Martin Chuzzlewit. Чарльз Диккенс

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.’

      ‘My dear Mr Chuzzlewit,’ cried Pecksniff in an ecstasy, ‘for such a man as you have shown yourself to be this day; for a man so injured, yet so very humane; for a man so – I am at a loss what precise term to use – yet at the same time so remarkably – I don’t know how to express my meaning; for such a man as I have described, I hope it is no presumption to say that I, and I am sure I may add my children also (my dears, we perfectly agree in this, I think?), would bear anything whatever!’

      ‘Enough,’ said Martin. ‘You can charge no consequences on me. When do you retire home?’

      ‘Whenever you please, my dear sir. To-night if you desire it.’

      ‘I desire nothing,’ returned the old man, ‘that is unreasonable. Such a request would be. Will you be ready to return at the end of this week?’

      The very time of all others that Mr Pecksniff would have suggested if it had been left to him to make his own choice. As to his daughters – the words, ‘Let us be at home on Saturday, dear pa,’ were actually upon their lips.

      ‘Your expenses, cousin,’ said Martin, taking a folded slip of paper from his pocketbook, ‘may possibly exceed that amount. If so, let me know the balance that I owe you, when we next meet. It would be useless if I told you where I live just now; indeed, I have no fixed abode. When I have, you shall know it. You and your daughters may expect to see me before long; in the meantime I need not tell you that we keep our own confidence. What you will do when you get home is understood between us. Give me no account of it at any time; and never refer to it in any way. I ask that as a favour. I am commonly a man of few words, cousin; and all that need be said just now is said, I think.’

      ‘One glass of wine – one morsel of this homely cake?’ cried Mr Pecksniff, venturing to detain him. ‘My dears – !’

      The sisters flew to wait upon him.

      ‘Poor girls!’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘You will excuse their agitation, my dear sir. They are made up of feeling. A bad commodity to go through the world with, Mr Chuzzlewit! My youngest daughter is almost as much of a woman as my eldest, is she not, sir?’

      ‘Which