Martin Chuzzlewit. Чарльз Диккенс

regret the having harboured unjust thoughts of me! you with those grey hairs!’

      ‘Regrets,’ said Martin, ‘are the natural property of grey hairs; and I enjoy, in common with all other men, at least my share of such inheritance. And so enough of that. I regret having been severed from you so long. If I had known you sooner, and sooner used you as you well deserve, I might have been a happier man.’

      Mr Pecksniff looked up to the ceiling, and clasped his hands in rapture.

      ‘Your daughters,’ said Martin, after a short silence. ‘I don’t know them. Are they like you?’

      ‘In the nose of my eldest and the chin of my youngest, Mr Chuzzlewit,’ returned the widower, ‘their sainted parent (not myself, their mother) lives again.’

      ‘I don’t mean in person,’ said the old man. ‘Morally, morally.’

      ‘’Tis not for me to say,’ retorted Mr Pecksniff with a gentle smile. ‘I have done my best, sir.’

      ‘I could wish to see them,’ said Martin; ‘are they near at hand?’

      They were, very near; for they had in fact been listening at the door from the beginning of this conversation until now, when they precipitately retired. Having wiped the signs of weakness from his eyes, and so given them time to get upstairs, Mr Pecksniff opened the door, and mildly cried in the passage,

      ‘My own darlings, where are you?’

      ‘Here, my dear pa!’ replied the distant voice of Charity.

      ‘Come down into the back parlour, if you please, my love,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘and bring your sister with you.’

      ‘Yes, my dear pa,’ cried Merry; and down they came directly (being all obedience), singing as they came.

      Nothing could exceed the astonishment of the two Miss Pecksniffs when they found a stranger with their dear papa. Nothing could surpass their mute amazement when he said, ‘My children, Mr Chuzzlewit!’ But when he told them that Mr Chuzzlewit and he were friends, and that Mr Chuzzlewit had said such kind and tender words as pierced his very heart, the two Miss Pecksniffs cried with one accord, ‘Thank Heaven for this!’ and fell upon the old man’s neck. And when they had embraced him with such fervour of affection that no words can describe it, they grouped themselves about his chair, and hung over him, as figuring to themselves no earthly joy like that of ministering to his wants, and crowding into the remainder of his life, the love they would have diffused over their whole existence, from infancy, if he – dear obdurate! – had but consented to receive the precious offering.

      The old man looked attentively from one to the other, and then at Mr Pecksniff, several times.

      ‘What,’ he asked of Mr Pecksniff, happening to catch his eye in its descent; for until now it had been piously upraised, with something of that expression which the poetry of ages has attributed to a domestic bird, when breathing its last amid the ravages of an electric storm: ‘What are their names?’

      Mr Pecksniff told him, and added, rather hastily; his caluminators would have said, with a view to any testamentary thoughts that might be flitting through old Martin’s mind; ‘Perhaps, my dears, you had better write them down. Your humble autographs are of no value in themselves, but affection may prize them.’

      ‘Affection,’ said the old man, ‘will expend itself on the living originals. Do not trouble yourselves, my girls, I shall not so easily forget you, Charity and Mercy, as to need such tokens of remembrance. Cousin!’

      ‘Sir!’ said Mr Pecksniff, with alacrity.

      ‘Do you never sit down?’

      ‘Why – yes – occasionally, sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, who had been standing all this time.

      ‘Will you do so now?’

      ‘Can you ask me,’ returned Mr Pecksniff, slipping into a chair immediately, ‘whether I will do anything that you desire?’

      ‘You talk confidently,’ said Martin, ‘and you mean well; but I fear you don’t know what an old man’s humours are. You don’t know what it is to be required to court his likings and dislikings; to adapt yourself to his prejudices; to do his bidding, be it what it may; to bear with his distrusts and jealousies; and always still be zealous in his service. When I remember how numerous these failings are in me, and judge of their occasional enormity by the injurious thoughts I lately entertained of you, I hardly dare to claim you for my friend.’

      ‘My worthy sir,’ returned his relative, ‘how can you talk in such a painful strain! What was more natural than that you should make one slight mistake, when in all other respects you were so very correct, and have had such reason – such very sad and undeniable reason – to judge of every one about you in the worst light!’

      ‘True,’ replied the other. ‘You are very lenient with me.’

      ‘We always said, my girls and I,’ cried Mr Pecksniff with increasing obsequiousness, ‘that while we mourned the heaviness of our misfortune in being confounded with the base and mercenary, still we could not wonder at it. My dears, you remember?’

      Oh vividly! A thousand times!

      ‘We uttered no complaint,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Occasionally we had the presumption to console ourselves with the remark that Truth would in the end prevail, and Virtue be triumphant; but not often. My loves, you recollect?’

      Recollect! Could he doubt it! Dearest pa, what strange unnecessary questions!

      ‘And when I saw you,’ resumed Mr Pecksniff, with still greater deference, ‘in the little, unassuming village where we take the liberty of dwelling, I said you were mistaken in me, my dear sir; that was all, I think?’

      ‘No – not all,’ said Martin, who had been sitting with his hand upon his brow for some time past, and now looked up again; ‘you said much more, which, added to other circumstances that have come to my knowledge, opened my eyes. You spoke to me, disinterestedly, on behalf of – I needn’t name him. You know whom I mean.’

      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