Martin Chuzzlewit by Charles Dickens (top novels .txt) 📖

up, by enchantment in a rock, the story would have lived and walked abroad! He tried to stop his ears with his fettered arms, that he might shut out the rest.

As he crouched upon the floor, they drew away from him as if a pestilence were in his breath. They fell off, one by one, from that part of the room, leaving him alone upon the ground. Even those who had him in their keeping shunned him, and (with the exception of Slyme, who was still occupied with his nuts) kept apart.

‘From that garret-window opposite,’ said Nadgett, pointing across the narrow street, ‘I have watched this house and him for days and nights. From that garret-window opposite I saw him return home, alone, from a journey on which he had set out with Mr Montague. That was my token that Mr Montague’s end was gained; and I might rest easy on my watch, though I was not to leave it until he dismissed me. But, standing at the door opposite, after dark that same night, I saw a countryman steal out of this house, by a side-door in the court, who had never entered it. I knew his walk, and that it was himself, disguised. I followed him immediately. I lost him on the western road, still travelling westward.’

Jonas looked up at him for an instant, and muttered an oath.

‘I could not comprehend what this meant,’ said Nadgett; ‘but, having seen so much, I resolved to see it out, and through. And I did. Learning, on inquiry at his house from his wife, that he was supposed to be sleeping in the room from which I had seen him go out, and that he had given strict orders not to be disturbed, I knew that he was coming back; and for his coming back I watched. I kept my watch in the street—in doorways, and such places—all that night; at the same window, all next day; and when night came on again, in the street once more. For I knew he would come back, as he had gone out, when this part of the town was empty. He did. Early in the morning, the same countryman came creeping, creeping, creeping home.’

‘Look sharp!’ interposed Slyme, who had now finished his nuts. ‘This is quite irregular, Mr Nadgett.’

‘I kept at the window all day,’ said Nadgett, without heeding him. ‘I think I never closed my eyes. At night, I saw him come out with a bundle. I followed him again. He went down the steps at London Bridge, and sunk it in the river. I now began to entertain some serious fears, and made a communication to the Police, which caused that bundle to be—’

‘To be fished up,’ interrupted Slyme. ‘Be alive, Mr Nadgett.’

‘It contained the dress I had seen him wear,’ said Nadgett; ‘stained with clay, and spotted with blood. Information of the murder was received in town last night. The wearer of that dress is already known to have been seen near the place; to have been lurking in that neighbourhood; and to have alighted from a coach coming from that part of the country, at a time exactly tallying with the very minute when I saw him returning home. The warrant has been out, and these officers have been with me, some hours. We chose our time; and seeing you come in, and seeing this person at the window—’

‘Beckoned to him,’ said Mark, taking up the thread of the narrative, on hearing this allusion to himself, ‘to open the door; which he did with a deal of pleasure.’

‘That’s all at present,’ said Nadgett, putting up his great pocketbook, which from mere habit he had produced when he began his revelation, and had kept in his hand all the time; ‘but there is plenty more to come. You asked me for the facts, so far I have related them, and need not detain these gentlemen any longer. Are you ready, Mr Slyme?’

‘And something more,’ replied that worthy, rising. ‘If you walk round to the office, we shall be there as soon as you. Tom! Get a coach!’

The officer to whom he spoke departed for that purpose. Old Martin lingered for a few moments, as if he would have addressed some words to Jonas; but looking round, and seeing him still seated on the floor, rocking himself in a savage manner to and fro, took Chuffey’s arm, and slowly followed Nadgett out. John Westlock and Mark Tapley accompanied them. Mrs Gamp had tottered out first, for the better display of her feelings, in a kind of walking swoon; for Mrs Gamp performed swoons of different sorts, upon a moderate notice, as Mr Mould did Funerals.

‘Ha!’ muttered Slyme, looking after them. ‘Upon my soul! As insensible of being disgraced by having such a nephew as myself, in such a situation, as he was of my being an honour and a credit to the family! That’s the return I get for having humbled my spirit— such a spirit as mine—to earn a livelihood, is it?’

He got up from his chair, and kicked it away indignantly.

‘And such a livelihood too! When there are hundreds of men, not fit to hold a candle to me, rolling in carriages and living on their fortunes. Upon my soul it’s a nice world!’

His eyes encountered Jonas, who looked earnestly towards him, and moved his lips as if he were whispering.

‘Eh?’ said Slyme.

Jonas glanced at the attendant whose back was towards him, and made a clumsy motion with his bound hands towards the door.

‘Humph!’ said Slyme, thoughtfully. ‘I couldn’t hope to disgrace him into anything when you have shot so far ahead of me though. I forgot that.’

Jonas repeated the same look and gesture.

‘Jack!’ said Slyme.

‘Hallo!’ returned his man.

‘Go down to the door, ready for the coach. Call out when it comes. I’d rather have you there. Now then,’ he added, turning hastily to Jonas, when the man was gone. ‘What’s the matter?’

Jonas essayed to rise.

‘Stop a bit,’ said Slyme. ‘It’s not so easy when your wrists are tight together. Now then! Up! What is it?’

‘Put your hand in my pocket. Here! The breast pocket, on the left!’ said Jonas.

He did so; and drew out a purse.

‘There’s a hundred pound in it,’ said Jonas, whose words were almost unintelligible; as his face, in its pallor and agony, was scarcely human.

Slyme looked at him; gave it into his hands; and shook his head.

‘I can’t. I daren’t. I couldn’t if I dared. Those fellows below—’

‘Escape’s impossible,’ said Jonas. ‘I know it. One hundred pound for only five minutes in the next room!’

‘What to do?’ he asked.

The face of his prisoner as he advanced to whisper in his ear, made him recoil involuntarily. But he stopped and listened to him. The words were few, but his own face changed as he heard them.

‘I have it about me,’ said Jonas, putting his hands to his throat, as though whatever he referred to were hidden in his neckerchief. ‘How should you know of it? How could you know? A hundred pound for only five minutes in the next room! The time’s passing. Speak!’

‘It would be more—more creditable to the family,’ observed Slyme, with trembling lips. ‘I wish you hadn’t told me half so much. Less would have served your purpose. You might have kept it to yourself.’

‘A hundred pound for only five minutes in the next room! Speak!’ cried Jonas, desperately.

He took the purse. Jonas, with a wild unsteady step, retreated to the door in the glass partition.

‘Stop!’ cried Slyme, catching at his skirts. ‘I don’t know about this. Yet it must end so at last. Are you guilty?’

‘Yes!’ said Jonas.

‘Are the proofs as they were told just now?’

‘Yes!’ said Jonas.

‘Will you—will you engage to say a—a Prayer, now, or something of that sort?’ faltered Slyme.

Jonas broke from him without replying, and closed the door between them.

Slyme listened at the keyhole. After that, he crept away on tiptoe, as far off as he could; and looked awfully towards the place. He was roused by the arrival of the coach, and their letting down the steps.

‘He’s getting a few things together,’ he said, leaning out of window, and speaking to the two men below, who stood in the full light of a street-lamp. ‘Keep your eye upon the back, one of you, for form’s sake.’

One of the men withdrew into the court. The other, seating himself self on the steps of the coach, remained in conversation with Slyme at the window who perhaps had risen to be his superior, in virtue of his old propensity (one so much lauded by the murdered man) of being always round the corner. A useful habit in his present calling.

‘Where is he?’ asked the man.

Slyme looked into the room for an instant and gave his head a jerk as much as to say, ‘Close at hand. I see him.’

‘He’s booked,’ observed the man.

‘Through,’ said Slyme.

They looked at each other, and up and down the street. The man on the coachsteps took his hat off, and put it on again, and whistled a little.

‘I say! He’s taking his time!’ he remonstrated.

‘I allowed him five minutes,’ said Slyme. ‘Time’s more than up, though. I’ll bring him down.’

He withdrew from the window accordingly, and walked on tiptoe to the door in the partition. He listened. There was not a sound within. He set the candles near it, that they might shine through the glass.

It was not easy, he found, to make up his mind to the opening of the door. But he flung it wide open suddenly, and with a noise; then retreated. After peeping in and listening again, he entered.

He started back as his eyes met those of Jonas, standing in an angle of the wall, and staring at him. His neckerchief was off; his face was ashy pale.

‘You’re too soon,’ said Jonas, with an abject whimper. ‘I’ve not had time. I have not been able to do it. I—five minutes more—two minutes more!—only one!’

Slyme gave him no reply, but thrusting the purse upon him and forcing it back into his pocket, called up his men.

He whined, and cried, and cursed, and entreated them, and struggled, and submitted, in the same breath, and had no power to stand. They got him away and into the coach, where they put him on a seat; but he soon fell moaning down among the straw at the bottom, and lay there.

The two men were with him. Slyme being on the box with the driver; and they let him lie. Happening to pass a fruiterer’s on their way; the door of which was open, though the shop was by this time shut; one of them remarked how faint the peaches smelled.

The other assented at the moment, but presently stooped down in quick alarm, and looked at the prisoner.

‘Stop the coach! He has poisoned himself! The smell comes from this bottle in his hand!’

The hand had shut upon it tight. With that rigidity of grasp with which no living man, in the full strength and energy of life, can clutch a prize he has won.

They dragged him out into the dark street; but jury, judge, and hangman, could have done no more, and could do nothing now. Dead, dead, dead.