That illustrious man and great national ornament, Mr Merdle, continued

his shining course. It began to be widely understood that one who had

done society the admirable service of making so much money out of it,

could not be suffered to remain a commoner.

A baronetcy was spoken of with confidence; a peerage was frequently mentioned. Rumour had it

that Mr Merdle had set his golden face against a baronetcy; that he had

plainly intimated to Lord Decimus that a baronetcy was not enough

for him; that he had said, 'No--a Peerage, or plain Merdle.'

This was reported to have plunged Lord Decimus as nigh to his noble chin in a

slough of doubts as so lofty a person could be sunk. For the Barnacles,

as a group of themselves in creation, had an idea that such distinctions

belonged to them; and that when a soldier, sailor, or lawyer became

ennobled, they let him in, as it were, by an act of condescension, at

the family door, and immediately shut it again. Not only (said Rumour)

had the troubled Decimus his own hereditary part in this impression, but

he also knew of several Barnacle claims already on the file, which came

into collision with that of the master spirit.

Right or wrong, Rumour was very busy; and Lord Decimus, while he was, or

was supposed to be, in stately excogitation of the difficulty, lent her

some countenance by taking, on several public occasions, one of those

elephantine trots of his through a jungle of overgrown sentences, waving

Mr Merdle about on his trunk as Gigantic Enterprise, The Wealth of

England, Elasticity, Credit, Capital, Prosperity, and all manner of

blessings.

So quietly did the mowing of the old scythe go on, that fully three

months had passed unnoticed since the two English brothers had been laid

in one tomb in the strangers' cemetery at Rome. Mr and Mrs Sparkler were

established in their own house: a little mansion, rather of the Tite

Barnacle class, quite a triumph of inconvenience, with a perpetual smell

in it of the day before yesterday's soup and coach-horses, but extremely

dear, as being exactly in the centre of the habitable globe. In this

enviable abode (and envied it really was by many people), Mrs Sparkler

had intended to proceed at once to the demolition of the Bosom, when

active hostilities had been suspended by the arrival of the Courier with

his tidings of death.

Mrs Sparkler, who was not unfeeling, had received

them with a violent burst of grief, which had lasted twelve hours;

after which, she had arisen to see about her mourning, and to take every

precaution that could ensure its being as becoming as Mrs Merdle's. A

gloom was then cast over more than one distinguished family (according

to the politest sources of intelligence), and the Courier went back

again.

Mr and Mrs Sparkler had been dining alone, with their gloom cast over

them, and Mrs Sparkler reclined on a drawing-room sofa. It was a hot

summer Sunday evening. The residence in the centre of the habitable

globe, at all times stuffed and close as if it had an incurable cold in

its head, was that evening particularly stifling.

The bells of the churches had done their worst in the way of clanging

among the unmelodious echoes of the streets, and the lighted windows of

the churches had ceased to be yellow in the grey dusk, and had died out

opaque black. Mrs Sparkler, lying on her sofa, looking through an open

window at the opposite side of a narrow street over boxes of mignonette

and flowers, was tired of the view. Mrs Sparkler, looking at another

window where her husband stood in the balcony, was tired of that view.

Mrs Sparkler, looking at herself in her mourning, was even tired of that

view: though, naturally, not so tired of that as of the other two.

'It's like lying in a well,' said Mrs Sparkler, changing her position

fretfully. 'Dear me, Edmund, if you have anything to say, why don't you

say it?'

Mr Sparkler might have replied with ingenuousness, 'My life, I have

nothing to say.' But, as the repartee did not occur to him, he contented

himself with coming in from the balcony and standing at the side of his

wife's couch.

'Good gracious, Edmund!' said Mrs Sparkler more fretfully still, you are

absolutely putting mignonette up your nose! Pray don't!'

Mr Sparkler, in absence of mind--perhaps in a more literal absence of

mind than is usually understood by the phrase--had smelt so hard at a

sprig in his hand as to be on the verge of the offence in question. He

smiled, said, 'I ask your pardon, my dear,' and threw it out of window.

'You make my head ache by remaining in that position, Edmund,' said Mrs

Sparkler, raising her eyes to him after another minute; 'you look so

aggravatingly large by this light. Do sit down.'

'Certainly, my dear,' said Mr Sparkler, and took a chair on the same

spot.

'If I didn't know that the longest day was past,' said Fanny, yawning in

a dreary manner, 'I should have felt certain this was the longest day. I

never did experience such a day.'

'Is that your fan, my love?' asked Mr Sparkler, picking up one and

presenting it.

'Edmund,' returned his wife, more wearily yet, 'don't ask weak

questions, I entreat you not. Whose can it be but mine?'

'Yes, I thought it was yours,' said Mr Sparkler.

'Then you shouldn't ask,' retorted Fanny. After a little while she

turned on her sofa and exclaimed, 'Dear me, dear me, there never was

such a long day as this!' After another little while, she got up slowly,

walked about, and came back again.

'My dear,' said Mr Sparkler, flashing with an original conception, 'I

think you must have got the fidgets.'

'Oh, Fidgets!' repeated Mrs Sparkler. 'Don't.'

'My adorable girl,' urged Mr Sparkler, 'try your aromatic vinegar. I

have often seen my mother try it, and it seemingly refreshed her.

And she is, as I believe you are aware, a remarkably fine woman, with no

non--'

'Good Gracious!' exclaimed Fanny, starting up again. 'It's beyond all

patience! This is the most wearisome day that ever did dawn upon the

world, I am certain.'

Mr Sparkler looked meekly after her as she lounged about the room, and

he appeared to be a little frightened. When she had tossed a few trifles

about, and had looked down into the darkening street out of all the

three windows, she returned to her sofa, and threw herself among its

pillows.

'Now Edmund, come here! Come a little nearer, because I want to be able

to touch you with my fan, that I may impress you very much with what I

am going to say. That will do. Quite close enough. Oh, you do look so

big!'

Mr Sparkler apologised for the circumstance, pleaded that he couldn't

help it, and said that 'our fellows,' without more particularly

indicating whose fellows, used to call him by the name of Quinbus

Flestrin, Junior, or the Young Man Mountain.

'You ought to have told me so before,' Fanny complained.

'My dear,' returned Mr Sparkler, rather gratified, 'I didn't know

It would interest you, or I would have made a point of telling you.'

'There! For goodness sake, don't talk,' said Fanny; 'I want to talk,

myself. Edmund, we must not be alone any more. I must take such

precautions as will prevent my being ever again reduced to the state of

dreadful depression in which I am this evening.'

'My dear,' answered Mr Sparkler; 'being as you are well known to be, a

remarkably fine woman with no--'

'Oh, good GRACIOUS!' cried Fanny.

Mr Sparkler was so discomposed by the energy of this exclamation,

accompanied with a flouncing up from the sofa and a flouncing down

again, that a minute or two elapsed before he felt himself equal to

saying in explanation:

'I mean, my dear, that everybody knows you are calculated to shine in

society.'

'Calculated to shine in society,' retorted Fanny with great

irritability; 'yes, indeed! And then what happens? I no sooner recover,

in a visiting point of view, the shock of poor dear papa's death, and my

poor uncle's--though I do not disguise from myself that the last was

a happy release, for, if you are not presentable you had much better

die--'

'You are not referring to me, my love, I hope?' Mr Sparkler humbly

interrupted.

'Edmund, Edmund, you would wear out a Saint. Am I not expressly speaking

of my poor uncle?'

'You looked with so much expression at myself, my dear girl,' said Mr

Sparkler, 'that I felt a little uncomfortable. Thank you, my love.'

'Now you have put me out,' observed Fanny with a resigned toss of her

fan, 'and I had better go to bed.'

'Don't do that, my love,' urged Mr Sparkler. 'Take time.'

Fanny took a good deal of time: lying back with her eyes shut, and her

eyebrows raised with a hopeless expression as if she had utterly given

up all terrestrial affairs. At length, without the slightest notice, she

opened her eyes again, and recommenced in a short, sharp manner:

'What happens then, I ask! What happens? Why, I find myself at the very

period when I might shine most in society, and should most like for

very momentous reasons to shine in society--I find myself in a situation

which to a certain extent disqualifies me for going into society. It's

too bad, really!'

'My dear,' said Mr Sparkler. 'I don't think it need keep you at

home.' 'Edmund, you ridiculous creature,' returned Fanny, with great

indignation; 'do you suppose that a woman in the bloom of youth and not

wholly devoid of personal attractions, can put herself, at such a

time, in competition as to figure with a woman in every other way her

inferior? If you do suppose such a thing, your folly is boundless.'

Mr Sparkler submitted that he had thought 'it might be got over.' 'Got

over!' repeated Fanny, with immeasurable scorn.

'For a time,' Mr Sparkler submitted.

Honouring the last feeble suggestion with no notice, Mrs Sparkler

declared with bitterness that it really was too bad, and that positively

it was enough to make one wish one was dead!

'However,' she said, when she had in some measure recovered from her

sense of personal ill-usage; 'provoking as it is, and cruel as it seems,

I suppose it must be submitted to.'

'Especially as it was to be expected,' said Mr Sparkler.

'Edmund,' returned his wife, 'if you have nothing more becoming to do

than to attempt to insult the woman who has honoured you with her hand,

when she finds herself in adversity, I think YOU had better go to bed!'

Mr Sparkler was much afflicted by the charge, and offered a most

tender and earnest apology. His apology was accepted; but Mrs Sparkler

requested him to go round to the other side of the sofa and sit in the

window-curtain, to tone himself down.

'Now, Edmund,' she said, stretching out her fan, and touching him with

it at arm's length, 'what I was going to say to you when you began as

usual to prose and worry, is, that I shall guard against our being alone

any more, and that when circumstances prevent my going out to my own

satisfaction, I must arrange to have some people or other always here;

for I really cannot, and will not, have another such day as this has

been.'

Mr Sparkler's sentiments as to the plan were, in brief, that it had no

nonsense about it. He added, 'And besides, you know it's likely that

you'll soon have your sister--'

'Dearest Amy, yes!' cried Mrs Sparkler with a sigh of affection.

'Darling little thing! Not, however, that Amy would do here alone.'

Mr Sparkler was going to say 'No?' interrogatively, but he saw his

danger and said it assentingly, 'No, Oh dear no; she wouldn't do here

alone.'

'No, Edmund. For not only are the virtues of the precious child of that

still character that they require a contrast--require life and movement

around them to bring them out in their right colours and make one love

them of all things; but she will require to be roused, on more accounts

than one.'

'That's it,' said Mr Sparkler. 'Roused.'

'Pray don't, Edmund! Your habit of interrupting without having the least

thing in the world to say, distracts one. You must be broken of it.

Speaking of Amy;--my poor little pet was devotedly attached to poor

papa, and no doubt will have lamented his loss exceedingly, and grieved

very much. I have done so myself. I have felt it dreadfully. But Amy

will no doubt have felt it even more, from having been on the spot the

whole time, and having been with poor dear papa at the last; which I

unhappily was not.'

Here Fanny stopped to weep, and to say, 'Dear, dear, beloved papa! How

truly gentlemanly he was! What a contrast to poor uncle!'

'From the effects of that trying time,' she pursued, 'my good little

Mouse will have to be roused. Also, from the effects of this long

attendance upon Edward in his illness; an attendance which is not

yet over, which may even go on for some time longer, and which in the

meanwhile unsettles us all by keeping poor dear papa's affairs from

being wound up. Fortunately, however, the papers with his agents

here being all sealed up and locked up, as he left them when he

providentially came to England, the affairs are in that state of order

that they can wait until my brother Edward recovers his health in

Sicily, sufficiently to come over, and administer, or execute, or

whatever it may be that will have to be done.'

'He couldn't have a better nurse to bring him round,' Mr Sparkler made

bold to opine.

'For a wonder, I can agree with you,' returned his wife, languidly

turning her eyelids a little in his direction (she held forth, in

general, as if to the drawing-room furniture), 'and can adopt your

words. He couldn't have a better nurse to bring him round. There are

times when my dear child is a little wearing to an active mind; but, as

a nurse, she is Perfection. Best of Amys!'

Mr Sparkler, growing rash on his late success, observed that Edward had

had, biggodd, a long bout of it, my dear girl.

'If Bout, Edmund,' returned Mrs Sparkler, 'is the slang term for

indisposition, he has. If it is not, I am unable to give an opinion

on the barbarous language you address to Edward's sister. That he

contracted Malaria Fever somewhere, either by travelling day and night

to Rome, where, after all, he arrived too late to see poor dear papa

before his death--or under some other unwholesome circumstances--is

indubitable, if that is what you mean. Likewise that his extremely

careless life has made him a very bad subject for it indeed.'

Mr Sparkler considered it a parallel case to that of some of our fellows

in the West Indies with Yellow Jack. Mrs Sparkler closed her eyes again,

and refused to have any consciousness of our fellows of the West Indies,

or of Yellow Jack.

'So, Amy,' she pursued, when she reopened her eyelids, 'will require

to be roused from the effects of many tedious and anxious weeks. And

lastly, she will require to be roused from a low tendency which I know

very well to be at the bottom of her heart. Don't ask me what it is,

Edmund, because I must decline to tell you.'

'I am not going to, my dear,' said Mr Sparkler.

'I shall thus have much improvement to effect in my sweet child,' Mrs

Sparkler continued, 'and cannot have her near me too soon. Amiable and

dear little Twoshoes! As to the settlement of poor papa's affairs, my

interest in that is not very selfish. Papa behaved very generously to me

when I was married, and I have little or nothing to expect. Provided

he had made no will that can come into force, leaving a legacy to Mrs

General, I am contented. Dear papa, dear papa.'

She wept again, but Mrs General was the best of restoratives. The name

soon stimulated her to dry her eyes and say:

'It is a highly encouraging circumstance in Edward's illness, I am

thankful to think, and gives one the greatest confidence in his sense

not being impaired, or his proper spirit weakened--down to the time

of poor dear papa's death at all events--that he paid off Mrs General

instantly, and sent her out of the house. I applaud him for it. I could

forgive him a great deal for doing, with such promptitude, so exactly

what I would have done myself!'

Mrs Sparkler was in the full glow of her gratification, when a double

knock was heard at the door. A very odd knock. Low, as if to avoid

making a noise and attracting attention. Long, as if the person knocking

were preoccupied in mind, and forgot to leave off.

'Halloa!' said Mr Sparkler. 'Who's this?'

'Not Amy and Edward without notice and without a carriage!' said Mrs

Sparkler. 'Look out.'

The room was dark, but the street was lighter, because of its lamps. Mr

Sparkler's head peeping over the balcony looked so very bulky and heavy

that it seemed on the point of overbalancing him and flattening the

unknown below.

'It's one fellow,' said Mr Sparkler. 'I can't see who--stop though!' On

this second thought he went out into the balcony again and had another

look. He came back as the door was opened, and announced that he

believed he had identified 'his governor's tile.' He was not mistaken,

for his governor, with his tile in his hand, was introduced immediately

afterwards.

'Candles!' said Mrs Sparkler, with a word of excuse for the darkness.

'It's light enough for me,' said Mr Merdle.

When the candles were brought in, Mr Merdle was discovered standing

behind the door, picking his lips. 'I thought I'd give you a call,' he

said. 'I am rather particularly occupied just now; and, as I happened to

be out for a stroll, I thought I'd give you a call.'

As he was in dinner dress, Fanny asked him where he had been dining?

'Well,' said Mr Merdle, 'I haven't been dining anywhere, particularly.'

'Of course you have dined?' said Fanny.

'Why--no, I haven't exactly dined,' said Mr Merdle.

He had passed his hand over his yellow forehead and considered, as if he

were not sure about it. Something to eat was proposed. 'No, thank you,'

said Mr Merdle, 'I don't feel inclined for it. I was to have dined out

along with Mrs Merdle. But as I didn't feel inclined for dinner, I let

Mrs Merdle go by herself just as we were getting into the carriage, and

thought I'd take a stroll instead.'

Would he have tea or coffee? 'No, thank you,' said Mr Merdle. 'I looked

in at the Club, and got a bottle of wine.'

At this period of his visit, Mr Merdle took the chair which Edmund

Sparkler had offered him, and which he had hitherto been pushing slowly

about before him, like a dull man with a pair of skates on for the first

time, who could not make up his mind to start. He now put his hat upon

another chair beside him, and, looking down into it as if it were some

twenty feet deep, said again: 'You see I thought I'd give you a call.'

'Flattering to us,' said Fanny, 'for you are not a calling man.'

'No--no,' returned Mr Merdle, who was by this time taking himself into

custody under both coat-sleeves. 'No, I am not a calling man.'

'You have too much to do for that,' said Fanny. 'Having so much to do,

Mr Merdle, loss of appetite is a serious thing with you, and you must

have it seen to. You must not be ill.' 'Oh! I am very well,' replied Mr

Merdle, after deliberating about it. 'I am as well as I usually am. I am

well enough. I am as well as I want to be.'

The master-mind of the age, true to its characteristic of being at all

times a mind that had as little as possible to say for itself and great

difficulty in saying it, became mute again. Mrs Sparkler began to wonder

how long the master-mind meant to stay.

'I was speaking of poor papa when you came in, sir.'

'Aye! Quite a coincidence,' said Mr Merdle.

Fanny did not see that; but felt it incumbent on her to continue

talking. 'I was saying,' she pursued, 'that my brother's illness has

occasioned a delay in examining and arranging papa's property.'

'Yes,' said Mr Merdle; 'yes. There has been a delay.'

'Not that it is of consequence,' said Fanny.

'Not,' assented Mr Merdle, after having examined the cornice of all

that part of the room which was within his range: 'not that it is of any

consequence.'

'My only anxiety is,' said Fanny, 'that Mrs General should not get

anything.'

'She won't get anything,' said Mr Merdle.

Fanny was delighted to hear him express the opinion. Mr Merdle, after

taking another gaze into the depths of his hat as if he thought he saw

something at the bottom, rubbed his hair and slowly appended to his last

remark the confirmatory words, 'Oh dear no. No. Not she. Not likely.'

As the topic seemed exhausted, and Mr Merdle too, Fanny inquired if he

were going to take up Mrs Merdle and the carriage in his way home?

'No,' he answered; 'I shall go by the shortest way, and leave Mrs Merdle

to--' here he looked all over the palms of both his hands as if he were

telling his own fortune--'to take care of herself. I dare say she'll

manage to do it.'

'Probably,' said Fanny.

There was then a long silence; during which, Mrs Sparkler, lying back

on her sofa again, shut her eyes and raised her eyebrows in her former

retirement from mundane affairs.

'But, however,' said Mr Merdle, 'I am equally detaining you and myself.

I thought I'd give you a call, you know.'

'Charmed, I am sure,' said Fanny.

'So I am off,' added Mr Merdle, getting up. 'Could you lend me a

penknife?'

It was an odd thing, Fanny smilingly observed, for her who could seldom

prevail upon herself even to write a letter, to lend to a man of such

vast business as Mr Merdle. 'Isn't it?' Mr Merdle acquiesced; 'but

I want one; and I know you have got several little wedding keepsakes

about, with scissors and tweezers and such things in them. You shall

have it back to-morrow.'

'Edmund,' said Mrs Sparkler, 'open (now, very carefully, I beg and

beseech, for you are so very awkward) the mother of pearl box on my

little table there, and give Mr Merdle the mother of pearl penknife.'

'Thank you,' said Mr Merdle; 'but if you have got one with a darker

handle, I think I should prefer one with a darker handle.'

'Tortoise-shell?'

'Thank you,' said Mr Merdle; 'yes. I think I should prefer

tortoise-shell.'

Edmund accordingly received instructions to open the tortoise-shell box,

and give Mr Merdle the tortoise-shell knife. On his doing so, his wife

said to the master-spirit graciously:

'I will forgive you, if you ink it.'

'I'll undertake not to ink it,' said Mr Merdle.

The illustrious visitor then put out his coat-cuff, and for a moment

entombed Mrs Sparkler's hand: wrist, bracelet, and all. Where his own

hand had shrunk to, was not made manifest, but it was as remote from Mrs

Sparkler's sense of touch as if he had been a highly meritorious Chelsea

Veteran or Greenwich Pensioner.

Thoroughly convinced, as he went out of the room, that it was the

longest day that ever did come to an end at last, and that there never

was a woman, not wholly devoid of personal attractions, so worn out by

idiotic and lumpish people, Fanny passed into the balcony for a breath

of air. Waters of vexation filled her eyes; and they had the effect of

making the famous Mr Merdle, in going down the street, appear to leap,

and waltz, and gyrate, as if he were possessed of several Devils.




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