John seemed to think it all delightful; for coming in with Tom to tea, he took his seat beside her like a man enchanted. And when the tea-service had been removed, and Tom, sitting down at the piano, became absorbed in some of his old organ tunes, he was still beside her at the open window, looking out upon the twilight.
There is little enough to see in Furnival's Inn. It is a shady, quiet place, echoing to the footsteps of the stragglers who have business there; and rather monotonous and gloomy on summer evenings. What gave it such a charm to them, that they remained at the window as unconscious of the flight of time as Tom himself, the dreamer, while the melodies which had so often soothed his spirit were hovering again about him! What power infused into the fading light, the gathering darkness; the stars that here and there appeared; the evening air, the City's hum and stir, the very chiming of the old church clocks; such exquisite enthrallment, that the divinest regions of the earth spread out before their eyes could not have held them captive in a stronger chain?
The shadows deepened, deepened, and the room became quite dark. Still Tom's fingers wandered over the keys of the piano, and still the window had its pair of tenants. At length, her hand upon his shoulder, and her breath upon his forehead, roused Tom from his reverie.
“Dear me!” he cried, desisting with a start. “I am afraid I have been very inconsiderate and unpolite.”
Tom little thought how much consideration and politeness he had shown!
“Sing something to us, my dear,” said Tom. “let us hear your voice. Come!”
John Westlock added his entreaties with such earnestness that a flinty heart alone could have resisted them. Hers was not a flinty heart. Oh, dear no! Quite another thing.
So down she sat, and in a pleasant voice began to sing the ballads Tom loved well. Old rhyming stories, with here and there a pause for a few simple chords, such as a harper might have sounded in the ancient time while looking upward for the current of some halfremembered legend; words of old poets, wedded to such measures that the strain of music might have been the poet's breath, giving utterance and expression to his thoughts; and now a melody so joyous and light-hearted, that the singer seemed incapable of sadness, until in her inconstancy (oh wicked little singer!) she relapsed, and broke the listeners” hearts again; these were the simple means she used to please them. And that these simple means prevailed, and she DID please them, let the still darkened chamber, and its longdeferred illumination witness.
The candles came at last, and it was time for moving homeward. Cutting paper carefully, and rolling it about the stalks of those same flowers, occasioned some delay; but even this was done in time, and Ruth was ready.
“Good night!” said Tom. “A memorable and delightful visit, John! Good night!”
John thought he would walk with them.
“No, no. Don't!” said Tom. “What nonsense! We can get home very well alone. I couldn't think of taking you out.”
But John said he would rather.
“Are you sure you would rather?” said Tom. “I am afraid you only say so out of politeness.”
John being quite sure, gave his arm to Ruth, and led her out. Fiery-face, who was again in attendance, acknowledged her departure with so cold a curtsey that it was hardly visible; and cut Tom, dead.
Their host was bent on walking the whole distance, and would not listen to Tom's dissuasions. Happy time, happy walk, happy parting, happy dreams! But there are some sweet day-dreams, so there are that put the visions of the night to shame.
Busily the Temple fountain murmured in the moonlight, while Ruth lay sleeping, with her flowers beside her; and John Westlock sketched a portrait—whose?—from memory.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
IN WHICH MISS PECKSNIFF MAKES LOVE, MR JONAS MAKES WRATH, MRS GAMP MAKES TEA, AND MR CHUFFEY MAKES BUSINESS
On the next day's official duties coming to a close, Tom hurried home without losing any time by the way; and after dinner and a short rest sallied out again, accompanied by Ruth, to pay his projected visit to Todgers's. Tom took Ruth with him, not only because it was a great pleasure to him to have her for his companion whenever he could, but because he wished her to cherish and comfort poor Merry; which she, for her own part (having heard the wretched history of that young wife from Tom), was all eagerness to do.
“She was so glad to see me,” said Tom, “that I am sure she will be glad to see you. Your sympathy is certain to be much more delicate and acceptable than mine.”
“I am very far from being certain of that, Tom,” she replied; “and indeed you do yourself an injustice. Indeed you do. But I hope she may like me, Tom.”
“Oh, she is sure to do that!” cried Tom, confidently.
“What a number of friends I should have, if everybody was of your way of thinking. Shouldn't I, Tom, dear?” said his little sister pinching him upon the cheek.
Tom laughed, and said that with reference to this particular case he had no doubt at all of finding a disciple in Merry. “For you women,” said Tom, “you women, my dear, are so kind, and in your kindness have such nice perception; you know so well how to be affectionate and full of solicitude without appearing to be; your gentleness of feeling is like your touch so light and easy, that the one enables you to deal with wounds of the mind as tenderly as the other enables you to deal with wounds of the body. You are such—”
“My goodness, Tom!” his sister interposed. “You ought to fall in love immediately.”
Tom put this observation off good humouredly, but somewhat gravely too; and they were soon very chatty again on some other subject.
As they were passing through a street in the City, not very far from Mrs Todgers's place of residence, Ruth checked Tom before the window of a large Upholstery and Furniture Warehouse, to call his attention to something very magnificent and ingenious, displayed there to the best advantage, for the admiration and temptation of the public. Tom had hazarded some most erroneous and extravagantly wrong guess in relation to the price of this article, and had joined his sister in laughing heartily at his mistake, when he pressed her arm in his, and pointed to two persons at a little distance, who were looking in at the same window with a deep interest in the chests of drawers and tables.
“Hush!” Tom whispered. “Miss Pecksniff, and the young gentleman to whom she is going to be married.”
“Why does he look as if he was going to be buried, Tom?” inquired his little sister.
“Why, he is naturally a dismal young gentleman, I believe,” said Tom “but he is very civil and inoffensive.”
“I suppose they are furnishing their house,” whispered Ruth.
“Yes, I suppose they are,” replied Tom. “We had better avoid speaking to them.”
They could not very well avoid looking at them, however, especially as some obstruction on the pavement, at a little distance, happened to detain them where they were for a few moments. Miss Pecksniff had quite the air of having taken the unhappy Moddle captive, and brought him up to the contemplation of the furniture like a lamb to the altar. He offered no resistance, but was perfectly resigned and quiet. The melancholy depicted in the turn of his languishing head, and in his dejected attitude, was extreme; and though there was a full-sized four-post bedstead in the window, such a tear stood trembling in his eye as seemed to blot it out.
“Augustus, my love,” said Miss Pecksniff, “ask the price of the eight rosewood chairs, and the loo table.”
“Perhaps they are ordered already,” said Augustus. “Perhaps they are Another's.”
“They can make more like them, if they are,” rejoined Miss Pecksniff.
“No, no, they can't,” said Moddle. “It's impossible!”
He appeared, for the moment, to be quite overwhelmed and stupefied by the prospect of his approaching happiness; but recovering, entered the shop. He returned immediately, saying in a tone of despair
“Twenty-four pound ten!”
Miss Pecksniff, turning to receive this announcement, became consci
ous of the observation of Tom Pinch and his sister.
“Oh, really!” cried Miss Pecksniff, glancing about her, as if for some convenient means of sinking into the earth. “Upon my word, I— there never was such a—to think that one should be so very—Mr Augustus Moddle, Miss Pinch!”
Miss Pecksniff was quite gracious to Miss Pinch in this triumphant introduction; exceedingly gracious. She was more than gracious; she was kind and cordial. Whether the recollection of the old service Tom had rendered her in knocking Mr Jonas on the head had wrought this change in her opinions; or whether her separation from her parent had reconciled her to all human-kind, or to all that interesting portion of human-kind which was not friendly to him; or whether the delight of having some new female acquaintance to whom to communicate her interesting prospects was paramount to every other consideration; cordial and kind Miss Pecksniff was. And twice Miss Pecksniff kissed Miss Pinch upon the cheek.
“Augustus—Mr Pinch, you know. My dear girl!” said Miss Pecksniff, aside. “I never was so ashamed in my life.”
Ruth begged her not to think of it.
“I mind your brother less than anybody else,” simpered Miss Pecksniff. “But the indelicacy of meeting any gentleman under such circumstances! Augustus, my child, did you—”
Here Miss Pecksniff whispered in his ear. The suffering Moddle repeated:
“Twenty-four pound ten!”
“Oh, you silly man! I don't mean them,” said Miss Pecksniff. “I am speaking of the—”
Here she whispered him again.
“If it's the same patterned chintz as that in the window; thirtytwo, twelve, six,” said Moddle, with a sigh. “And very dear.”
Miss Pecksniff stopped him from giving any further explanation by laying her hand upon his lips, and betraying a soft embarrassment. She then asked Tom Pinch which way he was going.
“I was going to see if I could find your sister,” answered Tom, “to whom I wished to say a few words. We were going to Mrs Todgers's, where I had the pleasure of seeing her before.”
“It's of no use your going on, then,” said Cherry, “for we have not long left there; and I know she is not at home. But I'll take you to my sister's house, if you please. Augustus—Mr Moddle, I mean— and myself, are on our way to tea there, now. You needn't think of HIM,” she added, nodding her head as she observed some hesitation on Tom's part. “He is not at home.”
“Are you sure?” asked Tom.
“Oh, I am quite sure of that. I don't want any MORE revenge,” said Miss Pecksniff, expressively. “But, really, I must beg you two gentlemen to walk on, and allow me to follow with Miss Pinch. My dear, I never was so taken by surprise!”
In furtherance of this bashful arrangement, Moddle gave his arm to Tom; and Miss Pecksniff linked her own in Ruth's.
“Of course, my love,” said Miss Pecksniff, “it would be useless for me to disguise, after what you have seen, that I am about to be united to the gentleman who is walking with your brother. It would be in vain to conceal it. What do you think of him? Pray, let me have your candid opinion.”
Ruth intimated that, as far as she could judge, he was a very eligible swain.
“I am curious to know,” said Miss Pecksniff, with loquacious frankness, “whether you have observed, or fancied, in this very short space of time, that he is of a rather melancholy turn?”
“So very short a time,” Ruth pleaded.
“No, no; but don't let that interfere with your answer,” returned Miss Pecksniff. “I am curious to hear what you say.”
Ruth acknowledged that he had impressed her at first sight as looking “rather low.”
“No, really?” said Miss Pecksniff. “Well! that is quite remarkable! Everybody says the same. Mrs Todgers says the same; and Augustus informs me that it is quite a joke among the gentlemen in the house. Indeed, but for the positive commands I have laid upon him, I believe it would have been the occasion of loaded fire-arms being resorted to more than once. What do you think is the cause of his appearance of depression?”
Ruth thought of several things; such as his digestion, his tailor, his mother, and the like. But hesitating to give utterance to any one of them, she refrained from expressing an opinion.
“My dear,” said Miss Pecksniff; “I shouldn't wish it to be known, but I don't mind mentioning it to you, having known your brother for so many years—I refused Augustus three times. He is of a most amiable and sensitive nature, always ready to shed tears if you look at him, which is extremely charming; and he has never recovered the effect of that cruelty. For it WAS cruel,” said Miss Pecksniff, with a self-conviction candour that might have adorned the diadem of her own papa. “There is no doubt of it. I look back upon my conduct now with blushes. I always liked him. I felt that he was not to me what the crowd of young men who had made proposals had been, but something very different. Then what right had I to refuse him three times?”
“It was a severe trial of his fidelity, no doubt,” said Ruth.
“My dear,” returned Miss Pecksniff. “It was wrong. But such is the caprice and thoughtlessness of our sex! Let me be a warning to you. Don't try the feelings of any one who makes you an offer, as I have tried the feelings of Augustus; but if you ever feel towards a person as I really felt towards him, at the very time when I was driving him to distraction, let that feeling find expression, if that person throws himself at your feet, as Augustus Moddle did at mine. Think,” said Miss Pecksniff, “what my feelings would have been, if I had goaded him to suicide, and it had got into the papers!”
Ruth observed that she would have been full of remorse, no doubt.
“Remorse!” cried Miss Pecksniff, in a sort of snug and comfortable penitence. “What my remorse is at this moment, even after making reparation by accepting him, it would be impossible to tell you! Looking back upon my giddy self, my dear, now that I am sobered down and made thoughtful, by treading on the very brink of matrimony; and contemplating myself as I was when I was like what you are now; I shudder. I shudder. What is the consequence of my past conduct? Until Augustus leads me to the altar he is not sure of me. I have blighted and withered the affections of his heart to that extent that he is not sure of me. I see that preying on his mind and feeding on his vitals. What are the reproaches of my conscience, when I see this in the man I love!”
Ruth endeavoured to express some sense of her unbounded and flattering confidence; and presumed that she was going to be married soon.
“Very soon indeed,” returned Miss Pecksniff. “As soon as our house is ready. We are furnishing now as fast as we can.”
In the same vein of confidence Miss Pecksniff ran through a general inventory of the articles that were already bought with the articles that remained to be purchased; what garments she intended to be married in, and where the ceremony was to be performed; and gave Miss Pinch, in short (as she told her), early and exclusive information on all points of interest connected with the event.
While this was going forward in the rear, Tom and Mr Moddle walked on, arm in arm, in the front, in a state of profound silence, which Tom at last broke; after thinking for a long time what he could say that should refer to an indifferent topic, in respect of which he might rely, with some degree of certainty, on Mr Moddle's bosom being unruffled.
“I wonder,” said Tom, “that in these crowded streets the footpassengers are not oftener run over.”
Mr Moddle, with a dark look, replied:
“The drivers won't do it.”
“Do you mean?” Tom began—
“That there are some men,” interrupted Moddle, with a hollow laugh, “who can't get run over. They live a charmed life. Coal waggons recoil from them, and even cabs refuse to run them down. Ah!” said Augustus, marking Tom's astonishment. “There are such men. One of “em is a friend of mine.”
“Upon my word and honour,” thought Tom, “this young gentleman is in a state of mind which is very serious indeed!” Abandoning all idea of conversation, he did not venture to say
another word, but he was careful to keep a tight hold upon Augustus's arm, lest he should fly into the road, and making another and a more successful attempt, should get up a private little Juggernaut before the eyes of his betrothed. Tom was so afraid of his committing this rash act, that he had scarcely ever experienced such mental relief as when they arrived in safety at Mrs Jonas Chuzzlewit's house.
“Walk up, pray, Mr Pinch,” said Miss Pecksniff. For Tom halted, irresolutely, at the door.
“I am doubtful whether I should be welcome,” replied Tom, “or, I ought rather to say, I have no doubt about it. I will send up a message, I think.”
“But what nonsense that is!” returned Miss Pecksniff, speaking apart to Tom. “He is not at home, I am certain. I know he is not; and Merry hasn't the least idea that you ever—”
“No,” interrupted Tom. “Nor would I have her know it, on any account. I am not so proud of that scuffle, I assure you.”
“Ah, but then you are so modest, you see,” returned Miss Pecksniff, with a smile. “But pray walk up. If you don't wish her to know it, and do wish to speak to her, pray walk up. Pray walk up, Miss Pinch. Don't stand here.”
Tom still hesitated for he felt that he was in an awkward position. But Cherry passing him at this juncture, and leading his sister upstairs, and the house-door being at the same time shut behind them, he followed without quite knowing whether it was well or illjudged so to do.
“Merry, my darling!” said the fair Miss Pecksniff, opening the door of the usual sitting-room. “Here are Mr Pinch and his sister come to see you! I thought we should find you here, Mrs Todgers! How do you do, Mrs Gamp? And how do you do, Mr Chuffey, though it's of no use asking you the question, I am well aware.”
Life And Adventures Of Martin Chuzzlewit Page 85
