CHAPTER TWO

________________________________________________
_ WHEREIN CERTAIN PERSONS ARE PRESENTED TO THE READER,
WITH WHOM HE MAY, IF HE PLEASE, BECOME BETTER ACQUAINTED

It was pretty late in the autumn of the year, when the declining sun

struggling through the mist which had obscured it all day, looked

brightly down upon a little Wiltshire village, within an easy

journey of the fair old town of Salisbury.

 

Like a sudden flash of memory or spirit kindling up the mind of an

old man, it shed a glory upon the scene, in which its departed youth

and freshness seemed to live again. The wet grass sparkled in the

light; the scanty patches of verdure in the hedges--where a few

green twigs yet stood together bravely, resisting to the last the

tyranny of nipping winds and early frosts--took heart and brightened

up; the stream which had been dull and sullen all day long, broke

out into a cheerful smile; the birds began to chirp and twitter on

the naked boughs, as though the hopeful creatures half believed that

winter had gone by, and spring had come already. The vane upon the

tapering spire of the old church glistened from its lofty station in

sympathy with the general gladness; and from the ivy-shaded windows

such gleams of light shone back upon the glowing sky, that it seemed

as if the quiet buildings were the hoarding-place of twenty summers,

and all their ruddiness and warmth were stored within.

 

Even those tokens of the season which emphatically whispered of the

coming winter, graced the landscape, and, for the moment, tinged its

livelier features with no oppressive air of sadness. The fallen

leaves, with which the ground was strewn, gave forth a pleasant

fragrance, and subduing all harsh sounds of distant feet and wheels

created a repose in gentle unison with the light scattering of seed

hither and thither by the distant husbandman, and with the

noiseless passage of the plough as it turned up the rich brown

earth, and wrought a graceful pattern in the stubbled fields. On

the motionless branches of some trees, autumn berries hung like

clusters of coral beads, as in those fabled orchards where the

fruits were jewels; others stripped of all their garniture, stood,

each the centre of its little heap of bright red leaves, watching

their slow decay; others again, still wearing theirs, had them all

crunched and crackled up, as though they had been burnt; about the

stems of some were piled, in ruddy mounds, the apples they had borne

that year; while others (hardy evergreens this class) showed

somewhat stern and gloomy in their vigour, as charged by nature with

the admonition that it is not to her more sensitive and joyous

favourites she grants the longest term of life. Still athwart their

darker boughs, the sunbeams struck out paths of deeper gold; and the

red light, mantling in among their swarthy branches, used them as

foils to set its brightness off, and aid the lustre of the dying

day.

 

A moment, and its glory was no more. The sun went down beneath the

long dark lines of hill and cloud which piled up in the west an airy

city, wall heaped on wall, and battlement on battlement; the light

was all withdrawn; the shining church turned cold and dark; the

stream forgot to smile; the birds were silent; and the gloom of

winter dwelt on everything.

 

An evening wind uprose too, and the slighter branches cracked and

rattled as they moved, in skeleton dances, to its moaning music.

The withering leaves no longer quiet, hurried to and fro in search

of shelter from its chill pursuit; the labourer unyoked his horses,

and with head bent down, trudged briskly home beside them; and from

the cottage windows lights began to glance and wink upon the

darkening fields.

 

Then the village forge came out in all its bright importance. The

lusty bellows roared Ha ha! to the clear fire, which roared in turn,

and bade the shining sparks dance gayly to the merry clinking of the

hammers on the anvil. The gleaming iron, in its emulation, sparkled

too, and shed its red-hot gems around profusely. The strong smith

and his men dealt such strokes upon their work, as made even the

melancholy night rejoice, and brought a glow into its dark face as

it hovered about the door and windows, peeping curiously in above

the shoulders of a dozen loungers. As to this idle company, there

they stood, spellbound by the place, and, casting now and then a

glance upon the darkness in their rear, settled their lazy elbows

more at ease upon the sill, and leaned a little further in: no more

disposed to tear themselves away than if they had been born to

cluster round the blazing hearth like so many crickets.

 

Out upon the angry wind! how from sighing, it began to bluster round

the merry forge, banging at the wicket, and grumbling in the

chimney, as if it bullied the jolly bellows for doing anything to

order. And what an impotent swaggerer it was too, for all its

noise; for if it had any influence on that hoarse companion, it was

but to make him roar his cheerful song the louder, and by

consequence to make the fire burn the brighter, and the sparks to

dance more gayly yet; at length, they whizzed so madly round and

round, that it was too much for such a surly wind to bear; so off it

flew with a howl giving the old sign before the ale-house door such

a cuff as it went, that the Blue Dragon was more rampant than usual

ever afterwards, and indeed, before Christmas, reared clean out of

its crazy frame.

 

It was small tyranny for a respectable wind to go wreaking its

vengeance on such poor creatures as the fallen leaves, but this wind

happening to come up with a great heap of them just after venting

its humour on the insulted Dragon, did so disperse and scatter them

that they fled away, pell-mell, some here, some there, rolling over

each other, whirling round and round upon their thin edges, taking

frantic flights into the air, and playing all manner of

extraordinary gambols in the extremity of their distress. Nor was

this enough for its malicious fury; for not content with driving

them abroad, it charged small parties of them and hunted them into

the wheel wright's saw-pit, and below the planks and timbers in the

yard, and, scattering the sawdust in the air, it looked for them

underneath, and when it did meet with any, whew! how it drove them

on and followed at their heels!

 

The scared leaves only flew the faster for all this, and a giddy

chase it was; for they got into unfrequented places, where there was

no outlet, and where their pursuer kept them eddying round and round

at his pleasure; and they crept under the eaves of houses, and clung

tightly to the sides of hay-ricks, like bats; and tore in at open

chamber windows, and cowered close to hedges; and, in short, went

anywhere for safety. But the oddest feat they achieved was, to take

advantage of the sudden opening of Mr Pecksniff's front-door, to

dash wildly into his passage; whither the wind following close upon

them, and finding the back-door open, incontinently blew out the

lighted candle held by Miss Pecksniff, and slammed the front-door

against Mr Pecksniff who was at that moment entering, with such

violence, that in the twinkling of an eye he lay on his back at the

bottom of the steps. Being by this time weary of such trifling

performances, the boisterous rover hurried away rejoicing, roaring

over moor and meadow, hill and flat, until it got out to sea, where

it met with other winds similarly disposed, and made a night of it.

 

In the meantime Mr Pecksniff, having received from a sharp angle in

the bottom step but one, that sort of knock on the head which lights

up, for the patient's entertainment, an imaginary general

illumination of very bright short-sixes, lay placidly staring at his

own street door. And it would seem to have been more suggestive in

its aspect than street doors usually are; for he continued to lie

there, rather a lengthy and unreasonable time, without so much as

wondering whether he was hurt or no; neither, when Miss Pecksniff

inquired through the key-hole in a shrill voice, which might have

belonged to a wind in its teens, 'Who's there' did he make any

reply; nor, when Miss Pecksniff opened the door again, and shading

the candle with her hand, peered out, and looked provokingly round

him, and about him, and over him, and everywhere but at him, did he

offer any remark, or indicate in any manner the least hint of a

desire to be picked up.

 

'I see you,' cried Miss Pecksniff, to the ideal inflicter of a

runaway knock. 'You'll catch it, sir!'

 

Still Mr Pecksniff, perhaps from having caught it already, said

nothing.

 

'You're round the corner now,' cried Miss Pecksniff. She said it at

a venture, but there was appropriate matter in it too; for Mr

Pecksniff, being in the act of extinguishing the candles before

mentioned pretty rapidly, and of reducing the number of brass knobs

on his street door from four or five hundred (which had previously

been juggling of their own accord before his eyes in a very novel

manner) to a dozen or so, might in one sense have been said to be

coming round the corner, and just turning it.

 

With a sharply delivered warning relative to the cage and the

constable, and the stocks and the gallows, Miss Pecksniff was about

to close the door again, when Mr Pecksniff (being still at the

bottom of the steps) raised himself on one elbow, and sneezed.

 

'That voice!' cried Miss Pecksniff. 'My parent!'

 

At this exclamation, another Miss Pecksniff bounced out of the

parlour; and the two Miss Pecksniffs, with many incoherent

expressions, dragged Mr Pecksniff into an upright posture.

 

'Pa!' they cried in concert. 'Pa! Speak, Pa! Do not look so wild my

dearest Pa!'

 

But as a gentleman's looks, in such a case of all others, are by no

means under his own control, Mr Pecksniff continued to keep his

mouth and his eyes very wide open, and to drop his lower jaw,

somewhat after the manner of a toy nut-cracker; and as his hat had

fallen off, and his face was pale, and his hair erect, and his coat

muddy, the spectacle he presented was so very doleful, that neither

of the Miss Pecksniffs could repress an involuntary screech.

 

'That'll do,' said Mr Pecksniff. 'I'm better.'

 

'He's come to himself!' cried the youngest Miss Pecksniff.

 

'He speaks again!' exclaimed the eldest.

 

With these joyful words they kissed Mr Pecksniff on either cheek;

and bore him into the house. Presently, the youngest Miss Pecksniff

ran out again to pick up his hat, his brown paper parcel, his

umbrella, his gloves, and other small articles; and that done, and

the door closed, both young ladies applied themselves to tending Mr

Pecksniff's wounds in the back parlour.

 

They were not very serious in their nature; being limited to

abrasions on what the eldest Miss Pecksniff called 'the knobby

parts' of her parent's anatomy, such as his knees and elbows, and to

the development of an entirely new organ, unknown to phrenologists,

on the back of his head. These injuries having been comforted

externally, with patches of pickled brown paper, and Mr Pecksniff

having been comforted internally, with some stiff brandy-and-water,

the eldest Miss Pecksniff sat down to make the tea, which was all

ready. In the meantime the youngest Miss Pecksniff brought from the

kitchen a smoking dish of ham and eggs, and, setting the same before

her father, took up her station on a low stool at his feet; thereby

bringing her eyes on a level with the teaboard.

 

It must not be inferred from this position of humility, that the

youngest Miss Pecksniff was so young as to be, as one may say,

forced to sit upon a stool, by reason of the shortness of her legs.

Miss Pecksniff sat upon a stool because of her simplicity and

innocence, which were very great, very great. Miss Pecksniff sat

upon a stool because she was all girlishness, and playfulness, and

wildness, and kittenish buoyancy. She was the most arch and at the

same time the most artless creature, was the youngest Miss

Pecksniff, that you can possibly imagine. It was her great charm.

She was too fresh and guileless, and too full of child-like

vivacity, was the youngest Miss Pecksniff, to wear combs in her

hair, or to turn it up, or to frizzle it, or braid it. She wore it

in a crop, a loosely flowing crop, which had so many rows of curls

in it, that the top row was only one curl. Moderately buxom was her

shape, and quite womanly too; but sometimes--yes, sometimes--she

even wore a pinafore; and how charming THAT was! Oh! she was indeed

'a gushing thing' (as a young gentleman had observed in verse, in

the Poet's Corner of a provincial newspaper), was the youngest Miss

Pecksniff!

 

Mr Pecksniff was a moral man--a grave man, a man of noble sentiments

and speech--and he had had her christened Mercy. Mercy! oh, what a

charming name for such a pure-souled Being as the youngest Miss

Pecksniff! Her sister's name was Charity. There was a good thing!

Mercy and Charity! And Charity, with her fine strong sense and her

mild, yet not reproachful gravity, was so well named, and did so

well set off and illustrate her sister! What a pleasant sight was

that the contrast they presented; to see each loved and loving one

sympathizing with, and devoted to, and leaning on, and yet

correcting and counter-checking, and, as it were, antidoting, the

other! To behold each damsel in her very admiration of her sister,

setting up in business for herself on an entirely different

principle, and announcing no connection with over-the-way, and if the

quality of goods at that establishment don't please you, you are

respectfully invited to favour ME with a call! And the crowning

circumstance of the whole delightful catalogue was, that both the

fair creatures were so utterly unconscious of all this! They had no

idea of it. They no more thought or dreamed of it than Mr Pecksniff

did. Nature played them off against each other; THEY had no hand in

it, the two Miss Pecksniffs.

 

It has been remarked that Mr Pecksniff was a moral man. So he was.

Perhaps there never was a more moral man than Mr Pecksniff,

especially in his conversation and correspondence. It was once said

of him by a homely admirer, that he had a Fortunatus's purse of good

sentiments in his inside. In this particular he was like the girl

in the fairy tale, except that if they were not actual diamonds

which fell from his lips, they were the very brightest paste, and

shone prodigiously. He was a most exemplary man; fuller of virtuous

precept than a copy book. Some people likened him to a direction-

post, which is always telling the way to a place, and never goes

there; but these were his enemies, the shadows cast by his

brightness; that was all. His very throat was moral. You saw a

good deal of it. You looked over a very low fence of white cravat

(whereof no man had ever beheld the tie for he fastened it behind),

and there it lay, a valley between two jutting heights of collar,

serene and whiskerless before you. It seemed to say, on the part of

Mr Pecksniff, 'There is no deception, ladies and gentlemen, all is

peace, a holy calm pervades me.' So did his hair, just grizzled with

an iron-grey which was all brushed off his forehead, and stood bolt

upright, or slightly drooped in kindred action with his heavy

eyelids. So did his person, which was sleek though free from

corpulency. So did his manner, which was soft and oily. In a word,

even his plain black suit, and state of widower and dangling double

eye-glass, all tended to the same purpose, and cried aloud, 'Behold

the moral Pecksniff!'

 

The brazen plate upon the door (which being Mr Pecksniff's, could

not lie) bore this inscription, 'PECKSNIFF, ARCHITECT,' to which Mr

Pecksniff, on his cards of business, added, AND LAND SURVEYOR.' In

one sense, and only one, he may be said to have been a Land Surveyor

on a pretty large scale, as an extensive prospect lay stretched out

before the windows of his house. Of his architectural doings,

nothing was clearly known, except that he had never designed or

built anything; but it was generally understood that his knowledge

of the science was almost awful in its profundity.

 

Mr Pecksniff's professional engagements, indeed, were almost, if not

entirely, confined to the reception of pupils; for the collection of

rents, with which pursuit he occasionally varied and relieved his

graver toils, can hardly be said to be a strictly architectural

employment. His genius lay in ensnaring parents and guardians, and

pocketing premiums. A young gentleman's premium being paid, and the

young gentleman come to Mr Pecksniff's house, Mr Pecksniff borrowed

his case of mathematical instruments (if silver-mounted or otherwise

valuable); entreated him, from that moment, to consider himself one

of the family; complimented him highly on his parents or guardians,

as the case might be; and turned him loose in a spacious room on the

two-pair front; where, in the company of certain drawing-boards,

parallel rulers, very stiff-legged compasses, and two, or perhaps

three, other young gentlemen, he improved himself, for three or five

years, according to his articles, in making elevations of Salisbury

Cathedral from every possible point of sight; and in constructing in

the air a vast quantity of Castles, Houses of Parliament, and other

Public Buildings. Perhaps in no place in the world were so many

gorgeous edifices of this class erected as under Mr Pecksniff's

auspices; and if but one-twentieth part of the churches which were

built in that front room, with one or other of the Miss Pecksniffs

at the altar in the act of marrying the architect, could only be

made available by the parliamentary commissioners, no more churches

would be wanted for at least five centuries.

 

'Even the worldly goods of which we have just disposed,' said Mr

Pecksniff, glancing round the table when he had finished, 'even

cream, sugar, tea, toast, ham--'

 

'And eggs,' suggested Charity in a low voice.

 

'And eggs,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'even they have their moral. See how

they come and go! Every pleasure is transitory. We can't even eat,

long. If we indulge in harmless fluids, we get the dropsy; if in

exciting liquids, we get drunk. What a soothing reflection is

that!'

 

'Don't say WE get drunk, Pa,' urged the eldest Miss Pecksniff.

 

'When I say we, my dear,' returned her father, 'I mean mankind in

general; the human race, considered as a body, and not as

individuals. There is nothing personal in morality, my love. Even

such a thing as this,' said Mr Pecksniff, laying the fore-finger of

his left hand upon the brown paper patch on the top of his head,

'slight casual baldness though it be, reminds us that we are but'--

he was going to say 'worms,' but recollecting that worms were not

remarkable for heads of hair, he substituted 'flesh and blood.'

 

'Which,' cried Mr Pecksniff after a pause, during which he seemed to

have been casting about for a new moral, and not quite successfully,

'which is also very soothing. Mercy, my dear, stir the fire and

throw up the cinders.'

 

The young lady obeyed, and having done so, resumed her stool,

reposed one arm upon her father's knee, and laid her blooming cheek

upon it. Miss Charity drew her chair nearer the fire, as one

prepared for conversation, and looked towards her father.

 

'Yes,' said Mr Pecksniff, after a short pause, during which he had

been silently smiling, and shaking his head at the fire--'I have

again been fortunate in the attainment of my object. A new inmate

will very shortly come among us.'

 

'A youth, papa?' asked Charity.

 

'Ye-es, a youth,' said Mr Pecksniff. 'He will avail himself of the

eligible opportunity which now offers, for uniting the advantages of

the best practical architectural education with the comforts of a

home, and the constant association with some who (however humble

their sphere, and limited their capacity) are not unmindful of their

moral responsibilities.'

 

'Oh Pa!' cried Mercy, holding up her finger archly. 'See

advertisement!'

 

'Playful--playful warbler,' said Mr Pecksniff. It may be observed

in connection with his calling his daughter a 'warbler,' that she was

not at all vocal, but that Mr Pecksniff was in the frequent habit of

using any word that occurred to him as having a good sound, and

rounding a sentence well without much care for its meaning. And he

did this so boldly, and in such an imposing manner, that he would

sometimes stagger the wisest people with his eloquence, and make

them gasp again.

 

His enemies asserted, by the way, that a strong trustfulness in

sounds and forms was the master-key to Mr Pecksniff's character.

 

'Is he handsome, Pa?' inquired the younger daughter.

 

'Silly Merry!' said the eldest: Merry being fond for Mercy. 'What

is the premium, Pa? tell us that.'

 

'Oh, good gracious, Cherry!' cried Miss Mercy, holding up her hands

with the most winning giggle in the world, 'what a mercenary girl

you are! oh you naughty, thoughtful, prudent thing!'

 

It was perfectly charming, and worthy of the Pastoral age, to see

how the two Miss Pecksniffs slapped each other after this, and then

subsided into an embrace expressive of their different dispositions.

 

'He is well looking,' said Mr Pecksniff, slowly and distinctly;

'well looking enough. I do not positively expect any immediate

premium with him.'

 

Notwithstanding their different natures, both Charity and Mercy

concurred in opening their eyes uncommonly wide at this

announcement, and in looking for the moment as blank as if their

thoughts had actually had a direct bearing on the main chance.

 

'But what of that!' said Mr Pecksniff, still smiling at the fire.

'There is disinterestedness in the world, I hope? We are not all

arrayed in two opposite ranks; the OFfensive and the DEfensive.

Some few there are who walk between; who help the needy as they go;

and take no part with either side. Umph!'

 

There was something in these morsels of philanthropy which reassured

the sisters. They exchanged glances, and brightened very much.

 

'Oh! let us not be for ever calculating, devising, and plotting for

the future,' said Mr Pecksniff, smiling more and more, and looking

at the fire as a man might, who was cracking a joke with it: 'I am

weary of such arts. If our inclinations are but good and open-

hearted, let us gratify them boldly, though they bring upon us Loss

instead of Profit. Eh, Charity?'

 

Glancing towards his daughters for the first time since he had begun

these reflections, and seeing that they both smiled, Mr Pecksniff

eyed them for an instant so jocosely (though still with a kind of

saintly waggishness) that the younger one was moved to sit upon his

knee forthwith, put her fair arms round his neck, and kiss him

twenty times. During the whole of this affectionate display she

laughed to a most immoderate extent: in which hilarious indulgence

even the prudent Cherry joined.

 

'Tut, tut,' said Mr Pecksniff, pushing his latest-born away and

running his fingers through his hair, as he resumed his tranquil

face. 'What folly is this! Let us take heed how we laugh without

reason lest we cry with it. What is the domestic news since

yesterday? John Westlock is gone, I hope?'

 

'Indeed, no,' said Charity.

 

'And why not?' returned her father. 'His term expired yesterday.

And his box was packed, I know; for I saw it, in the morning,

standing in the hall.'

 

'He slept last night at the Dragon,' returned the young lady, 'and

had Mr Pinch to dine with him. They spent the evening together, and

Mr Pinch was not home till very late.'

 

'And when I saw him on the stairs this morning, Pa,' said Mercy with

her usual sprightliness, 'he looked, oh goodness, SUCH a monster!

with his face all manner of colours, and his eyes as dull as if they

had been boiled, and his head aching dreadfully, I am sure from the

look of it, and his clothes smelling, oh it's impossible to say how

strong, oh'--here the young lady shuddered--'of smoke and punch.'

 

'Now I think,' said Mr Pecksniff with his accustomed gentleness,

though still with the air of one who suffered under injury without

complaint, 'I think Mr Pinch might have done better than choose for

his companion one who, at the close of a long intercourse, had

endeavoured, as he knew, to wound my feelings. I am not quite sure

that this was delicate in Mr Pinch. I am not quite sure that this

was kind in Mr Pinch. I will go further and say, I am not quite

sure that this was even ordinarily grateful in Mr Pinch.'

 

'But what can anyone expect from Mr Pinch!' cried Charity, with as

strong and scornful an emphasis on the name as if it would have

given her unspeakable pleasure to express it, in an acted charade,

on the calf of that gentleman's leg.

 

'Aye, aye,' returned her father, raising his hand mildly: 'it is

very well to say what can we expect from Mr Pinch, but Mr Pinch is a

fellow-creature, my dear; Mr Pinch is an item in the vast total of

humanity, my love; and we have a right, it is our duty, to expect in

Mr Pinch some development of those better qualities, the possession

of which in our own persons inspires our humble self-respect. No,'

continued Mr Pecksniff. 'No! Heaven forbid that I should say,

nothing can be expected from Mr Pinch; or that I should say, nothing

can be expected from any man alive (even the most degraded, which Mr

Pinch is not, no, really); but Mr Pinch has disappointed me; he has

hurt me; I think a little the worse of him on this account, but not

if human nature. Oh, no, no!'

 

'Hark!' said Miss Charity, holding up her finger, as a gentle rap

was heard at the street door. 'There is the creature! Now mark my

words, he has come back with John Westlock for his box, and is going

to help him to take it to the mail. Only mark my words, if that

isn't his intention!'

 

Even as she spoke, the box appeared to be in progress of conveyance

from the house, but after a brief murmuring of question and answer,

it was put down again, and somebody knocked at the parlour door.

 

'Come in!' cried Mr Pecksniff--not severely; only virtuously. 'Come

in!'

 

An ungainly, awkward-looking man, extremely short-sighted, and

prematurely bald, availed himself of this permission; and seeing

that Mr Pecksniff sat with his back towards him, gazing at the fire,

stood hesitating, with the door in his hand. He was far from

handsome certainly; and was drest in a snuff-coloured suit, of an

uncouth make at the best, which, being shrunk with long wear, was

twisted and tortured into all kinds of odd shapes; but

notwithstanding his attire, and his clumsy figure, which a great

stoop in his shoulders, and a ludicrous habit he had of thrusting

his head forward, by no means redeemed, one would not have been

disposed (unless Mr Pecksniff said so) to consider him a bad fellow

by any means. He was perhaps about thirty, but he might have been

almost any age between sixteen and sixty; being one of those strange

creatures who never decline into an ancient appearance, but look

their oldest when they are very young, and get it over at once.

 

Keeping his hand upon the lock of the door, he glanced from Mr

Pecksniff to Mercy, from Mercy to Charity, and from Charity to Mr

Pecksniff again, several times; but the young ladies being as intent

upon the fire as their father was, and neither of the three taking

any notice of him, he was fain to say, at last,

 

'Oh! I beg your pardon, Mr Pecksniff: I beg your pardon for

intruding; but--'

 

'No intrusion, Mr Pinch,' said that gentleman very sweetly, but

without looking round. 'Pray be seated, Mr Pinch. Have the

goodness to shut the door, Mr Pinch, if you please.'

 

'Certainly, sir,' said Pinch; not doing so, however, but holding it

rather wider open than before, and beckoning nervously to somebody

without: 'Mr Westlock, sir, hearing that you were come home--'

 

'Mr Pinch, Mr Pinch!' said Pecksniff, wheeling his chair about, and

looking at him with an aspect of the deepest melancholy, 'I did not

expect this from you. I have not deserved this from you!'

 

'No, but upon my word, sir--' urged Pinch.

 

'The less you say, Mr Pinch,' interposed the other, 'the better. I

utter no complaint. Make no defence.'

 

'No, but do have the goodness, sir,' cried Pinch, with great

earnestness, 'if you please. Mr Westlock, sir, going away for good

and all, wishes to leave none but friends behind him. Mr Westlock

and you, sir, had a little difference the other day; you have had

many little differences.'

 

'Little differences!' cried Charity.

 

'Little differences!' echoed Mercy.

 

'My loves!' said Mr Pecksniff, with the same serene upraising of his

hand; 'My dears!' After a solemn pause he meekly bowed to Mr Pinch,

as who should say, 'Proceed;' but Mr Pinch was so very much at a

loss how to resume, and looked so helplessly at the two Miss

Pecksniffs, that the conversation would most probably have

terminated there, if a good-looking youth, newly arrived at man's

estate, had not stepped forward from the doorway and taken up the

thread of the discourse.

 

'Come, Mr Pecksniff,' he said, with a smile, 'don't let there be any

ill-blood between us, pray. I am sorry we have ever differed, and

extremely sorry I have ever given you offence. Bear me no ill-will

at parting, sir.'

 

'I bear,' answered Mr Pecksniff, mildly, 'no ill-will to any man on

earth.'

 

'I told you he didn't,' said Pinch, in an undertone; 'I knew he

didn't! He always says he don't.'

 

'Then you will shake hands, sir?' cried Westlock, advancing a step

or two, and bespeaking Mr Pinch's close attention by a glance.

 

'Umph!' said Mr Pecksniff, in his most winning tone.

 

'You will shake hands, sir.'

 

'No, John,' said Mr Pecksniff, with a calmness quite ethereal; 'no,

I will not shake hands, John. I have forgiven you. I had already

forgiven you, even before you ceased to reproach and taunt me. I

have embraced you in the spirit, John, which is better than shaking

hands.'

 

'Pinch,' said the youth, turning towards him, with a hearty disgust

of his late master, 'what did I tell you?'

 

Poor Pinch looked down uneasily at Mr Pecksniff, whose eye was fixed

upon him as it had been from the first; and looking up at the

ceiling again, made no reply.

 

'As to your forgiveness, Mr Pecksniff,' said the youth, 'I'll not

have it upon such terms. I won't be forgiven.'

 

'Won't you, John?' retorted Mr Pecksniff, with a smile. 'You must.

You can't help it. Forgiveness is a high quality; an exalted

virtue; far above YOUR control or influence, John. I WILL forgive

you. You cannot move me to remember any wrong you have ever done

me, John.'

 

'Wrong!' cried the other, with all the heat and impetuosity of his

age. 'Here's a pretty fellow! Wrong! Wrong I have done him! He'll

not even remember the five hundred pounds he had with me under false

pretences; or the seventy pounds a year for board and lodging that

would have been dear at seventeen! Here's a martyr!'

 

'Money, John,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'is the root of all evil. I

grieve to see that it is already bearing evil fruit in you. But I

will not remember its existence. I will not even remember the

conduct of that misguided person'--and here, although he spoke like

one at peace with all the world, he used an emphasis that plainly

said "I have my eye upon the rascal now"--'that misguided person who

has brought you here to-night, seeking to disturb (it is a happiness

to say, in vain) the heart's repose and peace of one who would have

shed his dearest blood to serve him.'

 

The voice of Mr Pecksniff trembled as he spoke, and sobs were heard

from his daughters. Sounds floated on the air, moreover, as if two

spirit voices had exclaimed: one, 'Beast!' the other, 'Savage!'

 

'Forgiveness,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'entire and pure forgiveness is

not incompatible with a wounded heart; perchance when the heart is

wounded, it becomes a greater virtue. With my breast still wrung

and grieved to its inmost core by the ingratitude of that person, I

am proud and glad to say that I forgive him. Nay! I beg,' cried Mr

Pecksniff, raising his voice, as Pinch appeared about to speak, 'I

beg that individual not to offer a remark; he will truly oblige me

by not uttering one word, just now. I am not sure that I am equal

to the trial. In a very short space of time, I shall have

sufficient fortitude, I trust to converse with him as if these

events had never happened. But not,' said Mr Pecksniff, turning

round again towards the fire, and waving his hand in the direction

of the door, 'not now.'

 

'Bah!' cried John Westlock, with the utmost disgust and disdain the

monosyllable is capable of expressing. 'Ladies, good evening.

Come, Pinch, it's not worth thinking of. I was right and you were

wrong. That's small matter; you'll be wiser another time.'

 

So saying, he clapped that dejected companion on the shoulder,

turned upon his heel, and walked out into the passage, whither poor

Mr Pinch, after lingering irresolutely in the parlour for a few

seconds, expressing in his countenance the deepest mental misery and

gloom followed him. Then they took up the box between them, and

sallied out to meet the mail.

 

That fleet conveyance passed, every night, the corner of a lane at

some distance; towards which point they bent their steps. For some

minutes they walked along in silence, until at length young Westlock

burst into a loud laugh, and at intervals into another, and another.

Still there was no response from his companion.

 

'I'll tell you what, Pinch!' he said abruptly, after another

lengthened silence--'You haven't half enough of the devil in you.

Half enough! You haven't any.'

 

'Well!' said Pinch with a sigh, 'I don't know, I'm sure. It's

compliment to say so. If I haven't, I suppose, I'm all the better

for it.'

 

'All the better!' repeated his companion tartly: 'All the worse, you

mean to say.'

 

'And yet,' said Pinch, pursuing his own thoughts and not this last

remark on the part of his friend, 'I must have a good deal of what

you call the devil in me, too, or how could I make Pecksniff so

uncomfortable? I wouldn't have occasioned him so much distress--

don't laugh, please--for a mine of money; and Heaven knows I could

find good use for it too, John. How grieved he was!'

 

'HE grieved!' returned the other.

 

'Why didn't you observe that the tears were almost starting out of

his eyes!' cried Pinch. 'Bless my soul, John, is it nothing to see

a man moved to that extent and know one's self to be the cause! And

did you hear him say that he could have shed his blood for me?'

 

'Do you WANT any blood shed for you?' returned his friend, with

considerable irritation. 'Does he shed anything for you that you DO

want? Does he shed employment for you, instruction for you, pocket

money for you? Does he shed even legs of mutton for you in any

decent proportion to potatoes and garden stuff?'

 

'I am afraid,' said Pinch, sighing again, 'that I am a great eater;

I can't disguise from myself that I'm a great eater. Now, you know

that, John.'

 

'You a great eater!' retorted his companion, with no less

indignation than before. 'How do you know you are?'

 

There appeared to be forcible matter in this inquiry, for Mr Pinch

only repeated in an undertone that he had a strong misgiving on the

subject, and that he greatly feared he was.

 

'Besides, whether I am or no,' he added, 'that has little or nothing

to do with his thinking me ungrateful. John, there is scarcely a

sin in the world that is in my eyes such a crying one as

ingratitude; and when he taxes me with that, and believes me to be

guilty of it, he makes me miserable and wretched.'

 

'Do you think he don't know that?' returned the other scornfully.

'But come, Pinch, before I say anything more to you, just run over

the reasons you have for being grateful to him at all, will you?

Change hands first, for the box is heavy. That'll do. Now, go on.'

 

'In the first place,' said Pinch, 'he took me as his pupil for much

less than he asked.'

 

'Well,' rejoined his friend, perfectly unmoved by this instance of

generosity. 'What in the second place?'

 

'What in the second place?' cried Pinch, in a sort of desperation,

'why, everything in the second place. My poor old grandmother died

happy to think that she had put me with such an excellent man. I

have grown up in his house, I am in his confidence, I am his

assistant, he allows me a salary; when his business improves, my

prospects are to improve too. All this, and a great deal more, is

in the second place. And in the very prologue and preface to the

first place, John, you must consider this, which nobody knows better

than I: that I was born for much plainer and poorer things, that I

am not a good hand for his kind of business, and have no talent for

it, or indeed for anything else but odds and ends that are of no use

or service to anybody.'

 

He said this with so much earnestness, and in a tone so full of

feeling, that his companion instinctively changed his manner as he

sat down on the box (they had by this time reached the finger-post

at the end of the lane); motioned him to sit down beside him; and

laid his hand upon his shoulder.

 

'I believe you are one of the best fellows in the world,' he said,

'Tom Pinch.'

 

'Not at all,' rejoined Tom. 'If you only knew Pecksniff as well as

I do, you might say it of him, indeed, and say it truly.'

 

'I'll say anything of him, you like,' returned the other, 'and not

another word to his disparagement.'

 

'It's for my sake, then; not his, I am afraid,' said Pinch, shaking

his head gravely.

 

'For whose you please, Tom, so that it does please you. Oh! He's a

famous fellow! HE never scraped and clawed into his pouch all your

poor grandmother's hard savings--she was a housekeeper, wasn't she,

Tom?'

 

'Yes,' said Mr Pinch, nursing one of his large knees, and nodding

his head; 'a gentleman's housekeeper.'

 

'HE never scraped and clawed into his pouch all her hard savings;

dazzling her with prospects of your happiness and advancement, which

he knew (and no man better) never would be realised! HE never

speculated and traded on her pride in you, and her having educated

you, and on her desire that you at least should live to be a

gentleman. Not he, Tom!'

 

'No,' said Tom, looking into his friend's face, as if he were a

little doubtful of his meaning. 'Of course not.'

 

'So I say,' returned the youth, 'of course he never did. HE didn't

take less than he had asked, because that less was all she had, and

more than he expected; not he, Tom! He doesn't keep you as his

assistant because you are of any use to him; because your wonderful

faith in his pretensions is of inestimable service in all his mean

disputes; because your honesty reflects honesty on him; because your

wandering about this little place all your spare hours, reading in

ancient books and foreign tongues, gets noised abroad, even as far

as Salisbury, making of him, Pecksniff the master, a man of learning

and of vast importance. HE gets no credit from you, Tom, not he.'

 

'Why, of course he don't,' said Pinch, gazing at his friend with a

more troubled aspect than before. 'Pecksniff get credit from me!

Well!'

 

'Don't I say that it's ridiculous,' rejoined the other, 'even to

think of such a thing?'

 

'Why, it's madness,' said Tom.

 

'Madness!' returned young Westlock. 'Certainly it's madness. Who

but a madman would suppose he cares to hear it said on Sundays, that

the volunteer who plays the organ in the church, and practises on

summer evenings in the dark, is Mr Pecksniff's young man, eh, Tom?

Who but a madman would suppose it is the game of such a man as he,

to have his name in everybody's mouth, connected with the thousand

useless odds and ends you do (and which, of course, he taught you),

eh, Tom? Who but a madman would suppose you advertised him

hereabouts, much cheaper and much better than a chalker on the walls

could, eh, Tom? As well might one suppose that he doesn't on all

occasions pour out his whole heart and soul to you; that he doesn't

make you a very liberal and indeed rather an extravagant allowance;

or, to be more wild and monstrous still, if that be possible, as

well might one suppose,' and here, at every word, he struck him

lightly on the breast, 'that Pecksniff traded in your nature, and

that your nature was to be timid and distrustful of yourself, and

trustful of all other men, but most of all, of him who least

deserves it. There would be madness, Tom!'

 

Mr Pinch had listened to all this with looks of bewilderment, which

seemed to be in part occasioned by the matter of his companion's

speech, and in part by his rapid and vehement manner. Now that he

had come to a close, he drew a very long breath; and gazing

wistfully in his face as if he were unable to settle in his own mind

what expression it wore, and were desirous to draw from it as good a

clue to his real meaning as it was possible to obtain in the dark,

was about to answer, when the sound of the mail guard's horn came

cheerily upon their ears, putting an immediate end to the

conference; greatly as it seemed to the satisfaction of the younger

man, who jumped up briskly, and gave his hand to his companion.

 

'Both hands, Tom. I shall write to you from London, mind!'

 

'Yes,' said Pinch. 'Yes. Do, please. Good-bye. Good-bye. I can

hardly believe you're going. It seems, now, but yesterday that you

came. Good-bye! my dear old fellow!'

 

John Westlock returned his parting words with no less heartiness of

manner, and sprung up to his seat upon the roof. Off went the mail

at a canter down the dark road; the lamps gleaming brightly, and the

horn awakening all the echoes, far and wide.

 

'Go your ways,' said Pinch, apostrophizing the coach; 'I can hardly

persuade myself but you're alive, and are some great monster who

visits this place at certain intervals, to bear my friends away into

the world. You're more exulting and rampant than usual tonight, I

think; and you may well crow over your prize; for he is a fine lad,

an ingenuous lad, and has but one fault that I know of; he don't

mean it, but he is most cruelly unjust to Pecksniff!' _

Read next: CHAPTER THREE

Read previous: CHAPTER ONE

Table of content of Martin Chuzzlewit


GO TO TOP OF SCREEN

Post your review
Your review will be placed after the table of content of this book