‘I give you my sacred honour, quite transported. As your friends, observe!’
‘Exactly,’ said Jonas; ‘as my friends, of course. You’ll be very much delighted when you get ‘em, I have no doubt. And it’ll be all to my advantage, won’t it?’
‘It will be very much to your advantage,’ answered Montague poising a brush in each hand, and looking steadily upon him. ‘It will be very much to your advantage, I assure you.’
‘And you can tell me how,’ said Jonas, ‘can’t you?’
‘Shall I tell you how?’ returned the other.
‘I think you had better,’ said Jonas. ‘Strange things have been done in the Assurance way before now, by strange sorts of men, and I mean to take care of myself.’
‘Chuzzlewit!’ replied Montague, leaning forward, with his arms upon his knees, and looking full into his face. ‘Strange things have been done, and are done every day; not only in our way, but in a variety of other ways; and no one suspects them. But ours, as you say, my good friend, is a strange way; and we strangely happen, sometimes, to come into the knowledge of very strange events.’
He beckoned to Jonas to bring his chair nearer; and looking slightly round, as if to remind him of the presence of Nadgett, whispered in his ear.
From red to white; from white to red again; from red to yellow; then to a cold, dull, awful, sweat-bedabbled blue. In that short whisper, all these changes fell upon the face of Jonas Chuzzlewit; and when at last he laid his hand upon the whisperer’s mouth, appalled, lest any syllable of what he said should reach the ears of the third person present, it was as bloodless and as heavy as the hand of Death.
He drew his chair away, and sat a spectacle of terror, misery, and rage. He was afraid to speak, or look, or move, or sit still. Abject, crouching, and miserable, he was a greater degradation to the form he bore, than if he had been a loathsome wound from head to heel.