Charles Dickens - Life And Adventures Of Martin Chuzzlewit

To see the butcher slap the steak, before he laid it on the block, and give his knife a sharpening, was to forget breakfast instantly. It was agreeable, too—it really was—to see him cut it off, so smooth and juicy. There was nothing savage in the act, although the knife was large and keen; it was a piece of art, high art; there was delicacy of touch, clearness of tone, skillful handling of the subject, fine shading. It was the triumph of mind over matter; quite.

Perhaps the greenest cabbage-leaf ever grown in a garden was wrapped about this steak, before it was delivered over to Tom. But the butcher had a sentiment for his business, and knew how to refine upon it. When he saw Tom putting the cabbage-leaf into his pocket awkwardly, he begged to be allowed to do it for him; “for meat,” he said with some emotion, “must be humoured, not drove.”

Back they went to the lodgings again, after they had bought some eggs, and flour, and such small matters; and Tom sat gravely down to write at one end of the parlour table, while Ruth prepared to make the pudding at the other end; for there was nobody in the house but an old woman (the landlord being a mysterious sort of man, who went out early in the morning, and was scarcely ever seen); and saving in mere household drudgery, they waited on themselves.

“What are you writing, Tom?” inquired his sister, laying her hand upon his shoulder.

“Why, you see, my dear,” said Tom, leaning back in his chair, and looking up in her face, “I am very anxious, of course, to obtain some suitable employment; and before Mr Westlock comes this afternoon, I think I may as well prepare a little description of myself and my qualifications; such as he could show to any friend of his.”

“You had better do the same for me, Tom, also,” said his sister, casting down her eyes. “I should dearly like to keep house for you and take care of you always, Tom; but we are not rich enough for that.”

“We are not rich,” returned Tom, “certainly; and we may be much poorer. But we will not part if we can help it. No, no; we will make up our minds Ruth, that unless we are so very unfortunate as to render me quite sure that you would be better off away from me than with me, we will battle it out together. I am certain we shall be happier if we can battle it out together. Don't you think we shall?”

“Think, Tom!”

“Oh, tut, tut!” interposed Tom, tenderly. “You mustn't cry.”

“No, no; I won't, Tom. But you can't afford it, dear. You can't, indeed.”

“We don't know that,” said Tom. “How are we to know that, yet awhile, and without trying? Lord bless my soul!'—Tom's energy became quite grand—'there is no knowing what may happen, if we try hard. And I am sure we can live contentedly upon a very little—if we can only get it.”

“Yes; that I am sure we can, Tom.”

“Why, then,” said Tom, “we must try for it. My friend, John Westlock, is a capital fellow, and very shrewd and intelligent. I'll take his advice. We'll talk it over with him—both of us together. You'll like John very much, when you come to know him, I am certain. Don't cry, don't cry. YOU make a beef-steak pudding, indeed!” said Tom, giving her a gentle push. “Why, you haven't boldness enough for a dumpling!”

“You WILL call it a pudding, Tom. Mind! I told you not!”

“I may as well call it that, till it proves to be something else,” said Tom. “Oh, you are going to work in earnest, are you?”

Aye, aye! That she was. And in such pleasant earnest, moreover, that Tom's attention wandered from his writing every moment. First, she tripped downstairs into the kitchen for the flour, then for the pie-board, then for the eggs, then for the butter, then for a jug of water, then for the rolling-pin, then for a pudding-basin, then for the pepper, then for the salt; making a separate journey for everything, and laughing every time she started off afresh. When all the materials were collected she was horrified to find she had no apron on, and so ran UPstairs by way of variety, to fetch it. She didn't put it on upstairs, but came dancing down with it in her hand; and being one of those little women to whom an apron is a most becoming little vanity, it took an immense time to arrange; having to be carefully smoothed down beneath—Oh, heaven, what a wicked little stomacher!—and to be gathered up into little plaits by the strings before it could be tied, and to be tapped, rebuked, and wheedled, at the pockets, before it would set right, which at last it did, and when it did—but never mind; this is a sober chronicle. And then, there were her cuffs to be tucked up, for fear of flour; and she had a little ring to pull off her finger, which wouldn't come off (foolish little ring!); and during the whole of these preparations she looked demurely every now and then at Tom, from under her dark eyelashes, as if they were all a part of the pudding, and indispensable to its composition.

For the life and soul of him, Tom could get no further in his writing than, “A respectable young man, aged thirty-five,” and this, notwithstanding the show she made of being supernaturally quiet, and going about on tiptoe, lest she should disturb him; which only served as an additional means of distracting his attention, and keeping it upon her.

“Tom,” she said at last, in high glee. “Tom!”

“What now?” said Tom, repeating to himself, “aged thirty-five!”

“Will you look here a moment, please?”

As if he hadn't been looking all the time!

“I am going to begin, Tom. Don't you wonder why I butter the inside of the basin?” said his busy little sister.

“Not more than you do, I dare say,” replied Tom, laughing. “For I believe you don't know anything about it.”

“What an infidel you are, Tom! How else do you think it would turn out easily when it was done! For a civil-engineer and land-surveyor not to know that! My goodness, Tom!”

It was wholly out of the question to try to write. Tom lined out “respectable young man, aged thirty-five;” and sat looking on, pen in hand, with one of the most loving smiles imaginable.

Such a busy little woman as she was! So full of self-importance and trying so hard not to smile, or seem uncertain about anything! It was a perfect treat to Tom to see her with her brows knit, and her rosy lips pursed up, kneading away at the crust, rolling it out, cutting it up into strips, lining the basin with it, shaving it off fine round the rim, chopping up the steak into small pieces, raining down pepper and salt upon them, packing them into the basin, pouring in cold water for gravy, and never venturing to steal a look in his direction, lest her gravity should be disturbed; until, at last, the basin being quite full and only wanting the top crust, she clapped her hands all covered with paste and flour, at Tom, and burst out heartily into such a charming little laugh of triumph, that the pudding need have had no other seasoning to commend it to the taste of any reasonable man on earth.

“Where's the pudding?” said Tom. For he was cutting his jokes, Tom was.

“Where!” she answered, holding it up with both hands. “Look at it!”

“THAT a pudding!” said Tom.

“It WILL be, you stupid fellow, when it's covered in,” returned his sister. Tom still pretending to look incredulous, she gave him a tap on the head with the rolling-pin, and still laughing merrily, had returned to the composition of the top crust, when she started and turned very red. Tom started, too, for following her eyes, he saw John Westlock in the room.

“Why, my goodness, John! How did YOU come in?”

“I beg pardon,” said John—” your sister's pardon especially—but I met an old lady at the street door, who requested me to enter here; and as you didn't hear me knock, and the door was open, I made bold to do so. I hardly know,” said John, with a smile, “why any of us should be disconcerted at my having accidentally intruded upon such an agreeable domestic occupation, so very agreeably and skillfully pursued; but I must confess that I am. Tom, will you kindly come to my relief?”