SURPRISES TOM PINCH VERY MUCH, AND SHOWS HOW CERTAIN CONFIDENCES PASSED BETWEEN HIM AND HIS SISTER It was the next evening; and Tom and his sister were sitting together before tea, talking, in their usual quiet way, about a great many things, but not at all about Lewsome’s story or anything connected with it; for John Westlock—really John, for so young a man, was one of the most considerate fellows in the world—had particularly advised Tom not to mention it to his sister just yet, in case it should disquiet her. ‘And I wouldn’t, Tom,’ he said, with a little hesitation, ‘I wouldn’t have a shadow on her happy face, or an uneasy thought in her gentle heart, for all the wealth and honours of the universe!’ Really John was uncommonly kind; extraordinarily kind. If he had been her father, Tom said, he could not have taken a greater interest in her.
But although Tom and his sister were extremely conversational, they were less lively, and less cheerful, than usual. Tom had no idea that this originated with Ruth, but took it for granted that he was rather dull himself. In truth he was; for the lightest cloud upon the Heaven of her quiet mind, cast its shadow upon Tom.
And there was a cloud on little Ruth that evening. Yes, indeed. When Tom was looking in another direction, her bright eyes, stealing on towards his face, would sparkle still more brightly than their custom was, and then grow dim. When Tom was silent, looking out upon the summer weather, she would sometimes make a hasty movement, as if she were about to throw herself upon his neck; then check the impulse, and when he looked round, show a laughing face, and speak to him very merrily; when she had anything to give Tom, or had any excuse for coming near him, she would flutter about him, and lay her bashful hand upon his shoulder, and not be willing to withdraw it; and would show by all such means that there was something on her heart which in her great love she longed to say to him, but had not the courage to utter.
So they were sitting, she with her work before her, but not working, and Tom with his book beside him, but not reading, when Martin knocked at the door. Anticipating who it was, Tom went to open it; and he and Martin came back into the room together. Tom looked surprised, for in answer to his cordial greeting Martin had hardly spoken a word.
Ruth also saw that there was something strange in the manner of their visitor, and raised her eyes inquiringly to Tom’s face, as if she were seeking an explanation there. Tom shook his head, and made the same mute appeal to Martin.
Martin did not sit down but walked up to the window, and stood there looking out. He turned round after a few moments to speak, but hastily averted his head again, without doing so.
‘What has happened, Martin?’ Tom anxiously inquired. ‘My dear fellow, what bad news do you bring?’
‘Oh, Tom!’ replied Martin, in a tone of deep reproach. ‘To hear you feign that interest in anything that happens to me, hurts me even more than your ungenerous dealing.’
‘My ungenerous dealing! Martin! My—’ Tom could say no more.
‘How could you, Tom, how could you suffer me to thank you so fervently and sincerely for your friendship; and not tell me, like a man, that you had deserted me! Was it true, Tom! Was it honest! Was it worthy of what you used to be—of what I am sure you used to be—to tempt me, when you had turned against me, into pouring out my heart! Oh, Tom!’
His tone was one of such strong injury and yet of so much grief for the loss of a friend he had trusted in—it expressed such high past love for Tom, and so much sorrow and compassion for his supposed unworthiness—that Tom, for a moment, put his hand before his face, and had no more power of justifying himself, than if he had been a monster of deceit and falsehood.
‘I protest, as I must die,’ said Martin, ‘that I grieve over the loss of what I thought you; and have no anger in the recollection of my own injuries. It is only at such a time, and after such a discovery, that we know the full measure of our old regard for the subject of it. I swear, little as I showed it—little as I know I showed it—that when I had the least consideration for you, Tom, I loved you like a brother.’
Tom was composed by this time, and might have been the Spirit of Truth, in a homely dress—it very often wears a homely dress, thank God!—when he replied to him.
‘Martin,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what is in your mind, or who has abused it, or by what extraordinary means. But the means are false. There is no truth whatever in the impression under which you labour. It is a delusion from first to last; and I warn you that you will deeply regret the wrong you do me. I can honestly say that I have been true to you, and to myself. You will be very sorry for this. Indeed, you will be very sorry for it, Martin.’
‘I am sorry,’ returned Martin, shaking his head. ‘I think I never knew what it was to be sorry in my heart, until now.’
‘At least,’ said Tom, ‘if I had always been what you charge me with being now, and had never had a place in your regard, but had always been despised by you, and had always deserved it, you should tell me in what you have found me to be treacherous; and on what grounds you proceed. I do not intreat you, therefore, to give me that satisfaction as a favour, Martin, but I ask it of you as a right.’
‘My own eyes are my witnesses,’ returned Martin. ‘Am I to believe them?’
‘No,’ said Tom, calmly. ‘Not if they accuse me.’
‘Your own words. Your own manner,’ pursued Martin. ‘Am I to believe them?’
‘No,’ replied Tom, calmly. ‘Not if they accuse me. But they never have accused me. Whoever has perverted them to such a purpose, has wronged me almost as cruelly’—his calmness rather failed him here—‘as you have done.’
‘I came here,’ said Martin; ‘and I appeal to your good sister to hear me—’
‘Not to her,’ interrupted Tom. ‘Pray, do not appeal to her. She will never believe you.’
He drew her arm through his own, as he said it.
‘I believe it, Tom!’
‘No, no,’ cried Tom, ‘of course not. I said so. Why, tut, tut, tut. What a silly little thing you are!’
‘I never meant,’ said Martin, hastily, ‘to appeal to you against your brother. Do not think me so unmanly and unkind. I merely appealed to you to hear my declaration, that I came here for no purpose of reproach—I have not one reproach to vent—but in deep regret. You could not know in what bitterness of regret, unless you knew how often I have thought of Tom; how long in almost hopeless circumstances, I have looked forward to the better estimation of his friendship; and how steadfastly I have believed and trusted in him.’
‘Tut, tut,’ said Tom, stopping her as she was about to speak. ‘He is mistaken. He is deceived. Why should you mind? He is sure to be set right at last.’
‘Heaven bless the day that sets me right!’ cried Martin, ‘if it could ever come!’
‘Amen!’ said Tom. ‘And it will!’
Martin paused, and then said in a still milder voice:
‘You have chosen for yourself, Tom, and will be relieved by our parting. It is not an angry one. There is no anger on my side—’
‘There is none on mine,’ said Tom.
‘—It is merely what you have brought about, and worked to bring about. I say again, you have chosen for yourself. You have made the choice that might have been expected in most people situated as you are, but which I did not expect in you. For that, perhaps, I should blame my own judgment more than you. There is wealth and favour worth having, on one side; and there is the worthless friendship of an abandoned, struggling fellow, on the other. You were free to make your election, and you made it; and the choice was not difficult. But those who have not the courage to resist such temptations, should have the courage to avow what they have yielded to them; and I do blame you for this, Tom: that you received me with a show of warmth, encouraged me to be frank and plain-spoken, tempted me to confide in you, and professed that you were able to be mine; when you had sold yourself to others. I do not believe,’ said Martin, with emotion—‘hear me say it from my heart—I cannot believe, Tom, now that I am standing face to face with you, that it would have been in your nature to do me any serious harm, even though I had not discovered, by chance, in whose employment you were. But I should have encumbered you; I should have led you into more double-dealing; I should have hazarded your retaining the favour for which you have paid so high a price, bartering away your former self; and it is best for both of us that I have found out what you so much desired to keep secret.’
‘Be just,’ said Tom; who, had not removed his mild gaze from Martin’s face since the commencement of this last address; ‘be just even in your injustice, Martin. You forget. You have not yet told me what your accusation is!’
‘Why should I?’ returned Martin, waving his hand, and moving towards the door. ‘You could not know it the better for my dwelling on it, and though it would be really none the worse, it might seem to me to be. No, Tom. Bygones shall be bygones between us. I can take leave of you at this moment, and in this place—in which you are so amiable and so good—as heartily, if not as cheerfully, as ever I have done since we first met. All good go with you, Tom!—I—’
‘You leave me so? You can leave me so, can you?’ said Tom.
‘I—you—you have chosen for yourself, Tom! I—I hope it was a rash choice,’ Martin faltered. ‘I think it was. I am sure it was! Good-bye!’
And he was gone.
Tom led his little sister to her chair, and sat down in his own. He took his book, and read, or seemed to read. Presently he said aloud, turning a leaf as he spoke: ‘He will be very sorry for this.’ And a tear stole down his face, and dropped upon the page.
Ruth nestled down beside him on her knees, and clasped her arms about his neck.
‘No, Tom! No, no! Be comforted! Dear Tom!’
‘I am quite—comforted,’ said Tom. ‘It will be set right.’
‘Such a cruel, bad return!’ cried Ruth.
‘No, no,’ said Tom. ‘He believes it. I cannot imagine why. But it will be set right.’
More closely yet, she nestled down about him; and wept as if her heart would break.
‘Don’t. Don’t,’ said Tom. ‘Why do you hide your face, my dear!’
Then in a burst of tears, it all broke out at last.
‘Oh Tom, dear Tom, I know your secret heart. I have found it out; you couldn’t hide the truth from me. Why didn’t you tell me? I am sure I could have made you happier, if you had! You love her, Tom, so dearly!’
Tom made a motion with his hand as if he would have put his sister hurriedly away; but it clasped upon hers, and all his little history was written in the action. All its pathetic eloquence was in the silent touch.
‘In spite of that,’ said Ruth, ‘you have been so faithful and so good, dear; in spite of that, you have been so true and self-denying, and have struggled with yourself; in spite of that, you have been so gentle, and so kind, and even-tempered, that I have never seen you give a hasty look, or heard you say one irritable word. In spite of all, you have been so cruelly mistaken. Oh Tom, dear Tom, will this be set right too! Will it, Tom? Will you always have this sorrow in your breast; you who deserve to be so happy; or is there any hope?’
And still she hid her face from Tom, and clasped him round the neck, and wept for him, and poured out all her woman’s heart and soul in the relief and pain of this disclosure.
It was not very long before she and Tom were sitting side by side, and she was looking with an earnest quietness in Tom’s face. Then Tom spoke to her thus, cheerily, though gravely:
‘I am very glad, my dear, that this has passed between us. Not because it assures me of your tender affection (for I was well assured of that before), but because it relieves my mind of a great weight.’
Tom’s eyes glistened when he spoke of her affection; and he kissed her on the cheek.
‘My dear girl,’ said Tom; ‘with ............