Martin Chuzzlewit

return. So bountiful were Mr. Mould’s possessions, and so large his stock in trade, that even there, within his household sanctuary, stood a cumbrous press, whose mahogany maw was filled with shrouds, and winding-sheets, and other furniture of funerals. But, though the Misses Mould had been brought up, as one may say, beneath his eye, it had cast no shadow on their timid infancy or blooming youth. Sporting behind the scenes of death and burial from cradlehood, the Misses Mould knew better. Hatbands, to them, were but so many yards of silk or crape; the final robe but such a quantity of linen. The Misses Mould could idealise a player’s habit, or a court-lady’s petticoat, or even an act of parliament. But they were not to be taken in by palls. They made them sometimes.

The premises of Mr. Mould were hard of hearing to the boisterous noises in the great main streets, and nestled in a quiet corner, where the City strife became a drowsy hum, that sometimes rose and sometimes fell and sometimes altogether ceased; suggesting to a thoughtful mind a stoppage in Cheapside. The light came sparkling in among the scarlet runners, as if the churchyard winked at Mr. Mould, and said, “We understand each other;” and from the distant shop a pleasant sound arose of coffin-making with a low melodious hammer, rat, tat, tat, tat, alike promoting slumber and digestion.

“Quite the buzz of insects,” said Mr. Mould, closing his eyes in a perfect luxury. “It puts one in mind of the sound of animated nature in the agricultural districts. It’s exactly like the woodpecker tapping.”

“The woodpecker tapping the hollow elm tree,” observed Mrs. Mould, adapting the words of the popular melody to the description of wood commonly used in the trade.

“Ha, ha!” laughed Mr. Mould. “Not at all bad, my dear. We shall be glad to hear from you again, Mrs. M. Hollow elm tree, eh! Ha, ha! Very good indeed. I’ve seen worse than that in the Sunday papers, my love.”

Mrs. Mould, thus encouraged, took a little more of the punch, and handed it to her daughters, who dutifully followed the example of their mother.

“Hollow elm tree, eh?” said Mr. Mould, making a slight motion with his legs in his enjoyment of the joke. “It’s beech in the song. Elm, eh? Yes, to be sure. Ha, ha, ha! Upon my soul, that’s one of the best things I know!” He was so excessively tickled by the jest that he couldn’t forget it, but repeated twenty times, “Elm, eh? Yes, to be sure. Elm, of course. Ha, ha, ha! Upon my life, you know, that ought to be sent to somebody who could make use of it. It’s one of the smartest things that ever was said. Hollow elm tree, eh? Osf course. Very hollow. Ha, ha, ha!”

Here a knock was heard at the room door.

“That’s Tacker, I know,” said Mrs. Mould, “by the wheezing he makes. Who that hears him now, would suppose he’d ever had wind enough to carry the feathers on his head! Come in, Tacker.”

“Beg your pardon, ma’am,” said Tacker, looking in a little way. “I thought our Governor was here.”

“Well! so he is,” cried Mould.

“Oh! I didn’t see you, I’m sure,” said Tacker, looking in a little farther. “You wouldn’t be inclined to take a walking one of two, with the plain wood and a tin plate, I suppose?”

“Certainly not,” replied Mr. Mould, “much too common. Nothing to say to it.”

“I told ’em it was precious low,” observed Mr. Tacker.

“Tell ’em to go somewhere else. We don’t do that style of business here,” said Mr. Mould. “Like their impudence to propose it. Who is it?”

“Why,” returned Tacker, pausing, “that’s where it is, you see. It’s the beadle’s son-in-law.”

“The beadle’s son-in-law, eh?” said Mould. “Well! I’ll do it if the beadle follows in his cocked hat; not else. We carry it off that way, by looking official, but it’ll be low enough, then. His cocked hat, mind!”

“I’ll take care, sir,” rejoined Tacker. “Oh! Mrs. Gamp’s below, and wants to speak to you.”

“Tell Mrs. Gamp to come upstairs,” said Mould. “Now Mrs. Gamp, what’s your news?”

The lady in question was by this time in the doorway, curtseying to Mrs. Mould. At the same moment a peculiar fragrance was borne upon the breeze, as if a passing fairy had hiccuped, and had previously been to a wine-vaults.

Mrs. Gamp made no response to Mr. Mould, but curtseyed to Mrs. Mould again, and held up her hands and eyes, as in a devout thanksgiving that she looked so well. She was neatly, but not gaudily attired, in the weeds she had worn when Mr. Pecksniff had the pleasure of making her acquaintance; and was perhaps the turning of a scale more snuffy.

“There are some happy creeturs,” Mrs. Gamp observed, “as time runs back’ards with, and you are one, Mrs. Mould; not that he need do nothing except use you in his most owldacious way for years to come, I’m sure; for young you are and will be. I says to Mrs. Harris,” Mrs. Gamp continued, “only t’other day; the last Monday evening fortnight as ever dawned upon this Piljian’s Projiss of a mortal wale; I says to Mrs. Harris when she says to me, ‘Years and our trials, Mrs. Gamp, sets marks upon us all.’⁠—‘Say not the words, Mrs. Harris, if you and me is to be continual friends, for sech is not the case. Mrs. Mould,’ I says, making so free, I will confess, as use the name,” (she curtseyed here), “ ‘is one of them that goes agen the obserwation straight; and never, Mrs. Harris, whilst I’ve a drop of breath to draw, will I set by, and not stand up, don’t think it.’⁠—‘I ast your pardon, ma’am,’ says Mrs. Harris, ‘and I humbly grant your grace; for if ever a woman lived as would see her feller creeturs into fits to serve her friends, well do I know that woman’s name is Sairey Gamp.’ ”

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