“No wonder. You have had a hard bout of it. But country air, and change of scene,” said John, “will make another man of you! Why, Mrs Gamp,” he added, laughing, as he kindly arranged the sick man's garments, “you have odd notions of a gentleman's dress!”
“Mr Lewsome an't a easy gent to get into his clothes, sir,” Mrs Gamp replied with dignity; “as me and Betsey Prig can certify afore the Lord Mayor and Uncommon Counsellors, if needful!”
John at that moment was standing close in front of the sick man, in the act of releasing him from the torture of the collars before mentioned, when he said in a whisper:
“Mr Westlock! I don't wish to be overheard. I have something very particular and strange to say to you; something that has been a dreadful weight on my mind, through this long illness.”
Quick in all his motions, John was turning round to desire the women to leave the room; when the sick man held him by the sleeve.
“Not now. I've not the strength. I've not the courage. May I tell it when I have? May I write it, if I find that easier and better?”
“May you!” cried John. “Why, Lewsome, what is this!”
“Don't ask me what it is. It's unnatural and cruel. Frightful to think of. Frightful to tell. Frightful to know. Frightful to have helped in. Let me kiss your hand for all your goodness to me. Be kinder still, and don't ask me what it is!”
At first, John gazed at him in great surprise; but remembering how very much reduced he was, and how recently his brain had been on fire with fever, believed that he was labouring under some imaginary horror or despondent fancy. For farther information on this point, he took an opportunity of drawing Mrs Gamp aside, while Betsey Prig was wrapping him in cloaks and shawls, and asked her whether he was quite collected in his mind.
“Oh bless you, no!” said Mrs Gamp. “He hates his nusses to this hour. They always does it, sir. It's a certain sign. If you could have heerd the poor dear soul a-findin fault with me and Betsey Prig, not half an hour ago, you would have wondered how it is we don't get fretted to the tomb.”
This almost confirmed John in his suspicion; so, not taking what had passed into any serious account, he resumed his former cheerful manner, and assisted by Mrs Gamp and Betsey Prig, conducted Lewsome downstairs to the coach; just then upon the point of starting. Poll Sweedlepipe was at the door with his arms tight folded and his eyes wide open, and looked on with absorbing interest, while the sick man was slowly moved into the vehicle. His bony hands and haggard face impressed Poll wonderfully; and he informed Mr Bailey in confidence, that he wouldn't have missed seeing him for a pound. Mr Bailey, who was of a different constitution, remarked that he would have stayed away for five shillings.
It was a troublesome matter to adjust Mrs Gamp's luggage to her satisfaction; for every package belonging to that lady had the inconvenient property of requiring to be put in a boot by itself, and to have no other luggage near it, on pain of actions at law for heavy damages against the proprietors of the coach. The umbrella with the circular patch was particularly hard to be got rid of, and several times thrust out its battered brass nozzle from improper crevices and chinks, to the great terror of the other passengers. Indeed, in her intense anxiety to find a haven of refuge for this chattel, Mrs Gamp so often moved it, in the course of five minutes, that it seemed not one umbrella but fifty. At length it was lost, or said to be; and for the next five minutes she was face to face with the coachman, go wherever he might, protesting that it should be “made good,” though she took the question to the House of Commons.
At last, her bundle, and her pattens, and her basket, and everything else, being disposed of, she took a friendly leave of Poll and Mr Bailey, dropped a curtsey to John Westlock, and parted as from a cherished member of the sisterhood with Betsey Prig.
“Wishin you lots of sickness, my darlin creetur,” Mrs Gamp observed, “and good places. It won't be long, I hope, afore we works together, off and on, again, Betsey; and may our next meetin” be at a large family's, where they all takes it reg'lar, one from another, turn and turn about, and has it business-like.”
“I don't care how soon it is,” said Mrs Prig; “nor how many weeks it lasts.”
Mrs Gamp with a reply in a congenial spirit was backing to the coach, when she came in contact with a lady and gentleman who were passing along the footway.
“Take care, take care here!” cried the gentleman. “Halloo! My dear! Why, it's Mrs Gamp!”
“What, Mr Mould!” exclaimed the nurse. “And Mrs Mould! who would have thought as we should ever have a meetin” here, I'm sure!”
“Going out of town, Mrs Gamp?” cried Mould. “That's unusual, isn't it?”
“It IS unusual, sir,” said Mrs Gamp. “But only for a day or two at most. The gent,” she whispered, “as I spoke about.”
“What, in the coach!” cried Mould. “The one you thought of recommending? Very odd. My dear, this will interest you. The gentleman that Mrs Gamp thought likely to suit us is in the coach, my love.”
Mrs Mould was greatly interested.
“Here, my dear. You can stand upon the door-step,” said Mould, “and take a look at him. Ha! There he is. Where's my glass? Oh! all right. I've got it. Do you see him, my dear?”
“Quite plain,” said Mrs Mould.
“Upon my life, you know, this is a very singular circumstance,” said Mould, quite delighted. “This is the sort of thing, my dear, I wouldn't have missed on any account. It tickles one. It's interesting. It's almost a little play, you know. Ah! There he is! To be sure. Looks poorly, Mrs M., don't he?”
Mrs Mould assented.
“He's coming our way, perhaps, after all,” said Mould. “Who knows! I feel as if I ought to show him some little attention, really. He don't seem a stranger to me. I'm very much inclined to move my hat, my dear.”
“He's looking hard this way,” said Mrs Mould.
“Then I will!” cried Mould. “How d'ye do, sir! I wish you good day. Ha! He bows too. Very gentlemanly. Mrs Gamp has the cards in her pocket, I have no doubt. This is very singular, my dear—and very pleasant. I am not superstitious, but it really seems as if one was destined to pay him those little melancholy civilities which belong to our peculiar line of business. There can be no kind of objection to your kissing your hand to him, my dear.”
Mrs Mould did so.
“Ha!” said Mould. “He's evidently gratified. Poor fellow! I am quite glad you did it, my love. Bye bye, Mrs Gamp!” waving his hand. “There he goes; there he goes!”
So he did; for the coach rolled off as the words were spoken. Mr and Mrs Mould, in high good humour, went their merry way. Mr Bailey retired with Poll Sweedlepipe as soon as possible; but some little time elapsed before he could remove his friend from the ground, owing to the impression wrought upon the barber's nerves by Mrs Prig, whom he pronounced, in admiration of her beard, to be a woman of transcendent charms.
When the light cloud of bustle hanging round the coach was thus dispersed, Nadgett was seen in the darkest box of the Bull coffeeroom, looking wistfully up at the clock—as if the man who never appeared were a little behind his time.
CHAPTER THIRTY
PROVES THAT CHANGES MAY BE RUNG IN THE BEST-REGULATED FAMILIES, AND THAT MR PECKNIFF WAS A SPECIAL HAND AT A TRIPLE-BOB-MAJOR
As the surgeon's first care after amputating a limb, is to take up the arteries the cruel knife has severed, so it is the duty of this history, which in its remorseless course has cut from the Pecksniffian trunk its right arm, Mercy, to look to the parent stem, and see how in all its various ramifications it got on without her.
And first of Mr Pecksniff it may be observed, that having provided for his youngest daughter that choicest of blessings, a tender and indulgent husband; and having gratified the dearest wish of his parental heart by establishing her in life so happily; he renewed his youth, and spreading the plumage of his own bright conscience, felt himself equal to all kinds of flights. It is customary with fathers in stage-plays, after giving thei
r daughters to the men of their hearts, to congratulate themselves on having no other business on their hands but to die immediately; though it is rarely found that they are in a hurry to do it. Mr Pecksniff, being a father of a more sage and practical class, appeared to think that his immediate business was to live; and having deprived himself of one comfort, to surround himself with others.
But however much inclined the good man was to be jocose and playful, and in the garden of his fancy to disport himself (if one may say so) like an architectural kitten, he had one impediment constantly opposed to him. The gentle Cherry, stung by a sense of slight and injury, which far from softening down or wearing out, rankled and festered in her heart—the gentle Cherry was in flat rebellion. She waged fierce war against her dear papa, she led her parent what is usually called, for want of a better figure of speech, the life of a dog. But never did that dog live, in kennel, stable-yard, or house, whose life was half as hard as Mr Pecksniff's with his gentle child.
The father and daughter were sitting at their breakfast. Tom had retired, and they were alone. Mr Pecksniff frowned at first; but having cleared his brow, looked stealthily at his child. Her nose was very red indeed, and screwed up tight, with hostile preparation.
“Cherry,” cried Mr Pecksniff, “what is amiss between us? My child, why are we disunited?”
Miss Pecksniff's answer was scarcely a response to this gush of affection, for it was simply, “Bother, Pa!”
“Bother!” repeated Mr Pecksniff, in a tone of anguish.
“Oh! “tis too late, Pa,” said his daughter, calmly “to talk to me like this. I know what it means, and what its value is.”
“This is hard!” cried Mr Pecksniff, addressing his breakfast-cup. “This is very hard! She is my child. I carried her in my arms when she wore shapeless worsted shoes—I might say, mufflers—many years ago!”
“You needn't taunt me with that, Pa,” retorted Cherry, with a spiteful look. “I am not so many years older than my sister, either, though she IS married to your friend!”
“Ah, human nature, human nature! Poor human nature!” said Mr Pecksniff, shaking his head at human nature, as if he didn't belong to it. “To think that this discord should arise from such a cause! oh dear, oh dear!”
“From such a cause indeed!” cried Cherry. “State the real cause, Pa, or I'll state it myself. Mind! I will!”
Perhaps the energy with which she said this was infectious. However that may be, Mr Pecksniff changed his tone and the expression of his face for one of anger, if not downright violence, when he said:
“You will! you have. You did yesterday. You do always. You have no decency; you make no secret of your temper; you have exposed yourself to Mr Chuzzlewit a hundred times.”
“Myself!” cried Cherry, with a bitter smile. “Oh indeed! I don't mind that.”
“Me, too, then,” said Mr Pecksniff.
His daughter answered with a scornful laugh.
“And since we have come to an explanation, Charity,” said Mr Pecksniff, rolling his head portentously, “let me tell you that I won't allow it. None of your nonsense, Miss! I won't permit it to be done.”
“I shall do,” said Charity, rocking her chair backwards and forwards, and raising her voice to a high pitch, “I shall do, Pa, what I please and what I have done. I am not going to be crushed in everything, depend upon it. I've been more shamefully used than anybody ever was in this world,” here she began to cry and sob, “and may expect the worse treatment from you, I know. But I don't care for that. No, I don't!”
Mr Pecksniff was made so desperate by the loud tone in which she spoke, that, after looking about him in frantic uncertainty for some means of softening it, he rose and shook her until the ornamental bow of hair upon her head nodded like a plume. She was so very much astonished by this assault, that it really had the desired effect.
“I'll do it again!” cried Mr Pecksniff, as he resumed his seat and fetched his breath, “if you dare to talk in that loud manner. How do you mean about being shamefully used? If Mr Jonas chose your sister in preference to you, who could help it, I should wish to know? What have I to do with it?”
“Wasn't I made a convenience of? Weren't my feelings trifled with? Didn't he address himself to me first?” sobbed Cherry, clasping her hands; “and oh, good gracious, that I should live to be shook!”
“You'll live to be shaken again,” returned her parent, “if you drive me to that means of maintaining the decorum of this humble roof. You surprise me. I wonder you have not more spirit. If Mr Jonas didn't care for you, how could you wish to have him?”
“I wish to have him!” exclaimed Cherry. “I wish to have him, Pa!”
“Then what are you making all this piece of work for,” retorted her father, “if you didn't wish to have him?”
“Because I was treated with duplicity,” said Cherry; “and because my own sister and my own father conspired against me. I am not angry with HER,” said Cherry; looking much more angry than ever. “I pity her. I'm sorry for her. I know the fate that's in store for her, with that Wretch.”
“Mr Jonas will survive your calling him a wretch, my child, I dare say,” said Mr Pecksniff, with returning resignation; “but call him what you like and make an end of it.”
“Not an end, Pa,” said Charity. “No, not an end. That's not the only point on which we're not agreed. I won't submit to it. It's better you should know that at once. No; I won't submit to it indeed, Pa! I am not quite a fool, and I am not blind. All I have got to say is, I won't submit to it.”
Whatever she meant, she shook Mr Pecksniff now; for his lame attempt to seem composed was melancholy in the last degree. His anger changed to meekness, and his words were mild and fawning.
“My dear,” he said; “if in the short excitement of an angry moment I resorted to an unjustifiable means of suppressing a little outbreak calculated to injure you as well as myself—it's possible I may have done so; perhaps I did—I ask your pardon. A father asking pardon of his child,” said Mr Pecksniff, “is, I believe, a spectacle to soften the most rugged nature.”
But it didn't at all soften Miss Pecksniff; perhaps because her nature was not rugged enough. On the contrary, she persisted in saying, over and over again, that she wasn't quite a fool, and wasn't blind, and wouldn't submit to it.
“You labour under some mistake, my child!” said Mr Pecksniff. “but I will not ask you what it is; I don't desire to know. No, pray!” he added, holding out his hand and colouring again, “let us avoid the subject, my dear, whatever it is!”
“It's quite right that the subject should be avoided between us, sir,” said Cherry. “But I wish to be able to avoid it altogether, and consequently must beg you to provide me with a home.”
Mr Pecksniff looked about the room, and said, “A home, my child!”
“Another home, papa,” said Cherry, with increasing stateliness “Place me at Mrs Todgers's or somewhere, on an independent footing; but I will not live here, if such is to be the case.”
It is possible that Miss Pecksniff saw in Mrs Todgers's a vision of enthusiastic men, pining to fall in adoration at her feet. It is possible that Mr Pecksniff, in his new-born juvenility, saw, in the suggestion of that same establishment, an easy means of relieving himself from an irksome charge in the way of temper and watchfulness. It is undoubtedly a fact that in the attentive ears of Mr Pecksniff, the proposition did not sound quite like the dismal knell of all his hopes.
But he was a man of great feeling and acute sensibility; and he squeezed his pocket-handkerchief against his eyes with both hands— as such men always do, especially when they are observed. “One of my birds,” Mr Pecksniff said, “has left me for the stranger's breast; the other would take wing to Todgers's! Well, well, what am I? I don't know what I am, exactly. Never mind!”
Even this remark, made more pathetic perhaps by his breaking down in the middle of it, had no effect upon Charity. She was grim, rigid, and inflexible.
“But I have ever,”
said Mr Pecksniff, “sacrificed my children's happiness to my own—I mean my own happiness to my children's—and I will not begin to regulate my life by other rules of conduct now. If you can be happier at Mrs Todgers's than in your father's house, my dear, go to Mrs Todgers's! Do not think of me, my girl!” said Mr Pecksniff with emotion; “I shall get on pretty well, no doubt.”
Miss Charity, who knew he had a secret pleasure in the contemplation of the proposed change, suppressed her own, and went on to negotiate the terms. His views upon this subject were at first so very limited that another difference, involving possibly another shaking, threatened to ensue; but by degrees they came to something like an understanding, and the storm blew over. Indeed, Miss Charity's idea was so agreeable to both, that it would have been strange if they had not come to an amicable agreement. It was soon arranged between them that the project should be tried, and that immediately; and that Cherry's not being well, and needing change of scene, and wishing to be near her sister, should form the excuse for her departure to Mr Chuzzlewit and Mary, to both of whom she had pleaded indisposition for some time past. These premises agreed on, Mr Pecksniff gave her his blessing, with all the dignity of a selfdenying man who had made a hard sacrifice, but comforted himself with the reflection that virtue is its own reward. Thus they were reconciled for the first time since that not easily forgiven night, when Mr Jonas, repudiating the elder, had confessed his passion for the younger sister, and Mr Pecksniff had abetted him on moral grounds.
But how happened it—in the name of an unexpected addition to that small family, the Seven Wonders of the World, whatever and wherever they may be, how happened it—that Mr Pecksniff and his daughter were about to part? How happened it that their mutual relations were so greatly altered? Why was Miss Pecksniff so clamorous to have it understood that she was neither blind nor foolish, and she wouldn't bear it? It is not possible that Mr Pecksniff had any thoughts of marrying again; or that his daughter, with the sharp eye of a single woman, fathomed his design!
Life And Adventures Of Martin Chuzzlewit Page 58