Charles Dickens - Life And Adventures Of Martin Chuzzlewit

He only sighed and shook his head.

“Wait half a minute,” said Mark cheerily, “till I run up to one of our neighbours and ask what's best to be took, and borrow a little of it to give you; and to-morrow you'll find yourself as strong as ever again. I won't be gone a minute. Don't give in while I'm away, whatever you do!”

Throwing down his hatchet, he sped away immediately, but stopped when he had got a little distance, and looked back; then hurried on again.

“Now, Mr Tapley,” said Mark, giving himself a tremendous blow in the chest by way of reviver, “just you attend to what I've got to say. Things is looking about as bad as they CAN look, young man. You'll not have such another opportunity for showing your jolly disposition, my fine fellow, as long as you live. And therefore, Tapley, Now's your time to come out strong; or Never!”

“Hallo, Pecksniff!” cried Mr Jonas from the parlour. “Isn't somebody a-going to open that precious old door of yours?”

“Immediately, Mr Jonas. Immediately.”

“Ecod,” muttered the orphan, “not before it's time neither. Whoever it is, has knocked three times, and each one loud enough to wake the—” he had such a repugnance to the idea of waking the Dead, that he stopped even then with the words upon his tongue, and said, instead, “the Seven Sleepers.”

“Immediately, Mr Jonas; immediately,” repeated Pecksniff. “Thomas Pinch'—he couldn't make up his mind, in his great agitation, whether to call Tom his dear friend or a villain, so he shook his fist at him PRO TEM—'go up to my daughters” room, and tell them who is here. Say, Silence. Silence! Do you hear me, sir?

“Directly, sir!” cried Tom, departing, in a state of much amazement, on his errand.

“You'll—ha, ha, ha!—you'll excuse me, Mr Jonas, if I close this door a moment, will you?” said Pecksniff. “This may be a professional call. Indeed I am pretty sure it is. Thank you.”Then Mr Pecksniff, gently warbling a rustic stave, put on his garden hat, seized a spade, and opened the street door; calmly appearing on the threshold, as if he thought he had, from his vineyard, heard a modest rap, but was not quite certain.

Seeing a gentleman and lady before him, he started back in as much confusion as a good man with a crystal conscience might betray in mere surprise. Recognition came upon him the next moment, and he cried:

“Mr Chuzzlewit! Can I believe my eyes! My dear sir; my good sir! A joyful hour, a happy hour indeed. Pray, my dear sir, walk in. You find me in my garden-dress. You will excuse it, I know. It is an ancient pursuit, gardening. Primitive, my dear sir. Or, if I am not mistaken, Adam was the first of our calling. MY Eve, I grieve to say is no more, sir; but'—here he pointed to his spade, and shook his head as if he were not cheerful without an effort—'but I do a little bit of Adam still.”

He had by this time got them into the best parlour, where the portrait by Spiller, and the bust by Spoker, were.

“My daughters,” said Mr Pecksniff, “will be overjoyed. If I could feel weary upon such a theme, I should have been worn out long ago, my dear sir, by their constant anticipation of this happiness and their repeated allusions to our meeting at Mrs Todgers's. Their fair young friend, too,” said Mr Pecksniff, “whom they so desire to know and love—indeed to know her, is to love—I hope I see her well. I hope in saying, “Welcome to my humble roof!” I find some echo in her own sentiments. If features are an index to the heart, I have no fears of that. An extremely engaging expression of countenance, Mr Chuzzlewit, my dear sir—very much so!”

“Mary,” said the old man, “Mr Pecksniff flatters you. But flattery from him is worth the having. He is not a dealer in it, and it comes from his heart. We thought Mr—”

“Pinch,” said Mary.

“Mr Pinch would have arrived before us, Pecksniff.”

“He did arrive before you, my dear sir,” retorted Pecksniff, raising his voice for the edification of Tom upon the stairs, “and was about, I dare say, to tell me of your coming, when I begged him first to knock at my daughters” chamber, and inquire after Charity, my dear child, who is not so well as I could wish. No,” said Mr Pecksniff, answering their looks, “I am sorry to say, she is not. It is merely an hysterical affection; nothing more, I am not uneasy. Mr Pinch! Thomas!” exclaimed Pecksniff, in his kindest accents. “Pray come in. I shall make no stranger of you. Thomas is a friend of mine, of rather long-standing, Mr Chuzzlewit, you must know.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Tom. “You introduce me very kindly, and speak of me in terms of which I am very proud”

“Old Thomas!” cried his master, pleasantly “God bless you!”

Tom reported that the young ladies would appear directly, and that the best refreshments which the house afforded were even then in preparation, under their joint superintendence. While he was speaking, the old man looked at him intently, though with less harshness than was common to him; nor did the mutual embarrassment of Tom and the young lady, to whatever cause he attributed it, seem to escape his observation.

“Pecksniff,” he said after a pause, rising and taking him aside towards the window, “I was much shocked on hearing of my brother's death. We had been strangers for many years. My only comfort is that he must have lived the happier and better man for having associated no hopes or schemes with me. Peace to his memory! We were play-fellows once; and it would have been better for us both if we had died then.”

Finding him in this gentle mood, Mr Pecksniff began to see another way out of his difficulties, besides the casting overboard of Jonas.

“That any man, my dear sir, could possibly be the happier for not knowing you,” he returned, “you will excuse my doubting. But that Mr Anthony, in the evening of his life, was happier in the affection of his excellent son—a pattern, my dear sir, a pattern to all sons —and in the care of a distant relation who, however lowly in his means of serving him, had no bounds to his inclination; I can inform you.”

“How's this?” said the old man. “You are not a legatee?”

“You don't,” said Mr Pecksniff, with a melancholy pressure of his hand, “quite understand my nature yet, I find. No, sir, I am not a legatee. I am proud to say I am not a legatee. I am proud to say that neither of my children is a legatee. And yet, sir, I was with him at his own request. HE understood me somewhat better, sir. He wrote and said, “I am sick. I am sinking. Come to me!” I went to him. I sat beside his bed, sir, and I stood beside his grave. Yes, at the risk of offending even you, I did it, sir. Though the avowal should lead to our instant separation, and to the severing of those tender ties between us which have recently been formed, I make it. But I am not a legatee,” said Mr Pecksniff, smiling dispassionately; “and I never expected to be a legatee. I knew better!”

“His son a pattern!” cried old Martin. “How can you tell me that? My brother had in his wealth the usual doom of wealth, and root of misery. He carried his corrupting influence with him, go where he would; and shed it round him, even on his hearth. It made of his own child a greedy expectant, who measured every day and hour the lessening distance between his father and the grave, and cursed his tardy progress on that dismal road.”

“No!” cried Mr Pecksniff, boldly. “Not at all, sir!”

“But I saw that shadow in his house,” said Martin Chuzzlewit, “the last time we met, and warned him of its presence. I know it when I see it, do I not? I, who have lived within it all these years!”