Charles Dickens - Life And Adventures Of Martin Chuzzlewit

As to any thought of revenging himself on young Martin for his insolent expressions when they parted, and of shutting him out still more effectually from any hope of reconciliation with his grandfather, Mr Pecksniff was much too meek and forgiving to be suspected of harbouring it. As to being refused by Mary, Mr Pecksniff was quite satisfied that in her position she could never hold out if he and Mr Chuzzlewit were both against her. As to consulting the wishes of her heart in such a case, it formed no part of Mr Pecksniff's moral code; for he knew what a good man he was, and what a blessing he must be to anybody. His daughter having broken the ice, and the murder being out between them, Mr Pecksniff had now only to pursue his design as cleverly as he could, and by the craftiest approaches.

“Well, my good sir,” said Mr Pecksniff, meeting old Martin in the garden, for it was his habit to walk in and out by that way, as the fancy took him; “and how is my dear friend this delicious morning?”

“Do you mean me?” asked the old man.

“Ah!” said Mr Pecksniff, “one of his deaf days, I see. Could I mean any one else, my dear sir?”

“You might have meant Mary,” said the old man.

“Indeed I might. Quite true. I might speak of her as a dear, dear friend, I hope?” observed Mr Pecksniff.

“I hope so,” returned old Martin. “I think she deserves it.”

“Think!” cried Pecksniff, “think, Mr Chuzzlewit!”

“You are speaking, I know,” returned Martin, “but I don't catch what you say. Speak up!”

“He's getting deafer than a flint,” said Pecksniff. “I was saying, my dear sir, that I am afraid I must make up my mind to part with Cherry.”

“What has SHE been doing?” asked the old man.

“He puts the most ridiculous questions I ever heard!” muttered Mr Pecksniff. “He's a child to-day.”After which he added, in a mild roar: “She hasn't been doing anything, my dear friend.”

“What are you going to part with her for?” demanded Martin.

“She hasn't her health by any means,” said Mr Pecksniff. “She misses her sister, my dear sir; they doted on each other from the cradle. And I think of giving her a run in London for a change. A good long run, sir, if I find she likes it.”

“Quite right,” cried Martin. “It's judicious.”

“I am glad to hear you say so. I hope you mean to bear me company in this dull part, while she's away?” said Mr Pecksniff.

“I have no intention of removing from it,” was Martin's answer.

“Then why,” said Mr Pecksniff, taking the old man's arm in his, and walking slowly on; “Why, my good sir, can't you come and stay with me? I am sure I could surround you with more comforts—lowly as is my Cot—than you can obtain at a village house of entertainment. And pardon me, Mr Chuzzlewit, pardon me if I say that such a place as the Dragon, however well-conducted (and, as far as I know, Mrs Lupin is one of the worthiest creatures in this county), is hardly a home for Miss Graham.”

Martin mused a moment; and then said, as he shook him by the hand:

“No. You're quite right; it is not.”

“The very sight of skittles,” Mr Pecksniff eloquently pursued, “is far from being congenial to a delicate mind.”

“It's an amusement of the vulgar,” said old Martin, “certainly.”

“Of the very vulgar,” Mr Pecksniff answered. “Then why not bring Miss Graham here, sir? Here is the house. Here am I alone in it, for Thomas Pinch I do not count as any one. Our lovely friend shall occupy my daughter's chamber; you shall choose your own; we shall not quarrel, I hope!”

“We are not likely to do that,” said Martin.

Mr Pecksniff pressed his hand. “We understand each other, my dear sir, I see!—I can wind him,” he thought, with exultation, “round my little finger.”

“You leave the recompense to me?” said the old man, after a minute's silence.

“Oh! do not speak of recompense!” cried Pecksniff.

“I say,” repeated Martin, with a glimmer of his old obstinacy, “you leave the recompense to me. Do you?”

“Since you desire it, my good sir.”

“I always desire it,” said the old man. “You know I always desire it. I wish to pay as I go, even when I buy of you. Not that I do not leave a balance to be settled one day, Pecksniff.”

The architect was too much overcome to speak. He tried to drop a tear upon his patron's hand, but couldn't find one in his dry distillery.

“May that day be very distant!” was his pious exclamation. “Ah, sir! If I could say how deep an interest I have in you and yours! I allude to our beautiful young friend.”

“True,” he answered. “True. She need have some one interested in her. I did her wrong to train her as I did. Orphan though she was, she would have found some one to protect her whom she might have loved again. When she was a child, I pleased myself with the thought that in gratifying my whim of placing her between me and false-hearted knaves, I had done her a kindness. Now she is a woman, I have no such comfort. She has no protector but herself. I have put her at such odds with the world, that any dog may bark or fawn upon her at his pleasure. Indeed she stands in need of delicate consideration. Yes; indeed she does!”

“If her position could be altered and defined, sir?” Mr Pecksniff hinted.

“How can that be done? Should I make a seamstress of her, or a governess?”

“Heaven forbid!” said Mr Pecksniff. “My dear sir, there are other ways. There are indeed. But I am much excited and embarrassed at present, and would rather not pursue the subject. I scarcely know what I mean. Permit me to resume it at another time.”

“You are not unwell?” asked Martin anxiously.

“No, no!” cried Pecksniff. “No. Permit me to resume it at another time. I'll walk a little. Bless you!”

Old Martin blessed him in return, and squeezed his hand. As he turned away, and slowly walked towards the house, Mr Pecksniff stood gazing after him; being pretty well recovered from his late emotion, which, in any other man, one might have thought had been assumed as a machinery for feeling Martin's pulse. The change in the old man found such a slight expression in his figure, that Mr Pecksniff, looking after him, could not help saying to himself:

“And I can wind him round my little finger! Only think!”

Old Martin happening to turn his head, saluted him affectionately. Mr Pecksniff returned the gesture.

“Why, the time was,” said Mr Pecksniff; “and not long ago, when he wouldn't look at me! How soothing is this change. Such is the delicate texture of the human heart; so complicated is the process of its being softened! Externally he looks the same, and I can wind him round my little finger. Only think!”

In sober truth, there did appear to be nothing on which Mr Pecksniff might not have ventured with Martin Chuzzlewit; for whatever Mr Pecksniff said or did was right, and whatever he advised was done. Martin had escaped so many snares from needy fortune-hunters, and had withered in the shell of his suspicion and distrust for so many years, but to become the good man's tool and plaything. With the happiness of this conviction painted on his face, the architect went forth upon his morning walk.

The summer weather in his bosom was reflected in the breast of Nature. Through deep green vistas where the boughs arched overhead, and showed the sunlight flashing in the beautiful perspective; through dewy fern from which the startled hares leaped up, and fled at his approach; by mantled pools, and fallen trees, and down in hollow places, rustling among last year's leaves whose scent woke memory of the past; the placid Pecksniff strolled. By meadow gates and hedges fragrant with wild roses; and by thatched-roof cottages whose inmates humbly bowed before him as a man both good and wise; the worthy Pecksniff walked in tranquil meditation. The bee passed onward, humming of the work he had to do; the idle gnats for ever going round and round in one contracting and expanding ring, yet always going on as fast as he, danced merrily before him; the colour of the long grass came and went, as if the light clouds made it timid as they floated through the distant air. The birds, so many Pecksniff consciences, sang gayly upon every branch; and Mr Pecksniff paid HIS homage to the day by ruminating on his projects as he walked along.