‘All here!’ cried the old man. ‘All here! Where is he then—my old master, Mr Chuzzlewit, who had the only son? Where is he?’
‘Hush! Hush!’ said Merry, speaking kindly to him. ‘That happened long ago. Don’t you recollect?’
‘Recollect!’ rejoined the old man, with a cry of grief. ‘As if I could forget! As if I ever could forget!’
He put his hand up to his face for a moment; and then repeated turning round exactly as before:
‘Who’s lying dead upstairs?’
‘No one!’ said Merry.
At first he gazed angrily upon her, as upon a stranger who endeavoured to deceive him; but peering into her face, and seeing that it was indeed she, he shook his head in sorrowful compassion.
‘You think not. But they don’t tell you. No, no, poor thing! They don’t tell you. Who are these, and why are they merry-making here, if there is no one dead? Foul play! Go see who it is!’
She made a sign to them not to speak to him, which indeed they had little inclination to do; and remained silent herself. So did he for a short time; but then he repeated the same question with an eagerness that had a peculiar terror in it.
‘There’s some one dead,’ he said, ‘or dying; and I want to knows who it is. Go see, go see! Where’s Jonas?’