Charles Dickens - Life And Adventures Of Martin Chuzzlewit

“No!” said Tom Pinch, quite as much delighted as if the thing were done. “Would you though? How kind of you to say so.”

“I'd build it up, Tom,” returned Martin, “on such a strong foundation, that it should last your life—aye, and your children's lives too, and their children's after them. I'd be your patron, Tom. I'd take you under my protection. Let me see the man who should give the cold shoulder to anybody I chose to protect and patronise, if I were at the top of the tree, Tom!”

“Now, I don't think,” said Mr Pinch, “upon my word, that I was ever more gratified than by this. I really don't.”

“Oh! I mean what I say,” retorted Martin, with a manner as free and easy in its condescension to, not to say in its compassion for, the other, as if he were already First Architect in ordinary to all the Crowned Heads in Europe. “I'd do it. I'd provide for you.”

“I am afraid,” said Tom, shaking his head, “that I should be a mighty awkward person to provide for.”

“Pooh, pooh!” rejoined Martin. “Never mind that. If I took it in my head to say, “Pinch is a clever fellow; I approve of Pinch;” I should like to know the man who would venture to put himself in opposition to me. Besides, confound it, Tom, you could be useful to me in a hundred ways.”

“If I were not useful in one or two, it shouldn't be for want of trying,” said Tom.

“For instance,” pursued Martin, after a short reflection, “you'd be a capital fellow, now, to see that my ideas were properly carried out; and to overlook the works in their progress before they were sufficiently advanced to be very interesting to ME; and to take all that sort of plain sailing. Then you'd be a splendid fellow to show people over my studio, and to talk about Art to “em, when I couldn't be bored myself, and all that kind of thing. For it would be devilish creditable, Tom (I'm quite in earnest, I give you my word), to have a man of your information about one, instead of some ordinary blockhead. Oh, I'd take care of you. You'd be useful, rely upon it!”

To say that Tom had no idea of playing first fiddle in any social orchestra, but was always quite satisfied to be set down for the hundred and fiftieth violin in the band, or thereabouts, is to express his modesty in very inadequate terms. He was much delighted, therefore, by these observations.

“I should be married to her then, Tom, of course,” said Martin.

What was that which checked Tom Pinch so suddenly, in the high flow of his gladness; bringing the blood into his honest cheeks, and a remorseful feeling to his honest heart, as if he were unworthy of his friend's regard?

“I should be married to her then,” said Martin, looking with a smile towards the light; “and we should have, I hope, children about us. They'd be very fond of you, Tom.”

But not a word said Mr Pinch. The words he would have uttered died upon his lips, and found a life more spiritual in self-denying thoughts.

“All the children hereabouts are fond of you, Tom, and mine would be, of course,” pursued Martin. “Perhaps I might name one of “em after you. Tom, eh? Well, I don't know. Tom's not a bad name. Thomas Pinch Chuzzlewit. T. P. C. on his pinafores—no objection to that, I should say?”

Tom cleared his throat, and smiled.

“SHE would like you, Tom, I know,” said Martin.

“Aye!” cried Tom Pinch, faintly.

“I can tell exactly what she would think of you,” said Martin leaning his chin upon his hand, and looking through the window-glass as if he read there what he said; “I know her so well. She would smile, Tom, often at first when you spoke to her, or when she looked at you—merrily too—but you wouldn't mind that. A brighter smile you never saw.”

“No, no,” said Tom. “I wouldn't mind that.”

“She would be as tender with you, Tom,” said Martin, “as if you were a child yourself. So you are almost, in some things, an't you, Tom?”

Mr Pinch nodded his entire assent.

“She would always be kind and good-humoured, and glad to see you,” said Martin; “and when she found out exactly what sort of fellow you were (which she'd do very soon), she would pretend to give you little commissions to execute, and to ask little services of you, which she knew you were burning to render; so that when she really pleased you most, she would try to make you think you most pleased her. She would take to you uncommonly, Tom; and would understand you far more delicately than I ever shall; and would often say, I know, that you were a harmless, gentle, well-intentioned, good fellow.”

How silent Tom Pinch was!

“In honour of old time,” said Martin, “and of her having heard you play the organ in this damp little church down here—for nothing too—we will have one in the house. I shall build an architectural music-room on a plan of my own, and it'll look rather knowing in a recess at one end. There you shall play away, Tom, till you tire yourself; and, as you like to do so in the dark, it shall BE dark; and many's the summer evening she and I will sit and listen to you, Tom; be sure of that!”

It may have required a stronger effort on Tom Pinch's part to leave the seat on which he sat, and shake his friend by both hands, with nothing but serenity and grateful feeling painted on his face; it may have required a stronger effort to perform this simple act with a pure heart, than to achieve many and many a deed to which the doubtful trumpet blown by Fame has lustily resounded. Doubtful, because from its long hovering over scenes of violence, the smoke and steam of death have clogged the keys of that brave instrument; and it is not always that its notes are either true or tuneful.

“It's a proof of the kindness of human nature,” said Tom, characteristically putting himself quite out of sight in the matter, “that everybody who comes here, as you have done, is more considerate and affectionate to me than I should have any right to hope, if I were the most sanguine creature in the world; or should have any power to express, if I were the most eloquent. It really overpowers me. But trust me,” said Tom, “that I am not ungrateful— that I never forget—and that if I can ever prove the truth of my words to you, I will.”

“That's all right,” observed Martin, leaning back in his chair with a hand in each pocket, and yawning drearily. “Very fine talking, Tom; but I'm at Pecksniff's, I remember, and perhaps a mile or so out of the high-road to fortune just at this minute. So you've heard again this morning from what's his name, eh?”

“Who may that be?” asked Tom, seeming to enter a mild protest on behalf of the dignity of an absent person.

“YOU know. What is it? Northkey.”

“Westlock,” rejoined Tom, in rather a louder tone than usual.

“Ah! to be sure,” said Martin, “Westlock. I knew it was something connected with a point of the compass and a door. Well! and what says Westlock?”

“Oh! he has come into his property,” answered Tom, nodding his head, and smiling.

“He's a lucky dog,” said Martin. “I wish it were mine instead. Is that all the mystery you were to tell me?”

“No,” said Tom; “not all.”

“What's the rest?” asked Martin.

“For the matter of that,” said Tom, “it's no mystery, and you won't think much of it; but it's very pleasant to me. John always used to say when he was here, “Mark my words, Pinch. When my father's executors cash up”—he used strange expressions now and then, but that was his way.”

“Cash-up's a very good expression,” observed Martin, “when other people don't apply it to you. Well!—What a slow fellow you are, Pinch!”

“Yes, I am I know,” said Tom; “but you'll make me nervous if you tell me so. I'm afraid you have put me out a little now, for I forget what I was going to say.”