It might not have been easy to decide in respect of which of their manifold properties, Jonas, Mr. Pecksniff, the carpet-bag, and the portmanteau, could be likened to a clap of thunder. But Mr. Jonas giving his assent to this proposal, they stole round into the back yard, and softly advanced towards the kitchen window, through which the mingled light of fire and candle shone upon the darkening night.
Truly Mr. Pecksniff is blessed in his children—in one of them, at any rate. The prudent Cherry—staff, and scrip, and treasure of her doting father—there she sits, at a little table white as driven snow, before the kitchen fire, making up accounts! See the neat maiden, as with pen in hand, and calculating look addressed towards the ceiling, and bunch of keys within a little basket at her side, she checks the housekeeping expenditure! From flat-iron, dish-cover, and warming-pan; from pot and kettle, face of brass footman, and black-leaded stove; bright glances of approbation wink and glow upon her. The very onions dangling from the beam mantle and shine like cherubs' cheeks. Something of the influence of those vegetables sinks into Mr. Pecksniff's nature. He weeps.
It is but for a moment, and he hides it from the observation of his friend—very carefully—by a somewhat elaborate use of his pocket handkerchief, in fact: for he would not have his weakness known.
"Pleasant," he murmured—"pleasant to a father's feelings! My dear girl! Shall we let her know we are here, Mr. Jonas?"
"Why, I suppose you don't mean to spend the evening in the stable or the coach-house," he returned.
"That, indeed, is not such hospitality as I would show to you, my friend," cried Mr. Pecksniff, pressing his hand. And then he took a long breath, and tapping at the window, shouted with stentorian blandness:
"Boh!"
Cherry dropped her pen and screamed. But innocence is ever bold—or should be. As they opened the door, the valiant girl exclaimed in a firm voice, and with a presence of mind which even in that trying moment did not desert her, "Who are you? What do you want? Speak! or I will call my Pa,"
Mr. Pecksniff held out his arms. She knew him instantly, and rushed into his fond embrace.
"It was thoughtless of us, Mr. Jonas, it was very thoughtless," said Pecksniff, smoothing his daughter's hair. "My darling, do you see that I am not alone!"
Not she. She had seen nothing but her father until now. She saw Mr. Jonas now, though; and blushed, and hung her head down, as she gave him welcome.
But where was Merry? Mr. Pecksniff didn't ask the question in reproach, but in a vein of mildness touched with a gentle sorrow. She was upstairs, reading on the parlour couch. Ah! Domestic details had no charm for her. "But call her down," said Mr. Pecksniff, with a placid resignation. "Call her down, my love."
She was called and came, all flushed and tumbled from reposing on
