Charles Dickens - Life And Adventures Of Martin Chuzzlewit

“No, Mr Jonas, I think not.”

“Because if there is, you know,” said Jonas, “ask him. We don't want to make a secret of it.”

“No,” repeated Mr Pecksniff, after a little reflection. “I am not the less obliged to you on that account, Mr Jonas, for your liberal hospitality; but there really is no one.”

“Very well,” said Jonas; “then you, and I, and Chuffey, and the doctor, will be just a coachful. We'll have the doctor, Pecksniff, because he knows what was the matter with him, and that it couldn't be helped.”

“Where is our dear friend, Mr Chuffey?” asked Pecksniff, looking round the chamber, and winking both his eyes at once—for he was overcome by his feelings.

But here he was interrupted by Mrs Gamp, who, divested of her bonnet and shawl, came sidling and bridling into the room; and with some sharpness demanded a conference outside the door with Mr Pecksniff.

“You may say whatever you wish to say here, Mrs Gamp,” said that gentleman, shaking his head with a melancholy expression.

“It is not much as I have to say when people is a-mourning for the dead and gone,” said Mrs Gamp; “but what I have to say is TO the pint and purpose, and no offence intended, must be so considered. I have been at a many places in my time, gentlemen, and I hope I knows what my duties is, and how the same should be performed; in course, if I did not, it would be very strange, and very wrong in sich a gentleman as Mr Mould, which has undertook the highest families in this land, and given every satisfaction, so to recommend me as he does. I have seen a deal of trouble my own self,” said Mrs Gamp, laying greater and greater stress upon her words, “and I can feel for them as has their feelings tried, but I am not a Rooshan or a Prooshan, and consequently cannot suffer Spies to be set over me.”

Before it was possible that an answer could be returned, Mrs Gamp, growing redder in the face, went on to say:

“It is not a easy matter, gentlemen, to live when you are left a widder woman; particular when your feelings works upon you to that extent that you often find yourself a-going out on terms which is a certain loss, and never can repay. But in whatever way you earns your bread, you may have rules and regulations of your own which cannot be broke through. Some people,” said Mrs Gamp, again entrenching herself behind her strong point, as if it were not assailable by human ingenuity, “may be Rooshans, and others may be Prooshans; they are born so, and will please themselves. Them which is of other naturs thinks different.”

“If I understand this good lady,” said Mr Pecksniff, turning to Jonas, “Mr Chuffey is troublesome to her. Shall I fetch him down?”

“Do,” said Jonas. “I was going to tell you he was up there, when she came in. I'd go myself and bring him down, only—only I'd rather you went, if you don't mind.”

Mr Pecksniff promptly departed, followed by Mrs Gamp, who, seeing that he took a bottle and glass from the cupboard, and carried it in his hand, was much softened.

“I am sure,” she said, “that if it wasn't for his own happiness, I should no more mind him being there, poor dear, than if he was a fly. But them as isn't used to these things, thinks so much of “em afterwards, that it's a kindness to “em not to let “em have their wish. And even,” said Mrs Gamp, probably in reference to some flowers of speech she had already strewn on Mr Chuffey, “even if one calls “em names, it's only done to rouse “em.”

Whatever epithets she had bestowed on the old clerk, they had not roused HIM. He sat beside the bed, in the chair he had occupied all the previous night, with his hands folded before him, and his head bowed down; and neither looked up, on their entrance, nor gave any sign of consciousness, until Mr Pecksniff took him by the arm, when he meekly rose.

“Three score and ten,” said Chuffey, “ought and carry seven. Some men are so strong that they live to four score—four times ought's an ought, four times two's an eight—eighty. Oh! why—why—why didn't he live to four times ought's an ought, and four times two's an eight, eighty?”

“Ah! what a wale of grief!” cried Mrs Gamp, possessing herself of the bottle and glass.

“Why did he die before his poor old crazy servant?” said Chuffey, clasping his hands and looking up in anguish. “Take him from me, and what remains?”

“Mr Jonas,” returned Pecksniff, “Mr Jonas, my good friend.”

“I loved him,” cried the old man, weeping. “He was good to me. We learnt Tare and Tret together at school. I took him down once, six boys in the arithmetic class. God forgive me! Had I the heart to take him down!”

“Come, Mr Chuffey,” said Pecksniff. “Come with me. Summon up your fortitude, Mr Chuffey.”

“Yes, I will,” returned the old clerk. “Yes. I'll sum up my forty —How many times forty—Oh, Chuzzlewit and Son—Your own son Mr Chuzzlewit; your own son, sir!”

He yielded to the hand that guided him, as he lapsed into this familiar expression, and submitted to be led away. Mrs Gamp, with the bottle on one knee, and the glass on the other, sat upon a stool, shaking her head for a long time, until, in a moment of abstraction, she poured out a dram of spirits, and raised it to her lips. It was succeeded by a second, and by a third, and then her eyes—either in the sadness of her reflections upon life and death, or in her admiration of the liquor—were so turned up, as to be quite invisible. But she shook her head still.

Poor Chuffey was conducted to his accustomed corner, and there he remained, silent and quiet, save at long intervals, when he would rise, and walk about the room, and wring his hands, or raise some strange and sudden cry. For a whole week they all three sat about the hearth and never stirred abroad. Mr Pecksniff would have walked out in the evening time, but Mr Jonas was so averse to his being absent for a minute, that he abandoned the idea, and so, from morning until night, they brooded together in the dark room, without relief or occupation.

The weight of that which was stretched out, stiff and stark, in the awful chamber above-stairs, so crushed and bore down Jonas, that he bent beneath the load. During the whole long seven days and nights, he was always oppressed and haunted by a dreadful sense of its presence in the house. Did the door move, he looked towards it with a livid face and starting eye, as if he fully believed that ghostly fingers clutched the handle. Did the fire fiicker in a draught of air, he glanced over his shoulder, as almost dreading to behold some shrouded figure fanning and flapping at it with its fearful dress. The lightest noise disturbed him; and once, in the night, at the sound of a footstep overhead, he cried out that the dead man was walking—tramp, tramp, tramp—about his coffin.

He lay at night upon a mattress on the floor of the sitting-room; his own chamber having been assigned to Mrs Gamp; and Mr Pecksniff was similarly accommodated. The howling of a dog before the house, filled him with a terror he could not disguise. He avoided the reflection in the opposite windows of the light that burned above, as though it had been an angry eye. He often, in every night, rose up from his fitful sleep, and looked and longed for dawn; all directions and arrangements, even to the ordering of their daily meals, he abandoned to Mr Pecksniff. That excellent gentleman, deeming that the mourner wanted comfort, and that high feeding was likely to do him infinite service, availed himself of these opportunities to such good purpose, that they kept quite a dainty table during this melancholy season; with sweetbreads, stewed kidneys, oysters, and other such light viands for supper every night; over which, and sundry jorums of hot punch, Mr Pecksniff delivered such moral reflections and spiritual consolation as might have converted a Heathen—especially if he had had but an imperfect acquaintance with the English tongue.