Charles Dickens - Life And Adventures Of Martin Chuzzlewit

Tom entered as the words were spoken, with a radiant smile upon his face; and rubbing his hands, more from a sense of delight than because he was cold (for he had been running fast), sat down in his warm corner again, and was as happy as only Tom Pinch could be. There is no other simile that will express his state of mind.

“And so,” he said, when he had gazed at his friend for some time in silent pleasure, “so you really are a gentleman at last, John. Well, to be sure!”

“Trying to be, Tom; trying to be,” he rejoined good-humouredly. “There is no saying what I may turn out, in time.”

“I suppose you wouldn't carry your own box to the mail now?” said Tom Pinch, smiling; “although you lost it altogether by not taking it.”

“Wouldn't I?” retorted John. “That's all you know about it, Pinch. It must be a very heavy box that I wouldn't carry to get away from Pecksniff's, Tom.”

“There!” cried Pinch, turning to Martin, “I told you so. The great fault in his character is his injustice to Pecksniff. You mustn't mind a word he says on that subject. His prejudice is most extraordinary.”

“The absence of anything like prejudice on Tom's part, you know,” said John Westlock, laughing heartily, as he laid his hand on Mr Pinch's shoulder, “is perfectly wonderful. If one man ever had a profound knowledge of another, and saw him in a true light, and in his own proper colours, Tom has that knowledge of Mr Pecksniff.”

“Why, of course I have,” cried Tom. “That's exactly what I have so often said to you. If you knew him as well as I do—John, I'd give almost any money to bring that about—you'd admire, respect, and reverence him. You couldn't help it. Oh, how you wounded his feelings when you went away!”

“If I had known whereabout his feelings lay,” retorted young Westlock, “I'd have done my best, Tom, with that end in view, you may depend upon it. But as I couldn't wound him in what he has not, and in what he knows nothing of, except in his ability to probe them to the quick in other people, I am afraid I can lay no claim to your compliment.”

Mr Pinch, being unwilling to protract a discussion which might possibly corrupt Martin, forbore to say anything in reply to this speech; but John Westlock, whom nothing short of an iron gag would have silenced when Mr Pecksniff's merits were once in question, continued notwithstanding.

“HIS feelings! Oh, he's a tender-hearted man. HIS feelings! Oh, he's a considerate, conscientious, self-examining, moral vagabond, he is! HIS feelings! Oh!—what's the matter, Tom?”

Mr Pinch was by this time erect upon the hearth-rug, buttoning his coat with great energy.

“I can't bear it,” said Tom, shaking his head. “No. I really cannot. You must excuse me, John. I have a great esteem and friendship for you; I love you very much; and have been perfectly charmed and overjoyed to-day, to find you just the same as ever; but I cannot listen to this.”

“Why, it's my old way, Tom; and you say yourself that you are glad to find me unchanged.”

“Not in this respect,” said Tom Pinch. “You must excuse me, John. I cannot, really; I will not. It's very wrong; you should be more guarded in your expressions. It was bad enough when you and I used to be alone together, but under existing circumstances, I can't endure it, really. No. I cannot, indeed.”

“You are quite right!” exclaimed the other, exchanging looks with Martin. “and I am quite wrong, Tom. I don't know how the deuce we fell on this unlucky theme. I beg your pardon with all my heart.”

“You have a free and manly temper, I know,” said Pinch; “and therefore, your being so ungenerous in this one solitary instance, only grieves me the more. It's not my pardon you have to ask, John. You have done ME nothing but kindnesses.”

“Well! Pecksniff's pardon then,” said young Westlock. “Anything Tom, or anybody. Pecksniff's pardon—will that do? Here! let us drink Pecksniff's health!”

“Thank you,” cried Tom, shaking hands with him eagerly, and filling a bumper. “Thank you; I'll drink it with all my heart, John. Mr Pecksniff's health, and prosperity to him!”

John Westlock echoed the sentiment, or nearly so; for he drank Mr Pecksniff's health, and Something to him—but what, was not quite audible. The general unanimity being then completely restored, they drew their chairs closer round the fire, and conversed in perfect harmony and enjoyment until bed-time.

No slight circumstance, perhaps, could have better illustrated the difference of character between John Westlock and Martin Chuzzlewit, than the manner in which each of the young men contemplated Tom Pinch, after the little rupture just described. There was a certain amount of jocularity in the looks of both, no doubt, but there all resemblance ceased. The old pupil could not do enough to show Tom how cordially he felt towards him, and his friendly regard seemed of a graver and more thoughtful kind than before. The new one, on the other hand, had no impulse but to laugh at the recollection of Tom's extreme absurdity; and mingled with his amusement there was something slighting and contemptuous, indicative, as it appeared, of his opinion that Mr Pinch was much too far gone in simplicity to be admitted as the friend, on serious and equal terms, of any rational man.

John Westlock, who did nothing by halves, if he could help it, had provided beds for his two guests in the hotel; and after a very happy evening, they retired. Mr Pinch was sitting on the side of his bed with his cravat and shoes off, ruminating on the manifold good qualities of his old friend, when he was interrupted by a knock at his chamber door, and the voice of John himself.

“You're not asleep yet, are you, Tom?”

“Bless you, no! not I. I was thinking of you,” replied Tom, opening the door. “Come in.”

“I am not going to detail you,” said John; “but I have forgotten all the evening a little commission I took upon myself; and I am afraid I may forget it again, if I fail to discharge it at once. You know a Mr Tigg, Tom, I believe?”

“Tigg!” cried Tom. “Tigg! The gentleman who borrowed some money of me?”

“Exactly,” said John Westlock. “He begged me to present his compliments, and to return it with many thanks. Here it is. I suppose it's a good one, but he is rather a doubtful kind of customer, Tom.”

Mr Pinch received the little piece of gold with a face whose brightness might have shamed the metal; and said he had no fear about that. He was glad, he added, to find Mr Tigg so prompt and honourable in his dealings; very glad.

“Why, to tell you the truth, Tom,” replied his friend, “he is not always so. If you'll take my advice, you'll avoid him as much as you can, in the event of your encountering him again. And by no means, Tom—pray bear this in mind, for I am very serious—by no means lend him money any more.”

“Aye, aye!” said Tom, with his eyes wide open.

“He is very far from being a reputable acquaintance,” returned young Westlock; “and the more you let him know you think so, the better for you, Tom.”

“I say, John,” quoth Mr Pinch, as his countenance fell, and he shook his head in a dejected manner. “I hope you are not getting into bad company.”

“No, no,” he replied laughing. “Don't be uneasy on that score.”

“Oh, but I AM uneasy,” said Tom Pinch; “I can't help it, when I hear you talking in that way. If Mr Tigg is what you describe him to be, you have no business to know him, John. You may laugh, but I don't consider it by any means a laughing matter, I assure you.”

“No, no,” returned his friend, composing his features. “Quite right. It is not, certainly.”

“You know, John,” said Mr Pinch, “your very good nature and kindness of heart make you thoughtless, and you can't be too careful on such a point as this. Upon my word, if I thought you were falling among bad companions, I should be quite wretched, for I know how difficult you would find it to shake them off. I would much rather have lost this money, John, than I would have had it back again on such terms.”