Martin Chuzzlewit

by Charles Dickens

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  MR PINCH IS DISCHARGED OF A DUTY WHICH HE NEVER OWED TO ANYBODY, AND MRPECKSNIFF DISCHARGES A DUTY WHICH HE OWES TO SOCIETY

  The closing words of the last chapter lead naturally to the commencementof this, its successor; for it has to do with a church. With the church,so often mentioned heretofore, in which Tom Pinch played the organ fornothing.

  One sultry afternoon, about a week after Miss Charity's departure forLondon, Mr Pecksniff being out walking by himself, took it into his headto stray into the churchyard. As he was lingering among the tombstones,endeavouring to extract an available sentiment or two from theepitaphs--for he never lost an opportunity of making up a few moralcrackers, to be let off as occasion served--Tom Pinch began to practice.Tom could run down to the church and do so whenever he had time tospare; for it was a simple little organ, provided with wind by theaction of the musician's feet; and he was independent, even of abellows-blower. Though if Tom had wanted one at any time, there wasnot a man or boy in all the village, and away to the turnpike (tollmanincluded), but would have blown away for him till he was black in theface.

  Mr Pecksniff had no objection to music; not the least. He was tolerantof everything; he often said so. He considered it a vagabond kind oftrifling, in general, just suited to Tom's capacity. But in regardto Tom's performance upon this same organ, he was remarkably lenient,singularly amiable; for when Tom played it on Sundays, Mr Pecksniffin his unbounded sympathy felt as if he played it himself, and were abenefactor to the congregation. So whenever it was impossible to deviseany other means of taking the value of Tom's wages out of him, MrPecksniff gave him leave to cultivate this instrument. For which mark ofhis consideration Tom was very grateful.

  The afternoon was remarkably warm, and Mr Pecksniff had been strollinga long way. He had not what may be called a fine ear for music, but heknew when it had a tranquilizing influence on his soul; and that was thecase now, for it sounded to him like a melodious snore. He approachedthe church, and looking through the diamond lattice of a window near theporch, saw Tom, with the curtains in the loft drawn back, playing awaywith great expression and tenderness.

  The church had an inviting air of coolness. The old oak roof supportedby cross-beams, the hoary walls, the marble tablets, and the crackedstone pavement, were refreshing to look at. There were leaves of ivytapping gently at the opposite windows; and the sun poured in throughonly one; leaving the body of the church in tempting shade. But themost tempting spot of all, was one red-curtained and soft-cushioned pew,wherein the official dignitaries of the place (of whom Mr Pecksniff wasthe head and chief) enshrined themselves on Sundays. Mr Pecksniff's seatwas in the corner; a remarkably comfortable corner; where his very largePrayer-Book was at that minute making the most of its quarto self uponthe desk. He determined to go in and rest.

  He entered very softly; in part because it was a church; in part becausehis tread was always soft; in part because Tom played a solemn tune; inpart because he thought he would surprise him when he stopped. Unboltingthe door of the high pew of state, he glided in and shut it after him;then sitting in his usual place, and stretching out his legs upon thehassocks, he composed himself to listen to the music.

  It is an unaccountable circumstance that he should have felt drowsythere, where the force of association might surely have been enoughto keep him wide awake; but he did. He had not been in the snug littlecorner five minutes before he began to nod. He had not recovered himselfone minute before he began to nod again. In the very act of opening hiseyes indolently, he nodded again. In the very act of shutting them, henodded again. So he fell out of one nod into another until at last heceased to nod at all, and was as fast as the church itself.

  He had a consciousness of the organ, long after he fell asleep, thoughas to its being an organ he had no more idea of that than he had ofits being a bull. After a while he began to have at intervals the samedreamy impressions of voices; and awakening to an indolent curiosityupon the subject, opened his eyes.

  He was so indolent, that after glancing at the hassocks and the pew, hewas already half-way off to sleep again, when it occurred to him thatthere really were voices in the church; low voices, talking earnestlyhard by; while the echoes seemed to mutter responses. He roused himself,and listened.

  Before he had listened half a dozen seconds, he became as broad awake asever he had been in all his life. With eyes, and ears, and mouth,wide open, he moved himself a very little with the utmost caution, andgathering the curtain in his hand, peeped out.

  Tom Pinch and Mary. Of course. He had recognized their voices, andalready knew the topic they discussed. Looking like the small end of aguillotined man, with his chin on a level with the top of the pew, sothat he might duck down immediately in case of either of them turninground, he listened. Listened with such concentrated eagerness, that hisvery hair and shirt-collar stood bristling up to help him.

  'No,' cried Tom. 'No letters have ever reached me, except that one fromNew York. But don't be uneasy on that account, for it's very likelythey have gone away to some far-off place, where the posts are neitherregular nor frequent. He said in that very letter that it might be so,even in that city to which they thought of travelling--Eden, you know.'

  'It is a great weight upon my mind,' said Mary.

  'Oh, but you mustn't let it be,' said Tom. 'There's a true saying thatnothing travels so fast as ill news; and if the slightest harm hadhappened to Martin, you may be sure you would have heard of it longago. I have often wished to say this to you,' Tom continued with anembarrassment that became him very well, 'but you have never given me anopportunity.'

  'I have sometimes been almost afraid,' said Mary, 'that you mightsuppose I hesitated to confide in you, Mr Pinch.'

  'No,' Tom stammered, 'I--I am not aware that I ever supposed that. Iam sure that if I have, I have checked the thought directly, as aninjustice to you. I feel the delicacy of your situation in having toconfide in me at all,' said Tom, 'but I would risk my life to save youfrom one day's uneasiness; indeed I would!'

  Poor Tom!

  'I have dreaded sometimes,' Tom continued, 'that I might have displeasedyou by--by having the boldness to try and anticipate your wishes now andthen. At other times I have fancied that your kindness prompted you tokeep aloof from me.'

  'Indeed!'

  'It was very foolish; very presumptuous and ridiculous, to thinkso,' Tom pursued; 'but I feared you might suppose it possible thatI--I--should admire you too much for my own peace; and so deniedyourself the slight assistance you would otherwise have accepted fromme. If such an idea has ever presented itself to you,' faltered Tom,'pray dismiss it. I am easily made happy; and I shall live contentedhere long after you and Martin have forgotten me. I am a poor, shy,awkward creature; not at all a man of the world; and you should think nomore of me, bless you, than if I were an old friar!'

  If friars bear such hearts as thine, Tom, let friars multiply; thoughthey have no such rule in all their stern arithmetic.

  'Dear Mr Pinch!' said Mary, giving him her hand; 'I cannot tell you howyour kindness moves me. I have never wronged you by the lightest doubt,and have never for an instant ceased to feel that you were all--muchmore than all--that Martin found you. Without the silent care andfriendship I have experienced from you, my life here would have beenunhappy. But you have been a good angel to me; filling me with gratitudeof heart, hope, and courage.'

  'I am as little like an angel, I am afraid,' replied Tom, shaking hishead, 'as any stone cherubim among the grave-stones; and I don't thinkthere are many real angels of THAT pattern. But I should like to know(if you will tell me) why you have been so very silent about Martin.'

  'Because I have been afraid,' said Mary, 'of injuring you.'

  'Of injuring me!' cried Tom.

  'Of doing you an injury with your employer.'

  The gentleman in question dived.

  'With Pecksniff!' rejoined Tom, with cheerful confidence. 'Oh dear, he'dnever think of us! He's the best of men. The mor
e at ease you were, thehappier he would be. Oh dear, you needn't be afraid of Pecksniff. He isnot a spy.'

  Many a man in Mr Pecksniff's place, if he could have dived through thefloor of the pew of state and come out at Calcutta or any inhabitedregion on the other side of the earth, would have done it instantly. MrPecksniff sat down upon a hassock, and listening more attentively thanever, smiled.

  Mary seemed to have expressed some dissent in the meanwhile, for Tomwent on to say, with honest energy:

  'Well, I don't know how it is, but it always happens, whenever I expressmyself in this way to anybody almost, that I find they won't do justiceto Pecksniff. It is one of the most extraordinary circumstances thatever came within my knowledge, but it is so. There's John Westlock, whoused to be a pupil here, one of the best-hearted young men in the world,in all other matters--I really believe John would have Pecksniff floggedat the cart's tail if he could. And John is not a solitary case,for every pupil we have had in my time has gone away with the sameinveterate hatred of him. There was Mark Tapley, too, quite in anotherstation of life,' said Tom; 'the mockery he used to make of Pecksniffwhen he was at the Dragon was shocking. Martin too: Martin was worsethan any of 'em. But I forgot. He prepared you to dislike Pecksniff, ofcourse. So you came with a prejudice, you know, Miss Graham, and are nota fair witness.'

  Tom triumphed very much in this discovery, and rubbed his hands withgreat satisfaction.

  'Mr Pinch,' said Mary, 'you mistake him.'

  'No, no!' cried Tom. 'YOU mistake him. But,' he added, with a rapidchange in his tone, 'what is the matter? Miss Graham, what is thematter?'

  Mr Pecksniff brought up to the top of the pew, by slow degrees, hishair, his forehead, his eyebrow, his eye. She was sitting on a benchbeside the door with her hands before her face; and Tom was bending overher.

  'What is the matter?' cried Tom. 'Have I said anything to hurt you? Hasany one said anything to hurt you? Don't cry. Pray tell me what it is.I cannot bear to see you so distressed. Mercy on us, I never was sosurprised and grieved in all my life!'

  Mr Pecksniff kept his eye in the same place. He could have moved it nowfor nothing short of a gimlet or a red-hot wire.

  'I wouldn't have told you, Mr Pinch,' said Mary, 'if I could have helpedit; but your delusion is so absorbing, and it is so necessary that weshould be upon our guard; that you should not be compromised; and tothat end that you should know by whom I am beset; that no alternativeis left me. I came here purposely to tell you, but I think I shouldhave wanted courage if you had not chanced to lead me so directly to theobject of my coming.'

  Tom gazed at her steadfastly, and seemed to say, 'What else?' But hesaid not a word.

  'That person whom you think the best of men,' said Mary, looking up, andspeaking with a quivering lip and flashing eye.

  'Lord bless me!' muttered Tom, staggering back. 'Wait a moment. Thatperson whom I think the best of men! You mean Pecksniff, of course.Yes, I see you mean Pecksniff. Good gracious me, don't speak withoutauthority. What has he done? If he is not the best of men, what is he?'

  'The worst. The falsest, craftiest, meanest, cruellest, mostsordid, most shameless,' said the trembling girl--trembling with herindignation.

  Tom sat down on a seat, and clasped his hands.

  'What is he,' said Mary, 'who receiving me in his house as his guest;his unwilling guest; knowing my history, and how defenceless and aloneI am, presumes before his daughters to affront me so, that if I had abrother but a child, who saw it, he would instinctively have helped me?'

  'He is a scoundrel!' exclaimed Tom. 'Whoever he may be, he is ascoundrel.'

  Mr Pecksniff dived again.

  'What is he,' said Mary, 'who, when my only friend--a dear and kind one,too--was in full health of mind, humbled himself before him, but wasspurned away (for he knew him then) like a dog. Who, in his forgivingspirit, now that that friend is sunk into a failing state, can crawlabout him again, and use the influence he basely gains for every baseand wicked purpose, and not for one--not one--that's true or good?'

  'I say he is a scoundrel!' answered Tom.

  'But what is he--oh, Mr Pinch, what IS he--who, thinking he couldcompass these designs the better if I were his wife, assails me with thecoward's argument that if I marry him, Martin, on whom I have brought somuch misfortune, shall be restored to something of his former hopes; andif I do not, shall be plunged in deeper ruin? What is he who makes myvery constancy to one I love with all my heart a torture to myself andwrong to him; who makes me, do what I will, the instrument to hurt ahead I would heap blessings on! What is he who, winding all these cruelsnares about me, explains their purpose to me, with a smooth tongue anda smiling face, in the broad light of day; dragging me on, the while, inhis embrace, and holding to his lips a hand,' pursued the agitated girl,extending it, 'which I would have struck off, if with it I could losethe shame and degradation of his touch?'

  'I say,' cried Tom, in great excitement, 'he is a scoundrel and avillain! I don't care who he is, I say he is a double-dyed and mostintolerable villain!'

  Covering her face with her hands again, as if the passion which hadsustained her through these disclosures lost itself in an overwhelmingsense of shame and grief, she abandoned herself to tears.

  Any sight of distress was sure to move the tenderness of Tom, but thisespecially. Tears and sobs from her were arrows in his heart. He triedto comfort her; sat down beside her; expended all his store of homelyeloquence; and spoke in words of praise and hope of Martin. Aye, thoughhe loved her from his soul with such a self-denying love as woman seldomwins; he spoke from first to last of Martin. Not the wealth of the richIndies would have tempted Tom to shirk one mention of her lover's name.

  When she was more composed, she impressed upon Tom that this man shehad described, was Pecksniff in his real colours; and word by word andphrase by phrase, as well as she remembered it, related what hadpassed between them in the wood: which was no doubt a source of highgratification to that gentleman himself, who in his desire to see andhis dread of being seen, was constantly diving down into the state pew,and coming up again like the intelligent householder in Punch's Show,who avoids being knocked on the head with a cudgel. When she hadconcluded her account, and had besought Tom to be very distant andunconscious in his manner towards her after this explanation, and hadthanked him very much, they parted on the alarm of footsteps in theburial-ground; and Tom was left alone in the church again.

  And now the full agitation and misery of the disclosure came rushingupon Tom indeed. The star of his whole life from boyhood had become, ina moment, putrid vapour. It was not that Pecksniff, Tom's Pecksniff, hadceased to exist, but that he never had existed. In his death Tom wouldhave had the comfort of remembering what he used to be, but in thisdiscovery, he had the anguish of recollecting what he never was. For,as Tom's blindness in this matter had been total and not partial, so washis restored sight. HIS Pecksniff could never have worked the wickednessof which he had just now heard, but any other Pecksniff could; and thePecksniff who could do that could do anything, and no doubt had beendoing anything and everything except the right thing, all through hiscareer. From the lofty height on which poor Tom had placed his idol itwas tumbled down headlong, and

  Not all the king's horses, nor all the king's men, Could have set Mr Pecksniff up again.

  Legions of Titans couldn't have got him out of the mud; and serve himright! But it was not he who suffered; it was Tom. His compass wasbroken, his chart destroyed, his chronometer had stopped, his masts weregone by the board; his anchor was adrift, ten thousand leagues away.

  Mr Pecksniff watched him with a lively interest, for he divined thepurpose of Tom's ruminations, and was curious to see how he conductedhimself. For some time, Tom wandered up and down the aisle like a mandemented, stopping occasionally to lean against a pew and think it over;then he stood staring at a blank old monument bordered tastefully withskulls and cross-bones, as if it were the finest work of Art he had everseen, although at other times he hel
d it in unspeakable contempt; thenhe sat down; then walked to and fro again; then went wandering up intothe organ-loft, and touched the keys. But their minstrelsy was changed,their music gone; and sounding one long melancholy chord, Tom droopedhis head upon his hands and gave it up as hopeless.

  'I wouldn't have cared,' said Tom Pinch, rising from his stool andlooking down into the church as if he had been the Clergyman, 'Iwouldn't have cared for anything he might have done to Me, for I havetried his patience often, and have lived upon his sufferance and havenever been the help to him that others could have been. I wouldn't haveminded, Pecksniff,' Tom continued, little thinking who heard him, 'ifyou had done Me any wrong; I could have found plenty of excuses forthat; and though you might have hurt me, could have still gone onrespecting you. But why did you ever fall so low as this in my esteem!Oh Pecksniff, Pecksniff, there is nothing I would not have given, tohave had you deserve my old opinion of you; nothing!'

  Mr Pecksniff sat upon the hassock pulling up his shirt-collar, whileTom, touched to the quick, delivered this apostrophe. After a pause heheard Tom coming down the stairs, jingling the church keys; and bringinghis eye to the top of the pew again, saw him go slowly out and lock thedoor.

  Mr Pecksniff durst not issue from his place of concealment; for throughthe windows of the church he saw Tom passing on among the graves, andsometimes stopping at a stone, and leaning there as if he were amourner who had lost a friend. Even when he had left the churchyard, MrPecksniff still remained shut up; not being at all secure but that inhis restless state of mind Tom might come wandering back. At length heissued forth, and walked with a pleasant countenance into the vestry;where he knew there was a window near the ground, by which he couldrelease himself by merely stepping out.

  He was in a curious frame of mind, Mr Pecksniff; being in no hurry togo, but rather inclining to a dilatory trifling with the time, whichprompted him to open the vestry cupboard, and look at himself in theparson's little glass that hung within the door. Seeing that his hairwas rumpled, he took the liberty of borrowing the canonical brush andarranging it. He also took the liberty of opening another cupboard; buthe shut it up again quickly, being rather startled by the sight of ablack and a white surplice dangling against the wall; which had verymuch the appearance of two curates who had committed suicide by hangingthemselves. Remembering that he had seen in the first cupboard aport-wine bottle and some biscuits, he peeped into it again, and helpedhimself with much deliberation; cogitating all the time though, ina very deep and weighty manner, as if his thoughts were otherwiseemployed.

  He soon made up his mind, if it had ever been in doubt; and puttingback the bottle and biscuits, opened the casement. He got out into thechurchyard without any difficulty; shut the window after him; and walkedstraight home.

  'Is Mr Pinch indoors?' asked Mr Pecksniff of his serving-maid.

  'Just come in, sir.'

  'Just come in, eh?' repeated Mr Pecksniff, cheerfully. 'And goneupstairs, I suppose?'

  'Yes sir. Gone upstairs. Shall I call him, sir?'

  'No,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'no. You needn't call him, Jane. Thank you,Jane. How are your relations, Jane?'

  'Pretty well, I thank you, sir.'

  'I am glad to hear it. Let them know I asked about them, Jane. Is MrChuzzlewit in the way, Jane?'

  'Yes, sir. He's in the parlour, reading.'

  'He's in the parlour, reading, is he, Jane?' said Mr Pecksniff. 'Verywell. Then I think I'll go and see him, Jane.'

  Never had Mr Pecksniff been beheld in a more pleasant humour!

  But when he walked into the parlour where the old man was engaged asJane had said; with pen and ink and paper on a table close at hand (forMr Pecksniff was always very particular to have him well supplied withwriting materials), he became less cheerful. He was not angry, he wasnot vindictive, he was not cross, he was not moody, but he was grieved;he was sorely grieved. As he sat down by the old man's side, twotears--not tears like those with which recording angels blot theirentries out, but drops so precious that they use them for theirink--stole down his meritorious cheeks.

  'What is the matter?' asked old Martin. 'Pecksniff, what ails you, man?'

  'I am sorry to interrupt you, my dear sir, and I am still more sorry forthe cause. My good, my worthy friend, I am deceived.'

  'You are deceived!'

  'Ah!' cried Mr Pecksniff, in an agony, 'deceived in the tenderestpoint. Cruelly deceived in that quarter, sir, in which I placed the mostunbounded confidence. Deceived, Mr Chuzzlewit, by Thomas Pinch.'

  'Oh! bad, bad, bad!' said Martin, laying down his book. 'Very bad! Ihope not. Are you certain?'

  'Certain, my good sir! My eyes and ears are witnesses. I wouldn't havebelieved it otherwise. I wouldn't have believed it, Mr Chuzzlewit, if aFiery Serpent had proclaimed it from the top of Salisbury Cathedral. Iwould have said,' cried Mr Pecksniff, 'that the Serpent lied. Such wasmy faith in Thomas Pinch, that I would have cast the falsehood back intothe Serpent's teeth, and would have taken Thomas to my heart. But I amnot a Serpent, sir, myself, I grieve to say, and no excuse or hope isleft me.'

  Martin was greatly disturbed to see him so much agitated, and to hearsuch unexpected news. He begged him to compose himself, and asked uponwhat subject Mr Pinch's treachery had been developed.

  'That is almost the worst of all, sir,' Mr Pecksniff answered, 'on asubject nearly concerning YOU. Oh! is it not enough,' said Mr Pecksniff,looking upward, 'that these blows must fall on me, but must they alsohit my friends!'

  'You alarm me,' cried the old man, changing colour. 'I am not so strongas I was. You terrify me, Pecksniff!'

  'Cheer up, my noble sir,' said Mr Pecksniff, taking courage, 'and wewill do what is required of us. You shall know all, sir, and shallbe righted. But first excuse me, sir, excuse me. I have a duty todischarge, which I owe to society.'

  He rang the bell, and Jane appeared. 'Send Mr Pinch here, if you please,Jane.'

  Tom came. Constrained and altered in his manner, downcast and dejected,visibly confused; not liking to look Pecksniff in the face.

  The honest man bestowed a glance on Mr Chuzzlewit, as who should say'You see!' and addressed himself to Tom in these terms:

  'Mr Pinch, I have left the vestry-window unfastened. Will you do me thefavour to go and secure it; then bring the keys of the sacred edifice tome!'

  'The vestry-window, sir?' cried Tom.

  'You understand me, Mr Pinch, I think,' returned his patron. 'Yes, MrPinch, the vestry-window. I grieve to say that sleeping in the churchafter a fatiguing ramble, I overheard just now some fragments,' heemphasised that word, 'of a dialogue between two parties; and one ofthem locking the church when he went out, I was obliged to leaveit myself by the vestry-window. Do me the favour to secure thatvestry-window, Mr Pinch, and then come back to me.'

  No physiognomist that ever dwelt on earth could have construed Tom'sface when he heard these words. Wonder was in it, and a mild look ofreproach, but certainly no fear or guilt, although a host of strongemotions struggled to display themselves. He bowed, and without sayingone word, good or bad, withdrew.

  'Pecksniff,' cried Martin, in a tremble, 'what does all this mean? Youare not going to do anything in haste, you may regret!'

  'No, my good sir,' said Mr Pecksniff, firmly, 'No. But I have a duty todischarge which I owe to society; and it shall be discharged, my friend,at any cost!'

  Oh, late-remembered, much-forgotten, mouthing, braggart duty, alwaysowed, and seldom paid in any other coin than punishment and wrath, whenwill mankind begin to know thee! When will men acknowledge thee in thyneglected cradle, and thy stunted youth, and not begin their recognitionin thy sinful manhood and thy desolate old age! Oh, ermined Judge whoseduty to society is, now, to doom the ragged criminal to punishment anddeath, hadst thou never, Man, a duty to discharge in barring up thehundred open gates that wooed him to the felon's dock, and throwing butajar the portals to a decent life! Oh, prelate, prelate, whose duty tosociety it is to mourn in melancholy phrase the sad degeneracy
of thesebad times in which thy lot of honours has been cast, did nothing gobefore thy elevation to the lofty seat, from which thou dealest out thyhomilies to other tarriers for dead men's shoes, whose duty to societyhas not begun! Oh! magistrate, so rare a country gentleman and brave asquire, had you no duty to society, before the ricks were blazing andthe mob were mad; or did it spring up, armed and booted from the earth,a corps of yeomanry full-grown!

  Mr Pecksniff's duty to society could not be paid till Tom came back. Theinterval which preceded the return of that young man, he occupied in aclose conference with his friend; so that when Tom did arrive, he foundthe two quite ready to receive him. Mary was in her own room above,whither Mr Pecksniff, always considerate, had besought old Martin toentreat her to remain some half-hour longer, that her feelings might bespared.

  When Tom came back, he found old Martin sitting by the window, and MrPecksniff in an imposing attitude at the table. On one side of him washis pocket-handkerchief; and on the other a little heap (a very littleheap) of gold and silver, and odd pence. Tom saw, at a glance, that itwas his own salary for the current quarter.

  'Have you fastened the vestry-window, Mr Pinch?' said Pecksniff.

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Thank you. Put down the keys if you please, Mr Pinch.'

  Tom placed them on the table. He held the bunch by the key of theorgan-loft (though it was one of the smallest), and looked hard at itas he laid it down. It had been an old, old friend of Tom's; a kindcompanion to him, many and many a day.

  'Mr Pinch,' said Pecksniff, shaking his head; 'oh, Mr Pinch! I wonderyou can look me in the face!'

  Tom did it though; and notwithstanding that he has been described asstooping generally, he stood as upright then as man could stand.

  'Mr Pinch,' said Pecksniff, taking up his handkerchief, as if he feltthat he should want it soon, 'I will not dwell upon the past. I willspare you, and I will spare myself, that pain at least.'

  Tom's was not a very bright eye, but it was a very expressive one whenhe looked at Mr Pecksniff, and said:

  'Thank you, sir. I am very glad you will not refer to the past.'

  'The present is enough,' said Mr Pecksniff, dropping a penny, 'andthe sooner THAT is past, the better. Mr Pinch, I will not dismissyou without a word of explanation. Even such a course would be quitejustifiable under the circumstances; but it might wear an appearance ofhurry, and I will not do it; for I am,' said Mr Pecksniff, knocking downanother penny, 'perfectly self-possessed. Therefore I will say to you,what I have already said to Mr Chuzzlewit.'

  Tom glanced at the old gentleman, who nodded now and then as approvingof Mr Pecksniff's sentences and sentiments, but interposed between themin no other way.

  'From fragments of a conversation which I overheard in the church, justnow, Mr Pinch,' said Pecksniff, 'between yourself and Miss Graham--I sayfragments, because I was slumbering at a considerable distance from you,when I was roused by your voices--and from what I saw, I ascertained (Iwould have given a great deal not to have ascertained, Mr Pinch) thatyou, forgetful of all ties of duty and of honour, sir; regardless of thesacred laws of hospitality, to which you were pledged as an inmateof this house; have presumed to address Miss Graham with unreturnedprofessions of attachment and proposals of love.'

  Tom looked at him steadily.

  'Do you deny it, sir?' asked Mr Pecksniff, dropping one pound two andfourpence, and making a great business of picking it up again.

  'No, sir,' replied Tom. 'I do not.'

  'You do not,' said Mr Pecksniff, glancing at the old gentleman. 'Obligeme by counting this money, Mr Pinch, and putting your name to thisreceipt. You do not?'

  No, Tom did not. He scorned to deny it. He saw that Mr Pecksniff havingoverheard his own disgrace, cared not a jot for sinking lower yet in hiscontempt. He saw that he had devised this fiction as the readiest meansof getting rid of him at once, but that it must end in that any way. Hesaw that Mr Pecksniff reckoned on his not denying it, because his doingso and explaining would incense the old man more than ever againstMartin and against Mary; while Pecksniff himself would only have beenmistaken in his 'fragments.' Deny it! No.

  'You find the amount correct, do you, Mr Pinch?' said Pecksniff.

  'Quite correct, sir,' answered Tom.

  'A person is waiting in the kitchen,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'to carryyour luggage wherever you please. We part, Mr Pinch, at once, and arestrangers from this time.'

  Something without a name; compassion, sorrow, old tenderness, mistakengratitude, habit; none of these, and yet all of them; smote upon Tom'sgentle heart at parting. There was no such soul as Pecksniff's inthat carcase; and yet, though his speaking out had not involved thecompromise of one he loved, he couldn't have denounced the very shapeand figure of the man. Not even then.

  'I will not say,' cried Mr Pecksniff, shedding tears, 'what a blow thisis. I will not say how much it tries me; how it works upon my nature;how it grates upon my feelings. I do not care for that. I can endure aswell as another man. But what I have to hope, and what you have to hope,Mr Pinch (otherwise a great responsibility rests upon you), is, thatthis deception may not alter my ideas of humanity; that it may notimpair my freshness, or contract, if I may use the expression, myPinions. I hope it will not; I don't think it will. It may be a comfortto you, if not now, at some future time, to know that I shall endeavournot to think the worse of my fellow-creatures in general, for what haspassed between us. Farewell!'

  Tom had meant to spare him one little puncturation with a lancet, whichhe had it in his power to administer, but he changed his mind on hearingthis, and said:

  'I think you left something in the church, sir.'

  'Thank you, Mr Pinch,' said Pecksniff. 'I am not aware that I did.'

  'This is your double eye-glass, I believe?' said Tom.

  'Oh!' cried Pecksniff, with some degree of confusion. 'I am obliged toyou. Put it down, if you please.'

  'I found it,' said Tom, slowly--'when I went to bolt thevestry-window--in the pew.'

  So he had. Mr Pecksniff had taken it off when he was bobbing up anddown, lest it should strike against the panelling; and had forgotten it.Going back to the church with his mind full of having been watched, andwondering very much from what part, Tom's attention was caught by thedoor of the state pew standing open. Looking into it he found the glass.And thus he knew, and by returning it gave Mr Pecksniff the informationthat he knew, where the listener had been; and that instead ofoverhearing fragments of the conversation, he must have rejoiced inevery word of it.

  'I am glad he's gone,' said Martin, drawing a long breath when Tom hadleft the room.

  'It IS a relief,' assented Mr Pecksniff. 'It is a great relief. Buthaving discharged--I hope with tolerable firmness--the duty which I owedto society, I will now, my dear sir, if you will give me leave, retireto shed a few tears in the back garden, as an humble individual.'

  Tom went upstairs; cleared his shelf of books; packed them up with hismusic and an old fiddle in his trunk; got out his clothes (they were notso many that they made his head ache); put them on the top of his books;and went into the workroom for his case of instruments. There was aragged stool there, with the horsehair all sticking out of the top likea wig: a very Beast of a stool in itself; on which he had taken up hisdaily seat, year after year, during the whole period of his service.They had grown older and shabbier in company. Pupils had served theirtime; seasons had come and gone. Tom and the worn-out stool had heldtogether through it all. That part of the room was traditionally called'Tom's Corner.' It had been assigned to him at first because of itsbeing situated in a strong draught, and a great way from the fire; andhe had occupied it ever since. There were portraits of him on the walls,with all his weak points monstrously portrayed. Diabolical sentiments,foreign to his character, were represented as issuing from his mouth infat balloons. Every pupil had added something, even unto fancy portraitsof his father with one eye, and of his mother with a disproportionatenose, and especially of his sister; who always being present
ed asextremely beautiful, made full amends to Tom for any other jokes. Underless uncommon circumstances, it would have cut Tom to the heart to leavethese things and think that he saw them for the last time; but it didn'tnow. There was no Pecksniff; there never had been a Pecksniff; and allhis other griefs were swallowed up in that.

  So, when he returned into the bedroom, and, having fastened his box anda carpet-bag, put on his walking gaiters, and his great-coat, and hishat, and taken his stick in his hand, looked round it for the last time.Early on summer mornings, and by the light of private candle-ends onwinter nights, he had read himself half blind in this same room. He hadtried in this same room to learn the fiddle under the bedclothes, butyielding to objections from the other pupils, had reluctantly abandonedthe design. At any other time he would have parted from it with a pang,thinking of all he had learned there, of the many hours he had passedthere; for the love of his very dreams. But there was no Pecksniff;there never had been a Pecksniff, and the unreality of Pecksniffextended itself to the chamber, in which, sitting on one particularbed, the thing supposed to be that Great Abstraction had often preachedmorality with such effect that Tom had felt a moisture in his eyes,while hanging breathless on the words.

  The man engaged to bear his box--Tom knew him well: a Dragon man--camestamping up the stairs, and made a roughish bow to Tom (to whom incommon times he would have nodded with a grin) as though he were awareof what had happened, and wished him to perceive it made no differenceto HIM. It was clumsily done; he was a mere waterer of horses; but Tomliked the man for it, and felt it more than going away.

  Tom would have helped him with the box, but he made no more of it,though it was a heavy one, than an elephant would have made of acastle; just swinging it on his back and bowling downstairs as if, beingnaturally a heavy sort of fellow, he could carry a box infinitely betterthan he could go alone. Tom took the carpet-bag, and went downstairsalong with him. At the outer door stood Jane, crying with all her might;and on the steps was Mrs Lupin, sobbing bitterly, and putting out herhand for Tom to shake.

  'You're coming to the Dragon, Mr Pinch?'

  'No,' said Tom, 'no. I shall walk to Salisbury to-night. I couldn't stayhere. For goodness' sake, don't make me so unhappy, Mrs Lupin.'

  'But you'll come to the Dragon, Mr Pinch. If it's only for tonight. Tosee me, you know; not as a traveller.'

  'God bless my soul!' said Tom, wiping his eyes. 'The kindness of peopleis enough to break one's heart! I mean to go to Salisbury to-night, mydear good creature. If you'll take care of my box for me till I writefor it, I shall consider it the greatest kindness you can do me.'

  'I wish,' cried Mrs Lupin, 'there were twenty boxes, Mr Pinch, that Imight have 'em all.'

  'Thank'ee,' said Tom. 'It's like you. Good-bye. Good-bye.'

  There were several people, young and old, standing about the door, someof whom cried with Mrs Lupin; while others tried to keep up a stoutheart, as Tom did; and others were absorbed in admiration of MrPecksniff--a man who could build a church, as one may say, by squintingat a sheet of paper; and others were divided between that feeling andsympathy with Tom. Mr Pecksniff had appeared on the top of the steps,simultaneously with his old pupil, and while Tom was talking with MrsLupin kept his hand stretched out, as though he said 'Go forth!' WhenTom went forth, and had turned the corner Mr Pecksniff shook his head,shut his eyes, and heaving a deep sigh, shut the door. On which, thebest of Tom's supporters said he must have done some dreadful deed, orsuch a man as Mr Pecksniff never could have felt like that. If it hadbeen a common quarrel (they observed), he would have said something, butwhen he didn't, Mr Pinch must have shocked him dreadfully.

  Tom was out of hearing of their shrewd opinions, and plodded on assteadily as he could go, until he came within sight of the turnpikewhere the tollman's family had cried out 'Mr Pinch!' that frostymorning, when he went to meet young Martin. He had got through thevillage, and this toll-bar was his last trial; but when the infanttoll-takers came screeching out, he had half a mind to run for it, andmake a bolt across the country.

  'Why, deary Mr Pinch! oh, deary sir!' cried the tollman's wife. 'What anunlikely time for you to be a-going this way with a bag!'

  'I am going to Salisbury,' said Tom.

  'Why, goodness, where's the gig, then?' cried the tollman's wife,looking down the road, as if she thought Tom might have been upsetwithout observing it.

  'I haven't got it,' said Tom. 'I--' he couldn't evade it; he felt shewould have him in the next question, if he got over this one. 'I haveleft Mr Pecksniff.'

  The tollman--a crusty customer, always smoking solitary pipes in aWindsor chair, inside, set artfully between two little windows thatlooked up and down the road, so that when he saw anything coming up hemight hug himself on having toll to take, and when he saw it going down,might hug himself on having taken it--the tollman was out in an instant.

  'Left Mr Pecksniff!' cried the tollman.

  'Yes,' said Tom, 'left him.'

  The tollman looked at his wife, uncertain whether to ask her if she hadanything to suggest, or to order her to mind the children. Astonishmentmaking him surly, he preferred the latter, and sent her into thetoll-house with a flea in her ear.

  'You left Mr Pecksniff!' cried the tollman, folding his arms, andspreading his legs. 'I should as soon have thought of his head leavinghim.'

  'Aye!' said Tom, 'so should I, yesterday. Good night!'

  If a heavy drove of oxen hadn't come by immediately, the tollman wouldhave gone down to the village straight, to inquire into it. Asthings turned out, he smoked another pipe, and took his wife into hisconfidence. But their united sagacity could make nothing of it, and theywent to bed--metaphorically--in the dark. But several times that night,when a waggon or other vehicle came through, and the driver askedthe tollkeeper 'What news?' he looked at the man by the light of hislantern, to assure himself that he had an interest in the subject, andthen said, wrapping his watch-coat round his legs:

  'You've heerd of Mr Pecksniff down yonder?'

  'Ah! sure-ly!'

  'And of his young man Mr Pinch, p'raps?'

  'Ah!'

  'They've parted.'

  After every one of these disclosures, the tollman plunged into hishouse again, and was seen no more, while the other side went on in greatamazement.

  But this was long after Tom was abed, and Tom was now with his facetowards Salisbury, doing his best to get there. The evening wasbeautiful at first, but it became cloudy and dull at sunset, and therain fell heavily soon afterwards. For ten long miles he plodded on, wetthrough, until at last the lights appeared, and he came into the welcomeprecincts of the city.

  He went to the inn where he had waited for Martin, and briefly answeringtheir inquiries after Mr Pecksniff, ordered a bed. He had no heart fortea or supper, meat or drink of any kind, but sat by himself beforean empty table in the public room while the bed was getting ready,revolving in his mind all that had happened that eventful day, andwondering what he could or should do for the future. It was a greatrelief when the chambermaid came in, and said the bed was ready.

  It was a low four-poster, shelving downward in the centre like a trough,and the room was crowded with impracticable tables and exploded chestsof drawers, full of damp linen. A graphic representation in oil of aremarkably fat ox hung over the fireplace, and the portrait of someformer landlord (who might have been the ox's brother, he was so likehim) stared roundly in, at the foot of the bed. A variety of queersmells were partially quenched in the prevailing scent of very oldlavender; and the window had not been opened for such a long space oftime that it pleaded immemorial usage, and wouldn't come open now.

  These were trifles in themselves, but they added to the strangeness ofthe place, and did not induce Tom to forget his new position. Pecksniffhad gone out of the world--had never been in it--and it was as muchas Tom could do to say his prayers without him. But he felt happierafterwards, and went to sleep, and dreamed about him as he Never Was.