‘Where is he?’
Before Tom, in his indignation and amazement, could return an answer to a question he so little understood, a gentleman approached Tom behind, and saluted Jonas Chuzzlewit by name. He has a gentleman of foreign appearance, with a black moustache and whiskers; and addressed him with a polite composure, strangely different from his own distracted and desperate manner.
‘Chuzzlewit, my good fellow!’ said the gentleman, raising his hat in compliment to Mrs Chuzzlewit, ‘I ask your pardon twenty thousand times. I am most unwilling to interfere between you and a domestic trip of this nature (always so very charming and refreshing, I know, although I have not the happiness to be a domestic man myself, which is the great infelicity of my existence); but the beehive, my dear friend, the beehive—will you introduce me?’
‘This is Mr Montague,’ said Jonas, whom the words appeared to choke.
‘The most unhappy and most penitent of men, Mrs Chuzzlewit,’ pursued that gentleman, ‘for having been the means of spoiling this excursion; but as I tell my friend, the beehive, the beehive. You projected a short little continental trip, my dear friend, of course?’
Jonas maintained a dogged silence.
‘May I die,’ cried Montague, ‘but I am shocked! Upon my soul I am shocked. But that confounded beehive of ours in the city must be paramount to every other consideration, when there is honey to be made; and that is my best excuse. Here is a very singular old female dropping curtseys on my right,’ said Montague, breaking off in his discourse, and looking at Mrs Gamp, ‘who is not a friend of mine. Does anybody know her?’
‘Ah! Well they knows me, bless their precious hearts!’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘not forgettin’ your own merry one, sir, and long may it be so! Wishin’ as every one’ (she delivered this in the form of a toast or sentiment) ‘was as merry, and as handsome-lookin’, as a little bird has whispered me a certain gent is, which I will not name for fear I give offence where none is doo! My precious lady,’ here she stopped short in her merriment, for she had until now affected to be vastly entertained, ‘you’re too pale by half!’
‘You are here too, are you?’ muttered Jonas. ‘Ecod, there are enough of you.’
‘I hope, sir,’ returned Mrs Gamp, dropping an indignant curtsey, ‘as no bones is broke by me and Mrs Harris a-walkin’ down upon a public wharf. Which was the very words she says to me (although they was the last I ever had to speak) was these: “Sairey,” she says, “is it a public wharf?” “Mrs Harris,” I makes answer, “can you doubt it? You have know’d me now, ma’am, eight and thirty year; and did you ever know me go, or wish to go, where I was not made welcome, say the words.” “No, Sairey,” Mrs Harris says, “contrairy quite.” And well she knows it too. I am but a poor woman, but I’ve been sought after, sir, though you may not think it. I’ve been knocked up at all hours of the night, and warned out by a many landlords, in consequence of being mistook for Fire. I goes out workin’ for my bread, ‘tis true, but I maintains my independency, with your kind leave, and which I will till death. I has my feelins as a woman, sir, and I have been a mother likeways; but touch a pipkin as belongs to me, or make the least remarks on what I eats or drinks, and though you was the favouritest young for’ard hussy of a servant-gal as ever come into a house, either you leaves the place, or me. My earnins is not great, sir, but I will not be impoged upon. Bless the babe, and save the mother, is my mortar, sir; but I makes so free as add to that, Don’t try no impogician with the Nuss, for she will not abear it!’