an opportunity arising, it can come out quite as strong as its neighbours—perhaps stronger. He reminds them, amidst thunders of encouragement, that they have heard of a somewhat similar establishment in Cannon Street; and that they have heard it praised. He wishes to draw no invidious comparisons; he would be the last man to do it; but when that Cannon Street establishment shall be able to produce such a combination of wit and beauty as has graced that board that day, and shall be able to serve up (all things considered) such a dinner as that of which they have just partaken, he will be happy to talk to it. Until then, gentlemen, he will stick to Todgers’s.
More punch, more enthusiasm, more speeches. Everybody’s health is drunk, saving the youngest gentleman’s in company. He sits apart, with his elbow on the back of a vacant chair, and glares disdainfully at Jinkins. Gander, in a convulsing speech, gives them the health of Bailey junior; hiccups are heard; and a glass is broken. Mr. Jinkins feels that it is time to join the ladies. He proposes, as a final sentiment, Mrs. Todgers. She is worthy to be remembered separately. Hear, hear. So she is; no doubt of it. They all find fault with her at other times; but every man feels now, that he could die in her defence.
They go upstairs, where they are not expected so soon; for Mrs. Todgers is asleep, Miss Charity is adjusting her hair, and Mercy, who has made a sofa of one of the window-seats is in a gracefully recumbent attitude. She is rising hastily, when Mr. Jinkins implores her, for all their sakes, not to stir; she looks too graceful and too lovely, he remarks, to be disturbed. She laughs, and yields, and fans herself, and drops her fan, and there is a rush to pick it up. Being now installed, by one consent, as the beauty of the party, she is cruel and capricious, and sends gentlemen on messages to other gentlemen, and forgets all about them before they can return with the answer, and invents a thousand tortures, rending their hearts to pieces. Bailey brings up the tea and coffee. There is a small cluster of admirers round Charity; but they are only those who cannot get near her sister. The youngest gentleman in company is pale, but collected, and still sits apart; for his spirit loves to hold communion with itself, and his soul recoils from noisy revellers. She has a consciousness of his presence and adoration. He sees it flashing sometimes in the corner of her eye. Have a care, Jinkins, ere you provoke a desperate man to frenzy!
Mr. Pecksniff had followed his younger friends upstairs, and taken a chair at the side of Mrs. Todgers. He had also spilt a cup of coffee over his legs without appearing to be aware of the circumstance; nor did he seem to know that there was muffin on his knee.
‘And how have they used you downstairs, sir?’ asked the hostess.
‘Their conduct has been such, my dear madam,’ said Mr. Pecksniff, ‘as I can never think of without emotion, or remember without a tear. Oh, Mrs. Todgers!’
‘My goodness!’ exclaimed that lady. ‘How low you are in your spirits, sir!’
‘I am a man, my dear madam,’ said Mr. Pecksniff, shedding tears and speaking with an imperfect articulation, ‘but I am also a father. I am also a widower. My feelings, Mrs. Todgers, will not consent to be entirely smothered, like the young children in the Tower. They are grown up, and the more I press the bolster on them, the more they look round the corner of it.’
He suddenly became conscious of the bit of muffin, and stared at it intently; shaking his head the while, in a forlorn and imbecile manner, as if he regarded it as his evil genius, and mildly reproached it.
‘She was beautiful, Mrs. Todgers,’ he said, turning his glazed eye again upon her, without the least preliminary notice. ‘She had a small property.’
‘So I have heard,’ cried Mrs. Todgers with great sympathy.
‘Those are her daughters,’ said Mr. Pecksniff, pointing out the young ladies, with increased emotion.
Mrs. Todgers had no doubt about it.
‘Mercy and Charity,’ said Mr. Pecksniff, ‘Charity and Mercy. Not unholy names, I hope?’
‘Mr. Pecksniff!’ cried Mrs. Todgers. ‘What a ghastly smile! Are you ill, sir?’
He pressed his hand upon her arm, and answered in a solemn manner, and a faint voice, ‘Chronic.’
‘Cholic?’ cried the frightened Mrs. Todgers.
‘Chron-ic,’ he repeated with some difficulty. ‘Chron-ic. A chronic disorder. I have been its victim from childhood. It is carrying me to my grave.’
‘Heaven forbid!’ cried Mrs. Todgers.
‘Yes, it is,’ said Mr. Pecksniff, reckless with despair. ‘I am rather glad of it, upon the whole. You are like her, Mrs. Todgers.’
‘Don’t squeeze me so tight, pray, Mr. Pecksniff. If any of the gentlemen should notice us.’
‘For her sake,’ said Mr. Pecksniff. ‘Permit me—in honour of her memory. For the sake of a voice from the tomb. You are very like her Mrs. Todgers! What a world this is!’
‘Ah! Indeed you may say that!’ cried Mrs. Todgers.
‘I’m afraid it is a vain and thoughtless world,’ said Mr. Pecksniff, overflowing with despondency. ‘These young people about us. Oh! what sense have they of their responsibilities? None. Give me your other hand, Mrs. Todgers.’
The lady hesitated, and said ‘she didn’t like.’
‘Has a voice from the grave no influence?’ said Mr. Pecksniff, with, dismal tenderness. ‘This is irreligious! My dear creature.’
‘Hush!’ urged Mrs. Todgers. ‘Really you mustn’t.’
‘It’s not me,’ said Mr. Pecksniff. ‘Don’t suppose it’s me; it’s the voice; it’s her voice.’
Mrs. Pecksniff deceased, must have had an unusually thick and husky voice for a lady, and rather a stuttering voice, and to say the truth somewhat of a drunken voice, if it had ever borne much resemblance to that in which Mr. Pecksniff spoke just then. But perhaps this was delusion on his part.
‘It has been a day of enjoyment, Mrs. Todgers, but still it has been a day of torture. It has reminded me of my loneliness. What am I in the world?’
‘An excellent gentleman, Mr. Pecksniff,’ said Mrs. Todgers.
‘There is consolation in that too,’ cried Mr. Pecksniff. ‘Am I?’
‘There is no better man living,’ said Mrs. Todgers, ‘I am sure.’
Mr. Pecksniff smiled through his tears, and slightly shook his head. ‘You are very good,’ he said, ‘thank you. It is a great happiness to me, Mrs. Todgers, to make young people happy. The happiness of my pupils is my chief object. I dote upon ’em. They dote upon me too—sometimes.’
‘Always,’ said Mrs. Todgers.
‘When they say they haven’t improved, ma’am,’ whispered Mr. Pecksniff, looking at her with profound mystery, and motioning to her to advance her ear a little closer to his mouth. ‘When they say they haven’t improved, ma’am, and the premium was too high, they lie! I shouldn’t wish it to be mentioned; you will understand me; but I say to you as to an old friend, they lie.’
‘Base wretches they must be!’ said Mrs. Todgers.
‘Madam,’ said Mr. Pecksniff, ‘you are right. I respect you for that observation. A word in your ear. To Parents and Guardians. This is in confidence, Mrs. Todgers?’
‘The strictest, of course!’ cried that lady.
‘To Parents and Guardians,’ repeated Mr. Pecksniff. ‘An eligible opportunity now offers, which unites the advantages of the best practical architectural education with the comforts of a home, and the constant association with some, who, however humble their sphere and limited their capacity—observe!—are not unmindful of their moral responsibilities.’
Mrs. Todgers looked a little puzzled to know what this might mean, as well she might; for it was, as