IN WHICH TOM PINCH AND HIS SISTER TAKE A LITTLE PLEASURE; BUT QUITE
IN A DOMESTIC WAY, AND WITH NO CEREMONY ABOUT IT
Tom Pinch and his sister having to part, for the dispatch of the
morning's business, immediately after the dispersion of the other
actors in the scene upon the wharf with which the reader has been
already made acquainted, had no opportunity of discussing the
subject at that time. But Tom, in his solitary office, and Ruth, in
the triangular parlour, thought about nothing else all day; and,
when their hour of meeting in the afternoon approached, they were
very full of it, to be sure.
There was a little plot between them, that Tom should always come
out of the Temple by one way; and that was past the fountain.
Coming through Fountain Court, he was just to glance down the steps
leading into Garden Court, and to look once all round him; and if
Ruth had come to meet him, there he would see her; not sauntering,
you understand (on account of the clerks), but coming briskly up,
with the best little laugh upon her face that ever played in
opposition to the fountain, and beat it all to nothing. For, fifty
to one, Tom had been looking for her in the wrong direction, and had
quite given her up, while she had been tripping towards him from the
first; jingling that little reticule of hers (with all the keys in
it) to attract his wandering observation.
Whether there was life enough left in the slow vegetation of
Fountain Court for the smoky shrubs to have any consciousness of the
brightest and purest-hearted little woman in the world, is a
question for gardeners, and those who are learned in the loves of
plants. But, that it was a good thing for that same paved yard to
have such a delicate little figure flitting through it; that it
passed like a smile from the grimy old houses, and the worn
flagstones, and left them duller, darker, sterner than before; there
is no sort of doubt. The Temple fountain might have leaped up
twenty feet to greet the spring of hopeful maidenhood, that in her
person stole on, sparkling, through the dry and dusty channels of
the Law; the chirping sparrows, bred in Temple chinks and crannies,
might have held their peace to listen to imaginary skylarks, as so
fresh a little creature passed; the dingy boughs, unused to droop,
otherwise than in their puny growth, might have bent down in a
kindred gracefulness to shed their benedictions on her graceful
head; old love letters, shut up in iron boxes in the neighbouring
offices, and made of no account among the heaps of family papers
into which they had strayed, and of which, in their degeneracy, they
formed a part, might have stirred and fluttered with a moment's
recollection of their ancient tenderness, as she went lightly by.
Anything might have happened that did not happen, and never will,
for the love of Ruth.
Something happened, too, upon the afternoon of which the history
treats. Not for her love. Oh no! quite by accident, and without
the least reference to her at all.
Either she was a little too soon, or Tom was a little too late--she
was so precise in general, that she timed it to half a minute--but
no Tom was there. Well! But was anybody else there, that she
blushed so deeply, after looking round, and tripped off down the
steps with such unusual expedition?
Why, the fact is, that Mr Westlock was passing at that moment. The
Temple is a public thoroughfare; they may write up on the gates that
it is not, but so long as the gates are left open it is, and will
be; and Mr Westlock had as good a right to be there as anybody else.
But why did she run away, then? Not being ill dressed, for she was
much too neat for that, why did she run away? The brown hair that
had fallen down beneath her bonnet, and had one impertinent imp of a
false flower clinging to it, boastful of its licence before all men,
THAT could not have been the cause, for it looked charming. Oh!
foolish, panting, frightened little heart, why did she run away!
Merrily the tiny fountain played, and merrily the dimples sparkled
on its sunny face. John Westlock hurried after her. Softly the
whispering water broke and fell; as roguishly the dimples twinkled,
as he stole upon her footsteps.
Oh, foolish, panting, timid little heart, why did she feign to be
unconscious of his coming! Why wish herself so far away, yet be so
flutteringly happy there!
'I felt sure it was you,' said John, when he overtook her in the
sanctuary of Garden Court. 'I knew I couldn't be mistaken.'
She was SO surprised.
'You are waiting for your brother,' said John. 'Let me bear you
company.'
So light was the touch of the coy little hand, that he glanced down
to assure himself he had it on his arm. But his glance, stopping
for an instant at the bright eyes, forgot its first design, and went
no farther.
They walked up and down three or four times, speaking about Tom and
his mysterious employment. Now that was a very natural and innocent
subject, surely. Then why, whenever Ruth lifted up her eyes, did
she let them fall again immediately, and seek the uncongenial
pavement of the court? They were not such eyes as shun the light;
they were not such eyes as require to be hoarded to enhance their
value. They were much too precious and too genuine to stand in need
of arts like those. Somebody must have been looking at them!
They found out Tom, though, quickly enough. This pair of eyes
descried him in the distance, the moment he appeared. He was
staring about him, as usual, in all directions but the right one;
and was as obstinate in not looking towards them, as if he had
intended it. As it was plain that, being left to himself, he would
walk away home, John Westlock darted off to stop him.
This made the approach of poor little Ruth, by herself, one of the
most embarrassing of circumstances. There was Tom, manifesting
extreme surprise (he had no presence of mind, that Tom, on small
occasions); there was John, making as light of it as he could, but
explaining at the same time with most unnecessary elaboration; and
here was she, coming towards them, with both of them looking at her,
conscious of blushing to a terrible extent, but trying to throw up
her eyebrows carelessly, and pout her rosy lips, as if she were the
coolest and most unconcerned of little women.
Merrily the fountain plashed and plashed, until the dimples, merging
into one another, swelled into a general smile, that covered the
whole surface of the basin.
'What an extraordinary meeting!' said Tom. 'I should never have
dreamed of seeing you two together here.'
'Quite accidental,' John was heard to murmur.
'Exactly,' cried Tom; 'that's what I mean, you know. If it wasn't
accidental, there would be nothing remarkable in it.'
'To be sure,' said John.
'Such an out-of-the-way place for you to have met in,' pursued Tom,
quite delighted. 'Such an unlikely spot!'
John rather disputed that. On the contrary, he considered it a very
likely spot, indeed. He was constantly passing to and fro there, he
said. He shouldn't wonder if it were to happen again. His only
wonder was, that it had never happened before.
By this time Ruth had got round on the farther side of her brother,
and had taken his arm. She was squeezing it now, as much as to say
'Are you going to stop here all day, you dear, old, blundering Tom?'
Tom answered the squeeze as if it had been a speech. 'John,' he
said, 'if you'll give my sister your arm, we'll take her between us,
and walk on. I have a curious circumstance to relate to you. Our
meeting could not have happened better.'
Merrily the fountain leaped and danced, and merrily the smiling
dimples twinkled and expanded more and more, until they broke into a
laugh against the basin's rim, and vanished.
'Tom,' said his friend, as they turned into the noisy street, 'I
have a proposition to make. It is, that you and your sister--if she
will so far honour a poor bachelor's dwelling--give me a great
pleasure, and come and dine with me.'
'What, to-day?' cried Tom.
'Yes, to-day. It's close by, you know. Pray, Miss Pinch, insist
upon it. It will be very disinterested, for I have nothing to give
you.'
'Oh! you must not believe that, Ruth,' said Tom. 'He is the most
tremendous fellow, in his housekeeping, that I ever heard of, for a
single man. He ought to be Lord Mayor. Well! what do you say?
Shall we go?'
'If you please, Tom,' rejoined his dutiful little sister.
'But I mean,' said Tom, regarding her with smiling admiration; 'is
there anything you ought to wear, and haven't got? I am sure I
don't know, John; she may not be able to take her bonnet off, for
anything I can tell.'
There was a great deal of laughing at this, and there were divers
compliments from John Westlock--not compliments HE said at least
(and really he was right), but good, plain, honest truths, which no
one could deny. Ruth laughed, and all that, but she made no
objection; so it was an engagement.
'If I had known it a little sooner,' said John, 'I would have tried
another pudding. Not in rivalry; but merely to exalt that famous
one. I wouldn't on any account have had it made with suet.'
'Why not?' asked Tom.
'Because that cookery-book advises suet,' said John Westlock; 'and
ours was made with flour and eggs.'
'Oh good gracious!' cried Tom. 'Ours was made with flour and eggs,
was it? Ha, ha, ha! A beefsteak pudding made with flour and eggs!
Why anybody knows better than that. I know better than that! Ha,
ha, ha!'
It is unnecessary to say that Tom had been present at the making of
the pudding, and had been a devoted believer in it all through. But
he was so delighted to have this joke against his busy little sister
and was tickled to that degree at having found her out, that he
stopped in Temple Bar to laugh; and it was no more to Tom, that he
was anathematized and knocked about by the surly passengers, than it
would have been to a post; for he continued to exclaim with unabated
good humour, 'flour and eggs! A beefsteak pudding made with flour
and eggs!' until John Westlock and his sister fairly ran away from
him, and left him to have his laugh out by himself; which he had,
and then came dodging across the crowded street to them, with such
sweet temper and tenderness (it was quite a tender joke of Tom's)
beaming in his face, God bless it, that it might have purified the
air, though Temple Bar had been, as in the golden days gone by,
embellished with a row of rotting human heads.
There are snug chambers in those Inns where the bachelors live, and,
for the desolate fellows they pretend to be, it is quite surprising
how well they get on. John was very pathetic on the subject of his
dreary life, and the deplorable makeshifts and apologetic
contrivances it involved, but he really seemed to make himself
pretty comfortable. His rooms were the perfection of neatness and
convenience at any rate; and if he were anything but comfortable,
the fault was certainly not theirs.
He had no sooner ushered Tom and his sister into his best room
(where there was a beautiful little vase of fresh flowers on the
table, all ready for Ruth. Just as if he had expected her, Tom
said), than, seizing his hat, he bustled out again, in his most
energetically bustling, way; and presently came hurrying back, as
they saw through the half-opened door, attended by a fiery-faced
matron attired in a crunched bonnet, with particularly long strings
to it hanging down her back; in conjunction with whom he instantly
began to lay the cloth for dinner, polishing up the wine-glasses
with his own hands, brightening the silver top of the pepper-caster
on his coat-sleeve, drawing corks and filling decanters, with a
skill and expedition that were quite dazzling. And as if, in the
course of this rubbing and polishing, he had rubbed an enchanted
lamp or a magic ring, obedient to which there were twenty thousand
supernatural slaves at least, suddenly there appeared a being in a
white waistcoat, carrying under his arm a napkin, and attended by
another being with an oblong box upon his head, from which a
banquet, piping hot, was taken out and set upon the table.
Salmon, lamb, peas, innocent young potatoes, a cool salad, sliced
cucumber, a tender duckling, and a tart--all there. They all came at
the right time. Where they came from, didn't appear; but the oblong
box was constantly going and coming, and making its arrival known to
the man in the white waistcoat by bumping modestly against the
outside of the door; for, after its first appearance, it entered the
room no more. He was never surprised, this man; he never seemed to
wonder at the extraordinary things he found in the box, but took
them out with a face expressive of a steady purpose and impenetrable
character, and put them on the table. He was a kind man; gentle in
his manners, and much interested in what they ate and drank. He was
a learned man, and knew the flavour of John Westlock's private
sauces, which he softly and feelingly described, as he handed the
little bottles round. He was a grave man, and a noiseless; for
dinner being done, and wine and fruit arranged upon the board, he
vanished, box and all, like something that had never been.
'Didn't I say he was a tremendous fellow in his housekeeping?' cried
Tom. 'Bless my soul! It's wonderful.'
'Ah, Miss Pinch,' said John. 'This is the bright side of the life
we lead in such a place. It would be a dismal life, indeed, if it
didn't brighten up to-day'
'Don't believe a word he says,' cried Tom. 'He lives here like a
monarch, and wouldn't change his mode of life for any consideration.
He only pretends to grumble.'
No, John really did not appear to pretend; for he was uncommonly
earnest in his desire to have it understood that he was as dull,
solitary, and uncomfortable on ordinary occasions as an unfortunate
young man could, in reason, be. It was a wretched life, he said, a
miserable life. He thought of getting rid of the chambers as soon
as possible; and meant, in fact, to put a bill up very shortly.
'Well' said Tom Pinch, 'I don't know where you can go, John, to be
more comfortable. That's all I can say. What do YOU say, Ruth?'
Ruth trifled with the cherries on her plate, and said that she
thought Mr Westlock ought to be quite happy, and that she had no
doubt he was.
Ah, foolish, panting, frightened little heart, how timidly she said
it!
'But you are forgetting what you had to tell, Tom; what occurred
this morning,' she added in the same breath.
'So I am,' said Tom. 'We have been so talkative on other topics that
I declare I have not had time to think of it. I'll tell it you at
once, John, in case I should forget it altogether.'
On Tom's relating what had passed upon the wharf, his friend was
very much surprised, and took such a great interest in the narrative
as Tom could not quite understand. He believed he knew the old lady
whose acquaintance they had made, he said; and that he might venture
to say, from their description of her, that her name was Gamp. But
of what nature the communication could have been which Tom had borne
so unexpectedly; why its delivery had been entrusted to him; how it
happened that the parties were involved together; and what secret
lay at the bottom of the whole affair; perplexed him very much. Tom
had been sure of his taking some interest in the matter; but was not
prepared for the strong interest he showed. It held John Westlock
to the subject even after Ruth had left the room; and evidently made
him anxious to pursue it further than as a mere subject of
conversation.
'I shall remonstrate with my landlord, of course,' said Tom; 'though
he is a very singular secret sort of man, and not likely to afford
me much satisfaction; even if he knew what was in the letter.'
'Which you may swear he did,' John interposed.
'You think so?'
'I am certain of it.'
'Well!' said Tom, 'I shall remonstrate with him when I see him (he
goes in and out in a strange way, but I will try to catch him
tomorrow morning), on his having asked me to execute such an
unpleasant commission. And I have been thinking, John, that if I
went down to Mrs What's-her-name's in the City, where I was before,
you know--Mrs Todgers's--to-morrow morning, I might find poor Mercy
Pecksniff there, perhaps, and be able to explain to her how I came
to have any hand in the business.'
'You are perfectly right, Tom,' returned his friend, after a short
interval of reflection. 'You cannot do better. It is quite clear
to me that whatever the business is, there is little good in it; and
it is so desirable for you to disentangle yourself from any
appearance of willful connection with it, that I would counsel you to
see her husband, if you can, and wash your hands of it by a plain
statement of the facts. I have a misgiving that there is something
dark at work here, Tom. I will tell you why, at another time; when
I have made an inquiry or two myself.'
All this sounded very mysterious to Tom Pinch. But as he knew he
could rely upon his friend, he resolved to follow this advice.
Ah, but it would have been a good thing to have had a coat of
invisibility, wherein to have watched little Ruth, when she was left
to herself in John Westlock's chambers, and John and her brother
were talking thus, over their wine! The gentle way in which she
tried to get up a little conversation with the fiery-faced matron in
the crunched bonnet, who was waiting to attend her; after making a
desperate rally in regard of her dress, and attiring herself in a
washed-out yellow gown with sprigs of the same upon it, so that it
looked like a tesselated work of pats of butter. That would have
been pleasant. The grim and griffin-like inflexibility with which
the fiery-faced matron repelled these engaging advances, as
proceeding from a hostile and dangerous power, who could have no
business there, unless it were to deprive her of a customer, or
suggest what became of the self-consuming tea and sugar, and other
general trifles. That would have been agreeable. The bashful,
winning, glorious curiosity, with which little Ruth, when fiery-face
was gone, peeped into the books and nick-nacks that were lying
about, and had a particular interest in some delicate paper-matches
on the chimney-piece; wondering who could have made them. That
would have been worth seeing. The faltering hand with which she
tied those flowers together; with which, almost blushing at her own
fair self as imaged in the glass, she arranged them in her breast,
and looking at them with her head aside, now half resolved to take
them out again, now half resolved to leave them where they were.
That would have been delightful!
John seemed to think it all delightful; for coming in with Tom to
tea, he took his seat beside her like a man enchanted. And when the
tea-service had been removed, and Tom, sitting down at the piano,
became absorbed in some of his old organ tunes, he was still beside
her at the open window, looking out upon the twilight.
There is little enough to see in Furnival's Inn. It is a shady,
quiet place, echoing to the footsteps of the stragglers who have
business there; and rather monotonous and gloomy on summer
evenings. What gave it such a charm to them, that they remained at
the window as unconscious of the flight of time as Tom himself, the
dreamer, while the melodies which had so often soothed his spirit
were hovering again about him! What power infused into the fading
light, the gathering darkness; the stars that here and there
appeared; the evening air, the City's hum and stir, the very chiming
of the old church clocks; such exquisite enthrallment, that the
divinest regions of the earth spread out before their eyes could not
have held them captive in a stronger chain?
The shadows deepened, deepened, and the room became quite dark.
Still Tom's fingers wandered over the keys of the piano, and still
the window had its pair of tenants. At length, her hand upon his
shoulder, and her breath upon his forehead, roused Tom from his
reverie.
'Dear me!' he cried, desisting with a start. 'I am afraid I have
been very inconsiderate and unpolite.'
Tom little thought how much consideration and politeness he had
shown!
'Sing something to us, my dear,' said Tom. 'let us hear your voice.
Come!'
John Westlock added his entreaties with such earnestness that a
flinty heart alone could have resisted them. Hers was not a flinty
heart. Oh, dear no! Quite another thing.
So down she sat, and in a pleasant voice began to sing the ballads
Tom loved well. Old rhyming stories, with here and there a pause
for a few simple chords, such as a harper might have sounded in the
ancient time while looking upward for the current of some half-
remembered legend; words of old poets, wedded to such measures that
the strain of music might have been the poet's breath, giving
utterance and expression to his thoughts; and now a melody so joyous
and light-hearted, that the singer seemed incapable of sadness,
until in her inconstancy (oh wicked little singer!) she relapsed,
and broke the listeners' hearts again; these were the simple means
she used to please them. And that these simple means prevailed, and
she DID please them, let the still darkened chamber, and its long-
deferred illumination witness.
The candles came at last, and it was time for moving homeward.
Cutting paper carefully, and rolling it about the stalks of those
same flowers, occasioned some delay; but even this was done in time,
and Ruth was ready.
'Good night!' said Tom. 'A memorable and delightful visit, John!
Good night!'
John thought he would walk with them.
'No, no. Don't!' said Tom. 'What nonsense! We can get home very
well alone. I couldn't think of taking you out.'
But John said he would rather.
'Are you sure you would rather?' said Tom. 'I am afraid you only
say so out of politeness.'
John being quite sure, gave his arm to Ruth, and led her out.
Fiery-face, who was again in attendance, acknowledged her departure
with so cold a curtsey that it was hardly visible; and cut Tom, dead.
Their host was bent on walking the whole distance, and would not
listen to Tom's dissuasions. Happy time, happy walk, happy parting,
happy dreams! But there are some sweet day-dreams, so there are that
put the visions of the night to shame.
Busily the Temple fountain murmured in the moonlight, while Ruth lay
sleeping, with her flowers beside her; and John Westlock sketched a
portrait--whose?--from memory.