prompted him to open the vestry cupboard, and look at himself in the parson's little glass that hung within the door. Seeing that his hair was rumpled, he took the liberty of borrowing the canonical brush and arranging it. He also took the liberty of opening another cupboard; but he shut it up again quickly, being rather startled by the sight of a black and a white surplice dangling against the wall; which had very much the appearance of two curates who had committed suicide by hanging themselves. Remembering that he had seen in the first cupboard a port-wine bottle and some biscuits, he peeped into it again, and helped himself with much deliberation: cogitating all the time though, in a very deep and weighty manner, as if his thoughts were otherwise employed.
He soon made up his mind, if it had ever been in doubt; and putting back the bottle and biscuits, opened the casement. He got out into the churchyard without any difficulty; shut the window after him; and walked straight home.
"Is Mr. Pinch in-doors?" asked Mr. Pecksniff of his serving-maid.
"Just come in, Sir."
"Just come in, eh?" repeated Mr. Pecksniff, cheerfully. "And gone up-stairs, I suppose?"
"Yes, Sir. Gone up-stairs. Shall I call him. Sir?"
"No," said Mr. Pecksniff, "no. You needn't call him, Jane. Thank you, Jane. How are your relations, Jane?"
"Pretty well, I thank you, Sir."
"I am glad to hear it. Let them know I asked about them, Jane. Is Mr. Chuzzlewit in the way, Jane?"
"Yes, Sir. He's in the parlour, reading."
"He's in the parlour, reading, is he, Jane?" said Mr. Pecksniff.
"Very well. Then I think I 'll go and see him, Jane."
Never had Mr. Pecksniff been beheld in a more pleasant humour!
But when he walked into the parlour where the old man was engaged as Jane had said; with pen and ink and paper on a table close at hand (for Mr. Pecksniff was always very particular to have him well supplied with writing materials); he became less cheerful. He was not angry, he was not vindictive, he was not cross, he was not moody, but he was grieved: he was sorely grieved. As he sat down by the old man's side, two tears: not tears like those with which recording angels blot their entries out, but drops so precious that they use them for their ink: stole down his meritorious cheeks.
"What is the matter?" asked old Martin. "Pecksniff, what ails you, man?"
"I am sorry to interrupt you, my dear Sir, and I am still more sorry for the cause. My good, my worthy friend, I am deceived."
"You are deceived!"
"Ah!" cried Mr. Pecksniff, in an agony, "deceived in the tenderest point. Cruelly deceived in that quarter, Sir, in which I placed the most unbounded confidence. Deceived, Mr. Chuzzlewit, by Thomas Pinch."
"Oh! bad, bad, bad!" said Martin, laying down his book. "Very bad. I hope not. Are you certain?"
