“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 their 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
