Martin Chuzzlewit
and doubt,’ said Martin, hurriedly; as indeed everything else was done
and said, in those few hurried moments, ‘were the causes of my writing
only once. But Pecksniff? You needn’t fear to tell me the whole tale;
for you saw me with him face to face, hearing him speak, and not taking
him by the throat; what is the history of his pursuit of you? Is it
known to my grandfather?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he assists him in it?’
‘No,’ she answered eagerly.
‘Thank Heaven!’ cried Martin, ‘that it leaves his mind unclouded in that
one respect!’
‘I do not think,’ said Mary, ‘it was known to him at first. When
this man had sufficiently prepared his mind, he revealed it to him by
degrees. I think so, but I only know it from my own impression: now from
anything they told me. Then he spoke to me alone.’
‘My grandfather did?’ said Martin.
‘Yes--spoke to me alone, and told me--’
‘What the hound had said,’ cried Martin. ‘Don’t repeat it.’
‘And said I knew well what qualities he possessed; that he was
moderately rich; in good repute; and high in his favour and confidence.
But seeing me very much distressed, he said that he would not control
or force my inclinations, but would content himself with telling me the
fact. He would not pain me by dwelling on it, or reverting to it; nor
has he ever done so since, but has truly kept his word.’
‘The man himself?--’ asked Martin.
‘He has had few opportunities of pursuing his suit. I have never walked
out alone, or remained alone an instant in his presence. Dear Martin, I
must tell you,’ she continued, ‘that the kindness of your grandfather
to me remains unchanged. I am his companion still. An indescribable
tenderness and compassion seem to have mingled themselves with his old
regard; and if I were his only child, I could not have a gentler father.
What former fancy or old habit survives in this, when his heart has
turned so cold to you, is a mystery I cannot penetrate; but it has been,
and it is, a happiness to me, that I remained true to him; that if he
should wake from his delusion, even at the point of death, I am here,
love, to recall you to his thoughts.’
Martin looked with admiration on her glowing face, and pressed his lips
to hers.
‘I have sometimes heard, and read,’ she said, ‘that those whose powers
had been enfeebled long ago, and whose lives had faded, as it were, into
a dream, have been known to rouse themselves before death, and inquire
for familiar faces once very dear to them; but forgotten, unrecognized,
hated even, in the meantime. Think, if with his old impressions of this
man, he should suddenly resume his former self, and find in him his only
friend!’
‘I would not urge you to abandon him, dearest,’ said Martin, ‘though I
could count the years we are to wear out asunder. But the influence this
fellow exercises over him has steadily increased, I fear.’
She could not help admitting that. Steadily, imperceptibly, and surely,
until it was paramount and supreme. She herself had none; and yet
he treated her with more affection than at any previous time. Martin
thought the inconsistency a part of his weakness and decay.
‘Does the influence extend to fear?’ said Martin. ‘Is he timid of
asserting his own opinion in the presence of this infatuation? I fancied
so just now.’
‘I have thought so, often. Often when we are sitting alone, almost as
we used to do, and I have been reading a favourite book to him or he has
been talking quite cheerfully, I have observed that the entrance of
Mr Pecksniff has changed his whole demeanour. He has broken off
immediately, and become what you have seen to-day. When we first came
here he had his impetuous outbreaks, in which it was not easy for Mr
Pecksniff with his utmost plausibility to appease him. But these have
long since dwindled away. He defers to him in everything, and has no
opinion upon any question, but that which is forced upon him by this
treacherous man.’
Such was the account, rapidly furnished in whispers, and interrupted,
brief as it was, by many false alarms of Mr Pecksniff’s return;
which Martin received of his grandfather’s decline, and of that good
gentleman’s ascendancy. He heard of Tom Pinch too, and Jonas too, with
not a little about himself into the bargain; for though lovers are
remarkable for leaving a great deal unsaid on all occasions, and very
properly desiring to come back and say it, they are remarkable also for
a wonderful power of condensation, and can, in one way or other, give
utterance to more language--eloquent language--in any given short space
of time, than all the six hundred and fifty-eight members in the Commons
House of Parliament of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland;
who are strong lovers no doubt, but of their country only, which makes
all the difference; for in a passion of that kind (which is not always
returned), it is the custom to use as many words as possible, and
express nothing whatever.
A caution from Mr Tapley; a hasty interchange of farewells, and of
something else which the proverb says must not be told of afterwards;
a white hand held out to Mr Tapley himself, which he kissed with the
devotion of a knight-errant; more farewells, more something else’s; a
parting word from Martin that he would write from London and would do
great things there yet (Heaven knows what, but he quite believed it);
and Mark and he stood on the outside of the Pecksniffian halls.
‘A short interview after such an absence!’ said Martin, sorrowfully.
‘But we are well out of the house. We might have placed ourselves in a
false position by remaining there, even so long, Mark.’
‘I don’t know about ourselves, sir,’ he returned; ‘but somebody else
would have got into a false position, if he had happened to come back
again, while we was there. I had the door all ready, sir. If Pecksniff
had showed his head, or had only so much as listened behind it, I would
have caught him like a walnut. He’s the sort of man,’ added Mr Tapley,
musing, ‘as would squeeze soft, I know.’
A person who was evidently going to Mr Pecksniff’s house, passed them at
this moment. He raised his eyes at the mention of the architect’s name;
and when he had gone on a few yards, stopped and gazed at them. Mr
Tapley, also, looked over his shoulder, and so did Martin; for the
stranger, as he passed, had looked very sharply at them.
‘Who may that be, I wonder!’ said Martin. ‘The face seems familiar to
me, but I don’t know the man.’
‘He seems to have a amiable desire that his face should be tolerable
familiar to us,’ said Mr Tapley, ‘for he’s a-staring pretty hard. He’d
better not waste his beauty, for he ain’t got much to spare.’
Coming in sight of the Dragon, they saw a travelling carriage at the
door.
‘And a Salisbury carriage, eh?’ said Mr Tapley. ‘That’s what he came in
depend upon it. What’s in the wind now? A new pupil, I shouldn’t wonder.
P’raps it’s a order for another grammar-school, of the same pattern as
the last.’
Before they could enter at the door, Mrs Lupin came running out; and
beckoning them to the carriage showed them a portmanteau with the name
of CHUZZLEWIT upon it.
‘Miss Pecksniff’s husband that was,’ said the good woman to Martin. ‘I
didn’t know what terms you might be on, and was quite in a worry till
you came back.’
‘He and I have never interchanged a word yet,’ observed Martin; ‘and as
I have no wish to be better or worse acquainted with him, I will not put
myself in his way. We passed him on the road, I have no doubt. I am glad
he timed his coming as he did. Upon my word! Miss Pecksniff’s husband
travels gayly!’
‘A very fine-looking gentleman with him--in the best room now,’
whispered Mrs Lupin, glancing up at the window as they went into the
house. ‘He has ordered everything that can be got for dinner; and has
the glossiest moustaches and whiskers ever you saw.’
‘Has he?’ cried Martin, ‘why then we’ll endeavour to avoid him too, in
the hope that our self-denial may be strong enough for the sacrifice.
It is only for a few hours,’ said Martin, dropping wearily into a chair
behind the little screen in the bar. ‘Our visit has met with no success,
my dear Mrs Lupin, and I must go to London.’
‘Dear, dear!’ cried the hostess.
‘Yes, one foul wind no more makes a winter, than one swallow makes a
summer. I’ll try it again. Tom Pinch has succeeded. With his advice to
guide me, I may do the same. I took Tom under my protection once, God
save the mark!’ said Martin, with a melancholy smile; ‘and promised I
would make his fortune. Perhaps Tom will take me under HIS protection
now, and teach me how to earn my bread.’
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
FURTHER CONTINUATION OF THE ENTERPRISE OF MR JONAS AND HIS FRIEND
It was a special quality, among the many admirable qualities possessed
by Mr Pecksniff, that the more he was found out, the more hypocrisy he
practised. Let him be discomfited in one quarter, and he refreshed and
recompensed himself by carrying the war into another. If his workings
and windings were detected by A, so much the greater reason was there
for practicing without loss of time on B, if it were only to keep his
hand in. He had never been such a saintly and improving spectacle to all
about him, as after his detection by Thomas Pinch. He had scarcely ever
been at once so tender in his humanity, and so dignified and exalted in
his virtue, as when young Martin’s scorn was fresh and hot upon him.
Having this large stock of superfluous sentiment and morality on hand
which must positively be cleared off at any sacrifice, Mr Pecksniff no
sooner heard his son-in-law announced, than he regarded him as a kind
of wholesale or general order, to be immediately executed. Descending,
therefore, swiftly to the parlour, and clasping the young man in
his arms, he exclaimed, with looks and gestures that denoted the
perturbation of his spirit:
‘Jonas. My child--she is well! There is nothing the matter?’
‘What, you’re at it again, are you?’ replied his son-in-law. ‘Even with
me? Get away with you, will you?’
‘Tell me she is well then,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Tell me she is well my
boy!’
‘She’s well enough,’ retorted Jonas, disengaging himself. ‘There’s
nothing the matter with HER.’
‘There is nothing the matter with her!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, sitting down
in the nearest chair, and rubbing up his hair. ‘Fie upon my weakness!
I cannot help it, Jonas. Thank you. I am better now. How is my other
child; my eldest; my Cherrywerrychigo?’ said Mr Pecksniff, inventing a
playful little name for her, in the restored lightness of his heart.
‘She’s much about the same as usual,’ returned Jonas. ‘She sticks
pretty close to the vinegar-bottle. You know she’s got a sweetheart, I
suppose?’
‘I have heard of it,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘from headquarters; from my
child herself I will not deny that it moved me to contemplate the loss
of my remaining daughter, Jonas--I am afraid we parents are selfish, I
am afraid we are--but it has ever been the study of my life to qualify
them for the domestic hearth; and it is a sphere which Cherry will
adorn.’
‘She need adorn some sphere or other,’ observed the son-in-law, for she
ain’t very ornamental in general.’
‘My girls are now provided for,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘They are now
happily provided for, and I have not laboured in vain!’
This is exactly what Mr Pecksniff would have said, if one of his
daughters had drawn a prize of thirty thousand pounds in the lottery, or
if the other had picked up a valuable purse in the street, which nobody
appeared to claim. In either of these cases he would have invoked a
patriarchal blessing on the fortunate head, with great solemnity, and
would have taken immense credit to himself, as having meant it from the
infant’s cradle.
‘Suppose we talk about something else, now,’ observed Jonas, drily.