Martin Chuzzlewit by Charles Dickens (ebooks children's books free TXT) 📕

class="calibre1">‘Ecod! you’ve been prepared for that a pretty long time, I should think,’ said Jonas.

‘Many have sought to bear her from me,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘All have failed. “I never will give my hand, papa”—those were her words—“unless my heart is won.” She has not been quite so happy as she used to be, of late. I don’t know why.’

Again Mr Jonas looked at the landscape; then at the coachman; then at the luggage on the roof; finally at Mr Pecksniff.

‘I suppose you’ll have to part with the other one, some of these days?’ he observed, as he caught that gentleman’s eye.

‘Probably,’ said the parent. ‘Years will tame down the wildness of my foolish bird, and then it will be caged. But Cherry, Mr Jonas, Cherry—’

‘Oh, ah!’ interrupted Jonas. ‘Years have made her all right enough. Nobody doubts that. But you haven’t answered what I asked you. Of course, you’re not obliged to do it, you know, if you don’t like. You’re the best judge.’

There was a warning sulkiness in the manner of this speech, which admonished Mr Pecksniff that his dear friend was not to be trifled with or fenced off, and that he must either return a straightforward reply to his question, or plainly give him to understand that he declined to enlighten him upon the subject to which it referred. Mindful in this dilemma of the caution old Anthony had given him almost with his latest breath, he resolved to speak to the point, and so told Mr Jonas (enlarging upon the communication as a proof of his great attachment and confidence), that in the case he had put; to wit, in the event of such a man as he proposing for his daughter’s hand, he would endow her with a fortune of four thousand pounds.

‘I should sadly pinch and cramp myself to do so,’ was his fatherly remark; ‘but that would be my duty, and my conscience would reward me. For myself, my conscience is my bank. I have a trifle invested there—a mere trifle, Mr Jonas—but I prize it as a store of value, I assure you.’

The good man’s enemies would have divided upon this question into two parties. One would have asserted without scruple that if Mr Pecksniff’s conscience were his bank, and he kept a running account there, he must have overdrawn it beyond all mortal means of computation. The other would have contended that it was a mere fictitious form; a perfectly blank book; or one in which entries were only made with a peculiar kind of invisible ink to become legible at some indefinite time; and that he never troubled it at all.

‘It would sadly pinch and cramp me, my dear friend,’ repeated Mr Pecksniff, ‘but Providence—perhaps I may be permitted to say a special Providence—has blessed my endeavours, and I could guarantee to make the sacrifice.’

A question of philosophy arises here, whether Mr Pecksniff had or had not good reason to say that he was specially patronized and encouraged in his undertakings. All his life long he had been walking up and down the narrow ways and by-places, with a hook in one hand and a crook in the other, scraping all sorts of valuable odds and ends into his pouch. Now, there being a special Providence in the fall of a sparrow, it follows (so Mr Pecksniff, and only such admirable men, would have reasoned), that there must also be a special Providence in the alighting of the stone or stick, or other substance which is aimed at the sparrow. And Mr Pecksniff’s hook, or crook, having invariably knocked the sparrow on the head and brought him down, that gentleman may have been led to consider himself as specially licensed to bag sparrows, and as being specially seized and possessed of all the birds he had got together. That many undertakings, national as well as individual—but especially the former—are held to be specially brought to a glorious and successful issue, which never could be so regarded on any other process of reasoning, must be clear to all men. Therefore the precedents would seem to show that Mr Pecksniff had (as things go) good argument for what he said and might be permitted to say it, and did not say it presumptuously, vainly, or arrogantly, but in a spirit of high faith and great wisdom.

Mr Jonas, not being much accustomed to perplex his mind with theories of this nature, expressed no opinion on the subject. Nor did he receive his companion’s announcement with one solitary syllable, good, bad, or indifferent. He preserved this taciturnity for a quarter of an hour at least, and during the whole of that time appeared to be steadily engaged in subjecting some given amount to the operation of every known rule in figures; adding to it, taking from it, multiplying it, reducing it by long and short division; working it by the rule-of-three direct and inversed; exchange or barter; practice; simple interest; compound interest; and other means of arithmetical calculation. The result of these labours appeared to be satisfactory, for when he did break silence, it was as one who had arrived at some specific result, and freed himself from a state of distressing uncertainty.

‘Come, old Pecksniff!’—Such was his jocose address, as he slapped that gentleman on the back, at the end of the stage—‘let’s have something!’

‘With all my heart,’ said Mr Pecksniff.

‘Let’s treat the driver,’ cried Jonas.

‘If you think it won’t hurt the man, or render him discontented with his station—certainly,’ faltered Mr Pecksniff.

Jonas only laughed at this, and getting down from the coach-top with great alacrity, cut a cumbersome kind of caper in the road. After which, he went into the public-house, and there ordered spirituous drink to such an extent, that Mr Pecksniff had some doubts of his perfect sanity, until Jonas set them quite at rest by saying, when the coach could wait no longer:

‘I’ve been standing treat for a whole week and more, and letting you have all the delicacies of the season. YOU shall pay for this Pecksniff.’ It was not a joke either, as Mr Pecksniff at first supposed; for he went off to the coach without further ceremony, and left his respected victim to settle the bill.

But Mr Pecksniff was a man of meek endurance, and Mr Jonas was his friend. Moreover, his regard for that gentleman was founded, as we know, on pure esteem, and a knowledge of the excellence of his character. He came out from the tavern with a smiling face, and even went so far as to repeat the performance, on a less expensive scale, at the next alehouse. There was a certain wildness in the spirits of Mr Jonas (not usually a part of his character) which was far from being subdued by these means, and, for the rest of the journey, he was so very buoyant—it may be said, boisterous—that Mr Pecksniff had some difficulty in keeping pace with him.

They were not expected—oh dear, no! Mr Pecksniff had proposed in London to give the girls a surprise, and had said he wouldn’t write a word to prepare them on any account, in order that he and Mr Jonas might take them unawares, and just see what they were doing, when they thought their dear papa was miles and miles away. As a consequence of this playful device, there was nobody to meet them at the finger-post, but that was of small consequence, for they had come down by the day coach, and Mr Pecksniff had only a carpetbag, while Mr Jonas had only a portmanteau. They took the portmanteau between them, put the bag upon it, and walked off up the lane without delay; Mr Pecksniff already going on tiptoe as if, without this precaution, his fond children, being then at a distance of a couple of miles or so, would have some filial sense of his approach.

It was a lovely evening in the spring-time of the year; and in the soft stillness of the twilight, all nature was very calm and beautiful. The day had been fine and warm; but at the coming on of night, the air grew cool, and in the mellowing distance smoke was rising gently from the cottage chimneys. There were a thousand pleasant scents diffused around, from young leaves and fresh buds; the cuckoo had been singing all day long, and was but just now hushed; the smell of earth newly-upturned, first breath of hope to the first labourer after his garden withered, was fragrant in the evening breeze. It was a time when most men cherish good resolves, and sorrow for the wasted past; when most men, looking on the shadows as they gather, think of that evening which must close on all, and that tomorrow which has none beyond.

‘Precious dull,’ said Mr Jonas, looking about. ‘It’s enough to make a man go melancholy mad.’

‘We shall have lights and a fire soon,’ observed Mr Pecksniff.

‘We shall need ‘em by the time we get there,’ said Jonas. ‘Why the devil don’t you talk? What are you thinking of?’

‘To tell you the truth, Mr Jonas,’ said Pecksniff with great solemnity, ‘my mind was running at that moment on our late dear friend, your departed father.’

Mr Jonas immediately let his burden fall, and said, threatening him with his hand:

‘Drop that, Pecksniff!’

Mr Pecksniff not exactly knowing whether allusion was made to the subject or the portmanteau, stared at his friend in unaffected surprise.

‘Drop it, I say!’ cried Jonas, fiercely. ‘Do you hear? Drop it, now and for ever. You had better, I give you notice!’

‘It was quite a mistake,’ urged Mr Pecksniff, very much dismayed; ‘though I admit it was foolish. I might have known it was a tender string.’

‘Don’t talk to me about tender strings,’ said Jonas, wiping his forehead with the cuff of his coat. ‘I’m not going to be crowed over by you, because I don’t like dead company.’

Mr Pecksniff had got out the words ‘Crowed over, Mr Jonas!’ when that young man, with a dark expression in his countenance, cut him short once more:

‘Mind!’ he said. ‘I won’t have it. I advise you not to revive the subject, neither to me nor anybody else. You can take a hint, if you choose as well as another man. There’s enough said about it. Come along!’

Taking up his part of the load again, when he had said these words, he hurried on so fast that Mr Pecksniff, at the other end of the portmanteau, found himself dragged forward, in a very inconvenient and ungraceful manner, to the great detriment of what is called by fancy gentlemen ‘the bark’ upon his shins, which were most unmercifully bumped against the hard leather and the iron buckles. In the course of a few minutes, however, Mr Jonas relaxed his speed, and suffered his companion to come up with him, and to bring the portmanteau into a tolerably straight position.

It was pretty clear that he regretted his late outbreak, and that he mistrusted its effect on Mr Pecksniff; for as often as that gentleman glanced towards Mr Jonas, he found Mr Jonas glancing at him, which was a new source of embarrassment. It was but a short-lived one, though, for Mr Jonas soon began to whistle, whereupon Mr Pecksniff, taking his cue from his friend, began to hum a tune melodiously.

‘Pretty nearly there, ain’t we?’ said Jonas, when this had lasted some time.

‘Close, my dear friend,’ said Mr Pecksniff.

‘What’ll they be doing, do you suppose?’ asked Jonas.

‘Impossible to say,’ cried Mr Pecksniff. ‘Giddy truants! They may be away from home, perhaps. I was going to—he! he! he!—I was going to propose,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘that we should enter by the back way, and come upon them like a clap of thunder, Mr