Charles Dickens - Life And Adventures Of Martin Chuzzlewit

As a mark of her respect for the lightning, Mrs Lupin had removed her candle to the chimney-piece. Her basket of needle-work stood unheeded at her elbow; her supper, spread on a round table not far off, was untasted; and the knives had been removed for fear of attraction. She had sat for a long time with her chin upon her hand, saying to herself at intervals, “Dear me! Ah, dear, dear me!”

She was on the eve of saying so, once more, when the latch of the house-door (closed to keep the rain out), rattled on its well-worn catch, and a traveller came in, who, shutting it after him, and walking straight up to the half-door of the bar, said, rather gruffly:

“A pint of the best old beer here.”

He had some reason to be gruff, for if he had passed the day in a waterfall, he could scarcely have been wetter than he was. He was wrapped up to the eyes in a rough blue sailor's coat, and had an oil-skin hat on, from the capacious brim of which the rain fell trickling down upon his breast, and back, and shoulders. Judging from a certain liveliness of chin—he had so pulled down his hat, and pulled up his collar, to defend himself from the weather, that she could only see his chin, and even across that he drew the wet sleeve of his shaggy coat, as she looked at him—Mrs Lupin set him down for a good-natured fellow, too.

“A bad night!” observed the hostess cheerfully.

The traveller shook himself like a Newfoundland dog, and said it was, rather.

“There's a fire in the kitchen,” said Mrs Lupin, “and very good company there. Hadn't you better go and dry yourself?”

“No, thankee,” said the man, glancing towards the kitchen as he spoke; he seemed to know the way.

“It's enough to give you your death of cold,” observed the hostess.

“I don't take my death easy,” returned the traveller; “or I should most likely have took it afore to-night. Your health, ma'am!”

Mrs Lupin thanked him; but in the act of lifting the tankard to his mouth, he changed his mind, and put it down again. Throwing his body back, and looking about him stiffly, as a man does who is wrapped up, and has his hat low down over his eyes, he said:

“What do you call this house? Not the Dragon, do you?”

Mrs Lupin complacently made answer, “Yes, the Dragon.”

“Why, then, you've got a sort of a relation of mine here, ma'am,” said the traveller; “a young man of the name of Tapley. What! Mark, my boy!” apostrophizing the premises, “have I come upon you at last, old buck!”

This was touching Mrs Lupin on a tender point. She turned to trim the candle on the chimney-piece, and said, with her back towards the traveller:

“Nobody should be made more welcome at the Dragon, master, than any one who brought me news of Mark. But it's many and many a long day and month since he left here and England. And whether he's alive or dead, poor fellow, Heaven above us only knows!”

She shook her head, and her voice trembled; her hand must have done so too, for the light required a deal of trimming.

“Where did he go, ma'am?” asked the traveller, in a gentler voice.

“He went,” said Mrs Lupin, with increased distress, “to America. He was always tender-hearted and kind, and perhaps at this moment may be lying in prison under sentence of death, for taking pity on some miserable black, and helping the poor runaway creetur to escape. How could he ever go to America! Why didn't he go to some of those countries where the savages eat each other fairly, and give an equal chance to every one!”

Quite subdued by this time, Mrs Lupin sobbed, and was retiring to a chair to give her grief free vent, when the traveller caught her in his arms, and she uttered a glad cry of recognition.

“Yes, I will!” cried Mark, “another—one more—twenty more! You didn't know me in that hat and coat? I thought you would have known me anywheres! Ten more!”

“So I should have known you, if I could have seen you; but I couldn't, and you spoke so gruff. I didn't think you could speak gruff to me, Mark, at first coming back.”

“Fifteen more!” said Mr Tapley. “How handsome and how young you look! Six more! The last half-dozen warn't a fair one, and must be done over again. Lord bless you, what a treat it is to see you! One more! Well, I never was so jolly. Just a few more, on account of there not being any credit in it!”

When Mr Tapley stopped in these calculations in simple addition, he did it, not because he was at all tired of the exercise, but because he was out of breath. The pause reminded him of other duties.

“Mr Martin Chuzzlewit's outside,” he said. “I left him under the cartshed, while I came on to see if there was anybody here. We want to keep quiet to-night, till we know the news from you, and what it's best for us to do.”

“There's not a soul in the house, except the kitchen company,” returned the hostess. “If they were to know you had come back, Mark, they'd have a bonfire in the street, late as it is.”

“But they mustn't know it to-night, my precious soul,” said Mark; “so have the house shut, and the kitchen fire made up; and when it's all ready, put a light in the winder, and we'll come in. One more! I long to hear about old friends. You'll tell me all about “em, won't you; Mr Pinch, and the butcher's dog down the street, and the terrier over the way, and the wheelwright's, and every one of “em. When I first caught sight of the church to-night, I thought the steeple would have choked me, I did. One more! Won't you? Not a very little one to finish off with?”

“You have had plenty, I am sure,” said the hostess. “Go along with your foreign manners!”

“That ain't foreign, bless you!” cried Mark. “Native as oysters, that is! One more, because it's native! As a mark of respect for the land we live in! This don't count as between you and me, you understand,” said Mr Tapley. “I ain't a-kissing you now, you'll observe. I have been among the patriots; I'm a-kissin” my country.”

It would have been very unreasonable to complain of the exhibition of his patriotism with which he followed up this explanation, that it was at all lukewarm or indifferent. When he had given full expression to his nationality, he hurried off to Martin; while Mrs Lupin, in a state of great agitation and excitement, prepared for their reception.

The company soon came tumbling out; insisting to each other that the Dragon clock was half an hour too fast, and that the thunder must have affected it. Impatient, wet, and weary though they were, Martin and Mark were overjoyed to see these old faces, and watched them with delighted interest as they departed from the house, and passed close by them.

“There's the old tailor, Mark!” whispered Martin.

“There he goes, sir! A little bandier than he was, I think, sir, ain't he? His figure's so far altered, as it seems to me, that you might wheel a rather larger barrow between his legs as he walks, than you could have done conveniently when we know'd him. There's Sam a-coming out, sir.”

“Ah, to be sure!” cried Martin; “Sam, the hostler. I wonder whether that horse of Pecksniff's is alive still?”

“Not a doubt on it, sir,” returned Mark. “That's a description of animal, sir, as will go on in a bony way peculiar to himself for a long time, and get into the newspapers at last under the title of “Sing'lar Tenacity of Life in a Quadruped.” As if he had ever been alive in all his life, worth mentioning! There's the clerk, sir— wery drunk, as usual.”

“I see him!” said Martin, laughing. “But, my life, how wet you are, Mark!”

“I am! What do you consider yourself, sir?”

“Oh, not half as bad,” said his fellow-traveller, with an air of great vexation. “I told you not to keep on the windy side, Mark, but to let us change and change about. The rain has been beating on you ever since it began.”