Martin Chuzzlewit
their luggage and arranged to walk. Thither the whole party repaired,
therefore, after no more delay than sufficed for the equipment of the
Miss Pecksniffs and Mrs Todgers. They found the coach already at its
starting-place, and the horses in; there, too, were a large majority
of the commercial gentlemen, including the youngest, who was visibly
agitated, and in a state of deep mental dejection.
Nothing could equal the distress of Mrs Todgers in parting from the
young ladies, except the strong emotions with which she bade adieu to Mr
Pecksniff. Never surely was a pocket-handkerchief taken in and out of
a flat reticule so often as Mrs Todgers’s was, as she stood upon the
pavement by the coach-door supported on either side by a commercial
gentleman; and by the sight of the coach-lamps caught such brief
snatches and glimpses of the good man’s face, as the constant
interposition of Mr Jinkins allowed. For Jinkins, to the last the
youngest gentleman’s rock a-head in life, stood upon the coachstep
talking to the ladies. Upon the other step was Mr Jonas, who maintained
that position in right of his cousinship; whereas the youngest
gentleman, who had been first upon the ground, was deep in the
booking-office among the black and red placards, and the portraits of
fast coaches, where he was ignominiously harassed by porters, and had to
contend and strive perpetually with heavy baggage. This false
position, combined with his nervous excitement, brought about the very
consummation and catastrophe of his miseries; for when in the moment of
parting he aimed a flower, a hothouse flower that had cost money, at the
fair hand of Mercy, it reached, instead, the coachman on the box, who
thanked him kindly, and stuck it in his buttonhole.
They were off now; and Todgers’s was alone again. The two young ladies,
leaning back in their separate corners, resigned themselves to their
own regretful thoughts. But Mr Pecksniff, dismissing all ephemeral
considerations of social pleasure and enjoyment, concentrated his
meditations on the one great virtuous purpose before him, of casting
out that ingrate and deceiver, whose presence yet troubled his domestic
hearth, and was a sacrilege upon the altars of his household gods.
CHAPTER TWELVE
WILL BE SEEN IN THE LONG RUN, IF NOT IN THE SHORT ONE, TO CONCERN MR
PINCH AND OTHERS, NEARLY. MR PECKSNIFF ASSERTS THE DIGNITY OF OUTRAGED
VIRTUE. YOUNG MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT FORMS A DESPERATE RESOLUTION
Mr Pinch and Martin, little dreaming of the stormy weather that
impended, made themselves very comfortable in the Pecksniffian halls,
and improved their friendship daily. Martin’s facility, both of
invention and execution, being remarkable, the grammar-school proceeded
with great vigour; and Tom repeatedly declared, that if there were
anything like certainty in human affairs, or impartiality in human
judges, a design so new and full of merit could not fail to carry off
the first prize when the time of competition arrived. Without being
quite so sanguine himself, Martin had his hopeful anticipations too; and
they served to make him brisk and eager at his task.
‘If I should turn out a great architect, Tom,’ said the new pupil one
day, as he stood at a little distance from his drawing, and eyed it with
much complacency, ‘I’ll tell you what should be one of the things I’d
build.’
‘Aye!’ cried Tom. ‘What?’
‘Why, your fortune.’
‘No!’ said Tom Pinch, quite as much delighted as if the thing were done.
‘Would you though? How kind of you to say so.’
‘I’d build it up, Tom,’ returned Martin, ‘on such a strong foundation,
that it should last your life--aye, and your children’s lives too, and
their children’s after them. I’d be your patron, Tom. I’d take you under
my protection. Let me see the man who should give the cold shoulder to
anybody I chose to protect and patronise, if I were at the top of the
tree, Tom!’
‘Now, I don’t think,’ said Mr Pinch, ‘upon my word, that I was ever more
gratified than by this. I really don’t.’
‘Oh! I mean what I say,’ retorted Martin, with a manner as free and easy
in its condescension to, not to say in its compassion for, the other, as
if he were already First Architect in ordinary to all the Crowned Heads
in Europe. ‘I’d do it. I’d provide for you.’
‘I am afraid,’ said Tom, shaking his head, ‘that I should be a mighty
awkward person to provide for.’
‘Pooh, pooh!’ rejoined Martin. ‘Never mind that. If I took it in my head
to say, “Pinch is a clever fellow; I approve of Pinch;” I should like
to know the man who would venture to put himself in opposition to me.
Besides, confound it, Tom, you could be useful to me in a hundred ways.’
‘If I were not useful in one or two, it shouldn’t be for want of
trying,’ said Tom.
‘For instance,’ pursued Martin, after a short reflection, ‘you’d be a
capital fellow, now, to see that my ideas were properly carried out; and
to overlook the works in their progress before they were sufficiently
advanced to be very interesting to ME; and to take all that sort of
plain sailing. Then you’d be a splendid fellow to show people over my
studio, and to talk about Art to ‘em, when I couldn’t be bored myself,
and all that kind of thing. For it would be devilish creditable, Tom
(I’m quite in earnest, I give you my word), to have a man of your
information about one, instead of some ordinary blockhead. Oh, I’d take
care of you. You’d be useful, rely upon it!’
To say that Tom had no idea of playing first fiddle in any social
orchestra, but was always quite satisfied to be set down for the hundred
and fiftieth violin in the band, or thereabouts, is to express his
modesty in very inadequate terms. He was much delighted, therefore, by
these observations.
‘I should be married to her then, Tom, of course,’ said Martin.
What was that which checked Tom Pinch so suddenly, in the high flow
of his gladness; bringing the blood into his honest cheeks, and a
remorseful feeling to his honest heart, as if he were unworthy of his
friend’s regard?
‘I should be married to her then,’ said Martin, looking with a smile
towards the light; ‘and we should have, I hope, children about us.
They’d be very fond of you, Tom.’
But not a word said Mr Pinch. The words he would have uttered died upon
his lips, and found a life more spiritual in self-denying thoughts.
‘All the children hereabouts are fond of you, Tom, and mine would be,
of course,’ pursued Martin. ‘Perhaps I might name one of ‘em after
you. Tom, eh? Well, I don’t know. Tom’s not a bad name. Thomas Pinch
Chuzzlewit. T. P. C. on his pinafores--no objection to that, I should
say?’
Tom cleared his throat, and smiled.
‘SHE would like you, Tom, I know,’ said Martin.
‘Aye!’ cried Tom Pinch, faintly.
‘I can tell exactly what she would think of you,’ said Martin leaning
his chin upon his hand, and looking through the window-glass as if he
read there what he said; ‘I know her so well. She would smile, Tom,
often at first when you spoke to her, or when she looked at you--merrily
too--but you wouldn’t mind that. A brighter smile you never saw.’
‘No, no,’ said Tom. ‘I wouldn’t mind that.’
‘She would be as tender with you, Tom,’ said Martin, ‘as if you were a
child yourself. So you are almost, in some things, an’t you, Tom?’
Mr Pinch nodded his entire assent.
‘She would always be kind and good-humoured, and glad to see you,’ said
Martin; ‘and when she found out exactly what sort of fellow you were
(which she’d do very soon), she would pretend to give you little
commissions to execute, and to ask little services of you, which she
knew you were burning to render; so that when she really pleased you
most, she would try to make you think you most pleased her. She
would take to you uncommonly, Tom; and would understand you far more
delicately than I ever shall; and would often say, I know, that you were
a harmless, gentle, well-intentioned, good fellow.’
How silent Tom Pinch was!
‘In honour of old time,’ said Martin, ‘and of her having heard you play
the organ in this damp little church down here--for nothing too--we will
have one in the house. I shall build an architectural music-room on a
plan of my own, and it’ll look rather knowing in a recess at one end.
There you shall play away, Tom, till you tire yourself; and, as you like
to do so in the dark, it shall BE dark; and many’s the summer evening
she and I will sit and listen to you, Tom; be sure of that!’
It may have required a stronger effort on Tom Pinch’s part to leave the
seat on which he sat, and shake his friend by both hands, with nothing
but serenity and grateful feeling painted on his face; it may have
required a stronger effort to perform this simple act with a pure heart,
than to achieve many and many a deed to which the doubtful trumpet blown
by Fame has lustily resounded. Doubtful, because from its long hovering
over scenes of violence, the smoke and steam of death have clogged the
keys of that brave instrument; and it is not always that its notes are
either true or tuneful.
‘It’s a proof of the kindness of human nature,’ said Tom,
characteristically putting himself quite out of sight in the matter,
‘that everybody who comes here, as you have done, is more considerate
and affectionate to me than I should have any right to hope, if I were
the most sanguine creature in the world; or should have any power to
express, if I were the most eloquent. It really overpowers me. But trust
me,’ said Tom, ‘that I am not ungrateful--that I never forget--and that
if I can ever prove the truth of my words to you, I will.’
‘That’s all right,’ observed Martin, leaning back in his chair with a
hand in each pocket, and yawning drearily. ‘Very fine talking, Tom;
but I’m at Pecksniff’s, I remember, and perhaps a mile or so out of the
high-road to fortune just at this minute. So you’ve heard again this
morning from what’s his name, eh?’
‘Who may that be?’ asked Tom, seeming to enter a mild protest on behalf
of the dignity of an absent person.
‘YOU know. What is it? Northkey.’
‘Westlock,’ rejoined Tom, in rather a louder tone than usual.
‘Ah! to be sure,’ said Martin, ‘Westlock. I knew it was something
connected with a point of the compass and a door. Well! and what says
Westlock?’
‘Oh! he has come into his property,’ answered Tom, nodding his head, and
smiling.
‘He’s a lucky dog,’ said Martin. ‘I wish it were mine instead. Is that
all the mystery you were to tell me?’
‘No,’ said Tom; ‘not all.’
‘What’s the rest?’ asked Martin.
‘For the matter of that,’ said Tom, ‘it’s no mystery, and you won’t
think much of it; but it’s very pleasant to me. John always used to say
when he was here, “Mark my words, Pinch. When my father’s executors cash
up”--he used strange expressions now and then, but that was his way.’
‘Cash-up’s a very good expression,’ observed Martin, ‘when other people
don’t apply it to you. Well!--What a slow fellow you are, Pinch!’
‘Yes, I am I know,’ said Tom; ‘but you’ll make me nervous if you tell me
so. I’m afraid you have put me out a little now, for I forget what I was
going to say.’
‘When John’s father’s executors cashed up,’ said Martin impatiently.
‘Oh yes, to be sure,’ cried Tom; ‘yes. “Then,” says John, “I’ll give you
a dinner, Pinch, and come down to Salisbury on purpose.” Now, when John
wrote the other day--the morning Pecksniff left, you know--he said his
business was on the point of being immediately settled, and as he was to
receive his money directly, when could I meet him at Salisbury? I wrote
and said, any day this week; and I told him besides, that there was a
new pupil here, and what a fine fellow you were, and what friends we
had become. Upon which John writes back this letter’--Tom produced
it--‘fixes to-morrow; sends his compliments to you; and begs that we