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 husband man, 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 gaily 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,
spell-bound 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
gaily 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 vas 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 sympathising 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 connexion 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
connexion 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 under-tone; `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 under-tone 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 huse, 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, apostrophising 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!'
|