Charles Dickens - Life And Adventures Of Martin Chuzzlewit

Trouble was expressed in Mr Pecksniff's visage, as he pressed his hot hands together, and replied, with humility, “Quite disinterestedly, sir, I assure you.”

“I know it,” said old Martin, in his quiet way. “I am sure of it. I said so. It was disinterested too, in you, to draw that herd of harpies off from me, and be their victim yourself; most other men would have suffered them to display themselves in all their rapacity, and would have striven to rise, by contrast, in my estimation. You felt for me, and drew them off, for which I owe you many thanks. Although I left the place, I know what passed behind my back, you see!”

“You amaze me, sir!” cried Mr Pecksniff; which was true enough.

“My knowledge of your proceedings,” said the old man, does not stop at this. You have a new inmate in your house.”

“Yes, sir,” rejoined the architect, “I have.”

“He must quit it” said Martin.

“For—for yours?” asked Mr Pecksniff, with a quavering mildness.

“For any shelter he can find,” the old man answered. “He has deceived you.”

“I hope not” said Mr Pecksniff, eagerly. “I trust not. I have been extremely well disposed towards that young man. I hope it cannot be shown that he has forfeited all claim to my protection. Deceit— deceit, my dear Mr Chuzzlewit, would be final. I should hold myself bound, on proof of deceit, to renounce him instantly.”

The old man glanced at both his fair supporters, but especially at Miss Mercy, whom, indeed, he looked full in the face, with a greater demonstration of interest than had yet appeared in his features. His gaze again encountered Mr Pecksniff, as he said, composedly:

“Of course you know that he has made his matrimonial choice?”

“Oh dear!” cried Mr Pecksniff, rubbing his hair up very stiff upon his head, and staring wildly at his daughters. “This is becoming tremendous!”

“You know the fact?” repeated Martin

“Surely not without his grandfather's consent and approbation my dear sir!” cried Mr Pecksniff. “Don't tell me that. For the honour of human nature, say you're not about to tell me that!”

“I thought he had suppressed it,” said the old man.

The indignation felt by Mr Pecksniff at this terrible disclosure, was only to be equalled by the kindling anger of his daughters. What! Had they taken to their hearth and home a secretly contracted serpent; a crocodile, who had made a furtive offer of his hand; an imposition on society; a bankrupt bachelor with no effects, trading with the spinster world on false pretences! And oh, to think that he should have disobeyed and practised on that sweet, that venerable gentleman, whose name he bore; that kind and tender guardian; his more than father—to say nothing at all of mother—horrible, horrible! To turn him out with ignominy would be treatment much too good. Was there nothing else that could be done to him? Had he incurred no legal pains and penalties? Could it be that the statutes of the land were so remiss as to have affixed no punishment to such delinquency? Monster; how basely had they been deceived!

“I am glad to find you second me so warmly,” said the old man holding up his hand to stay the torrent of their wrath. “I will not deny that it is a pleasure to me to find you so full of zeal. We will consider that topic as disposed of.”

“No, my dear sir,” cried Mr Pecksniff, “not as disposed of, until I have purged my house of this pollution.”

“That will follow,” said the old man, “in its own time. I look upon that as done.”

“You are very good, sir,” answered Mr Pecksniff, shaking his hand. “You do me honour. You MAY look upon it as done, I assure you.”

“There is another topic,” said Martin, “on which I hope you will assist me. You remember Mary, cousin?”

“The young lady that I mentioned to you, my dears, as having interested me so very much,” remarked Mr Pecksniff. “Excuse my interrupting you, sir.”

“I told you her history?” said the old man.

“Which I also mentioned, you will recollect, my dears,” cried Mr Pecksniff. “Silly girls, Mr Chuzzlewit—quite moved by it, they were!”

“Why, look now!” said Martin, evidently pleased; “I feared I should have had to urge her case upon you, and ask you to regard her favourably for my sake. But I find you have no jealousies! Well! You have no cause for any, to be sure. She has nothing to gain from me, my dears, and she knows it.”

The two Miss Pecksniffs murmured their approval of this wise arrangement, and their cordial sympathy with its interesting object.

“If I could have anticipated what has come to pass between us four,” said the old man thoughfully; “but it is too late to think of that. You would receive her courteously, young ladies, and be kind to her, if need were?”

Where was the orphan whom the two Miss Pecksniffs would not have cherished in their sisterly bosom! But when that orphan was commended to their care by one on whom the dammed-up love of years was gushing forth, what exhaustless stores of pure affection yearned to expend themselves upon her!

An interval ensued, during which Mr Chuzzlewit, in an absent frame of mind, sat gazing at the ground, without uttering a word; and as it was plain that he had no desire to be interrupted in his meditations, Mr Pecksniff and his daughters were profoundly silent also. During the whole of the foregoing dialogue, he had borne his part with a cold, passionless promptitude, as though he had learned and painfully rehearsed it all a hundred times. Even when his expressions were warmest and his language most encouraging, he had retained the same manner, without the least abatement. But now there was a keener brightness in his eye, and more expression in his voice, as he said, awakening from his thoughtful mood:

“You know what will be said of this? Have you reflected?”

“Said of what, my dear sir?” Mr Pecksniff asked.

“Of this new understanding between us.”

Mr Pecksniff looked benevolently sagacious, and at the same time far above all earthly misconstruction, as he shook his head, and observed that a great many things would be said of it, no doubt.

“A great many,” rejoined the old man. “Some will say that I dote in my old age; that illness has shaken me; that I have lost all strength of mind, and have grown childish. You can bear that?”

Mr Pecksniff answered that it would be dreadfully hard to bear, but he thought he could, if he made a great effort.

“Others will say—I speak of disappointed, angry people only—that you have lied and fawned, and wormed yourself through dirty ways into my favour; by such concessions and such crooked deeds, such meannesses and vile endurances, as nothing could repay; no, not the legacy of half the world we live in. You can bear that?”

Mr Pecksniff made reply that this would be also very hard to bear, as reflecting, in some degree, on the discernment of Mr Chuzzlewit. Still he had a modest confidence that he could sustain the calumny, with the help of a good conscience, and that gentleman's friendship.

“With the great mass of slanderers,” said old Martin, leaning back in his chair, “the tale, as I clearly foresee, will run thus: That to mark my contempt for the rabble whom I despised, I chose from among them the very worst, and made him do my will, and pampered and enriched him at the cost of all the rest. That, after casting about for the means of a punishment which should rankle in the bosoms of these kites the most, and strike into their gall, I devised this scheme at a time when the last link in the chain of grateful love and duty, that held me to my race, was roughly snapped asunder; roughly, for I loved him well; roughly, for I had ever put my trust in his affection; roughly, for that he broke it when I loved him most—God help me!—and he without a pang could throw me off, while I clung about his heart! Now,” said the old man, dismissing this passionate outburst as suddenly as he had yielded to it, “is your mind made up to bear this likewise? Lay your account with having it to bear, and put no trust in being set right by me.”