‘She seems to make such game of one,’ replied Mr Jonas.
‘Then why need you trouble yourself about her?’ said Charity. ‘I am sure she doesn’t trouble herself much about you.’
‘Don’t she though?’ asked Jonas.
‘Good gracious me, need I tell you that she don’t?’ returned the young lady.
Mr Jonas made no verbal rejoinder, but he glanced at Mercy with an odd expression in his face; and saidthatwouldn’t break his heart, she might depend upon it. Then he looked on Charity with even greater favour than before, and besought her, as his polite manner was, to ‘come a little closer.’
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‘There’s another thing that’s not easily overdone, father,’ remarked Jonas, after a short silence.
‘What’s that?’ asked the father; grinning already in anticipation.
‘A bargain,’ said the son. ‘Here’s the rule for bargains—“Do other men, for they would do you.” That’s the true business precept. All others are counterfeits.’
The delighted father applauded this sentiment to the echo; and was so much tickled by it, that he was at the pains of imparting the same to his ancient clerk, who rubbed his hands, nodded his palsied head, winked his watery eyes, and cried in his whistling tones, ‘Good! good! Your own son, Mr Chuzzlewit’ with every feeble demonstration of delight that he was capable of making. But this old man’s enthusiasm had the redeeming quality of being felt in sympathy with the only creature to whom he was linked by ties of long association, and by his present helplessness. And if there had been anybody there, who cared to think about it, some dregs of a better nature unawakened, might perhaps have been descried through that very medium, melancholy though it was, yet lingering at the bottom of the worn-out cask called Chuffey.
As matters stood, nobody thought or said anything upon the subject; so Chuffey fell back into a dark corner on one side of the fireplace, where he always spent his evenings, and was neither seen nor heard again that night; save once, when a cup of tea was given him, in which he was seen to soak his bread mechanically. There was no reason to suppose that he went to sleep at these seasons, or that he heard, or saw, or felt, or thought. He remained, as it were, frozen up—if any term expressive of such a vigorous process can be applied to him—until he was again thawed for the moment by a word or touch from Anthony.
Miss Charity made tea by desire of Mr Jonas, and felt and looked so like the lady of the house that she was in the prettiest confusion imaginable; the more so from Mr Jonas sitting close beside her, and whispering a variety of admiring expressions in her ear. Miss Mercy, for her part, felt the entertainment of the evening to be so distinctly and exclusively theirs, that she silently deplored the commercial gentlemen—at that moment, no doubt, wearying for her return—and yawned over yesterday’s newspaper. As to Anthony, he went to sleep outright, so Jonas and Cherry had a clear stage to themselves as long as they chose to keep possession of it.
When the tea-tray was taken away, as it was at last, Mr Jonas produced a dirty pack of cards, and entertained the sisters with divers small feats of dexterity: whereof the main purpose of every one was, that you were to decoy somebody into laying a wager with you that you couldn’t do it; and were then immediately to win and pocket his money. Mr Jonas informed them that these accomplishments were in high vogue in the most intellectual circles, and that large amounts were constantly changing hands on such hazards. And it may be remarked that he fully believed this; for there is a simplicity of cunning no less than a simplicity of innocence; and in all matters where a lively faith in knavery and meanness was required as the ground-work of belief, Mr Jonas was one of the most credulous of men. His ignorance, which was stupendous, may be taken into account, if the reader pleases, separately.
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This fine young man had all the inclination to be a profligate of the first water, and only lacked the one good trait in the common catalogue of debauched vices—open-handedness—to be a notable vagabond. But there his griping and penurious habits stepped in; and as one poison will sometimes neutralise another, when wholesome remedies would not avail, so he was restrained by a bad passion from quaffing his full measure of evil, when virtue might have sought to hold him back in vain.
By the time he had unfolded all the peddling schemes he knew upon the cards, it was growing late in the evening; and Mr Pecksniff not making his appearance, the young ladies expressed a wish to return home. But this, Mr Jonas, in his gallantry, would by no means allow, until they had partaken of some bread and cheese and porter; and even then he was excessively unwilling to allow them to depart; often beseeching Miss Charity to come a little closer, or to stop a little longer, and preferring many other complimentary petitions of that nature in his own hospitable and earnest way. When all his efforts to detain them were fruitless, he put on his hat and greatcoat preparatory to escorting them to Todgers’s; remarking that he knew they would rather walk thither than ride; and that for his part he was quite of their opinion.
‘Good night,’ said Anthony. ‘Good night; remember me to—ha, ha, ha!—to Pecksniff. Take care of your cousin, my dears; beware of Jonas; he’s a dangerous fellow. Don’t quarrel for him, in any case!’
‘Oh, the creature!’ cried Mercy. ‘The idea of quarrelling forhim! You may take him, Cherry, my love, all to yourself. I make you a present of my share.’
‘What! I’m a sour grape, am I, cousin?’ said Jonas.
Miss Charity was more entertained by this repartee than one would have supposed likely, considering its advanced age and simple character. But in her sisterly affection she took Mr Jonas to task for leaning so very hard upon a broken reed, and said that he must not be so cruel to poor Merry any more, or she (Charity) would positively be obliged to hate him. Mercy, who really had her share of good humour, only retorted with a laugh; and they walked home in consequence without any angry passages of words upon the way. Mr Jonas being in the middle, and having a cousin on each arm, sometimes squeezed the wrong one; so tightly too, as to cause her not a little inconvenience; but as he talked to Charity in whispers the whole time, and paid her great attention, no doubt this was an accidental circumstance. When they arrived at Todgers’s, and the door was opened, Mercy broke hastily from them, and ran upstairs; but Charity and Jonas lingered on the steps talking together for more than five minutes; so, as Mrs Todgers observed next morning, to a third party, ‘It was pretty clear what was going onthere, and she was glad of it, for it really was high time that Miss Pecksniff thought of settling.’
And now the day was coming on, when that bright vision which had burst on Todgers’s so suddenly, and made a sunshine in the shady breast of Jinkins, was to be seen no more; when it was to be packed, like a brown paper parcel, or a fish-basket, or an oyster barrel or a fat gentleman, or any other dull reality of life, in a stagecoach and carried down into the country.
‘Never, my dear Miss Pecksniffs,’ said Mrs Todgers, when they retired to rest on the last night of their stay, ‘never have I seen an establishment so perfectly broken-hearted as mine is at this present moment of time. I don’t believe the gentlemen will be the gentlemen they were, or anything like it—no, not for weeks to come. You have a great deal to answer for, both of you.’
They modestly disclaimed any wilful agency in this disastrous state of things, and regretted it very much.
‘Your pious pa, too,’ said Mrs Todgers. ‘There’s a loss! My dear Miss Pecksniffs, your pa is a perfect missionary of peace and love.’
Entertaining an uncertainty as to the particular kind of love supposed to be comprised in Mr Pecksniff’s mission, the young ladies received the compliment rather coldly.
‘If I dared,’ said Mrs Todgers, perceiving this, ‘to violate a confidence which has been reposed in me, and to tell you why I must beg of you to leave the little door between your room and mine open tonight, I think you would be interested. But I mustn’t do it, for I promised Mr Jinkins faithfully, that I would be as silent as the tomb.’
‘Dear Mrs Todgers! What can you mean?’
‘Why, then, my sweet Miss Pecksniffs,’ said the lady of the house; ‘my own loves, if you will allow me the privilege of taking that freedom on the eve of our separation, Mr Jinkins and the gentlemen have made up a little musical party among themselves, anddointend, in the dead of this night, to perform a serenade upon the stairs outside the door. I could have wished, I own,’ said Mrs Todgers, with her usual foresight, ‘that it had been fixed to take place an hour or two earlier; because when gentlemen sit up late they drink, and when they drink they’re not so musical, perhaps, as when they don’t. But this is the arrangement; and I know you will be gratified, my dear Miss Pecksniffs, by such a mark of their attention.’
The young ladies were at first so much excited by the news, that they vowed they couldn’t think of going to bed until the serenade was over. But half an hour of cool waiting so altered their opinion that they not only went to bed, but fell asleep; and were, moreover, not ecstatically charmed to be awakened some time afterwards by certain dulcet strains breaking in upon the silent watches of the night.
It was very affecting—very. Nothing more dismal could have been desired by the most fastidious taste. The gentleman of a vocal turn was head mute, or chief mourner; Jinkins took the bass; and the rest took anything they could get. The youngest gentleman blew his melancholy into a flute. He didn’t blow much out of it, but that was all the better. If the two Miss Pecksniffs and Mrs Todgers had perished by spontaneous combustion, and the serenade had been in honour of their ashes, it would have been impossible to surpass the unutterable despair expressed in that one chorus, ‘Go where glory waits thee!’ It was a requiem, a dirge, a moan, a howl, a wail, a lament, an abstract of everything that is sorrowful and hideous in sound. The flute of the youngest gentleman was wild and fitful. It came and went in gusts, like the wind. For a long time together he seemed to have left off, and when it was quite settled by Mrs Todgers and the young ladies that, overcome by his feelings, he had retired in tears, he unexpectedly turned up again at the very top of the tune, gasping for breath. He was a tremendous performer. There was no knowing where to have him; and exactly when you thought he was doing nothing at all, then was he doing the very thing that ought to astonish you most.
There were several of these concerted pieces; perhaps two or three too many, though that, as Mrs Todgers said, was a fault on the right side. But even then, even at that solemn moment, when the thrilling sounds may be presumed to have penetrated into the very depths of his nature, if he had any depths, Jinkins couldn’t leave the youngest gentleman alone. He asked him distinctly, before the second song began—as a personal favour too, mark the villain in that—not to play. Yes; he said so; not to play. The breathing of the youngest gentleman was heard through the key-hole of the door. Hedidn’tplay. What vent was a flute for the passions swelling up within his breast? A trombone would have been a world too mild.
The serenade approached its close. Its crowning interest was at hand. The gentleman of a literary turn had written a song on the departure of the ladies, and adapted it to an old tune. They all joined, except the youngest gentleman in company, who, for the reasons aforesaid, maintained a fearful silence. The song (which was of a classical nature) invoked the oracle of Apollo, and demanded to know what would become of Todgers’s whenCHARITYandMERCYwere banished from its walls. The oracle delivered no opinion particularly worth remembering, according to the not infrequent practice of oracles from the earliest ages down to the present time. In the absence of enlightenment on that subject, the strain deserted it, and went on to show that the Miss Pecksniffs were nearly related to Rule Britannia, and that if Great Britain hadn’t been an island, there could have been no Miss Pecksniffs. And being now on a nautical tack, it closed with this verse:
‘All hail to the vessel of Pecksniff the sire!And favouring breezes to fan;While Tritons flock round it, and proudly admireThe architect, artist, and man!’
As they presented this beautiful picture to the imagination, the gentlemen gradually withdrew to bed to give the music the effect of distance; and so it died away, and Todgers’s was left to its repose.
Mr Bailey reserved his vocal offering until the morning, when he put his head into the room as the young ladies were kneeling before their trunks, packing up, and treated them to an imitation of the voice of a young dog in trying circumstances; when that animal is supposed by persons of a lively fancy, to relieve his feelings by calling for pen and ink.
‘Well, young ladies,’ said the youth, ‘so you’re a-going home, are you, worse luck?’
‘Yes, Bailey, we’re going home,’ returned Mercy.
‘An’t you a-going to leave none of ‘em a lock of your hair?’ inquired the youth. ‘It’s real, an’t it?’
They laughed at this, and told him of course it was.
‘Oh, is it of course, though?’ said Bailey. ‘I know better than that. Hers an’t. Why, I see it hanging up once, on that nail by the winder. Besides, I have gone behind her at dinner-time and pulled it; and she never know’d. I say, young ladies, I’m a-going to leave. I an’t a-going to stand being called names by her, no longer.’
Miss Mercy inquired what his plans for the future might be; in reply to whom Mr Bailey intimated that he thought of going either into top-boots, or into the army.
‘Into the army!’ cried the young ladies, with a laugh.
‘Ah!’ said Bailey, ‘why not? There’s a many drummers in the Tower. I’m acquainted with ‘em. Don’t their country set a valley on ‘em, mind you! Not at all!’
‘You’ll be shot, I see,’ observed Mercy.
‘Well!’ cried Mr Bailey, ‘wot if I am? There’s something gamey in it, young ladies, an’t there? I’d sooner be hit with a cannon-ball than a rolling-pin, and she’s always a-catching up something of that sort, and throwing it at me, when the gentlemans’ appetites is good. Wot,’ said Mr Bailey, stung by the recollection of his wrongs, ‘wot, if theydoconsume the per-vishuns. It an’tmyfault, is it?’
‘Surely no one says it is,’ said Mercy.
‘Don’t they though?’ retorted the youth. ‘No. Yes. Ah! oh! No one mayn’t say it is! but some one knows it is. But I an’t a-going to have every rise in prices wisited on me. I an’t a-going to be killed because the markets is dear. I won’t stop. And therefore,’ added Mr Bailey, relenting into a smile, ‘wotever you mean to give me, you’d better give me all at once, becos if ever you come back agin, I shan’t be here; and as to the other boy,hewon’t deserve nothing, I know.’
The young ladies, on behalf of Mr Pecksniff and themselves, acted on this thoughtful advice; and in consideration of their private friendship, presented Mr Bailey with a gratuity so liberal that he could hardly do enough to show his gratitude; which found but an imperfect vent, during the remainder of the day, in divers secret slaps upon his pocket, and other such facetious pantomime. Nor was it confined to these ebullitions; for besides crushing a bandbox, with a bonnet in it, he seriously damaged Mr Pecksniff’s luggage, by ardently hauling it down from the top of the house; and in short evinced, by every means in his power, a lively sense of the favours he had received from that gentleman and his family.
Mr Pecksniff and Mr Jinkins came home to dinner arm-in-arm; for the latter gentleman had made half-holiday on purpose; thus gaining an immense advantage over the youngest gentleman and the rest, whose time, as it perversely chanced, was all bespoke, until the evening. The bottle of wine was Mr Pecksniff’s treat, and they were very sociable indeed; though full of lamentations on the necessity of parting. While they were in the midst of their enjoyment, old Anthony and his son were announced; much to the surprise of Mr Pecksniff, and greatly to the discomfiture of Jinkins.
‘Come to say good-bye, you see,’ said Anthony, in a low voice, to Mr Pecksniff, as they took their seats apart at the table, while the rest conversed among themselves. ‘Where’s the use of a division between you and me? We are the two halves of a pair of scissors, when apart, Pecksniff; but together we are something. Eh?’
‘Unanimity, my good sir,’ rejoined Mr Pecksniff, ‘is always delightful.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ said the old man, ‘for there are some people I would rather differ from than agree with. But you know my opinion of you.’
Mr Pecksniff, still having ‘hypocrite’ in his mind, only replied by a motion of his head, which was something between an affirmative bow, and a negative shake.
‘Complimentary,’ said Anthony. ‘Complimentary, upon my word. It was an involuntary tribute to your abilities, even at the time; and it was not a time to suggest compliments either. But we agreed in the coach, you know, that we quite understood each other.’
‘Oh, quite!’ assented Mr Pecksniff, in a manner which implied that he himself was misunderstood most cruelly, but would not complain.
Anthony glanced at his son as he sat beside Miss Charity, and then at Mr Pecksniff, and then at his son again, very many times. It happened that Mr Pecksniff’s glances took a similar direction; but when he became aware of it, he first cast down his eyes, and then closed them; as if he were determined that the old man should read nothing there.
‘Jonas is a shrewd lad,’ said the old man.
‘He appears,’ rejoined Mr Pecksniff in his most candid manner, ‘to be very shrewd.’
‘And careful,’ said the old man.
‘And careful, I have no doubt,’ returned Mr Pecksniff.
‘Look ye!’ said Anthony in his ear. ‘I think he is sweet upon you daughter.’
‘Tut, my good sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, with his eyes still closed; ‘young people—young people—a kind of cousins, too—no more sweetness than is in that, sir.’
‘Why, there is very little sweetness in that, according to our experience,’ returned Anthony. ‘Isn’t there a trifle more here?’
‘Impossible to say,’ rejoined Mr Pecksniff. ‘Quite impossible! You surprise me.’
‘Yes, I know that,’ said the old man, drily. ‘It may last; I mean the sweetness, not the surprise; and it may die off. Supposing it should last, perhaps (you having feathered your nest pretty well, and I having done the same), we might have a mutual interest in the matter.’
Mr Pecksniff, smiling gently, was about to speak, but Anthony stopped him.
‘I know what you are going to say. It’s quite unnecessary. You have never thought of this for a moment; and in a point so nearly affecting the happiness of your dear child, you couldn’t, as a tender father, express an opinion; and so forth. Yes, quite right. And like you! But it seems to me, my dear Pecksniff,’ added Anthony, laying his hand upon his sleeve, ‘that if you and I kept up the joke of pretending not to see this, one of us might possibly be placed in a position of disadvantage; and as I am very unwilling to be that party myself, you will excuse my taking the liberty of putting the matter beyond a doubt thus early; and having it distinctly understood, as it is now, that we do see it, and do know it. Thank you for your attention. We are now upon an equal footing; which is agreeable to us both, I am sure.’
He rose as he spoke; and giving Mr Pecksniff a nod of intelligence, moved away from him to where the young people were sitting; leaving that good man somewhat puzzled and discomfited by such very plain dealing, and not quite free from a sense of having been foiled in the exercise of his familiar weapons.
But the night-coach had a punctual character, and it was time to join it at the office; which was so near at hand that they had already sent their luggage and arranged to walk. Thither the whole party repaired, therefore, after no more delay than sufficed for the equipment of the Miss Pecksniffs and Mrs Todgers. They found the coach already at its starting-place, and the horses in; there, too, were a large majority of the commercial gentlemen, including the youngest, who was visibly agitated, and in a state of deep mental dejection.
Nothing could equal the distress of Mrs Todgers in parting from the young ladies, except the strong emotions with which she bade adieu to Mr Pecksniff. Never surely was a pocket-handkerchief taken in and out of a flat reticule so often as Mrs Todgers’s was, as she stood upon the pavement by the coach-door supported on either side by a commercial gentleman; and by the sight of the coach-lamps caught such brief snatches and glimpses of the good man’s face, as the constant interposition of Mr Jinkins allowed. For Jinkins, to the last the youngest gentleman’s rock a-head in life, stood upon the coachstep talking to the ladies. Upon the other step was Mr Jonas, who maintained that position in right of his cousinship; whereas the youngest gentleman, who had been first upon the ground, was deep in the booking-office among the black and red placards, and the portraits of fast coaches, where he was ignominiously harassed by porters, and had to contend and strive perpetually with heavy baggage. This false position, combined with his nervous excitement, brought about the very consummation and catastrophe of his miseries; for when in the moment of parting he aimed a flower, a hothouse flower that had cost money, at the fair hand of Mercy, it reached, instead, the coachman on the box, who thanked him kindly, and stuck it in his buttonhole.
They were off now; and Todgers’s was alone again. The two young ladies, leaning back in their separate corners, resigned themselves to their own regretful thoughts. But Mr Pecksniff, dismissing all ephemeral considerations of social pleasure and enjoyment, concentrated his meditations on the one great virtuous purpose before him, of casting out that ingrate and deceiver, whose presence yet troubled his domestic hearth, and was a sacrilege upon the altars of his household gods.
WILL BE SEEN IN THE LONG RUN, IF NOT IN THE SHORT ONE, TO CONCERN MR PINCH AND OTHERS, NEARLY. MR PECKSNIFF ASSERTS THE DIGNITY OF OUTRAGED VIRTUE. YOUNG MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT FORMS A DESPERATE RESOLUTION
Mr Pinch and Martin, little dreaming of the stormy weather that impended, made themselves very comfortable in the Pecksniffian halls, and improved their friendship daily. Martin’s facility, both of invention and execution, being remarkable, the grammar-school proceeded with great vigour; and Tom repeatedly declared, that if there were anything like certainty in human affairs, or impartiality in human judges, a design so new and full of merit could not fail to carry off the first prize when the time of competition arrived. Without being quite so sanguine himself, Martin had his hopeful anticipations too; and they served to make him brisk and eager at his task.
‘If I should turn out a great architect, Tom,’ said the new pupil one day, as he stood at a little distance from his drawing, and eyed it with much complacency, ‘I’ll tell you what should be one of the things I’d build.’
‘Aye!’ cried Tom. ‘What?’
‘Why, your fortune.’
‘No!’ said Tom Pinch, quite as much delighted as if the thing were done. ‘Would you though? How kind of you to say so.’
‘I’d build it up, Tom,’ returned Martin, ‘on such a strong foundation, that it should last your life—aye, and your children’s lives too, and their children’s after them. I’d be your patron, Tom. I’d take you under my protection. Let me see the man who should give the cold shoulder to anybody I chose to protect and patronise, if I were at the top of the tree, Tom!’
‘Now, I don’t think,’ said Mr Pinch, ‘upon my word, that I was ever more gratified than by this. I really don’t.’
‘Oh! I mean what I say,’ retorted Martin, with a manner as free and easy in its condescension to, not to say in its compassion for, the other, as if he were already First Architect in ordinary to all the Crowned Heads in Europe. ‘I’d do it. I’d provide for you.’
‘I am afraid,’ said Tom, shaking his head, ‘that I should be a mighty awkward person to provide for.’
‘Pooh, pooh!’ rejoined Martin. ‘Never mind that. If I took it in my head to say, “Pinch is a clever fellow; I approve of Pinch;” I should like to know the man who would venture to put himself in opposition to me. Besides, confound it, Tom, you could be useful to me in a hundred ways.’
‘If I were not useful in one or two, it shouldn’t be for want of trying,’ said Tom.
‘For instance,’ pursued Martin, after a short reflection, ‘you’d be a capital fellow, now, to see that my ideas were properly carried out; and to overlook the works in their progress before they were sufficiently advanced to be very interesting tome; and to take all that sort of plain sailing. Then you’d be a splendid fellow to show people over my studio, and to talk about Art to ‘em, when I couldn’t be bored myself, and all that kind of thing. For it would be devilish creditable, Tom (I’m quite in earnest, I give you my word), to have a man of your information about one, instead of some ordinary blockhead. Oh, I’d take care of you. You’d be useful, rely upon it!’
To say that Tom had no idea of playing first fiddle in any social orchestra, but was always quite satisfied to be set down for the hundred and fiftieth violin in the band, or thereabouts, is to express his modesty in very inadequate terms. He was much delighted, therefore, by these observations.
‘I should be married to her then, Tom, of course,’ said Martin.
What was that which checked Tom Pinch so suddenly, in the high flow of his gladness; bringing the blood into his honest cheeks, and a remorseful feeling to his honest heart, as if he were unworthy of his friend’s regard?
‘I should be married to her then,’ said Martin, looking with a smile towards the light; ‘and we should have, I hope, children about us. They’d be very fond of you, Tom.’
But not a word said Mr Pinch. The words he would have uttered died upon his lips, and found a life more spiritual in self-denying thoughts.
‘All the children hereabouts are fond of you, Tom, and mine would be, of course,’ pursued Martin. ‘Perhaps I might name one of ‘em after you. Tom, eh? Well, I don’t know. Tom’s not a bad name. Thomas Pinch Chuzzlewit. T. P. C. on his pinafores—no objection to that, I should say?’
Tom cleared his throat, and smiled.
‘Shewould like you, Tom, I know,’ said Martin.
‘Aye!’ cried Tom Pinch, faintly.
‘I can tell exactly what she would think of you,’ said Martin leaning his chin upon his hand, and looking through the window-glass as if he read there what he said; ‘I know her so well. She would smile, Tom, often at first when you spoke to her, or when she looked at you—merrily too—but you wouldn’t mind that. A brighter smile you never saw.’
‘No, no,’ said Tom. ‘I wouldn’t mind that.’
‘She would be as tender with you, Tom,’ said Martin, ‘as if you were a child yourself. So you are almost, in some things, an’t you, Tom?’
Mr Pinch nodded his entire assent.
‘She would always be kind and good-humoured, and glad to see you,’ said Martin; ‘and when she found out exactly what sort of fellow you were (which she’d do very soon), she would pretend to give you little commissions to execute, and to ask little services of you, which she knew you were burning to render; so that when she really pleased you most, she would try to make you think you most pleased her. She would take to you uncommonly, Tom; and would understand you far more delicately than I ever shall; and would often say, I know, that you were a harmless, gentle, well-intentioned, good fellow.’
How silent Tom Pinch was!
‘In honour of old time,’ said Martin, ‘and of her having heard you play the organ in this damp little church down here—for nothing too—we will have one in the house. I shall build an architectural music-room on a plan of my own, and it’ll look rather knowing in a recess at one end. There you shall play away, Tom, till you tire yourself; and, as you like to do so in the dark, it shallbedark; and many’s the summer evening she and I will sit and listen to you, Tom; be sure of that!’
It may have required a stronger effort on Tom Pinch’s part to leave the seat on which he sat, and shake his friend by both hands, with nothing but serenity and grateful feeling painted on his face; it may have required a stronger effort to perform this simple act with a pure heart, than to achieve many and many a deed to which the doubtful trumpet blown by Fame has lustily resounded. Doubtful, because from its long hovering over scenes of violence, the smoke and steam of death have clogged the keys of that brave instrument; and it is not always that its notes are either true or tuneful.
‘It’s a proof of the kindness of human nature,’ said Tom, characteristically putting himself quite out of sight in the matter, ‘that everybody who comes here, as you have done, is more considerate and affectionate to me than I should have any right to hope, if I were the most sanguine creature in the world; or should have any power to express, if I were the most eloquent. It really overpowers me. But trust me,’ said Tom, ‘that I am not ungrateful—that I never forget—and that if I can ever prove the truth of my words to you, I will.’
‘That’s all right,’ observed Martin, leaning back in his chair with a hand in each pocket, and yawning drearily. ‘Very fine talking, Tom; but I’m at Pecksniff’s, I remember, and perhaps a mile or so out of the high-road to fortune just at this minute. So you’ve heard again this morning from what’s his name, eh?’
‘Who may that be?’ asked Tom, seeming to enter a mild protest on behalf of the dignity of an absent person.
‘Youknow. What is it? Northkey.’
‘Westlock,’ rejoined Tom, in rather a louder tone than usual.
‘Ah! to be sure,’ said Martin, ‘Westlock. I knew it was something connected with a point of the compass and a door. Well! and what says Westlock?’
‘Oh! he has come into his property,’ answered Tom, nodding his head, and smiling.
‘He’s a lucky dog,’ said Martin. ‘I wish it were mine instead. Is that all the mystery you were to tell me?’
‘No,’ said Tom; ‘not all.’
‘What’s the rest?’ asked Martin.
‘For the matter of that,’ said Tom, ‘it’s no mystery, and you won’t think much of it; but it’s very pleasant to me. John always used to say when he was here, “Mark my words, Pinch. When my father’s executors cash up”—he used strange expressions now and then, but that was his way.’
‘Cash-up’s a very good expression,’ observed Martin, ‘when other people don’t apply it to you. Well!—What a slow fellow you are, Pinch!’
‘Yes, I am I know,’ said Tom; ‘but you’ll make me nervous if you tell me so. I’m afraid you have put me out a little now, for I forget what I was going to say.’
‘When John’s father’s executors cashed up,’ said Martin impatiently.
‘Oh yes, to be sure,’ cried Tom; ‘yes. “Then,” says John, “I’ll give you a dinner, Pinch, and come down to Salisbury on purpose.” Now, when John wrote the other day—the morning Pecksniff left, you know—he said his business was on the point of being immediately settled, and as he was to receive his money directly, when could I meet him at Salisbury? I wrote and said, any day this week; and I told him besides, that there was a new pupil here, and what a fine fellow you were, and what friends we had become. Upon which John writes back this letter’—Tom produced it—‘fixes to-morrow; sends his compliments to you; and begs that we three may have the pleasure of dining together; not at the house where you and I were, either; but at the very first hotel in the town. Read what he says.’
‘Very well,’ said Martin, glancing over it with his customary coolness; ‘much obliged to him. I’m agreeable.’
Tom could have wished him to be a little more astonished, a little more pleased, or in some form or other a little more interested in such a great event. But he was perfectly self-possessed; and falling into his favourite solace of whistling, took another turn at the grammar-school, as if nothing at all had happened.
Mr Pecksniff’s horse being regarded in the light of a sacred animal, only to be driven by him, the chief priest of that temple, or by some person distinctly nominated for the time being to that high office by himself, the two young men agreed to walk to Salisbury; and so, when the time came, they set off on foot; which was, after all, a better mode of travelling than in the gig, as the weather was very cold and very dry.
Better! A rare strong, hearty, healthy walk—four statute miles an hour—preferable to that rumbling, tumbling, jolting, shaking, scraping, creaking, villanous old gig? Why, the two things will not admit of comparison. It is an insult to the walk, to set them side by side. Where is an instance of a gig having ever circulated a man’s blood, unless when, putting him in danger of his neck, it awakened in his veins and in his ears, and all along his spine, a tingling heat, much more peculiar than agreeable? When did a gig ever sharpen anybody’s wits and energies, unless it was when the horse bolted, and, crashing madly down a steep hill with a stone wall at the bottom, his desperate circumstances suggested to the only gentleman left inside, some novel and unheard-of mode of dropping out behind? Better than the gig!
The air was cold, Tom; so it was, there was no denying it; but would it have been more genial in the gig? The blacksmith’s fire burned very bright, and leaped up high, as though it wanted men to warm; but would it have been less tempting, looked at from the clammy cushions of a gig? The wind blew keenly, nipping the features of the hardy wight who fought his way along; blinding him with his own hair if he had enough to it, and wintry dust if he hadn’t; stopping his breath as though he had been soused in a cold bath; tearing aside his wrappings-up, and whistling in the very marrow of his bones; but it would have done all this a hundred times more fiercely to a man in a gig, wouldn’t it? A fig for gigs!
Better than the gig! When were travellers by wheels and hoofs seen with such red-hot cheeks as those? when were they so good-humouredly and merrily bloused? when did their laughter ring upon the air, as they turned them round, what time the stronger gusts came sweeping up; and, facing round again as they passed by, dashed on, in such a glow of ruddy health as nothing could keep pace with, but the high spirits it engendered? Better than the gig! Why, here is a man in a gig coming the same way now. Look at him as he passes his whip into his left hand, chafes his numbed right fingers on his granite leg, and beats those marble toes of his upon the foot-board. Ha, ha, ha! Who would exchange this rapid hurry of the blood for yonder stagnant misery, though its pace were twenty miles for one?
Better than the gig! No man in a gig could have such interest in the milestones. No man in a gig could see, or feel, or think, like merry users of their legs. How, as the wind sweeps on, upon these breezy downs, it tracks its flight in darkening ripples on the grass, and smoothest shadows on the hills! Look round and round upon this bare bleak plain, and see even here, upon a winter’s day, how beautiful the shadows are! Alas! it is the nature of their kind to be so. The loveliest things in life, Tom, are but shadows; and they come and go, and change and fade away, as rapidly as these!
Another mile, and then begins a fall of snow, making the crow, who skims away so close above the ground to shirk the wind, a blot of ink upon the landscape. But though it drives and drifts against them as they walk, stiffening on their skirts, and freezing in the lashes of their eyes, they wouldn’t have it fall more sparingly, no, not so much as by a single flake, although they had to go a score of miles. And, lo! the towers of the Old Cathedral rise before them, even now! and by-and-bye they come into the sheltered streets, made strangely silent by their white carpet; and so to the Inn for which they are bound; where they present such flushed and burning faces to the cold waiter, and are so brimful of vigour, that he almost feels assaulted by their presence; and, having nothing to oppose to the attack (being fresh, or rather stale, from the blazing fire in the coffee-room), is quite put out of his pale countenance.
A famous Inn! the hall a very grove of dead game, and dangling joints of mutton; and in one corner an illustrious larder, with glass doors, developing cold fowls and noble joints, and tarts wherein the raspberry jam coyly withdrew itself, as such a precious creature should, behind a lattice work of pastry. And behold, on the first floor, at the court-end of the house, in a room with all the window-curtains drawn, a fire piled half-way up the chimney, plates warming before it, wax candles gleaming everywhere, and a table spread for three, with silver and glass enough for thirty—John Westlock; not the old John of Pecksniff’s, but a proper gentleman; looking another and a grander person, with the consciousness of being his own master and having money in the bank; and yet in some respects the old John too, for he seized Tom Pinch by both his hands the instant he appeared, and fairly hugged him, in his cordial welcome.
‘And this,’ said John, ‘is Mr Chuzzlewit. I am very glad to see him!’—John had an off-hand manner of his own; so they shook hands warmly, and were friends in no time.
‘Stand off a moment, Tom,’ cried the old pupil, laying one hand on each of Mr Pinch’s shoulders, and holding him out at arm’s length. ‘Let me look at you! Just the same! Not a bit changed!’
‘Why, it’s not so very long ago, you know,’ said Tom Pinch, ‘after all.’
‘It seems an age to me,’ cried John, ‘and so it ought to seem to you, you dog.’ And then he pushed Tom down into the easiest chair, and clapped him on the back so heartily, and so like his old self in their old bedroom at old Pecksniff’s that it was a toss-up with Tom Pinch whether he should laugh or cry. Laughter won it; and they all three laughed together.
‘I have ordered everything for dinner, that we used to say we’d have, Tom,’ observed John Westlock.
‘No!’ said Tom Pinch. ‘Have you?’
‘Everything. Don’t laugh, if you can help it, before the waiters. I couldn’t when I was ordering it. It’s like a dream.’
John was wrong there, because nobody ever dreamed such soup as was put upon the table directly afterwards; or such fish; or such side-dishes; or such a top and bottom; or such a course of birds and sweets; or in short anything approaching the reality of that entertainment at ten-and-sixpence a head, exclusive of wines. As tothem, the man who can dream such iced champagne, such claret, port, or sherry, had better go to bed and stop there.
But perhaps the finest feature of the banquet was, that nobody was half so much amazed by everything as John himself, who in his high delight was constantly bursting into fits of laughter, and then endeavouring to appear preternaturally solemn, lest the waiters should conceive he wasn’t used to it. Some of the things they brought him to carve, were such outrageous practical jokes, though, that it was impossible to stand it; and when Tom Pinch insisted, in spite of the deferential advice of an attendant, not only on breaking down the outer wall of a raised pie with a tablespoon, but on trying to eat it afterwards, John lost all dignity, and sat behind the gorgeous dish-cover at the head of the table, roaring to that extent that he was audible in the kitchen. Nor had he the least objection to laugh at himself, as he demonstrated when they had all three gathered round the fire and the dessert was on the table; at which period the head waiter inquired with respectful solicitude whether that port, being a light and tawny wine, was suited to his taste, or whether he would wish to try a fruity port with greater body. To this John gravely answered that he was well satisfied with what he had, which he esteemed, as one might say, a pretty tidy vintage; for which the waiter thanked him and withdrew. And then John told his friends, with a broad grin, that he supposed it was all right, but he didn’t know; and went off into a perfect shout.
They were very merry and full of enjoyment the whole time, but not the least pleasant part of the festival was when they all three sat about the fire, cracking nuts, drinking wine and talking cheerfully. It happened that Tom Pinch had a word to say to his friend the organist’s assistant, and so deserted his warm corner for a few minutes at this season, lest it should grow too late; leaving the other two young men together.
They drank his health in his absence, of course; and John Westlock took that opportunity of saying, that he had never had even a peevish word with Tom during the whole term of their residence in Mr Pecksniff’s house. This naturally led him to dwell upon Tom’s character, and to hint that Mr Pecksniff understood it pretty well. He only hinted this, and very distantly; knowing that it pained Tom Pinch to have that gentleman disparaged, and thinking it would be as well to leave the new pupil to his own discoveries.
‘Yes,’ said Martin. ‘It’s impossible to like Pinch better than I do, or to do greater justice to his good qualities. He is the most willing fellow I ever saw.’
‘He’s rather too willing,’ observed John, who was quick in observation. ‘It’s quite a fault in him.’
‘So it is,’ said Martin. ‘Very true. There was a fellow only a week or so ago—a Mr Tigg—who borrowed all the money he had, on a promise to repay it in a few days. It was but half a sovereign, to be sure; but it’s well it was no more, for he’ll never see it again.’
‘Poor fellow!’ said John, who had been very attentive to these few words. ‘Perhaps you have not had an opportunity of observing that, in his own pecuniary transactions, Tom’s proud.’
‘You don’t say so! No, I haven’t. What do you mean? Won’t he borrow?’
John Westlock shook his head.
‘That’s very odd,’ said Martin, setting down his empty glass. ‘He’s a strange compound, to be sure.’
‘As to receiving money as a gift,’ resumed John Westlock; ‘I think he’d die first.’
‘He’s made up of simplicity,’ said Martin. ‘Help yourself.’
‘You, however,’ pursued John, filling his own glass, and looking at his companion with some curiosity, ‘who are older than the majority of Mr Pecksniff’s assistants, and have evidently had much more experience, understand him, I have no doubt, and see how liable he is to be imposed upon.’
‘Certainly,’ said Martin, stretching out his legs, and holding his wine between his eye and the light. ‘Mr Pecksniff knows that too. So do his daughters. Eh?’
John Westlock smiled, but made no answer.
‘By the bye,’ said Martin, ‘that reminds me. What’s your opinion of Pecksniff? How did he use you? What do you think of him now?—Coolly, you know, when it’s all over?’
‘Ask Pinch,’ returned the old pupil. ‘He knows what my sentiments used to be upon the subject. They are not changed, I assure you.’
‘No, no,’ said Martin, ‘I’d rather have them from you.’
‘But Pinch says they are unjust,’ urged John with a smile.
‘Oh! well! Then I know what course they take beforehand,’ said Martin; ‘and, therefore, you can have no delicacy in speaking plainly. Don’t mind me, I beg. I don’t like him I tell you frankly. I am with him because it happens from particular circumstances to suit my convenience. I have some ability, I believe, in that way; and the obligation, if any, will most likely be on his side and not mine. At the lowest mark, the balance will be even, and there’ll be no obligation at all. So you may talk to me, as if I had no connection with him.’
‘If you press me to give my opinion—’ returned John Westlock.
‘Yes, I do,’ said Martin. ‘You’ll oblige me.’
‘—I should say,’ resumed the other, ‘that he is the most consummate scoundrel on the face of the earth.’
‘Oh!’ said Martin, as coolly as ever. ‘That’s rather strong.’
‘Not stronger than he deserves,’ said John; ‘and if he called upon me to express my opinion of him to his face, I would do so in the very same terms, without the least qualification. His treatment of Pinch is in itself enough to justify them; but when I look back upon the five years I passed in that house, and remember the hyprocrisy, the knavery, the meannesses, the false pretences, the lip service of that fellow, and his trading in saintly semblances for the very worst realities; when I remember how often I was the witness of all this and how often I was made a kind of party to it, by the fact of being there, with him for my teacher; I swear to you that I almost despise myself.’
Martin drained his glass, and looked at the fire.
‘I don’t mean to say that is a right feeling,’ pursued John Westlock ‘because it was no fault of mine; and I can quite understand—you for instance, fully appreciating him, and yet being forced by circumstances to remain there. I tell you simply what my feeling is; and even now, when, as you say, it’s all over; and when I have the satisfaction of knowing that he always hated me, and we always quarrelled, and I always told him my mind; even now, I feel sorry that I didn’t yield to an impulse I often had, as a boy, of running away from him and going abroad.’
‘Why abroad?’ asked Martin, turning his eyes upon the speaker.
‘In search,’ replied John Westlock, shrugging his shoulders, ‘of the livelihood I couldn’t have earned at home. There would have been something spirited in that. But, come! Fill your glass, and let us forget him.’
‘As soon as you please,’ said Martin. ‘In reference to myself and my connection with him, I have only to repeat what I said before. I have taken my own way with him so far, and shall continue to do so, even more than ever; for the fact is, to tell you the truth, that I believe he looks to me to supply his defects, and couldn’t afford to lose me. I had a notion of that in first going there. Your health!’
‘Thank you,’ returned young Westlock. ‘Yours. And may the new pupil turn out as well as you can desire!’
‘What new pupil?’
‘The fortunate youth, born under an auspicious star,’ returned John Westlock, laughing; ‘whose parents, or guardians, are destined to be hooked by the advertisement. What! Don’t you know that he has advertised again?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, yes. I read it just before dinner in the old newspaper. I know it to be his; having some reason to remember the style. Hush! Here’s Pinch. Strange, is it not, that the more he likes Pecksniff (if he can like him better than he does), the greater reason one has to likehim?Not a word more, or we shall spoil his whole enjoyment.’
Tom entered as the words were spoken, with a radiant smile upon his face; and rubbing his hands, more from a sense of delight than because he was cold (for he had been running fast), sat down in his warm corner again, and was as happy as only Tom Pinch could be. There is no other simile that will express his state of mind.
‘And so,’ he said, when he had gazed at his friend for some time in silent pleasure, ‘so you really are a gentleman at last, John. Well, to be sure!’
‘Trying to be, Tom; trying to be,’ he rejoined good-humouredly. ‘There is no saying what I may turn out, in time.’
‘I suppose you wouldn’t carry your own box to the mail now?’ said Tom Pinch, smiling; ‘although you lost it altogether by not taking it.’
‘Wouldn’t I?’ retorted John. ‘That’s all you know about it, Pinch. It must be a very heavy box that I wouldn’t carry to get away from Pecksniff’s, Tom.’
‘There!’ cried Pinch, turning to Martin, ‘I told you so. The great fault in his character is his injustice to Pecksniff. You mustn’t mind a word he says on that subject. His prejudice is most extraordinary.’
‘The absence of anything like prejudice on Tom’s part, you know,’ said John Westlock, laughing heartily, as he laid his hand on Mr Pinch’s shoulder, ‘is perfectly wonderful. If one man ever had a profound knowledge of another, and saw him in a true light, and in his own proper colours, Tom has that knowledge of Mr Pecksniff.’
‘Why, of course I have,’ cried Tom. ‘That’s exactly what I have so often said to you. If you knew him as well as I do—John, I’d give almost any money to bring that about—you’d admire, respect, and reverence him. You couldn’t help it. Oh, how you wounded his feelings when you went away!’
‘If I had known whereabout his feelings lay,’ retorted young Westlock, ‘I’d have done my best, Tom, with that end in view, you may depend upon it. But as I couldn’t wound him in what he has not, and in what he knows nothing of, except in his ability to probe them to the quick in other people, I am afraid I can lay no claim to your compliment.’
Mr Pinch, being unwilling to protract a discussion which might possibly corrupt Martin, forbore to say anything in reply to this speech; but John Westlock, whom nothing short of an iron gag would have silenced when Mr Pecksniff’s merits were once in question, continued notwithstanding.
‘Hisfeelings! Oh, he’s a tender-hearted man.Hisfeelings! Oh, he’s a considerate, conscientious, self-examining, moral vagabond, he is!Hisfeelings! Oh!—what’s the matter, Tom?’
Mr Pinch was by this time erect upon the hearth-rug, buttoning his coat with great energy.
‘I can’t bear it,’ said Tom, shaking his head. ‘No. I really cannot. You must excuse me, John. I have a great esteem and friendship for you; I love you very much; and have been perfectly charmed and overjoyed to-day, to find you just the same as ever; but I cannot listen to this.’
‘Why, it’s my old way, Tom; and you say yourself that you are glad to find me unchanged.’
‘Not in this respect,’ said Tom Pinch. ‘You must excuse me, John. I cannot, really; I will not. It’s very wrong; you should be more guarded in your expressions. It was bad enough when you and I used to be alone together, but under existing circumstances, I can’t endure it, really. No. I cannot, indeed.’
‘You are quite right!’ exclaimed the other, exchanging looks with Martin. ‘and I am quite wrong, Tom, I don’t know how the deuce we fell on this unlucky theme. I beg your pardon with all my heart.’
‘You have a free and manly temper, I know,’ said Pinch; ‘and therefore, your being so ungenerous in this one solitary instance, only grieves me the more. It’s not my pardon you have to ask, John. You have donemenothing but kindnesses.’
‘Well! Pecksniff’s pardon then,’ said young Westlock. ‘Anything Tom, or anybody. Pecksniff’s pardon—will that do? Here! let us drink Pecksniff’s health!’
‘Thank you,’ cried Tom, shaking hands with him eagerly, and filling a bumper. ‘Thank you; I’ll drink it with all my heart, John. Mr Pecksniff’s health, and prosperity to him!’
John Westlock echoed the sentiment, or nearly so; for he drank Mr Pecksniff’s health, and Something to him—but what, was not quite audible. The general unanimity being then completely restored, they drew their chairs closer round the fire, and conversed in perfect harmony and enjoyment until bed-time.
No slight circumstance, perhaps, could have better illustrated the difference of character between John Westlock and Martin Chuzzlewit, than the manner in which each of the young men contemplated Tom Pinch, after the little rupture just described. There was a certain amount of jocularity in the looks of both, no doubt, but there all resemblance ceased. The old pupil could not do enough to show Tom how cordially he felt towards him, and his friendly regard seemed of a graver and more thoughtful kind than before. The new one, on the other hand, had no impulse but to laugh at the recollection of Tom’s extreme absurdity; and mingled with his amusement there was something slighting and contemptuous, indicative, as it appeared, of his opinion that Mr Pinch was much too far gone in simplicity to be admitted as the friend, on serious and equal terms, of any rational man.
John Westlock, who did nothing by halves, if he could help it, had provided beds for his two guests in the hotel; and after a very happy evening, they retired. Mr Pinch was sitting on the side of his bed with his cravat and shoes off, ruminating on the manifold good qualities of his old friend, when he was interrupted by a knock at his chamber door, and the voice of John himself.
‘You’re not asleep yet, are you, Tom?’
‘Bless you, no! not I. I was thinking of you,’ replied Tom, opening the door. ‘Come in.’
‘I am not going to detail you,’ said John; ‘but I have forgotten all the evening a little commission I took upon myself; and I am afraid I may forget it again, if I fail to discharge it at once. You know a Mr Tigg, Tom, I believe?’
‘Tigg!’ cried Tom. ‘Tigg! The gentleman who borrowed some money of me?’
‘Exactly,’ said John Westlock. ‘He begged me to present his compliments, and to return it with many thanks. Here it is. I suppose it’s a good one, but he is rather a doubtful kind of customer, Tom.’
Mr Pinch received the little piece of gold with a face whose brightness might have shamed the metal; and said he had no fear about that. He was glad, he added, to find Mr Tigg so prompt and honourable in his dealings; very glad.
‘Why, to tell you the truth, Tom,’ replied his friend, ‘he is not always so. If you’ll take my advice, you’ll avoid him as much as you can, in the event of your encountering him again. And by no means, Tom—pray bear this in mind, for I am very serious—by no means lend him money any more.’
‘Aye, aye!’ said Tom, with his eyes wide open.
‘He is very far from being a reputable acquaintance,’ returned young Westlock; ‘and the more you let him know you think so, the better for you, Tom.’
‘I say, John,’ quoth Mr Pinch, as his countenance fell, and he shook his head in a dejected manner. ‘I hope you are not getting into bad company.’
‘No, no,’ he replied laughing. ‘Don’t be uneasy on that score.’
‘Oh, but Iamuneasy,’ said Tom Pinch; ‘I can’t help it, when I hear you talking in that way. If Mr Tigg is what you describe him to be, you have no business to know him, John. You may laugh, but I don’t consider it by any means a laughing matter, I assure you.’
‘No, no,’ returned his friend, composing his features. ‘Quite right. It is not, certainly.’
‘You know, John,’ said Mr Pinch, ‘your very good nature and kindness of heart make you thoughtless, and you can’t be too careful on such a point as this. Upon my word, if I thought you were falling among bad companions, I should be quite wretched, for I know how difficult you would find it to shake them off. I would much rather have lost this money, John, than I would have had it back again on such terms.’
‘I tell you, my dear good old fellow,’ cried his friend, shaking him to and fro with both hands, and smiling at him with a cheerful, open countenance, that would have carried conviction to a mind much more suspicious than Tom’s; ‘I tell you there is no danger.’
‘Well!’ cried Tom, ‘I am glad to hear it; I am overjoyed to hear it. I am sure there is not, when you say so in that manner. You won’t take it ill, John, that I said what I did just now!’
‘Ill!’ said the other, giving his hand a hearty squeeze; ‘why what do you think I am made of? Mr Tigg and I are not on such an intimate footing that you need be at all uneasy, I give you my solemn assurance of that, Tom. You are quite comfortable now?’
‘Quite,’ said Tom.
‘Then once more, good night!’
‘Good night!’ cried Tom; ‘and such pleasant dreams to you as should attend the sleep of the best fellow in the world!’
‘—Except Pecksniff,’ said his friend, stopping at the door for a moment, and looking gayly back.
‘Except Pecksniff,’ answered Tom, with great gravity; ‘of course.’
And thus they parted for the night; John Westlock full of light-heartedness and good humour, and poor Tom Pinch quite satisfied; though still, as he turned over on his side in bed, he muttered to himself, ‘I really do wish, for all that, though, that he wasn’t acquainted with Mr Tigg.’
They breakfasted together very early next morning, for the two young men desired to get back again in good season; and John Westlock was to return to London by the coach that day. As he had some hours to spare, he bore them company for three or four miles on their walk, and only parted from them at last in sheer necessity. The parting was an unusually hearty one, not only as between him and Tom Pinch, but on the side of Martin also, who had found in the old pupil a very different sort of person from the milksop he had prepared himself to expect.
Young Westlock stopped upon a rising ground, when he had gone a little distance, and looked back. They were walking at a brisk pace, and Tom appeared to be talking earnestly. Martin had taken off his greatcoat, the wind being now behind them, and carried it upon his arm. As he looked, he saw Tom relieve him of it, after a faint resistance, and, throwing it upon his own, encumber himself with the weight of both. This trivial incident impressed the old pupil mightily, for he stood there, gazing after them, until they were hidden from his view; when he shook his head, as if he were troubled by some uneasy reflection, and thoughtfully retraced his steps to Salisbury.
In the meantime, Martin and Tom pursued their way, until they halted, safe and sound, at Mr Pecksniff’s house, where a brief epistle from that good gentleman to Mr Pinch announced the family’s return by that night’s coach. As it would pass the corner of the lane at about six o’clock in the morning, Mr Pecksniff requested that the gig might be in waiting at the finger-post about that time, together with a cart for the luggage. And to the end that he might be received with the greater honour, the young men agreed to rise early, and be upon the spot themselves.
It was the least cheerful day they had yet passed together. Martin was out of spirits and out of humour, and took every opportunity of comparing his condition and prospects with those of young Westlock; much to his own disadvantage always. This mood of his depressed Tom; and neither that morning’s parting, nor yesterday’s dinner, helped to mend the matter. So the hours dragged on heavily enough; and they were glad to go to bed early.
They were not quite so glad to get up again at half-past four o’clock, in all the shivering discomfort of a dark winter’s morning; but they turned out punctually, and were at the finger-post full half-an-hour before the appointed time. It was not by any means a lively morning, for the sky was black and cloudy, and it rained hard; but Martin said there was some satisfaction in seeing that brute of a horse (by this, he meant Mr Pecksniff’s Arab steed) getting very wet; and that he rejoiced, on his account, that it rained so fast. From this it may be inferred that Martin’s spirits had not improved, as indeed they had not; for while he and Mr Pinch stood waiting under a hedge, looking at the rain, the gig, the cart, and its reeking driver, he did nothing but grumble; and, but that it is indispensable to any dispute that there should be two parties to it, he would certainly have picked a quarrel with Tom.
At length the noise of wheels was faintly audible in the distance and presently the coach came splashing through the mud and mire with one miserable outside passenger crouching down among wet straw, under a saturated umbrella; and the coachman, guard, and horses, in a fellowship of dripping wretchedness. Immediately on its stopping, Mr Pecksniff let down the window-glass and hailed Tom Pinch.
‘Dear me, Mr Pinch! Is it possible that you are out upon this very inclement morning?’
‘Yes, sir,’ cried Tom, advancing eagerly, ‘Mr Chuzzlewit and I, sir.’
‘Oh!’ said Mr Pecksniff, looking not so much at Martin as at the spot on which he stood. ‘Oh! Indeed. Do me the favour to see to the trunks, if you please, Mr Pinch.’
Then Mr Pecksniff descended, and helped his daughters to alight; but neither he nor the young ladies took the slightest notice of Martin, who had advanced to offer his assistance, but was repulsed by Mr Pecksniff’s standing immediately before his person, with his back towards him. In the same manner, and in profound silence, Mr Pecksniff handed his daughters into the gig; and following himself and taking the reins, drove off home.
Lost in astonishment, Martin stood staring at the coach, and when the coach had driven away, at Mr Pinch, and the luggage, until the cart moved off too; when he said to Tom:
‘Now will you have the goodness to tell me whatthisportends?’
‘What?’ asked Tom.
‘This fellow’s behaviour. Mr Pecksniff’s, I mean. You saw it?’
‘No. Indeed I did not,’ cried Tom. ‘I was busy with the trunks.’
‘It is no matter,’ said Martin. ‘Come! Let us make haste back!’ And without another word started off at such a pace, that Tom had some difficulty in keeping up with him.
He had no care where he went, but walked through little heaps of mud and little pools of water with the utmost indifference; looking straight before him, and sometimes laughing in a strange manner within himself. Tom felt that anything he could say would only render him the more obstinate, and therefore trusted to Mr Pecksniff’s manner when they reached the house, to remove the mistaken impression under which he felt convinced so great a favourite as the new pupil must unquestionably be labouring. But he was not a little amazed himself, when they did reach it, and entered the parlour where Mr Pecksniff was sitting alone before the fire, drinking some hot tea, to find that instead of taking favourable notice of his relative and keeping him, Mr Pinch, in the background, he did exactly the reverse, and was so lavish in his attentions to Tom, that Tom was thoroughly confounded.
‘Take some tea, Mr Pinch—take some tea,’ said Pecksniff, stirring the fire. ‘You must be very cold and damp. Pray take some tea, and come into a warm place, Mr Pinch.’