IN WHICH MISS PECKSNIFF MAKES LOVE, MR JONAS MAKES WRATH, MRS GAMP MAKES TEA, AND MR CHUFFEY MAKES BUSINESS On the next day’s official duties coming to a close, Tom hurried home without losing any time by the way; and after dinner and a short rest sallied out again, accompanied by Ruth, to pay his projected visit to Todgers’s. Tom took Ruth with him, not only because it was a great pleasure to him to have her for his companion whenever he could, but because he wished her to cherish and comfort poor Merry; which she, for her own part (having heard the wretched history of that young wife from Tom), was all eagerness to do.
‘She was so glad to see me,’ said Tom, ‘that I am sure she will be glad to see you. Your sympathy is certain to be much more delicate and acceptable than mine.’
‘I am very far from being certain of that, Tom,’ she replied; ‘and indeed you do yourself an injustice. Indeed you do. But I hope she may like me, Tom.’
‘Oh, she is sure to do that!’ cried Tom, confidently.
‘What a number of friends I should have, if everybody was of your way of thinking. Shouldn’t I, Tom, dear?’ said his little sister pinching him upon the cheek.
Tom laughed, and said that with reference to this particular case he had no doubt at all of finding a disciple in Merry. ‘For you women,’ said Tom, ‘you women, my dear, are so kind, and in your kindness have such nice perception; you know so well how to be affectionate and full of solicitude without appearing to be; your gentleness of feeling is like your touch so light and easy, that the one enables you to deal with wounds of the mind as tenderly as the other enables you to deal with wounds of the body. You are such—’
‘My goodness, Tom!’ his sister interposed. ‘You ought to fall in love immediately.’
Tom put this observation off good humouredly, but somewhat gravely too; and they were soon very chatty again on some other subject.
As they were passing through a street in the City, not very far from Mrs Todgers’s place of residence, Ruth checked Tom before the window of a large Upholstery and Furniture Warehouse, to call his attention to something very magnificent and ingenious, displayed there to the best advantage, for the admiration and temptation of the public. Tom had hazarded some most erroneous and extravagantly wrong guess in relation to the price of this article, and had joined his sister in laughing heartily at his mistake, when he pressed her arm in his, and pointed to two persons at a little distance, who were looking in at the same window with a deep interest in the chests of drawers and tables.
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‘Hush!’ Tom whispered. ‘Miss Pecksniff, and the young gentleman to whom she is going to be married.’
‘Why does he look as if he was going to be buried, Tom?’ inquired his little sister.
‘Why, he is naturally a dismal young gentleman, I believe,’ said Tom ‘but he is very civil and inoffensive.’
‘I suppose they are furnishing their house,’ whispered Ruth.
‘Yes, I suppose they are,’ replied Tom. ‘We had better avoid speaking to them.’
They could not very well avoid looking at them, however, especially as some obstruction on the pavement, at a little distance, happened to detain them where they were for a few moments. Miss Pecksniff had quite the air of having taken the unhappy Moddle captive, and brought him up to the contemplation of the furniture like a lamb to the altar. He offered no resistance, but was perfectly resigned and quiet. The melancholy depicted in the turn of his languishing head, and in his dejected attitude, was extreme; and though there was a full-sized four-post bedstead in the window, such a tear stood trembling in his eye as seemed to blot it out.
‘Augustus, my love,’ said Miss Pecksniff, ‘ask the price of the eight rosewood chairs, and the loo table.’
‘Perhaps they are ordered already,’ said Augustus. ‘Perhaps they are Another’s.’
‘They can make more like them, if they are,’ rejoined Miss Pecksniff.
‘No, no, they can’t,’ said Moddle. ‘It’s impossible!’
He appeared, for the moment, to be quite overwhelmed and stupefied by the prospect of his approaching happiness; but recovering, entered the shop. He returned immediately, saying in a tone of despair
‘Twenty-four pound ten!’
Miss Pecksniff, turning to receive this announcement, became conscious of the observation of Tom Pinch and his sister.
‘Oh, really!’ cried Miss Pecksniff, glancing about her, as if for some convenient means of sinking into the earth. ‘Upon my word, I—there never was such a—to think that one should be so very—Mr Augustus Moddle, Miss Pinch!’
Miss Pecksniff was quite gracious to Miss Pinch in this triumphant introduction; exceedingly gracious. She was more than gracious; she was kind and cordial. Whether the recollection of the old service Tom had rendered her in knocking Mr Jonas on the head had wrought this change in her opinions; or whether her separation from her parent had reconciled her to all human-kind, or to all that interesting portion of human-kind which was not friendly to him; or whether the delight of having some new female acquaintance to whom to communicate her interesting prospects was paramount to every other consideration; cordial and kind Miss Pecksniff was. And twice Miss Pecksniff kissed Miss Pinch upon the cheek.
‘Augustus—Mr Pinch, you know. My dear girl!’ said Miss Pecksniff, aside. ‘I never was so ashamed in my life.’
Ruth begged her not to think of it.
‘I mind your brother less than anybody else,’ simpered Miss Pecksniff. ‘But the indelicacy of meeting any gentleman under such circumstances! Augustus, my child, did you—’
Here Miss Pecksniff whispered in his ear. The suffering Moddle repeated:
‘Twenty-four pound ten!’
‘Oh, you silly man! I don’t mean them,’ said Miss Pecksniff. ‘I am speaking of the—’
Here she whispered him again.
‘If it’s the same patterned chintz as that in the window; thirty-two, twelve, six,’ said Moddle, with a sigh. ‘And very dear.’
Miss Pecksniff stopped him from giving any further explanation by laying her hand upon his lips, and betraying a soft embarrassment. She then asked Tom Pinch which way he was going.
‘I was going to see if I could find your sister,’ answered Tom, ‘to whom I wished to say a few words. We were going to Mrs Todgers’s, where I had the pleasure of seeing her before.’
‘It’s of no use your going on, then,’ said Cherry, ‘for we have not long left there; and I know she is not at home. But I’ll take you to my sister’s house, if you please. Augustus—Mr Moddle, I mean—and myself, are on our way to tea there, now. You needn’t think of him,’ she added, nodding her head as she observed some hesitation on Tom’s part. ‘He is not at home.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Tom.
‘Oh, I am quite sure of that. I don’t want any more revenge,’ said Miss Pecksniff, expressively. ‘But, really, I must beg you two gentlemen to walk on, and allow me to follow with Miss Pinch. My dear, I never was so taken by surprise!’
In furtherance of this bashful arrangement, Moddle gave his arm to Tom; and Miss Pecksniff linked her own in Ruth’s.
‘Of course, my love,’ said Miss Pecksniff, ‘it would be useless for me to disguise, after what you have seen, that I am about to be united to the gentleman who is walking with your brother. It would be in vain to conceal it. What do you think of him? Pray, let me have your candid opinion.’
Ruth intimated that, as far as she could judge, he was a very eligible swain.
‘I am curious to know,’ said Miss Pecksniff, with loquacious frankness, ‘whether you have observed, or fancied, in this very short space of time, that he is of a rather melancholy turn?’
‘So very short a time,’ Ruth pleaded.
‘No, no; but don’t let that interfere with your answer,’ returned Miss Pecksniff. ‘I am curious to hear what you say.’
Ruth acknowledged that he had impressed her at first sight as looking ‘rather low.’
‘No, really?’ said Miss Pecksniff. ‘Well! that is quite remarkable! Everybody says the same. Mrs Todgers says the same; and Augustus informs me that it is quite a joke among the gentlemen in the house. Indeed, but for the positive commands I have laid upon him, I believe it would have been the occasion of loaded fire-arms being resorted to more than once. What do you think is the cause of his appearance of depression?’
Ruth thought of several things; such as his digestion, his tailor, his mother, and the like. But hesitating to give utterance to any one of them, she refrained from expressing an opinion.
‘My dear,’ said Miss Pecksniff; ‘I shouldn’t wish it to be known, but I don’t mind mentioning it to you, having known your brother for so many years—I refused Augustus three times. He is of a most amiable and sensitive nature, always ready to shed tears if you look at him, which is extremely charming; and he has never recovered the effect of that cruelty. For it was cruel,’ said Miss Pecksniff, with a self-conviction candour that might have adorned the diadem of her own papa. ‘There is no doubt of it. I look back upon my conduct now with blushes. I always liked him. I felt that he was not to me what the crowd of young men who had made proposals had been, but something very different. Then what right had I to refuse him three times?’
‘It was a severe trial of his fidelity, no doubt,’ said Ruth.
‘My dear,’ returned Miss Pecksniff. ‘It was wrong. But such is the caprice and thoughtlessness of our sex! Let me be a warning to you. Don’t try the feelings of any one who makes you an offer, as I have tried the feelings of Augustus; but if you ever feel towards a person as I really felt towards him, at the very time when I was driving him to distraction, let that feeling find expression, if that person throws himself at your feet, as Augustus Moddle did at mine. Think,’ said Miss Pecksniff, ‘what my feelings would have been, if I had goaded him to suicide, and it had got into the papers!’
Ruth observed that she would have been full of remorse, no doubt.
‘Remorse!’ cried Miss Pecksniff, in a sort of snug and comfortable penitence. ‘What my remorse is at this moment, even after making reparation by accepting him, it would be impossible to tell you! Looking back upon my giddy self, my dear, now that I am sobered down and made thoughtful, by treading on the very brink of matrimony; and contemplating myself as I was when I was like what you are now; I shudder. I shudder. What is the consequence of my past conduct? Until Augustus leads me to the altar he is not sure of me. I have blighted and withered the affections of his heart to that extent that he is not sure of me. I see that preying on his mind and feeding on his vitals. What are the reproaches of my conscience, when I see this in the man I love!’
Ruth endeavoured to express some sense of her unbounded and flattering confidence; and presumed that she was going to be married soon.
‘Very soon indeed,’ returned Miss Pecksniff. ‘As soon as our house is ready. We are furnishing now as fast as we can.’
In the same vein of confidence Miss Pecksniff ran through a general inventory of the articles that were already bought with the articles that remained to be purchased; what garments she intended to be married in, and where the ceremony was to be performed; and gave Miss Pinch, in short (as she told her), early and exclusive information on all points of interest connected with the event.
While this was going forward in the rear, Tom and Mr Moddle walked on, arm in arm, in the front, in a state of profound silence, which Tom at last broke; after thinking for a long time what he could say that should refer to an indifferent topic, in respect of which he might rely, with some degree of certainty, on Mr Moddle’s bosom being unruffled.
‘I wonder,’ said Tom, ‘that in these crowded streets the foot-passengers are not oftener run over.’
Mr Moddle, with a dark look, replied:
‘The drivers won’t do it.’
‘Do you mean?’ Tom began—
‘That there are some men,’ interrupted Moddle, with a hollow laugh, ‘who can’t get run over. They live a charmed life. Coal waggons recoil from them, and even cabs refuse to run them down. Ah!’ said Augustus, marking Tom’s astonishment. ‘There are such men. One of ‘em is a friend of mine.’
‘Upon my word and honour,’ thought Tom, ‘this young gentleman is in a state of mind which is very serious indeed!’ Abandoning all idea of conversation, he did not venture to say another word, but he was careful to keep a tight hold upon Augustus’s arm, lest he should fly into the road, and making another and a more successful attempt, should get up a private little Juggernaut before the eyes of his betrothed. Tom was so afraid of his committing this rash act, that he had scarcely ever experienced such mental relief as when they arrived in safety at Mrs Jonas Chuzzlewit’s house.
‘Walk up, pray, Mr Pinch,’ said Miss Pecksniff. For Tom halted, irresolutely, at the door.
‘I am doubtful whether I should be welcome,’ replied Tom, ‘or, I ought rather to say, I have no doubt about it. I will send up a message, I think.’
‘But what nonsense that is!’ returned Miss Pecksniff, speaking apart to Tom. ‘He is not at home, I am certain. I know he is not; and Merry hasn’t the least idea that you ever—’
‘No,’ interrupted Tom. ‘Nor would I have her know it, on any account. I am not so proud of that scuffle, I assure you.’
‘Ah, but then you are so modest, you see,’ returned Miss Pecksniff, with a smile. ‘But pray walk up. If you don’t wish her to know it, and do wish to speak to her, pray walk up. Pray walk up, Miss Pinch. Don’t stand here.’
Tom still hesitated for he felt that he was in an awkward position. But Cherry passing him at this juncture, and leading his sister upstairs, and the house-door being at the same time shut behind them, he followed without quite knowing whether it was well or ill-judged so to do.
‘Merry, my darling!’ said the fair Miss Pecksniff, opening the door of the usual sitting-room. ‘Here are Mr Pinch and his sister come to see you! I thought we should find you here, Mrs Todgers! How do you do, Mrs Gamp? And how do you do, Mr Chuffey, though it’s of no use asking you the question, I am well aware.’
Honouring each of these parties, as she severally addressed them, with an acid smile, Miss Charity presented ‘Mr Moddle.’
‘I believe you have seen him before,’ she pleasantly observed. ‘Augustus, my sweet child, bring me a chair.’
The sweet child did as he was told; and was then about to retire into a corner to mourn in secret, when Miss Charity, calling him in an audible whisper a ‘little pet,’ gave him leave to come and sit beside her. It is to be hoped, for the general cheerfulness of mankind, that such a doleful little pet was never seen as Mr Moddle looked when he complied. So despondent was his temper, that he showed no outward thrill of ecstasy when Miss Pecksniff placed her lily hand in his, and concealed this mark of her favour from the vulgar gaze by covering it with a corner of her shawl. Indeed, he was infinitely more rueful then than he had been before; and, sitting uncomfortably upright in his chair, surveyed the company with watery eyes, which seemed to say, without the aid of language, ‘Oh, good gracious! look here! Won’t some kind Christian help me!’
But the ecstasies of Mrs Gamp were sufficient to have furnished forth a score of young lovers; and they were chiefly awakened by the sight of Tom Pinch and his sister. Mrs Gamp was a lady of that happy temperament which can be ecstatic without any other stimulating cause than a general desire to establish a large and profitable connection. She added daily so many strings to her bow, that she made a perfect harp of it; and upon that instrument she now began to perform an extemporaneous concerto.
‘Why, goodness me!’ she said, ‘Mrs Chuzzlewit! To think as I should see beneath this blessed ‘ouse, which well I know it, Miss Pecksniff, my sweet young lady, to be a ‘ouse as there is not a many like, worse luck, and wishin’ it were not so, which then this tearful walley would be changed into a flowerin’ guardian, Mr Chuffey; to think as I should see beneath this indiwidgle roof, identically comin’, Mr Pinch (I take the liberty, though almost unbeknown), and do assure you of it, sir, the smilinest and sweetest face as ever, Mrs Chuzzlewit, I see exceptin’ yourn, my dear good lady, and your good lady’s too, sir, Mr Moddle, if I may make so bold as speak so plain of what is plain enough to them as needn’t look through millstones, Mrs Todgers, to find out wot is wrote upon the wall behind. Which no offence is meant, ladies and gentlemen; none bein’ took, I hope. To think as I should see that smilinest and sweetest face which me and another friend of mine, took notice of among the packages down London Bridge, in this promiscous place, is a surprige in-deed!’
Having contrived, in this happy manner, to invest every member of her audience with an individual share and immediate personal interest in her address, Mrs Gamp dropped several curtseys to Ruth, and smilingly shaking her head a great many times, pursued the thread of her discourse:
‘Now, ain’t we rich in beauty this here joyful arternoon, I’m sure. I knows a lady, which her name, I’ll not deceive you, Mrs Chuzzlewit, is Harris, her husband’s brother bein’ six foot three, and marked with a mad bull in Wellington boots upon his left arm, on account of his precious mother havin’ been worrited by one into a shoemaker’s shop, when in a sitiwation which blessed is the man as has his quiver full of sech, as many times I’ve said to Gamp when words has roge betwixt us on account of the expense—and often have I said to Mrs Harris, “Oh, Mrs Harris, ma’am! your countenance is quite a angel’s!” Which, but for Pimples, it would be. “No, Sairey Gamp,” says she, “you best of hard-working and industrious creeturs as ever was underpaid at any price, which underpaid you are, quite diff’rent. Harris had it done afore marriage at ten and six,” she says, “and wore it faithful next his heart till the colour run, when the money was declined to be give back, and no arrangement could be come to. But he never said it was a angel’s, Sairey, wotever he might have thought.” If Mrs Harris’s husband was here now,’ said Mrs Gamp, looking round, and chuckling as she dropped a general curtsey, ‘he’d speak out plain, he would, and his dear wife would be the last to blame him! For if ever a woman lived as know’d not wot it was to form a wish to pizon them as had good looks, and had no reagion give her by the best of husbands, Mrs Harris is that ev’nly dispogician!’
With these words the worthy woman, who appeared to have dropped in to take tea as a delicate little attention, rather than to have any engagement on the premises in an official capacity, crossed to Mr Chuffey, who was seated in the same corner as of old, and shook him by the shoulder.
‘Rouge yourself, and look up! Come!’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘Here’s company, Mr Chuffey.’
‘I am sorry for it,’ cried the old man, looking humbly round the room. ‘I know I’m in the way. I ask pardon, but I’ve nowhere else to go to. Where is she?’
Merry went to him.
‘Ah!’ said the old man, patting her on the check. ‘Here she is. Here she is! She’s never hard on poor old Chuffey. Poor old Chuff!’
As she took her seat upon a low chair by the old man’s side, and put herself within the reach of his hand, she looked up once at Tom. It was a sad look that she cast upon him, though there was a faint smile trembling on her face. It was a speaking look, and Tom knew what it said. ‘You see how misery has changed me. I can feel for a dependant now, and set some value on his attachment.’
‘Aye, aye!’ cried Chuffey in a soothing tone. ‘Aye, aye, aye! Never mind him. It’s hard to hear, but never mind him. He’ll die one day. There are three hundred and sixty-five days in the year—three hundred and sixty-six in leap year—and he may die on any one of ‘em.’
‘You’re a wearing old soul, and that’s the sacred truth,’ said Mrs Gamp, contemplating him from a little distance with anything but favour, as he continued to mutter to himself. ‘It’s a pity that you don’t know wot you say, for you’d tire your own patience out if you did, and fret yourself into a happy releage for all as knows you.’
‘His son,’ murmured the old man, lifting up his hand. ‘His son!’
‘Well, I’m sure!’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘you’re a-settlin’ of it, Mr Chuffey. To your satigefaction, sir, I hope. But I wouldn’t lay a new pincushion on it myself, sir, though you are so well informed. Drat the old creetur, he’s a-layin’ down the law tolerable confident, too! A deal he knows of sons! or darters either! Suppose you was to favour us with some remarks on twins, sir, would you be so good!’
The bitter and indignant sarcasm which Mrs Gamp conveyed into these taunts was altogether lost on the unconscious Chuffey, who appeared to be as little cognizant of their delivery as of his having given Mrs Gamp offence. But that high-minded woman being sensitively alive to any invasion of her professional province, and imagining that Mr Chuffey had given utterance to some prediction on the subject of sons, which ought to have emanated in the first instance from herself as the only lawful authority, or which should at least have been on no account proclaimed without her sanction and concurrence, was not so easily appeased. She continued to sidle at Mr Chuffey with looks of sharp hostility, and to defy him with many other ironical remarks, uttered in that low key which commonly denotes suppressed indignation; until the entrance of the teaboard, and a request from Mrs Jonas that she would make tea at a side-table for the party that had unexpectedly assembled, restored her to herself. She smiled again, and entered on her ministration with her own particular urbanity.
‘And quite a family it is to make tea for,’ said Mrs Gamp; ‘and wot a happiness to do it! My good young ‘ooman’—to the servant-girl—‘p’raps somebody would like to try a new-laid egg or two, not biled too hard. Likeways, a few rounds o’ buttered toast, first cuttin’ off the crust, in consequence of tender teeth, and not too many of ‘em; which Gamp himself, Mrs Chuzzlewit, at one blow, being in liquor, struck out four, two single, and two double, as was took by Mrs Harris for a keepsake, and is carried in her pocket at this present hour, along with two cramp-bones, a bit o’ ginger, and a grater like a blessed infant’s shoe, in tin, with a little heel to put the nutmeg in; as many times I’ve seen and said, and used for candle when required, within the month.’
As the privileges of the side-table—besides including the small prerogatives of sitting next the toast, and taking two cups of tea to other people’s one, and always taking them at a crisis, that is to say, before putting fresh water into the tea-pot, and after it had been standing for some time—also comprehended a full view of the company, and an opportunity of addressing them as from a rostrum, Mrs Gamp discharged the functions entrusted to her with extreme good-humour and affability. Sometimes resting her saucer on the palm of her outspread hand, and supporting her elbow on the table, she stopped between her sips of tea to favour the circle with a smile, a wink, a roll of the head, or some other mark of notice; and at those periods her countenance was lighted up with a degree of intelligence and vivacity, which it was almost impossible to separate from the benignant influence of distilled waters.
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But for Mrs Gamp, it would have been a curiously silent party. Miss Pecksniff only spoke to her Augustus, and to him in whispers. Augustus spoke to nobody, but sighed for every one, and occasionally gave himself such a sounding slap upon the forehead as would make Mrs Todgers, who was rather nervous, start in her chair with an involuntary exclamation. Mrs Todgers was occupied in knitting, and seldom spoke. Poor Merry held the hand of cheerful little Ruth between her own, and listening with evident pleasure to all she said, but rarely speaking herself, sometimes smiled, and sometimes kissed her on the cheek, and sometimes turned aside to hide the tears that trembled in her eyes. Tom felt this change in her so much, and was so glad to see how tenderly Ruth dealt with her, and how she knew and answered to it, that he had not the heart to make any movement towards their departure, although he had long since given utterance to all he came to say.
The old clerk, subsiding into his usual state, remained profoundly silent, while the rest of the little assembly were thus occupied, intent upon the dreams, whatever they might be, which hardly seemed to stir the surface of his sluggish thoughts. The bent of these dull fancies combining probably with the silent feasting that was going on about him, and some struggling recollection of the last approach to revelry he had witnessed, suggested a strange question to his mind. He looked round upon a sudden, and said:
‘Who’s lying dead upstairs?’
‘No one,’ said Merry, turning to him. ‘What is the matter? We are all here.’
‘All here!’ cried the old man. ‘All here! Where is he then—my old master, Mr Chuzzlewit, who had the only son? Where is he?’
‘Hush! Hush!’ said Merry, speaking kindly to him. ‘That happened long ago. Don’t you recollect?’
‘Recollect!’ rejoined the old man, with a cry of grief. ‘As if I could forget! As if I ever could forget!’
He put his hand up to his face for a moment; and then repeated turning round exactly as before:
‘Who’s lying dead upstairs?’
‘No one!’ said Merry.
At first he gazed angrily upon her, as upon a stranger who endeavoured to deceive him; but peering into her face, and seeing that it was indeed she, he shook his head in sorrowful compassion.
‘You think not. But they don’t tell you. No, no, poor thing! They don’t tell you. Who are these, and why are they merry-making ............