Charles Dickens - Life And Adventures Of Martin Chuzzlewit

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 to-morrow 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 shortlived 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 Jonas.”

It might not have been easy to decide in respect of which of their manifold properties, Jonas, Mr Pecksniff, the carpet-bag, and the portmanteau, could be likened to a clap of thunder. But Mr Jonas giving his assent to this proposal, they stole round into the back yard, and softly advanced towards the kitchen window, through which the mingled light of fire and candle shone upon the darkening night.

Truly Mr Pecksniff is blessed in his children—in one of them, at any rate. The prudent Cherry—staff and scrip, and treasure of her doting father—there she sits, at a little table white as driven snow, before the kitchen fire, making up accounts! See the neat maiden, as with pen in hand, and calculating look addressed towards the ceiling and bunch of keys within a little basket at her side, she checks the housekeeping expenditure! From flat-iron, dish-cover, and warming-pan; from pot and kettle, face of brass footman, and black-leaded stove; bright glances of approbation wink and glow upon her. The very onions dangling from the beam, mantle and shine like cherubs” cheeks. Something of the influence of those vegetables sinks into Mr Pecksniff's nature. He weeps.

It is but for a moment, and he hides it from the observation of his friend—very carefully—by a somewhat elaborate use of his pockethandkerchief, in fact; for he would not have his weakness known.

“Pleasant,” he murmured, “pleasant to a father's feelings! My dear girl! Shall we let her know we are here, Mr Jonas?”

“Why, I suppose you don't mean to spend the evening in the stable, or the coach-house,” he returned.

“That, indeed, is not such hospitality as I would show to YOU, my friend,” cried Mr Pecksniff, pressing his hand. And then he took a long breath, and tapping at the window, shouted with stentorian blandness:

“Boh!”

Cherry dropped her pen and screamed. But innocence is ever bold, or should be. As they opened the door, the valiant girl exclaimed in a firm voice, and with a presence of mind which even in that trying moment did not desert her, “Who are you? What do you want? Speak! or I will call my Pa. ”

Mr Pecksniff held out his arms. She knew him instantly, and rushed into his fond embrace.

“It was thoughtless of us, Mr Jonas, it was very thoughtless,” said Pecksniff, smoothing his daugther's hair. “My darling, do you see that I am not alone!”

Not she. She had seen nothing but her father until now. She saw Mr Jonas now, though; and blushed, and hung her head down, as she gave him welcome.

But where was Merry? Mr Pecksniff didn't ask the question in reproach, but in a vein of mildness touched with a gentle sorrow. She was upstairs, reading on the parlour couch. Ah! Domestic details had no charms for HER. “But call her down,” said Mr Pecksniff, with a placid resignation. “Call her down, my love.”

She was called and came, all flushed and tumbled from reposing on the sofa; but none the worse for that. No, not at all. Rather the better, if anything.

“Oh my goodness me!” cried the arch girl, turning to her cousin when she had kissed her father on both cheeks, and in her frolicsome nature had bestowed a supernumerary salute upon the tip of his nose, “YOU here, fright! Well, I'm very thankful that you won't trouble ME much!”