Charles Dickens - Life And Adventures Of Martin Chuzzlewit

The letter being duly signed, sealed, and delivered, was handed to Mark Tapley, for immediate conveyance if possible. And he succeeded so well in his embassy as to be enabled to return that same night, just as the house was closing, with the welcome intelligence that he had sent it upstairs to the young lady, enclosed in a small manuscript of his own, purporting to contain his further petition to be engaged in Mr Chuzzlewit's service; and that she had herself come down and told him, in great haste and agitation, that she would meet the gentleman at eight o'clock to-morrow morning in St. James's Park. It was then agreed between the new master and the new man, that Mark should be in waiting near the hotel in good time, to escort the young lady to the place of appointment; and when they had parted for the night with this understanding, Martin took up his pen again; and before he went to bed wrote another letter, whereof more will be seen presently.

He was up before daybreak, and came upon the Park with the morning, which was clad in the least engaging of the three hundred and sixtyfive dresses in the wardrobe of the year. It was raw, damp, dark, and dismal; the clouds were as muddy as the ground; and the short perspective of every street and avenue was closed up by the mist as by a filthy curtain.

“Fine weather indeed,” Martin bitterly soliloquised, “to be wandering up and down here in, like a thief! Fine weather indeed, for a meeting of lovers in the open air, and in a public walk! I need be departing, with all speed, for another country; for I have come to a pretty pass in this!”

He might perhaps have gone on to reflect that of all mornings in the year, it was not the best calculated for a young lady's coming forth on such an errand, either. But he was stopped on the road to this reflection, if his thoughts tended that way, by her appearance at a short distance, on which he hurried forward to meet her. Her squire, Mr Tapley, at the same time fell discreetly back, and surveyed the fog above him with an appearance of attentive interest.

“My dear Martin,” said Mary.

“My dear Mary,” said Martin; and lovers are such a singular kind of people that this is all they did say just then, though Martin took her arm, and her hand too, and they paced up and down a short walk that was least exposed to observation, half-a-dozen times.

“If you have changed at all, my love, since we parted,” said Martin at length, as he looked upon her with a proud delight, “it is only to be more beautiful than ever!”

Had she been of the common metal of love-worn young ladies, she would have denied this in her most interesting manner; and would have told him that she knew she had become a perfect fright; or that she had wasted away with weeping and anxiety; or that she was dwindling gently into an early grave; or that her mental sufferings were unspeakable; or would, either by tears or words, or a mixture of both, have furnished him with some other information to that effect, and made him as miserable as possible. But she had been reared up in a sterner school than the minds of most young girls are formed in; she had had her nature strengthened by the hands of hard endurance and necessity; had come out from her young trials constant, self-denying, earnest, and devoted; had acquired in her maidenhood—whether happily in the end, for herself or him, is foreign to our present purpose to inquire—something of that nobler quality of gentle hearts which is developed often by the sorrows and struggles of matronly years, but often by their lessons only. Unspoiled, unpampered in her joys or griefs; with frank and full, and deep affection for the object of her early love; she saw in him one who for her sake was an outcast from his home and fortune, and she had no more idea of bestowing that love upon him in other than cheerful and sustaining words, full of high hope and grateful trustfulness, than she had of being unworthy of it, in her lightest thought or deed, for any base temptation that the world could offer.

“What change is there in YOU, Martin,” she replied; “for that concerns me nearest? You look more anxious and more thoughtful than you used.”

“Why, as to that, my love,” said Martin as he drew her waist within his arm, first looking round to see that there were no observers near, and beholding Mr Tapley more intent than ever on the fog; “it would be strange if I did not; for my life—especially of late—has been a hard one.”

“I know it must have been,” she answered. “When have I forgotten to think of it and you?”

“Not often, I hope,” said Martin. “Not often, I am sure. Not often, I have some right to expect, Mary; for I have undergone a great deal of vexation and privation, and I naturally look for that return, you know.”

“A very, very poor return,” she answered with a fainter smile. “But you have it, and will have it always. You have paid a dear price for a poor heart, Martin; but it is at least your own, and a true one.”

“Of course I feel quite certain of that,” said Martin, “or I shouldn't have put myself in my present position. And don't say a poor heart, Mary, for I say a rich one. Now, I am about to break a design to you, dearest, which will startle you at first, but which is undertaken for your sake. I am going,” he added slowly, looking far into the deep wonder of her bright dark eyes, “abroad.”

“Abroad, Martin!”

“Only to America. See now. How you droop directly!”

“If I do, or, I hope I may say, if I did,” she answered, raising her head after a short silence, and looking once more into his face, “it was for grief to think of what you are resolved to undergo for me. I would not venture to dissuade you, Martin; but it is a long, long distance; there is a wide ocean to be crossed; illness and want are sad calamities in any place, but in a foreign country dreadful to endure. Have you thought of all this?”

“Thought of it!” cried Martin, abating, in his fondness—and he WAS very fond of her—hardly an iota of his usual impetuosity. “What am I to do? It's very well to say, “Have I thought of it?” my love; but you should ask me in the same breath, have I thought of starving at home; have I thought of doing porter's work for a living; have I thought of holding horses in the streets to earn my roll of bread from day to day? Come, come,” he added, in a gentler tone, “do not hang down your head, my dear, for I need the encouragement that your sweet face alone can give me. Why, that's well! Now you are brave again.”

“I am endeavouring to be,” she answered, smiling through her tears.

“Endeavouring to be anything that's good, and being it, is, with you, all one. Don't I know that of old?” cried Martin, gayly. “So! That's famous! Now I can tell you all my plans as cheerfully as if you were my little wife already, Mary.”

She hung more closely on his arm, and looking upwards in his face, bade him speak on.

“You see,” said Martin, playing with the little hand upon his wrist, “that my attempts to advance myself at home have been baffled and rendered abortive. I will not say by whom, Mary, for that would give pain to us both. But so it is. Have you heard him speak of late of any relative of mine or his, called Pecksniff? Only tell me what I ask you, no more.”

“I have heard, to my surprise, that he is a better man than was supposed.”

“I thought so,” interrupted Martin.

“And that it is likely we may come to know him, if not to visit and reside with him and—I think—his daughters. He HAS daughters, has he, love?”