summer-like for the day. It was obliged to be fastened in or that dear old Tom was certain to lose it. And people were crying flowers up and down the street and a blundering bee who had got himself in between the two sashes of the window was bruising his head against the glass, endeavoring to force himself out into the fine morning and considering himself enchanted because he couldn't do it. And the morning was as fine a morning as ever was seen and the fragrant air was kissing Ruth and rustling about Tom as if it said, how are you, my dears? I came all this way on purpose to salute you. And it was one of those glad times when we form or ought to form the wish that everyone on earth were able to be happy and catching glimpses of the summer of the heart to feel the beauty of the summer of the year. It was even a pleasanter breakfast than usual and it was always a pleasant one for little Ruth had now two pupils to attend each three times a week and each two hours at a time. And besides this, she had painted some screens and card racks and unknown to Tom, was there ever anything so delightful, had walked into a certain shop which dealt in such articles after often peeping through the window and had taken courage to ask the mistress of that shop whether she would buy them. And the mistress had not only bought them but had ordered more and that very morning Ruth had made confession of these facts to Tom and had handed him the money and a little purse she had worked expressly for the purpose. They had been in a flutter about this and perhaps had shed a happy tear or two for anything the history knows to the contrary. But it was all over now and a brighter face than Tom's or a brighter face than Ruth's, the bright sun had not looked on since he went to bed last night. My dear girl, said Tom, coming so abruptly on the subject that he interrupted himself in the act of cutting a slice of bread and left the knife sticking in the loaf.  I don't believe he has been home once since he got me into that unsatisfactory scrape. I begin to think he will never come home again. What a mysterious life that man does lead to be sure. Very strange, is it not, Tom? Really, said Tom, I hope it is only strange. I hope there may be nothing wrong in it. Sometimes I begin to be doubtful of that. I must have an explanation with him, said Tom, shaking his head as if this were a most tremendous threat when I can catch him. A short double knock at the door put Tom's menacing looks to flight and awakened an expression of surprise instead. Heyday, said Tom, an early hour for visitors. It must be John, I suppose. I don't think it was his knock, Tom, observed his little sister. No, said Tom. It surely can't be my employer suddenly arrived in town directed here by Mr. Phipps and come for the key of the office. It's somebody inquiring for me, I declare. Come in, if you please. But when the person came in, Tom pinched instead of saying, did you wish to speak with me, sir, or my name is pinched, sir, what is your business, may I ask? Or addressing him in any such distant terms, cried out, good gracious heaven, and seized him by both hands with the liveliest manifestations of astonishment and pleasure. The visitor was not less moved than Tom himself and they shook hands a great many times without another word being spoken on either side. Tom was the first to find his voice. Mark, can't be too, said Tom, running towards the door and shaking hands with somebody else. My dear Mark, come in. How are you, Mark? He don't look a day older than he used to at the dragon. How are you, Mark? Uncommonly jolly, sir, thank you. Returned Mr. Tapley, all smiles and bows. I hope I see you well, sir. Good gracious me, cried Tom, patting him tenderly on the back. How delightful it is to hear his old voice again. My dear Martin, sit down. My sister, Martin, Mr. Chuzzlewit, my love. Mark Tapley from the dragon, my dear. Good gracious me what a surprise this is. Sit down, Lord bless me. Tom was in such a state of excitement that he couldn't keep himself still for a moment, but was constantly running between Mark and Martin, shaking hands with him alternately and presenting them over and over again to his sister. I remember the day we parted, Martin, as well as if it were yesterday, said Tom.  And don't you remember my overtaking you in the road that morning, Mark, when I was going to Salisbury in the gig to fetch him and you were looking out for a situation? And don't you recollect the dinner we had at Salisbury, Martin, with John Westlock, eh? Good gracious me, Ruth, my dear, Mr. Chuzzlewit. Mark Tapley, my love, from the dragon. More cups and sauces, if you please. Bless my soul, how glad I am to see you both. And then Tom, as John Westlock had done on his arrival, ran off to the loaf to cut some bread and butter for them. And before he had spread a single slice, remembered something else and came running back again to tell it. And then he shook hands with them again and then he introduced his sister again. And then he did everything he had done already all over again and nothing Tom could do and nothing Tom could say was half sufficient to express his joy at their safe return. Mr. Tapley was the first to resume his composure. In a very short space of time, he was discovered to have somehow installed himself in office as waiter or attendant upon the party. A fact which was first suggested to them by his temporary absence in the kitchen and speedy return with a kettle of boiling water, from which he replenished the teapot with a self-possession that was quite his own. Sit down and take your breakfast, Mark, said Tom. Make him sit down and take his breakfast, Martin. Oh, I gave him up long ago as incorrigible, Martin replied. He takes his own way, Tom. You would excuse him, Miss Pinch, if you knew his value. She knows it, bless you, said Tom. I have told her all about Mark Tapley. Have I not, Ruth? Yes, Tom. Not all returned to Martin in a low voice. The best of Mark Tapley is only known to one man, Tom. And but for Mark, he would hardly be alive to tell it. Mark, said Tom Pinch, energetically. If you don't sit down this minute, I'll swear at you. Well, sir, returned Mr. Tapley, sooner than you should do that, I'll comply. It's a considerable invasion of a man's jollity to be made so particular welcome, but a verb is a word as signifies to be, to do or to suffer, which is all the grammar and enough to as ever I was taught. And if there's a verb alive, I'm it, for I'm always a being, sometimes a doing and continually a suffering. Not jolly yet, asked Tom with a smile. Why, I was rather so over the water, sir, returned Mr. Tapley, and not entirely without credit, but human nature is in a conspiracy against me. I can't get on. I shall have to leave it in my will, sir, to be wrote upon my tomb. He was a man as might have come out strong if he could have got a chance, but it was denied him. Mr. Tapley took this occasion of looking about him with a grin and subsequently attacking the breakfast with an appetite not at all expressive of blighted hopes or insurmountable despondency. In the meanwhile, Martin drew his chair a little nearer to Tom and his sister and related to them what had passed at Mr. Pexniff's house, adding in few words a general summary of the distresses and disappointments he had undergone since he left England. For your faithful stewardship and the trust I left with you, Tom, he said, and for all your goodness and disinterestedness I can never thank you enough. When I add Mary's thanks to mine, ah, Tom, the blood retreated from his cheeks and came rushing back so violently that it was pain to feel it. Ease, though, ease compared with the aching of his wounded heart. When I add Mary's thanks to mine, said Martin, I have made the only poor acknowledgement it is in our power to offer, but if you knew how much we feel, Tom, you would set some store by it, I am sure. And if they had known how much Tom felt, but that no human creature ever knew, they would have set some store by him, indeed they would. Tom changed the topic of discourse. He was sorry he could not pursue it as it gave Martin pleasure, but he was unable at that moment. No drop of envy or bitterness was in his soul, but he could not master the firm utterance of her name. He inquired what Martin's projects were. No longer to make your fortune, Tom, said Martin, but to try to live. I tried that once in London, Tom, and failed. If you will give me the benefit of your advice and friendly counsel, I may succeed better under your guidance. I will do anything, Tom, anything to gain a livelihood by my own exertions. My hopes did not soar above that now. High-hearted noble Tom, sorry to find the pride of his old companion humbled and to hear him speaking in this altered strain at once. At once he drove from his breast the inability to contend with its deep emotions and spoke out bravely. Your hopes did not soar above that, cried Tom. Yes, they do. How can you talk so? They soar up to the time when you will be happy with her, Martin. They soar up to the time when you will be able to claim her, Martin. They soar up to the time when you will not be able to believe that you were ever cast down in spirit or pour in pocket, Martin. Advice and friendly counsel. Well, of course, but you shall have better advice and counsel, though you cannot have more friendly than mine. You shall consult John Westlock. We'll go there immediately. It is yet so early that I shall have time to take you to his chambers before I go to business. They are in my way and I can leave you there to talk over your affairs with him. So come along, come along.  Your hopes don't soar higher than that. I daresay they don't. I know you pretty well. They'll be soaring out of sight soon, Martin and leaving all the rest of us leagues behind. I, but I may be a little changed, said Martin since you knew me pretty well, Tom. What nonsense, exclaimed Tom. Why should you be changed? You talk as if you were an old man. I never heard such a fellow. Come to John Westlocks. Come, come along, Mark Tapley. It's Mark's doing, I have no doubt, and it serves you right for having such a grumbler for your companion.  A parish doctor might be jolly with you. There's nothing short of going to the United States for a second trip as would make it at all creditable to be jolly, artisty, and you again. Tom laughed, and taking leave of his sister, hurried Mark and Martin out into the street and away to John Westlocks by the nearest road. For his hour of business was very near at hand, and he prided himself on always being exact to his time. John Westlock was at home, but strange to say was rather embarrassed to see them. And when Tom was about to go into the room where he was breakfasting, said he had a stranger there. It appeared to be a mysterious stranger for John shut that door as he set it and led them into the next room. He was very much delighted, though, to see Mark Tapley and received Martin with his own frank courtesy. But Martin felt that he did not inspire John Westlock with any unusual interest, and twice with thrice observed that he looked at Tom pinched doubtfully, not to say compassionately. He thought and blushed to think that he knew the cause of this. I apprehend you are engaged, said Martin when Tom had announced the purport of their visit. If you will allow me to come again at your own time, I shall be glad to do so. I am engaged, replied John with some reluctance, but the matter on which I am engaged is one to say the truth more immediately demanding your knowledge than mine. Indeed, cried Martin. It relates to a member of your family and is of a serious nature. If you will have the kindness to remain here, it will be a satisfaction to me to have it privately communicated to you in order that you may judge of its importance for yourself. And in the meantime, said Tom, I must really take myself off without any further ceremony. Is your business so very particular? Asked Martin that you cannot remain with us for half an hour. I wish you could. What is your business, Tom? It was Tom's turn to be embarrassed now, but he plainly said after a little hesitation, why I am not at liberty to say what it is, Martin, though I hope soon to be in a condition to do so, and I'm aware of no other reason to prevent my doing so now than the request of my employer. It's an awkward position to be placed in, said Tom, with an uneasy sense of seeming to doubt his friend as I feel every day, but I really cannot help it, can I, John? John Westlock replied in the negative and Martin expressing himself perfectly satisfied begged them not to say another word, though he could not help wondering very much what curious office Tom held and why he was so secret and embarrassed and unlike himself in reference to it. Nor could he help reverting to it in his own mind several times after Tom went away, which he did as soon as this conversation was ended, taking Mr. Tapley with him, who, as he laughingly said, might accompany him as far as Fleet Street without injury. And what do you mean to do, Mark? Asked Tom as they walked on together. Mean to do, sir? Returned Mr. Tapley. I, what course of life do you mean to pursue? Well, sir, said Mr. Tapley, the fact is that I have been a thinking rather of the matrimonial line, sir. You don't say so, Mark, cried Tom. Yes, sir, I've been a turning of it over. And who is the lady, Mark? The witch, sir, said Mr. Tapley.  How is it possible, said Tom? I don't know any of your flames, Mark, except Mrs. Lupin, indeed. Well, sir, retorted Mr. Tapley, and supposing it was her. Tom, stopping in the street to look at him, Mr. Tapley for a moment presented to his view an utterly stolid and expressionless face, a perfect dead wall of countenance, but opening window after window in it with astonishing rapidity, and lighting them all up as for a general illumination, he repeated, supposing, for the sake of argument, as it was her, sir. Why, I thought such a connection wouldn't suit you, Mark, on any terms, cried Tom. Well, sir, I used to think so myself once, said Mark, but I ain't so clear about it now. A dear, sweet creature, sir. A dear, sweet creature. To be sure she is, cried Tom, but she always was a dear, sweet creature. Was she not? Was she not, assented Mr. Tapley. Then why on earth didn't you marry her at first, Mark, instead of wandering abroad and losing all this time and leaving her alone by herself, liable to be courted by other people? Why, sir, retorted Mr. Tapley in a spirit of unbounded confidence. I'll tell you how it come about. You know me, Mr. Pinch, sir. There ain't a gentleman alive as knows me better.  My constitution is to be jolly and my weakness is to wish to find a credit in it. Very good, sir. In this state of mind, it gets a notion in my head that she looks on me with a eye of, with what you may call a favorable sort of eye, in fact, said Mr. Tapley, with modest hesitation. No doubt, replied Tom. We knew that perfectly well when we spoke on this subject long ago before you left the dragon. Mr. Tapley, now a dissent. Well, sir, but being at that time full of hopeful visions, I arrived at the conclusion that no credit is to be got out of such a way of life as that where everything agreeable would be ready to one's hand. Looking on the bright side of human life in short, one of my hopeful visions is that there's a deal of misery awaiting for me, in the midst of which I may come out tolerable strong and be jolly under circumstances as reflect some credit. I goes into the world, sir, very buoyant, and I tries this. I goes aboard ship first and where he soon discovers by the ease with which I'm jolly, mind you, as there's no credit to be got there. I might have took warning by this and gave it up, but I didn't. I gets to the United States and then I do begin. I won't deny it to feel some little credit in sustaining my spirits. What follows?  Deceives you, cried Tom, swindles me, retorted Mr. Tapley with a beaming face, turns his back on everything has made his service a creditable one and leaves me high and dry without a leg to stand upon, in which state I returns home, very good. Then all my hopeful visions be encrushed and find in that there ain't no credit for me nowhere. I abandons myself to despair and says, let me do that as has the least credit in it of all. Mary, a dear, sweet creed, as is wary fond of me, me being at the same time wary fond of her, lead a happy life and struggle no more again the blight which settles on my prospects. If your philosophy, Mark, said Tom, who laughed heartily at this speech, be the oddest I ever heard of, it is not the least wise. Mrs. Lupin has said yes, of course. Why, no, sir, replied Mr. Tapley. She hasn't gone so far as that yet, which I attribute principally to my not having asked her. But we was wary agreeable together, comfortable, I may say, the night I come home. It's all right, sir. Well, said Tom, stopping at the temple gate, I wish you join, Mark, with all my heart. I shall see you again today, I dare say. Goodbye for the present. Goodbye, sir, goodbye, Mr. Pinch, he added by way of soliloquy as he stood looking after him.  Peck-sniff would have built me up for life, but your sweet temper pulled me down. Goodbye, Mr. Pinch. End of chapter 48, part one. Chapter 48, part two, of Life and Adventures of Martin Chuzzlewitt. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Life and Adventures of Martin Chuzzlewitt by Charles Dickens. Chapter 48, part two. While these confidences were interchanged between Tom Pinch and Mark, Martin and John Westlock were very differently engaged. There were no sooner left alone than Martin said with an effort he could not disguise. Mr. Westlock, we have met only once before, but you have known Tom a long while, and that seems to render you familiar to me. I cannot talk freely with you on any subject unless I relieve my mind of what oppresses it just now. I see with pain that you so far mistrust me that you think me likely to impose on Tom's regardlessness of himself, or on his kind nature or some of his good qualities. I had no intention, replied John, of conveying any such impression to you, and I'm exceedingly sorry to have done so. But you entertain it, said Martin. You asked me so pointedly and directly, returned the other, that I cannot deny the having accustomed myself to regard you as one who, not in wantonness, but in mere thoughtlessness of character, did not sufficiently consider his nature and did not quite treat it as it deserves to be treated. It is much easier to slight than to appreciate Tom Pinch. This was not said warmly, but was energetically spoken to, for there was no subject in the world but one on which the speaker felt so strongly. I grew into the knowledge of Tom, he pursued, as I grew towards manhood, and I have learned to love him as something infinitely better than myself. I did not think that you understood him when we met before. I did not think that you greatly cared to understand him. The instances of this which I observed in you were, like my opportunities for observation, very trivial, and were very harmless, I dare say. But they were not agreeable to me, and they forced themselves upon me, for I was not upon the watch for them, believe me. You will say, added John with a smile, as he subsided into more of his accustomed manner, that I am not by any means agreeable to you. I can only assure you in reply that I would not have originated this topic on any account. I originated it, said Martin, and so far from having any complaint to make against you, highly esteemed the friendship you entertained for Tom and the very many proofs you have given him of it. Why should I endeavor to conceal from you? He colored deeply, though, that I neither understood him nor cared to understand him when I was his companion, and that I am very truly sorry for it now. It was so sincerely said, at once so modestly and manfully, that John offered him his hand as if he had not done so before, and Martin, giving his and the same open spirit all constraint between the young men vanished. Now pray, said John, when I tire your patience very much in what I am going to say, recollect that it has an end to it, and that the end is the point of the story. With this preface he related all the circumstances connected with his having presided over the illness and slow recovery of the patient at the bull, and tacked on to the skirts of that narrative, Tom's own account of the business on the wharf. Martin was not a little puzzled when he came to an end, for the two stories seemed to have no connection with each other and to leave him, as the phrase is, all abroad. If you will excuse me for one moment, said John, rising, I will beg you almost immediately to come into the next room. Upon that he left Martin to himself in a state of considerable astonishment, and soon came back again to fulfill his promise. Accompanying him into the next room, Martin found there a third person, no doubt the stranger of whom his host had spoken when Tom Pinch introduced him. He was a young man with deep black hair and eyes. He was gaunt and pale, and evidently had not long recovered from a severe illness. He stood as Martin entered, but sat again at John's desire. His eyes were cast downward, and but for one glance at them both, half in humiliation and half in entreaty, he kept them so, and sat quite still and silent. This person's name is Lusum, said John Westlock, whom I have mentioned to you as having been seized with an illness at the inn near here and undergone so much. He has had a very hard time of it ever since he began to recover, but as you see he is now doing well. As he did not move or speak, and John Westlock made a pause, Martin, not knowing what to say, said that he was glad to hear it. The short statement that I wish you to hear from his own lips, Mr. Chuzzlewit, John pursued looking attentively at him and not at Martin, he made to me for the first time yesterday and repeated to me this morning without the least variation of any essential particular. I have already told you that he informed me before he was removed from the inn that he had a secret to disclose to me which lay heavy on his mind, but fluctuating between sickness and health and between his desire to relieve himself of it and his dread of involving himself by revealing it, he has until yesterday avoided the disclosure. I never pressed him for it, having no idea of its weight or import or of my right to do so, until within a few days passed when understanding from him on his own voluntary avowal in a letter from the country that it related to a person whose name was Jonas Chuzzlewit. And thinking that it might throw some light on that little mystery which made Tom anxious now and then, I urged to point upon him and heard his statement as you will now from his own lips. It is due to him to say that in the apprehension of death he committed it to writing sometimes since and folded it in a sealed paper addressed to me which he could not resolve, however, to place of his own act in my hands. He has the paper in his breast, I believe, at this moment. The young man touched it hastily in corroboration of the fact. It will be well to leave that in our charge, perhaps, said John, but do not mind it now. As he said this, he held up his hand to be speak Martin's attention. It was already fixed upon the man before him who, after a short silence, said in a low, weak, hollow voice, what relation was Mr. Anthony Chuzzlewit who died? To me, said Martin, he was my grandfather's brother. I fear he was made away with, murdered. My God, said Martin, by whom? The young man, loosome, looked up in his face and, casting down his eyes, again replied, I fear by me. By you, cried Martin, not by my act, but I fear by my means. Speak out, said Martin, and speak the truth. I fear this is the truth. Martin was about to interrupt him again, but John Westlock, saying softly, let him tell his story in his own way. Loosome went on thus. I have been bred a surgeon, and for the last few years have served a general practitioner in the city as his assistant. While I was in his employment, I became acquainted with Jonas Chuzzlewit. He is the principal in this deed. What do you mean? demanded Martin sternly. Do you know he is the son of the old man of whom you have spoken? I do, he answered. He remained silent for some moments when he resumed at the point where he had left off. I have reason to know it, for I have often heard him wish his old father dead, and complain of his being wearisome to him and a drag upon him. He was in the habit of doing so at a place of meeting we had, three or four of us, at night. There was no good in the place, you may suppose, when you hear that he was the chief of the party. I wish I had died myself and never seen it. He stopped again and again resumed as before. We met to drink and game, not for large sums, but for sums that were large to us. He generally won. Whether or no, he lent money at interest to those who lost, and in this way, though I think we all secretly hated him, he came to be the master of us. To propitiate him, we made a jest of his father. It began with his debtors. I was one, and we used to toast quicker journey to the old man, and a swift inheritance to the young one. He paused again. One night he came there in a very bad humor. He had been greatly tried, he said, by the old man that day. He and I were alone together, and he angrily told me that the old man was in his second childhood, that he was weak, imbecile, and driveling, as unbearable to himself as he was to other people, and that it would be a charity to put him out of the way. He swore that he had often thought of mixing something with the stuff he took for his cough, which should help him to die easily. People were sometimes smothered who were bitten by mad dogs, he said, and why not help these lingering old men out of their troubles, too? He looked full at me, as he said so, and I looked full at him, but it went no farther that night. He stopped once more and was silent for so long an interval that John Westlock said, go on. Martin had never removed his eyes from his face, but was so absorbed in horror and astonishment that he could not speak. It may have been a week after that, or it may have been less or more. The matter was in my mind all the time, but I cannot recollect the time, as I should any other period, when he spoke to me again. We were alone then, too, being there before the usual hour of assembling. There was no appointment between us, but I think I went there to meet him, and I know he came there to meet me. He was there first. He was reading a newspaper when I went in and nodded to me without looking up or leaving off reading. I sat down opposite and close to him. He said immediately that he wanted me to get him some of two sorts of drugs, one that was instantaneous in its effect of which he wanted very little, one that was slow and not suspicious in appearance of which he wanted more. While he was speaking to me, he still read the newspaper. He said drugs and never used any other word. Neither did I. This all agrees with what I have heard before, observed John Westlock. I asked him what he wanted the drugs for. He said, for no harm, to visit cats, what did it matter to me? I was going out to a distant colony. I had recently got the appointment, which, as Mr. Westlock knows, I have since lost by my sickness and which was my only hope of salvation from ruin. And what did it matter to me? He could get them without my aid at half a hundred places, but not so easily as he could get them of me. This was true. He might not want them at all, he said, and he had no present idea of using them, but he wished to have them by him. All this time he still read the newspaper. We talked about the price. He was to forgive me a small debt. I was quite in his power, and to pay me five pounds, and there the matter dropped through others coming in. But next night, under exactly similar circumstances, I gave him the drugs on his saying I was a fool to think that he should ever use them for any harm, and he gave me the money. We have never met since. I only know that the poor old father died soon afterwards, just as he would have died from this cause, and that I have undergone and suffer now intolerable misery. Nothing, he added, stretching out his hands, can paint my misery. It is well deserved, but nothing can paint it. With that he hung his head and said no more. Wasted and wretched he was not a creature upon whom to heap reproaches that were unavailing. Let him remain at hand, said Martin, turning from him, but out of sight in heaven's name. He will remain here, John whispered, come with me. Softly turning the key upon him as they went out, he conducted Martin into the adjoining room in which they had been before. Martin was so amazed, so shocked and confounded by what he had heard that it was some time before he could reduce it to any order in his mind or could sufficiently comprehend the bearing of one part upon another, to take in all the details at one view. When he, at length, had the whole narrative clearly before him, John Westlock went on to point out the great probability of the guilt of Jonas being known to other people who traded in it for their own benefit and who were, by such means, able to exert that control over him which Tom Pinch had accidentally witnessed and unconsciously assisted. This appeared so plain that they agreed upon it without difficulty, but instead of deriving the least assistance from this source, they found that it embarrassed them the more. They knew nothing of the real parties who possessed this power. The only person before them was Tom's landlord. They had no right to question Tom's landlord, even if they could find him, which, according to Tom's account, it would not be easy to do. And granting that they did question him and he answered, which was taking a good deal for granted, he had only to say, with reference to the adventure on the wharf, that he had been sent from such and such a place to summon Jonas back on urgent business and there was an end of it. Besides, there was a great difficulty and responsibility of moving it all in the matter. Lusam's story might be false. In his wretched state, it might be greatly heightened by a diseased brain or admitting it to be entirely true the old man might have died a natural death. Mr. Pexnip had been there at the time, as Tom immediately remembered when he came back in the afternoon and shared their counsels and there had been no secrecy about it. Martin's grandfather was, of right, the person to decide upon the course that should be taken, but to get at his views would be impossible for Mr. Pexnip's views were certain to be his and the nature of Mr. Pexnip's views in reference to his own son-in-law might be easily reckoned upon. Apart from these considerations, Martin could not endure the thought of seeming to grasp at this unnatural charge against his relative and using it as a stepping stone to his grandfather's favor. But that he would seem to do so if he presented himself before his grandfather in Mr. Pexnip's house again for the purpose of declaring it and that Mr. Pexnip of all men would represent his conduct in that despicable light he perfectly well knew. On the other hand, to be in possession of such a statement and take no measures of further inquiry and reference to it was tantamount to being a partner in the guilt it professed to disclose. In a word, they were wholly unable to discover any outlet from this maze of difficulty which did not lie through some perplexed and entangled ticket. And although Mr. Tapley was promptly taken into their confidence and the fertile imagination of that gentleman suggested many bold expedience which to do him justice he was quite ready to carry and do instant operation on his own personal responsibility. Still, baiting the general zeal of Mr. Tapley's nature nothing was made particularly clearer by these offers of service. It was in this position of affairs that Tom's account of the strange behavior of the decayed clerk on the night of the tea party became of great moment and finally convinced them that to arrive at a more accurate knowledge of the workings of that old man's mind and memory would be to take a most important stride in their pursuit of the truth. So having first satisfied themselves that no communication had ever taken place between Lusam and Mr. Chuffy which would have accounted at once for any suspicions the latter might entertain they unanimously resolved that the old clerk was the man they wanted. But like the unanimous resolution of a public meeting which will often times declare that this or that grievance is not to be born a moment longer which is nevertheless born for a century or two afterwards without any modification they only reached in this the conclusion that they were all of one mind for it was one thing to want Mr. Chuffy and another thing to get at him and to do that without alarming him or without alarming Jonas or without being discomforted by the difficulty of striking in an instrument so out of tune and so unused the note they sought was an end as far from their reach as ever. The question then became who of those about the old clerk had had most influence with him that night? Tom said his young mistress clearly but Tom and all of them shrunk from the thought of entrapping her and making her the innocent means of bringing retribution on her cruel husband. Was there nobody else? Why yes, in a very different way Tom said he was influenced by Mrs. Gamp, the nurse who had once had the control of him as he understood for some time. They caught at this immediately. Here was a new way out developed in a quarter until then overlooked. John Westlock knew Mrs. Gamp. He had given her employment. He was acquainted with her place of residence for that good lady had obligingly furnished him at parting with a pack of her professional cards for general distribution. It was decided that Mrs. Gamp should be approached with caution but approached without delay and that the depths of that discrete matron's knowledge of Mr. Chuffy and means of bringing them or one of them into communication with him should be carefully sounded. On this service, Martin and John Westlock determined to proceed that night waiting on Mrs. Gamp first at her lodgings and taking their chance of finding her in the repose of private life or of having to seek her out elsewhere in the exercise of her professional duties. Tom returned home that he might lose no opportunity of having an interview with Najet by being absent in the event of his reappearance and Mr. Tappley remained by his own particular desire for the time being in Fernival's Inn to look after Lusam who might safely have been left to himself, however, for any thought he seemed to entertain of giving them the slip. Before they parted on their several errands they caused him to read aloud in the presence of them all the paper which he had about him and the declaration he had attached to it which was to the effect that he had written it voluntarily in the fear of death and in the torture of his mind and when he had done so they all signed it and taking it from him of his free will locked it in a place of safety. Martin also wrote by John's advice a letter to the trustees of the famous grammar school boldly claiming the successful design is his and charging Mr. Pexnip with the fraud he had committed. In this proceeding also John was hotly interested observing with his usual irreverence that Mr. Pexnip had been a successful rascal all his life through and that it would be a lasting source of happiness to him, John if he could help to do him justice in the smallest particular. A busy day but Martin had no lodgings yet so when these matters were disposed of he excused himself from dining with John Westlock and was feigned to wander out alone and look for some. He succeeded after great trouble in engaging two garrets for himself and Mark situated in a court in the Strand not far from Temple Bar. Their luggage which was waiting for them at a coach office he conveyed to this new place of refuge and it was with a glow of satisfaction which as a selfish man he never could have known and never had the thinking how much pains and trouble he had saved Mark and how pleased and astonished Mark would be he afterwards walked up and down in the Temple eating a meat pie for his dinner. End of chapter 48.


Hello friends and welcome again to another problem-solving session on sequence and series We have taken a question which says find the sum of all three digit natural numbers, which are multiple of seven Interesting question, right? So we have to just find out What are three digit? Multiples of seven are you have to find out the first term the last term if you know Then we will be able to find out the Sum of the or the required sum So find the sum of all three digit it says right natural number, which are multiple of seven So let's say our sum is SN so this is what we need to find out a1 a2 a3 and An right what are the criteria on a1 a2 a3 an all our three digit number as well as multiple of seven So we have to find out a1. What is a1? three digit three digit Three digit right multiple of seven First that is it is first three digit multiple of seven Instead of a we should write first three digit multiple of seven and What is that if you see first three digit first three digits start from hundred so hundred hundred one two three Four five if you see hundred not five one zero five it is fifteen times seven So hence one not five is first Three digit multiple of seven. What will be a n guys? a n why do we need a n by the way? Can we not do away with it? We will not be able to because for the sum formula if you see SN requires what? n by 2 twice a Plus n minus 1d so in both the in in in two in finding SN we do require n We do require n Correct, so n is important and for that we need to know the a n right so what is last? Seventh or three digit number which is divisible by seven so nine nine nine clearly not so if you see If you divide this by seven you will get Seven one the seven twenty nine so four and Two and remainder is five so seven into one forty two plus five is nine nine nine Right, that means if I remove five from so this is right nine nine nine is equal to Seven into one forty two plus five Okay, so hence what will be So if you see nine nine nine Minus five is seven times one four two which is nine nine four correct There's seven times one four two, so nine nine four appears to be the last three digit seven multiple of seven Isn't it because after this if the next seven next multiple of seven is one 001 Right, this is the next Multiple of seven, but this is greater than thousand. This is four digit number So hence we have to we can clearly say that highest is nine nine four so a n is nine nine four Right, so the last term is known now known so how to find out n easy it is so a n is nothing but a first term that is one not five Plus n minus one so whatever is n minus one and common difference now if you Check the series. What will the series be like? So let me write few terms of the series multiples of seven so one not five one one two one one nine One two six and so on and so forth till nine nine four clearly common difference D is seven correct D is seven Now and a n is nine nine four so nine nine four is equal to one not five plus And minus one times seven So nine nine four minus one not five plus or rather Yeah, plus seven is equal to Seven in Am I right so hence if you now calculate you will get how much this is One so basically one not five right so eight eight nine Eight eight nine is nine nine four minus one plus seven is seven and so eight ninety six Divide by seven is n Right, so n is equal to one two eight 128 Yeah, so n is 128 so we could find out and so what to do now s n How much nothing but n by two either you adopt a plus two a plus n minus one D or I will write first term Plus last term correct So that means this is one twenty eight by two Into one twenty eight by two first term was one not five and the last term is nine nine four nine nine four so that means this is four sixty four Into one not five plus nine nine four is is nine nine ten one zero nine nine Correct one zero nine nine so if the product will be this product will come out to be seven zero three three six Sixty four into one one nine is one zero nine nine is Seven zero three three six Correct, so this is what is the answer