Mr. Pecksniff opened another door on the same floor, and shut it again, all at once, as if it were a Blue Chamber. But before he had well done so, he looked smilingly round, and said, “Why not?”
Martin couldn’t say why not, because he didn’t know anything at all about it. So Mr. Pecksniff answered himself, by throwing open the door, and saying:
“My daughters’ room. A poor first-floor to us, but a bower to them. Very neat. Very airy. Plants you observe; hyacinths; books again; birds.” These birds, by the by, comprised, in all, one staggering old sparrow without a tail, which had been borrowed expressly from the kitchen. “Such trifles as girls love are here. Nothing more. Those who seek heartless splendour, would seek here in vain.”
With that he led them to the floor above.
“This,” said Mr. Pecksniff, throwing wide the door of the memorable two-pair front; “is a room where some talent has been developed, I believe. This is a room in which an idea for a steeple occurred to me that I may one day give to the world. We work here, my dear Martin. Some architects have been bred in this room; a few, I think, Mr. Pinch?”
Tom fully assented; and, what is more, fully believed it.
“You see,” said Mr. Pecksniff, passing the candle rapidly from roll to roll of paper, “some traces of our doings here. Salisbury Cathedral from the north. From the south. From the east. From the west. From the southeast. From the nor’west. A bridge. An almshouse. A jail. A church. A powder-magazine. A wine-cellar. A portico. A summerhouse. An icehouse. Plans, elevations, sections, every kind of thing. And this,” he added, having by this time reached another large chamber on the same story, with four little beds in it, “this is your room, of which Mr. Pinch here is the quiet sharer. A southern aspect; a charming prospect; Mr. Pinch’s little library, you perceive; everything agreeable and appropriate. If there is any additional comfort you would desire to have here at anytime, pray mention it. Even to strangers, far less to you, my dear Martin, there is no restriction on that point.”
It was undoubtedly true, and may be stated in corroboration of Mr. Pecksniff, that any pupil had the most liberal permission to mention anything in this way that suggested itself to his fancy. Some young gentlemen had gone on mentioning the very same thing for five years without ever being stopped.
“The domestic assistants,” said Mr. Pecksniff, “sleep above; and that is all.” After which, and listening complacently as he went, to the encomiums passed by his young friend on the arrangements generally, he led the way to the parlour again.
Here a great change had taken place; for festive preparations on a rather extensive scale were already completed, and the two Miss Pecksniffs were awaiting their return with hospitable looks. There were two bottles of currant wine, white and red; a dish of sandwiches (very long and very slim); another of apples; another of captain’s biscuits (which are always a moist and jovial sort of viand); a plate of oranges cut up small and gritty; with powdered sugar, and a highly geological homemade cake. The magnitude of these preparations quite took away Tom Pinch’s breath; for though the new pupils were usually let down softly, as one may say, particularly in the wine department, which had so many stages of declension, that sometimes a young gentleman was a whole fortnight in getting to the pump; still this was a banquet; a sort of Lord Mayor’s feast in private life; a something to think of, and hold on by, afterwards.
To this entertainment, which apart from its own intrinsic merits, had the additional choice quality, that it was in strict keeping with the night, being both light and cool, Mr. Pecksniff besought the company to do full justice.
“Martin,” he said, “will seat himself between you two, my dears, and Mr. Pinch will come by me. Let us drink to our new inmate, and may we be happy together! Martin, my dear friend, my love to you! Mr. Pinch, if you spare the bottle we shall quarrel.”
And trying (in his regard for the feelings of the rest) to look as if the wine were not acid and didn’t make him wink, Mr. Pecksniff did honour to his own toast.
“This,” he said, in allusion to the party, not the wine, “is a mingling that repays one for much disappointment and vexation. Let us be merry.” Here he took a captain’s biscuit. “It is a poor heart that never rejoices; and our hearts are not poor. No!”
With such stimulants to merriment did he beguile the time, and do the honours of the table; while Mr. Pinch, perhaps to assure himself that what he saw and heard was holiday reality, and not a charming dream, ate of everything, and in particular disposed of the slim sandwiches to a surprising extent. Nor was he stinted in his draughts of wine; but on the contrary, remembering Mr. Pecksniff’s speech, attacked the bottle with such vigour, that every time he filled his glass anew, Miss Charity, despite her amiable resolves, could not repress a fixed and stony glare, as if her eyes had rested on a ghost. Mr. Pecksniff also became thoughtful at those moments, not to say dejected; but as he knew the vintage, it is very likely he may have been speculating on the probable condition of Mr. Pinch upon the morrow, and discussing within himself the best remedies for colic.
Martin and the young ladies were excellent friends already, and compared recollections of their childish days, to their mutual liveliness and entertainment. Miss Mercy laughed immensely at everything that was said; and sometimes, after glancing at the happy face of Mr. Pinch, was seized with such fits of mirth as brought her to the very confines of hysterics. But for these bursts of gaiety her sister, in her better
