Chapter Twenty-Four

Martin Chuzzlewit

by Charles Dickens

REPORTS PROGRESS IN CERTAIN HOMELY MATTERS OF LOVE, HATRED,
JEALOUSY, AND REVENGE

'Hallo, Pecksniff!' cried Mr Jonas from the parlour. 'Isn't
somebody a-going to open that precious old door of yours?'

'Immediately, Mr Jonas. Immediately.'

'Ecod,' muttered the orphan, 'not before it's time neither.
Whoever it is, has knocked three times, and each one loud enough to
wake the--' he had such a repugnance to the idea of waking the Dead,
that he stopped even then with the words upon his tongue, and said,
instead, 'the Seven Sleepers.'

'Immediately, Mr Jonas; immediately,' repeated Pecksniff.
'Thomas Pinch'--he couldn't make up his mind, in his great agitation,
whether to call Tom his dear friend or a villain, so he shook his
fist at him pro tem--'go up to my daughters' room, and tell them who
is here. Say, Silence. Silence! Do you hear me, sir?

'Directly, sir!" cried Tom, departing, in a state of much
amazement, on his errand.

'You'll--ha, ha, ha!--you'll excuse me, Mr Jonas, if I close
this door a moment, will you?' said Pecksniff. 'This may be a
professional call. Indeed I am pretty sure it is. Thank you.' Then
Mr Pecksniff, gently warbling a rustic stave, put on his garden hat,
seized a spade, and opened the street door; calmly appearing on the
threshold, as if he thought he had, from his vineyard, heard a modest
rap, but was not quite certain.

Seeing a gentleman and lady before him, he started back in as
much confusion as a good man with a crystal conscience might betray
in mere surprise. Recognition came upon him the next moment, and he
cried:

'Mr Chuzzlewit! Can I believe my eyes! My dear sir; my good
sir! A joyful hour, a happy hour indeed. Pray, my dear sir, walk
in. You find me in my garden-dress. You will excuse it, I know. It
is an ancient pursuit, gardening. Primitive, my dear sir. Or, if I
am not mistaken, Adam was the first of our calling. My Eve, I grieve
to say is no more, sir; but'--here he pointed to his spade, and shook
his head as if he were not cheerful without an effort--'but I do a
little bit of Adam still.'

He had by this time got them into the best parlour, where the
portrait by Spiller, and the bust by Spoker, were.

'My daughters,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'will be overjoyed. If I
could feel weary upon such a theme, I should have been worn out long
ago, my dear sir, by their constant anticipation of this happiness
and their repeated allusions to our meeting at Mrs Todgers's. Their
fair young friend, too,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'whom they so desire to
know and love--indeed to know her, is to love--I hope I see her well.
I hope in saying, "Welcome to my humble roof!" I find some echo in
her own sentiments. If features are an index to the heart, I have no
fears of that. An extremely engaging expression of countenance, Mr
Chuzzlewit, my dear sir--very much so!'

'Mary,' said the old man, 'Mr Pecksniff flatters you. But
flattery from him is worth the having. He is not a dealer in it, and
it comes from his heart. We thought Mr--'

'Pinch,' said Mary.

'Mr Pinch would have arrived before us, Pecksniff.'

'He did arrive before you, my dear sir,' retorted Pecksniff,
raising his voice for the edification of Tom upon the stairs, 'and
was about, I dare say, to tell me of your coming, when I begged him
first to knock at my daughters' chamber, and inquire after Charity,
my dear child, who is not so well as I could wish. No,' said Mr
Pecksniff, answering their looks, 'I am sorry to say, she is not. It
is merely an hysterical affection; nothing more, I am not uneasy. Mr
Pinch! Thomas!' exclaimed Pecksniff, in his kindest accents. 'Pray
come in. I shall make no stranger of you. Thomas is a friend of
mine, of rather long-standing, Mr Chuzzlewit, you must know.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Tom. 'You introduce me very kindly, and
speak of me in terms of which I am very proud'

'Old Thomas!' cried his master, pleasantly 'God bless you!'

Tom reported that the young ladies would appear directly, and
that the best refreshments which the house afforded were even then in
preparation, under their joint superintendence. While he was
speaking, the old man looked at him intently, though with less
harshness than was common to him; nor did the mutual embarrassment of
Tom and the young lady, to whatever cause he attributed it, seem to
escape his observation.

'Pecksniff,' he said after a pause, rising and taking him aside
towards the window, 'I was much shocked on hearing of my brother's
death. We had been strangers for many years. My only comfort is
that he must have lived the happier and better man for having
associated no hopes or schemes with me. Peace to his memory! We
were play-fellows once; and it would have been better for us both if
we had died then.'

Finding him in this gentle mood, Mr Pecksniff began to see
another way out of his difficulties, besides the casting overboard of
Jonas.

'That any man, my dear sir, could possibly be the happier for
not knowing you,' he returned, 'you will excuse my doubting. But
that Mr Anthony, in the evening of his life, was happier in the
affection of his excellent son--a pattern, my dear sir, a pattern to
all sons --and in the care of a distant relation who, however lowly
in his means of serving him, had no bounds to his inclination; I can
inform you.'

'How's this?' said the old man. 'You are not a legatee?'

'You don't,' said Mr Pecksniff, with a melancholy pressure of
his hand, 'quite understand my nature yet, I find. No, sir, I am not
a legatee. I am proud to say I am not a legatee. I am proud to say
that neither of my children is a legatee. And yet, sir, I was with
him at his own request. He understood me somewhat better, sir. He
wrote and said, "I am sick. I am sinking. Come to me!" I went to
him. I sat beside his bed, sir, and I stood beside his grave. Yes,
at the risk of offending even you, I did it, sir. Though the avowal
should lead to our instant separation, and to the severing of those
tender ties between us which have recently been formed, I make it.
But I am not a legatee,' said Mr Pecksniff, smiling dispassionately;
'and I never expected to be a legatee. I knew better!'

'His son a pattern!' cried old Martin. 'How can you tell me
that? My brother had in his wealth the usual doom of wealth, and root
of misery. He carried his corrupting influence with him, go where he
would; and shed it round him, even on his hearth. It made of his own
child a greedy expectant, who measured every day and hour the
lessening distance between his father and the grave, and cursed his
tardy progress on that dismal road.'

'No!' cried Mr Pecksniff, boldly. 'Not at all, sir!'

'But I saw that shadow in his house,' said Martin Chuzzlewit,
'the last time we met, and warned him of its presence. I know it
when I see it, do I not? I, who have lived within it all these
years!'

'I deny it,' Mr Pecksniff answered, warmly. 'I deny it
altogether. That bereaved young man is now in this house, sir,
seeking in change of scene the peace of mind he has lost. Shall I be
backward in doing justice to that young man, when even undertakers
and coffin-makers have been moved by the conduct he has exhibited;
when even mutes have spoken in his praise, and the medical man hasn't
known what to do with himself in the excitement of his feelings!
There is a person of the name of Gamp, sir--Mrs Gamp--ask her. She
saw Mr Jonas in a trying time. Ask her, sir. She is respectable,
but not sentimental, and will state the fact. A line addressed to
Mrs Gamp, at the BirdShop, Kingsgate Street, High Holborn, London,
will meet with every attention, I have no doubt. Let her be
examined, my good sir. Strike, but hear! Leap, Mr Chuzzlewit, but
look! Forgive me, my dear sir,' said Mr Pecksniff, taking both his
hands, 'if I am warm; but I am honest, and must state the truth.'

In proof of the character he gave himself, Mr Pecksniff suffered
tears of honesty to ooze out of his eyes.

The old man gazed at him for a moment with a look of wonder,
repeating to himself, 'Here now! In this house!' But he mastered
his surprise, and said, after a pause:

'Let me see him.'

'In a friendly spirit, I hope?' said Mr Pecksniff. 'Forgive me,
sir but he is in the receipt of my humble hospitality.'

'I said,' replied the old man, 'let me see him. If I were
disposed to regard him in any other than a friendly spirit, I should
have said keep us apart.'

'Certainly, my dear sir. So you would. You are frankness
itself, I know. I will break this happiness to him,' said Mr
Pecksniff, as he left the room, 'if you will excuse me for a
minute--gently.'

He paved the way to the disclosure so very gently, that a
quarter of an hour elapsed before he returned with Mr Jonas. In the
meantime the young ladies had made their appearance, and the table
had been set out for the refreshment of the travellers.

Now, however well Mr Pecksniff, in his morality, had taught
Jonas the lesson of dutiful behaviour to his uncle, and however
perfectly Jonas, in the cunning of his nature, had learnt it, that
young man's bearing, when presented to his father's brother, was
anything but manly or engaging. Perhaps, indeed, so singular a
mixture of defiance and obsequiousness, of fear and hardihood, of
dogged sullenness and an attempt at enraging and propitiation, never
was expressed in any one human figure as in that of Jonas, when,
having raised his downcast eyes to Martin's face, he let them fall
again, and uneasily closing and unclosing his hands without a
moment's intermission, stood swinging himself from side to side,
waiting to be addressed.

'Nephew,' said the old man. 'You have been a dutiful son, I
hear.'

'As dutiful as sons in general, I suppose,' returned Jonas,
looking up and down once more. 'I don't brag to have been any better
than other sons; but I haven't been any worse, I dare say.'

'A pattern to all sons, I am told,' said the old man, glancing
towards Mr Pecksniff.

'Ecod!' said Jonas, looking up again for a moment, and shaking
his head, 'I've been as good a son as ever you were a brother. It's
the pot and the kettle, if you come to that.'

'You speak bitterly, in the violence of your regret,' said
Martin, after a pause. 'Give me your hand.'

Jonas did so, and was almost at his ease. 'Pecksniff,' he
whispered, as they drew their chairs about the table; 'I gave him as
good as he brought, eh? He had better look at home, before he looks
out of window, I think?'

Mr Pecksniff only answered by a nudge of the elbow, which might
either be construed into an indignant remonstrance or a cordial
assent; but which, in any case, was an emphatic admonition to his
chosen son-in-law to be silent. He then proceeded to do the honours
of the house with his accustomed ease and amiability.

But not even Mr Pecksniff's guileless merriment could set such a
party at their ease, or reconcile materials so utterly discordant and
conflicting as those with which he had to deal. The unspeakable
jealously and hatred which that night's explanation had sown in
Charity's breast, was not to be so easily kept down; and more than
once it showed itself in such intensity, as seemed to render a full
disclosure of all the circumstances then and there, impossible to be
avoided. The beauteous Merry, too, with all the glory of her
conquest fresh upon her, so probed and lanced the rankling
disappointment of her sister by her capricious airs and thousand
little trials of Mr Jonas's obedience, that she almost goaded her
into a fit of madness, and obliged her to retire from table in a
burst of passion, hardly less vehement than that to which she had
abandoned herself in the first tumult of her wrath. The constraint
imposed upon the family by the presence among them for the first time
of Mary Graham (for by that name old Martin Chuzzlewit had introduced
her) did not at all improve this state of things; gentle and quiet
though her manner was. Mr Pecksniff's situation was peculiarly
trying; for, what with having constantly to keep the peace between
his daughters; to maintain a reasonable show of affection and unity
in his household; to curb the growing ease and gaiety of Jonas, which
vented itself in sundry insolences towards Mr Pinch, and an
indefinable coarseness of manner in reference to Mary (they being the
two dependants); to make no mention at all of his having perpetually
to conciliate his rich old relative, and to smooth down, or explain
away, some of the ten thousand bad appearances and combinations of
bad appearances, by which they were surrounded on that unlucky
evening--what with having to do this, and it would be difficult to
sum up how much more, without the least relief or assistance from
anybody, it may be easily imagined that Mr Pecksniff had in his
enjoyment something more than that usual portion of alloy which is
mixed up with the best of men's delights. Perhaps he had never in his
life felt such relief as when old Martin, looking at his watch,
announced that it was time to go.

'We have rooms,' he said, 'at the Dragon, for the present. I
have a fancy for the evening walk. The nights are dark just now;
perhaps Mr Pinch would not object to light us home?'

'My dear sir!' cried Pecksniff, 'I shall be delighted. Merry,
my child, the lantern.'

'The lantern, if you please, my dear,' said Martin; 'but I
couldn't think of taking your father out of doors to-night; and, to
be brief, I won't.'

Mr Pecksniff already had his hat in his hand, but it was so
emphatically said that he paused.

'I take Mr Pinch, or go alone,' said Martin. 'Which shall it
be?'

'It shall be Thomas, sir,' cried Pecksniff, 'since you are so
resolute upon it. Thomas, my friend, be very careful, if you
please.'

Tom was in some need of this injunction, for he felt so nervous,
and trembled to such a degree, that he found it difficult to hold the
lantern. How much more difficult when, at the old man's bidding she
drew her hand through his--Tom Pinch's--arm!

'And so, Mr Pinch,' said Martin, on the way, 'you are very
comfortably situated here; are you?'

Tom answered, with even more than his usual enthusiasm, that he
was under obligations to Mr Pecksniff which the devotion of a
lifetime would but imperfectly repay.

'How long have you known my nephew?' asked Martin.

'Your nephew, sir?' faltered Tom.

'Mr Jonas Chuzzlewit,' said Mary.

'Oh dear, yes,' cried Tom, greatly relieved, for his mind was
running upon Martin. 'Certainly. I never spoke to him before to-
night, sir!'

'Perhaps half a lifetime will suffice for the acknowledgment of
his kindness,' observed the old man.

Tom felt that this was a rebuff for him, and could not but
understand it as a left-handed hit at his employer. So he was
silent. Mary felt that Mr Pinch was not remarkable for presence of
mind, and that he could not say too little under existing
circumstances. So she was silent. The old man, disgusted by what in
his suspicious nature he considered a shameless and fulsome puff of
Mr Pecksniff, which was a part of Tom's hired service and in which he
was determined to persevere, set him down at once for a deceitful,
servile, miserable fawner. So he was silent. And though they were
all sufficiently uncomfortable, it is fair to say that Martin was
perhaps the most so; for he had felt kindly towards Tom at first, and
had been interested by his seeming simplicity.

'You're like the rest,' he thought, glancing at the face of the
unconscious Tom. 'You had nearly imposed upon me, but you have lost
your labour. You are too zealous a toad-eater, and betray yourself,
Mr Pinch.'

During the whole remainder of the walk, not another word was
spoken. First among the meetings to which Tom had long looked forward
with a beating heart, it was memorable for nothing but embarrassment
and confusion. They parted at the Dragon door; and sighing as he
extinguished the candle in the lantern, Tom turned back again over
the gloomy fields.

As he approached the first stile, which was in a lonely part,
made very dark by a plantation of young firs, a man slipped past him
and went on before. Coming to the stile he stopped, and took his
seat upon it. Tom was rather startled, and for a moment stood still,
but he stepped forward again immediately, and went close up to
him.

It was Jonas; swinging his legs to and fro, sucking the head of
a stick, and looking with a sneer at Tom.

'Good gracious me!' cried Tom, 'who would have thought of its
being you! You followed us, then?'

'What's that to you?' said Jonas. 'Go to the devil!'

'You are not very civil, I think,' remarked Tom.

'Civil enough for you,' retorted Jonas. 'Who are you?'

'One who has as good a right to common consideration as
another,' said Tom mildly.

'You're a liar,' said Jonas. 'You haven't a right to any
consideration. You haven't a right to anything. You're a pretty
sort of fellow to talk about your rights, upon my soul! Ha, ha!--
Rights, too!'

'If you proceed in this way,' returned Tom, reddening, 'you will
oblige me to talk about my wrongs. But I hope your joke is over.'

'It's the way with you curs,' said Mr Jonas, 'that when you know
a man's in real earnest, you pretend to think he's joking, so that
you may turn it off. But that won't do with me. It's too stale.
Now just attend to me for a bit, Mr Pitch, or Witch, or Stitch, or
whatever your name is.'

'My name is Pinch,' observed Tom. 'Have the goodness to call me
by it.'

'What! You mustn't even be called out of your name, mustn't
you!' cried Jonas. 'Pauper' prentices are looking up, I think.
Ecod, we manage 'em a little better in the city!'

'Never mind what you do in the city,' said Tom. 'What have you
got to say to me?'

'Just this, Mister Pinch,' retorted Jonas, thrusting his face so
close to Tom's that Tom was obliged to retreat a step. 'I advise you
to keep your own counsel, and to avoid title-tattle, and not to cut
in where you're not wanted. I've heard something of you, my friend,
and your meek ways; and I recommend you to forget 'em till I am
married to one of Pecksniff's gals, and not to curry favour among my
relations, but to leave the course clear. You know, when curs won't
leave the course clear, they're whipped off; so this is kind advice.
Do you understand? Eh? Damme, who are you,' cried Jonas, with
increased contempt, 'that you should walk home with them, unless it
was behind 'em, like any other servant out of livery?'

'Come!' cried Tom, 'I see that you had better get off the stile,
and let me pursue my way home. Make room for me, if you please.'

'Don't think it!' said Jonas, spreading out his legs. 'Not till
I choose. And I don't choose now. What! You're afraid of my making
you split upon some of your babbling just now, are you, Sneak?'

'I am not afraid of many things, I hope,' said Tom; 'and
certainly not of anything that you will do. I am not a tale-bearer,
and I despise all meanness. You quite mistake me. Ah!' cried Tom,
indignantly. 'Is this manly from one in your position to one in
mine? Please to make room for me to pass. The less I say, the
better.'

'The less you say!' retorted Jonas, dangling his legs the more,
and taking no heed of this request. 'You say very little, don't you?
Ecod, I should like to know what goes on between you and a vagabond
member of my family. There's very little in that too, I dare
say!'

'I know no vagabond member of your family,' cried Tom,
stoutly,

'You do!' said Jonas.

'I don't,' said Tom. 'Your uncle's namesake, if you mean him,
is no vagabond. Any comparison between you and him'--Tom snapped his
fingers at him, for he was rising fast in wrath--'is immeasurably to
your disadvantage.'

'Oh indeed!' sneered Jonas. 'And what do you think of his
deary-- his beggarly leavings, eh, Mister Pinch?'

'I don't mean to say another word, or stay here another
instant,' replied Tom.

'As I told you before, you're a liar,' said Jonas, coolly.
'You'll stay here till I give you leave to go. Now, keep where you
are, will you?'

He flourished his stick over Tom's head; but in a moment it was
spinning harmlessly in the air, and Jonas himself lay sprawling in
the ditch. In the momentary struggle for the stick, Tom had brought
it into violent contact with his opponent's forehead; and the blood
welled out profusely from a deep cut on the temple. Tom was first
apprised of this by seeing that he pressed his handkerchief to the
wounded part, and staggered as he rose, being stunned.

'Are you hurt?' said Tom. 'I am very sorry. Lean on me for a
moment. You can do that without forgiving me, if you still bear me
malice. But I don't know why; for I never offended you before we met
on this spot.'

He made him no answer; not appearing at first to understand him,
or even to know that he was hurt, though he several times took his
handkerchief from the cut to look vacantly at the blood upon it.
After one of these examinations, he looked at Tom, and then there was
an expression in his features, which showed that he understood what
had taken place, and would remember it.

Nothing more passed between them as they went home. Jonas kept
a little in advance, and Tom Pinch sadly followed, thinking of the
grief which the knowledge of this quarrel must occasion his excellent
benefactor. When Jonas knocked at the door, Tom's heart beat high;
higher when Miss Mercy answered it, and seeing her wounded lover,
shireked aloud; higher, when he followed them into the family
parlour; higher than at any other time, when Jonas spoke.

'Don't make a noise about it,' he said. 'It's nothing worth
mentioning. I didn't know the road; the night's very dark; and just
as I came up with Mr Pinch'--he turned his face towards Tom, but not
his eyes--'I ran against a tree. It's only skin deep.'

'Cold water, Merry, my child!' cried Mr Pecksniff. 'Brown
paper! Scissors! A piece of old linen! Charity, my dear, make a
bandage. Bless me, Mr Jonas!'

'Oh, bother your nonsense,' returned the gracious son-in-law
elect. 'Be of some use if you can. If you can't, get out!'

Miss Charity, though called upon to lend her aid, sat upright in
one corner, with a smile upon her face, and didn't move a finger.
Though Mercy laved the wound herself; and Mr Pecksniff held the
patient's head between his two hands, as if without that assistance
it must inevitably come in half; and Tom Pinch, in his guilty
agitation, shook a bottle of Dutch Drops until they were nothing but
English Froth, and in his other hand sustained a formidable carving-
knife, really intended to reduce the swelling, but apparently
designed for the ruthless infliction of another wound as soon as that
was dressed; Charity rendered not the least assistance, nor uttered a
word. But when Mr Jonas's head was bound up, and he had gone to bed,
and everybody else had retired, and the house was quiet, Mr Pinch, as
he sat mournfully on his bedstead, ruminating, heard a gentle tap at
his door; and opening it, saw her, to his great astonishment,
standing before him with her finger on her lip.

'Mr Pinch,' she whispered. 'Dear Mr Pinch! Tell me the truth!
You did that? There was some quarrel between you, and you struck
him? I am sure of it!'

It was the first time she had ever spoken kindly to Tom, in all
the many years they had passed together. He was stupefied with
amazement.

'Was it so, or not?' she eagerly demanded.

'I was very much provoked,' said Tom.

'Then it was?' cried Charity, with sparkling eyes.

'Ye-yes. We had a struggle for the path,' said Tom. 'But I
didn't mean to hurt him so much.'

'Not so much!' she repeated, clenching her hand and stamping her
foot, to Tom's great wonder. 'Don't say that. It was brave of you.
I honour you for it. If you should ever quarrel again, don't spare
him for the world, but beat him down and set your shoe upon him. Not
a word of this to anybody. Dear Mr Pinch, I am your friend from
tonight. I am always your friend from this time.'

She turned her flushed face upon Tom to confirm her words by its
kindling expression; and seizing his right hand, pressed it to her
breast, and kissed it. And there was nothing personal in this to
render it at all embarrassing, for even Tom, whose power of
observation was by no means remarkable, knew from the energy with
which she did it that she would have fondled any hand, no matter how
bedaubed or dyed, that had broken the head of Jonas Chuzzlewit.

Tom went into his room, and went to bed, full of uncomfortable
thoughts. That there should be any such tremendous division in the
family as he knew must have taken place to convert Charity Pecksniff
into his friend, for any reason, but, above all, for that which was
clearly the real one; that Jonas, who had assailed him with such
exceeding coarseness, should have been sufficiently magnanimous to
keep the secret of their quarrel; and that any train of circumstances
should have led to the commission of an assault and battery by Thomas
Pinch upon any man calling himself the friend of Seth Pecksniff; were
matters of such deep and painful cogitation that he could not close
his eyes. His own violence, in particular, so preyed upon the
generous mind of Tom, that coupling it with the many former occasions
on which he had given Mr Pecksniff pain and anxiety (occasions of
which that gentleman often reminded him), he really began to regard
himself as destined by a mysterious fate to be the evil genius and
bad angel of his patron. But he fell asleep at last, and
dreamed--new source of waking uneasiness--that he had betrayed his
trust, and run away with Mary Graham.

It must be acknowledged that, asleep or awake, Tom's position in
reference to this young lady was full of uneasiness. The more he saw
of her, the more he admired her beauty, her intelligence, the amiable
qualities that even won on the divided house of Pecksniff, and in a
few days restored, at all events, the semblance of harmony and
kindness between the angry sisters. When she spoke, Tom held his
breath, so eagerly he listened; when she sang, he sat like one
entranced. She touched his organ, and from that bright epoch even
it, the old companion of his happiest hours, incapable as he had
thought of elevation, began a new and deified existence.

God's love upon thy patience, Tom! Who, that had beheld thee,
for three summer weeks, poring through half the deadlong night over
the jingling anatomy of that inscrutable old harpsichord in the back
parlour, could have missed the entrance to thy secret heart: albeit
it was dimly known to thee? Who that had seen the glow upon thy
cheek when leaning down to listen, after hours of labour, for the
sound of one incorrigible note, thou foundest that it had a voice at
last, and wheezed out a flat something, distantly akin to what it
ought to be, would not have known that it was destined for no common
touch, but one that smote, though gently as an angel's hand, upon the
deepest chord within thee! And if a friendly glance--aye, even
though it were as guileless as thine own, Dear Tom--could have but
pierced the twilight of that evening, when, in a voice well tempered
to the time, sad, sweet, and low, yet hopeful, she first sang to the
altered instrument, and wondered at the change; and thou, sitting
apart at the open window, kept a glad silence and a swelling heart--
must not that glance have read perforce the dawning of a story, Tom,
that it were well for thee had never been begun!

Tom Pinch's situation was not made the less dangerous or
difficult by the fact of no one word passing between them in
reference to Martin. Honourably mindful of his promise, Tom gave her
opportunities of all kinds. Early and late he was in the church; in
her favourite walks; in the village, in the garden, in the meadows;
and in any or all of these places he might have spoken freely. But
no; at all such times she carefully avoided him, or never came in his
way unaccompanied. It could not be that she disliked or distrusted
him, for by a thousand little delicate means, too slight for any
notice but his own, she singled him out when others were present, and
showed herself the very soul of kindness. Could it be that she had
broken with Martin, or had never returned his affection, save in his
own bold and heightened fancy? Tom's cheek grew red with
self-reproach as he dismissed the thought.

All this time old Martin came and went in his own strange
manner, or sat among the rest absorbed within himself, and holding
little intercourse with any one. Although he was unsocial, he was
not willful in other things, or troublesome, or morose; being never
better pleased than when they left him quite unnoticed at his book,
and pursued their own amusements in his presence, unreserved. It was
impossible to discern in whom he took an interest, or whether he had
an interest in any of them. Unless they spoke to him directly, he
never showed that he had ears or eyes for anything that passed.

One day the lively Merry, sitting with downcast eyes under a
shady tree in the churchyard, whither she had retired after fatiguing
herself by the imposition of sundry trials on the temper of Mr Jonas,
felt that a new shadow came between her and the sun. Raising her
eyes in the expectation of seeing her betrothed, she was not a little
surprised to see old Martin instead. Her surprise was not diminished
when he took his seat upon the turf beside her, and opened a
conversation thus:

'When are you to be married?'

'Oh! dear Mr Chuzzlewit, my goodness me! I'm sure I don't know.
Not yet awhile, I hope.'

'You hope?' said the old man.

It was very gravely said, but she took it for banter, and
giggled excessively.

'Come!' said the old man, with unusual kindness, 'you are young,
good-looking, and I think good-natured! Frivolous you are, and love
to be, undoubtedly; but you must have some heart.'

'I have not given it all away, I can tell you,' said Merry,
nodding her head shrewdly, and plucking up the grass.

'Have you parted with any of it?'

She threw the grass about, and looked another way, but said
nothing.

Martin repeated his question.

'Lor, my dear Mr Chuzzlewit! really you must excuse me! How
very odd you are.'

'If it be odd in me to desire to know whether you love the young
man whom I understand you are to marry, I am very odd,' said Martin.
'For that is certainly my wish.'

'He's such a monster, you know,' said Merry, pouting.

'Then you don't love him?' returned the old man. 'Is that your
meaning?'

'Why, my dear Mr Chuzzlewit, I'm sure I tell him a hundred times
a day that I hate him. You must have heard me tell him that.'

'Often,' said Martin.

'And so I do,' cried Merry. 'I do positively.'

'Being at the same time engaged to marry him,' observed the old
man.

'Oh yes,' said Merry. 'But I told the wretch--my dear Mr
Chuzzlewit, I told him when he asked me--that if I ever did marry
him, it should only be that I might hate and tease him all my
life.'

She had a suspicion that the old man regarded Jonas with
anything but favour, and intended these remarks to be extremely
captivating. He did not appear, however, to regard them in that light
by any means; for when he spoke again, it was in a tone of
severity.

'Look about you,' he said, pointing to the graves; 'and remember
that from your bridal hour to the day which sees you brought as low
as these, and laid in such a bed, there will be no appeal against
him. Think, and speak, and act, for once, like an accountable
creature. Is any control put upon your inclinations? Are you forced
into this match? Are you insidiously advised or tempted to contract
it, by any one? I will not ask by whom; by any one?'

'No,' said Merry, shrugging her shoulders. 'I don't know that I
am.'

'Don't know that you are! Are you?'

'No,' replied Merry. 'Nobody ever said anything to me about it.
If any one had tried to make me have him, I wouldn't have had him at
all.'

'I am told that he was at first supposed to be your sister's
admirer,' said Martin.

'Oh, good gracious! My dear Mr Chuzzlewit, it would be very
hard to make him, though he is a monster, accountable for other
people's vanity,' said Merry. 'And poor dear Cherry is the vainest
darling!'

'It was her mistake, then?'

'I hope it was,' cried Merry; 'but, all along, the dear child
has been so dreadfully jealous, and so cross, that, upon my word and
honour, it's impossible to please her, and it's of no use trying.'

'Not forced, persuaded, or controlled,' said Martin,
thoughtfully. 'And that's true, I see. There is one chance yet. You
may have lapsed into this engagement in very giddiness. It may have
been the wanton act of a light head. Is that so?'

'My dear Mr Chuzzlewit,' simpered Merry, 'as to
light-headedness, there never was such a feather of a head as mine.
It's perfect balloon, I declare! You never did, you know!'

He waited quietly till she had finished, and then said, steadily
and slowly, and in a softened voice, as if he would still invite her
confidence:

'Have you any wish--or is there anything within your breast that
whispers you may form the wish, if you have time to think--to be
released from this engagement?'

Again Miss Merry pouted, and looked down, and plucked the grass,
and shrugged her shoulders. No. She didn't know that she had. She
was pretty sure she hadn't. Quite sure, she might say. She 'didn't
mind it.'

'Has it ever occurred to you,' said Martin, 'that your married
life may perhaps be miserable, full of bitterness, and most
unhappy?'

Merry looked down again; and now she tore the grass up by the
roots.

'My dear Mr Chuzzlewit, what shocking words! Of course, I shall
quarrel with him. I should quarrel with any husband. Married people
always quarrel, I believe. But as to being miserable, and bitter,
and all those dreadful things, you know, why I couldn't be absolutely
that, unless he always had the best of it; and I mean to have the
best of it myself. I always do now,' cried Merry, nodding her head
and giggling very much; 'for I make a perfect slave of the
creature.'

'Let it go on,' said Martin, rising. 'Let it go on! I sought
to know your mind, my dear, and you have shown it me. I wish you
joy. Joy!' he repeated, looking full upon her, and pointing to the
wicket-gate where Jonas entered at the moment. And then, without
waiting for his nephew, he passed out at another gate, and went
away.

'Oh, you terrible old man!' cried the facetious Merry to
herself. 'What a perfectly hideous monster to be wandering about
churchyards in the broad daylight, frightening people out of their
wits! Don't come here, Griffin, or I'll go away directly.'

Mr Jonas was the Griffin. He sat down upon the grass at her
side, in spite of this warning, and sulkily inquired:

'What's my uncle been a-talking about?'

'About you,' rejoined Merry. 'He says you're not half good
enough for me.'

'Oh, yes, I dare say! We all know that. He means to give you
some present worth having, I hope. Did he say anything that looked
like it?'

'That he didn't!' cried Merry, most decisively.

'A stingy old dog he is,' said Jonas. 'Well?'

'Griffin!' cried Miss Mercy, in counterfeit amazement; 'what are
you doing, Griffin?'

'Only giving you a squeeze,' said the discomfited Jonas.
'There's no harm in that, I suppose?'

'But there is great deal of harm in it, if I don't consider it
agreeable,' returned his cousin. 'Do go along, will you? You make
me so hot!'

Mr Jonas withdrew his arm, and for a moment looked at her more
like a murderer than a lover. But he cleared his brow by degrees,
and broke silence with:

'I say, Mel!'

'What do you say, you vulgar thing--you low savage?' cried his
fair betrothed.

'When is it to be? I can't afford to go on dawdling about here
half my life, I needn't tell you, and Pecksniff says that father's
being so lately dead makes very little odds; for we can be married as
quiet as we please down here, and my being lonely is a good reason to
the neighbours for taking a wife home so soon, especially one that he
knew. As to crossbones (my uncle, I mean), he's sure not to put a
spoke in the wheel, whatever we settle on, for he told Pecksniff only
this morning, that if you liked it he'd nothing at all to say. So,
Mel,' said Jonas, venturing on another squeeze; 'when shall it
be?'

'Upon my word!' cried Merry.

'Upon my soul, if you like,' said Jonas. 'What do you say to
next week, now?'

'To next week! If you had said next quarter, I should have
wondered at your impudence.'

'But I didn't say next quarter,' retorted Jonas. 'I said next
week.'

'Then, Griffin,' cried Miss Merry, pushing him off, and rising.
'I say no! not next week. It shan't be till I choose, and I may not
choose it to be for months. There!'

He glanced up at her from the ground, almost as darkly as he had
looked at Tom Pinch; but held his peace.

'No fright of a Griffin with a patch over his eye shall dictate
to me or have a voice in the matter,' said Merry. 'There!'

Still Mr Jonas held his peace.

'If it's next month, that shall be the very earliest; but I
won't say when it shall be till to-morrow; and if you don't like
that, it shall never be at all,' said Merry; 'and if you follow me
about and won't leave me alone, it shall never be at all. There!v
And if you don't do everything I order you to do, it shall never be
at all. So don't follow me. There, Griffin!'

And with that, she skipped away, among the trees.

'Ecod, my lady!' said Jonas, looking after her, and biting a
piece of straw, almost to powder; 'you'll catch it for this, when you
are married. It's all very well now--it keeps one on, somehow, and
you know it--but I'll pay you off scot and lot by-and-bye. This is a
plaguey dull sort of a place for a man to be sitting by himself in. I
never could abide a mouldy old churchyard.'

As he turned into the avenue himself, Miss Merry, who was far
ahead, happened to look back.

'Ah!' said Jonas, with a sullen smile, and a nod that was not
addressed to her. 'Make the most of it while it lasts. Get in your
hay while the sun shines. Take your own way as long as it's in your
power, my lady!'