CHAPTER THREE

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_ IN WHICH CERTAIN OTHER PERSONS ARE INTRODUCED;
ON THE SAME TERMS AS IN THE LAST CHAPTER

Mention has been already made more than once, of a certain Dragon

who swung and creaked complainingly before the village alehouse

door. A faded, and an ancient dragon he was; and many a wintry storm

of rain, snow, sleet, and hail, had changed his colour from a gaudy

blue to a faint lack-lustre shade of grey. But there he hung;

rearing, in a state of monstrous imbecility, on his hind legs;

waxing, with every month that passed, so much more dim and

shapeless, that as you gazed at him on one side of the sign-board it

seemed as if he must be gradually melting through it, and coming out

upon the other.

 

He was a courteous and considerate dragon, too; or had been in his

distincter days; for in the midst of his rampant feebleness, he kept

one of his forepaws near his nose, as though he would say, 'Don't

mind me--it's only my fun;' while he held out the other in polite

and hospitable entreaty. Indeed it must be conceded to the whole

brood of dragons of modern times, that they have made a great

advance in civilisation and refinement. They no longer demand a

beautiful virgin for breakfast every morning, with as much

regularity as any tame single gentleman expects his hot roll, but

rest content with the society of idle bachelors and roving married

men; and they are now remarkable rather for holding aloof from the

softer sex and discouraging their visits (especially on Saturday

nights), than for rudely insisting on their company without any

reference to their inclinations, as they are known to have done in

days of yore.

 

Nor is this tribute to the reclaimed animals in question so wide a

digression into the realms of Natural History as it may, at first

sight, appear to be; for the present business of these pages in with

the dragon who had his retreat in Mr Pecksniff's neighbourhood, and

that courteous animal being already on the carpet, there is nothing

in the way of its immediate transaction.

 

For many years, then, he had swung and creaked, and flapped himself

about, before the two windows of the best bedroom of that house of

entertainment to which he lent his name; but never in all his

swinging, creaking, and flapping, had there been such a stir within

its dingy precincts, as on the evening next after that upon which

the incidents, detailed in the last chapter occurred; when there was

such a hurrying up and down stairs of feet, such a glancing of

lights, such a whispering of voices, such a smoking and sputtering

of wood newly lighted in a damp chimney, such an airing of linen,

such a scorching smell of hot warming-pans, such a domestic bustle

and to-do, in short, as never dragon, griffin, unicorn, or other

animal of that species presided over, since they first began to

interest themselves in household affairs.

 

An old gentleman and a young lady, travelling, unattended, in a

rusty old chariot with post-horses; coming nobody knew whence and

going nobody knew whither; had turned out of the high road, and

driven unexpectedly to the Blue Dragon; and here was the old

gentleman, who had taken this step by reason of his sudden illness

in the carriage, suffering the most horrible cramps and spasms, yet

protesting and vowing in the very midst of his pain, that he

wouldn't have a doctor sent for, and wouldn't take any remedies but

those which the young lady administered from a small medicine-chest,

and wouldn't, in a word, do anything but terrify the landlady out of

her five wits, and obstinately refuse compliance with every

suggestion that was made to him.

 

Of all the five hundred proposals for his relief which the good

woman poured out in less than half an hour, he would entertain but

one. That was that he should go to bed. And it was in the

preparation of his bed and the arrangement of his chamber, that all

the stir was made in the room behind the Dragon.

 

He was, beyond all question, very ill, and suffered exceedingly; not

the less, perhaps, because he was a strong and vigorous old man,

with a will of iron, and a voice of brass. But neither the

apprehensions which he plainly entertained, at times, for his life,

nor the great pain he underwent, influenced his resolution in the

least degree. He would have no person sent for. The worse he grew,

the more rigid and inflexible he became in his determination. If

they sent for any person to attend him, man, woman, or child, he

would leave the house directly (so he told them), though he quitted

it on foot, and died upon the threshold of the door.

 

Now, there being no medical practitioner actually resident in the

village, but a poor apothecary who was also a grocer and general

dealer, the landlady had, upon her own responsibility, sent for him,

in the very first burst and outset of the disaster. Of course it

followed, as a necessary result of his being wanted, that he was not

at home. He had gone some miles away, and was not expected home

until late at night; so the landlady, being by this time pretty well

beside herself, dispatched the same messenger in all haste for Mr

Pecksniff, as a learned man who could bear a deal of responsibility,

and a moral man who could administer a world of comfort to a

troubled mind. That her guest had need of some efficient services

under the latter head was obvious enough from the restless

expressions, importing, however, rather a worldly than a spiritual

anxiety, to which he gave frequent utterance.

 

From this last-mentioned secret errand, the messenger returned with

no better news than from the first; Mr Pecksniff was not at home.

However, they got the patient into bed without him; and in the

course of two hours, he gradually became so far better that there

were much longer intervals than at first between his terms of

suffering. By degrees, he ceased to suffer at all; though his

exhaustion was occasionally so great that it suggested hardly less

alarm than his actual endurance had done.

 

It was in one of his intervals of repose, when, looking round with

great caution, and reaching uneasily out of his nest of pillows, he

endeavoured, with a strange air of secrecy and distrust, to make use

of the writing materials which he had ordered to be placed on a

table beside him, that the young lady and the mistress of the Blue

Dragon found themselves sitting side by side before the fire in the

sick chamber.

 

The mistress of the Blue Dragon was in outward appearance just what

a landlady should be: broad, buxom, comfortable, and good looking,

with a face of clear red and white, which, by its jovial aspect, at

once bore testimony to her hearty participation in the good things

of the larder and cellar, and to their thriving and healthful

influences. She was a widow, but years ago had passed through her

state of weeds, and burst into flower again; and in full bloom she

had continued ever since; and in full bloom she was now; with roses

on her ample skirts, and roses on her bodice, roses in her cap,

roses in her cheeks,--aye, and roses, worth the gathering too, on

her lips, for that matter. She had still a bright black eye, and

jet black hair; was comely, dimpled, plump, and tight as a

gooseberry; and though she was not exactly what the world calls

young, you may make an affidavit, on trust, before any mayor or

magistrate in Christendom, that there are a great many young ladies

in the world (blessings on them one and all!) whom you wouldn't like

half as well, or admire half as much, as the beaming hostess of the

Blue Dragon.

 

As this fair matron sat beside the fire, she glanced occasionally

with all the pride of ownership, about the room; which was a large

apartment, such as one may see in country places, with a low roof

and a sunken flooring, all downhill from the door, and a descent of

two steps on the inside so exquisitely unexpected, that strangers,

despite the most elaborate cautioning, usually dived in head first,

as into a plunging-bath. It was none of your frivolous and

preposterously bright bedrooms, where nobody can close an eye with

any kind of propriety or decent regard to the association of ideas;

but it was a good, dull, leaden, drowsy place, where every article

of furniture reminded you that you came there to sleep, and that you

were expected to go to sleep. There was no wakeful reflection of

the fire there, as in your modern chambers, which upon the darkest

nights have a watchful consciousness of French polish; the old

Spanish mahogany winked at it now and then, as a dozing cat or dog

might, nothing more. The very size and shape, and hopeless

immovability of the bedstead, and wardrobe, and in a minor degree of

even the chairs and tables, provoked sleep; they were plainly

apoplectic and disposed to snore. There were no staring portraits

to remonstrate with you for being lazy; no round-eyed birds upon the

curtains, disgustingly wide awake, and insufferably prying. The

thick neutral hangings, and the dark blinds, and the heavy heap of

bed-clothes, were all designed to hold in sleep, and act as

nonconductors to the day and getting up. Even the old stuffed

fox upon the top of the wardrobe was devoid of any spark of

vigilance, for his glass eye had fallen out, and he slumbered

as he stood.

 

The wandering attention of the mistress of the Blue Dragon roved to

these things but twice or thrice, and then for but an instant at a

time. It soon deserted them, and even the distant bed with its

strange burden, for the young creature immediately before her, who,

with her downcast eyes intently fixed upon the fire, sat wrapped in

silent meditation.

 

She was very young; apparently no more than seventeen; timid and

shrinking in her manner, and yet with a greater share of self

possession and control over her emotions than usually belongs to a

far more advanced period of female life. This she had abundantly

shown, but now, in her tending of the sick gentleman. She was short

in stature; and her figure was slight, as became her years; but all

the charms of youth and maidenhood set it off, and clustered on her

gentle brow. Her face was very pale, in part no doubt from recent

agitation. Her dark brown hair, disordered from the same cause, had

fallen negligently from its bonds, and hung upon her neck; for which

instance of its waywardness no male observer would have had the

heart to blame it.

 

Her attire was that of a lady, but extremely plain; and in her

manner, even when she sat as still as she did then, there was an

indefinable something which appeared to be in kindred with her

scrupulously unpretending dress. She had sat, at first looking

anxiously towards the bed; but seeing that the patient remained

quiet, and was busy with his writing, she had softly moved her chair

into its present place; partly, as it seemed, from an instinctive

consciousness that he desired to avoid observation; and partly that

she might, unseen by him, give some vent to the natural feelings she

had hitherto suppressed.

 

Of all this, and much more, the rosy landlady of the Blue Dragon

took as accurate note and observation as only woman can take of

woman. And at length she said, in a voice too low, she knew, to

reach the bed:

 

'You have seen the gentleman in this way before, miss? Is he used

to these attacks?'

 

'I have seen him very ill before, but not so ill as he has been

tonight.'

 

'What a Providence!' said the landlady of the Dragon, 'that you had

the prescriptions and the medicines with you, miss!'

 

'They are intended for such an emergency. We never travel without

them.'

 

'Oh!' thought the hostess, 'then we are in the habit of travelling,

and of travelling together.'

 

She was so conscious of expressing this in her face, that meeting

the young lady's eyes immediately afterwards, and being a very

honest hostess, she was rather confused.

 

'The gentleman--your grandpapa'--she resumed, after a short pause,

'being so bent on having no assistance, must terrify you very much,

miss?'

 

'I have been very much alarmed to-night. He--he is not my

grandfather.'

 

'Father, I should have said,' returned the hostess, sensible of

having made an awkward mistake.

 

'Nor my father' said the young lady. 'Nor,' she added, slightly

smiling with a quick perception of what the landlady was going to

add, 'Nor my uncle. We are not related.'

 

'Oh dear me!' returned the landlady, still more embarrassed than

before; 'how could I be so very much mistaken; knowing, as anybody

in their proper senses might that when a gentleman is ill, he looks

so much older than he really is? That I should have called you

"Miss," too, ma'am!' But when she had proceeded thus far, she

glanced involuntarily at the third finger of the young lady's left

hand, and faltered again; for there was no ring upon it.

 

'When I told you we were not related,' said the other mildly, but

not without confusion on her own part, 'I meant not in any way. Not

even by marriage. Did you call me, Martin?'

 

'Call you?' cried the old man, looking quickly up, and hurriedly

drawing beneath the coverlet the paper on which he had been writing.

'No.'

 

She had moved a pace or two towards the bed, but stopped

immediately, and went no farther.

 

'No,' he repeated, with a petulant emphasis. 'Why do you ask me?

If I had called you, what need for such a question?'

 

'It was the creaking of the sign outside, sir, I dare say,' observed

the landlady; a suggestion by the way (as she felt a moment after

she had made it), not at all complimentary to the voice of the old

gentleman.

 

'No matter what, ma'am,' he rejoined: 'it wasn't I. Why how you

stand there, Mary, as if I had the plague! But they're all afraid of

me,' he added, leaning helplessly backward on his pillow; 'even she!

There is a curse upon me. What else have I to look for?'

 

'Oh dear, no. Oh no, I'm sure,' said the good-tempered landlady,

rising, and going towards him. 'Be of better cheer, sir. These are

only sick fancies.'

 

'What are only sick fancies?' he retorted. 'What do you know about

fancies? Who told you about fancies? The old story! Fancies!'

 

'Only see again there, how you take one up!' said the mistress of

the Blue Dragon, with unimpaired good humour. 'Dear heart alive,

there is no harm in the word, sir, if it is an old one. Folks in

good health have their fancies, too, and strange ones, every day.'

 

Harmless as this speech appeared to be, it acted on the traveller's

distrust, like oil on fire. He raised his head up in the bed, and,

fixing on her two dark eyes whose brightness was exaggerated by the

paleness of his hollow cheeks, as they in turn, together with his

straggling locks of long grey hair, were rendered whiter by the

tight black velvet skullcap which he wore, he searched her face

intently.

 

'Ah! you begin too soon,' he said, in so low a voice that he seemed

to be thinking it, rather than addressing her. 'But you lose no

time. You do your errand, and you earn your fee. Now, who may be

your client?'

 

The landlady looked in great astonishment at her whom he called

Mary, and finding no rejoinder in the drooping face, looked back

again at him. At first she had recoiled involuntarily, supposing

him disordered in his mind; but the slow composure of his manner,

and the settled purpose announced in his strong features, and

gathering, most of all, about his puckered mouth, forbade the

supposition.

 

'Come,' he said, 'tell me who is it? Being here, it is not very

hard for me to guess, you may suppose.'

 

'Martin,' interposed the young lady, laying her hand upon his arm;

'reflect how short a time we have been in this house, and that even

your name is unknown here.'

 

'Unless,' he said, 'you--' He was evidently tempted to express a

suspicion of her having broken his confidence in favour of the

landlady, but either remembering her tender nursing, or being moved

in some sort by her face, he checked himself, and changing his

uneasy posture in the bed, was silent.

 

'There!' said Mrs Lupin; for in that name the Blue Dragon was

licensed to furnish entertainment, both to man and beast. 'Now, you

will be well again, sir. You forgot, for the moment, that there

were none but friends here.'

 

'Oh!' cried the old man, moaning impatiently, as he tossed one

restless arm upon the coverlet; 'why do you talk to me of friends!

Can you or anybody teach me to know who are my friends, and who my

enemies?'

 

'At least,' urged Mrs Lupin, gently, 'this young lady is your

friend, I am sure.'

 

'She has no temptation to be otherwise,' cried the old man, like one

whose hope and confidence were utterly exhausted. 'I suppose she

is. Heaven knows. There, let me try to sleep. Leave the candle

where it is.'

 

As they retired from the bed, he drew forth the writing which had

occupied him so long, and holding it in the flame of the taper burnt

it to ashes. That done, he extinguished the light, and turning his

face away with a heavy sigh, drew the coverlet about his head, and

lay quite still.

 

This destruction of the paper, both as being strangely inconsistent

with the labour he had devoted to it, and as involving considerable

danger of fire to the Dragon, occasioned Mrs Lupin not a little

consternation. But the young lady evincing no surprise, curiosity,

or alarm, whispered her, with many thanks for her solicitude and

company, that she would remain there some time longer; and that she

begged her not to share her watch, as she was well used to being

alone, and would pass the time in reading.

 

Mrs Lupin had her full share and dividend of that large capital of

curiosity which is inherited by her sex, and at another time it

might have been difficult so to impress this hint upon her as to

induce her to take it. But now, in sheer wonder and amazement at

these mysteries, she withdrew at once, and repairing straightway to

her own little parlour below stairs, sat down in her easy-chair with

unnatural composure. At this very crisis, a step was heard in the

entry, and Mr Pecksniff, looking sweetly over the half-door of the

bar, and into the vista of snug privacy beyond, murmured:

 

'Good evening, Mrs Lupin!'

 

'Oh dear me, sir!' she cried, advancing to receive him, 'I am so

very glad you have come.'

 

'And I am very glad I have come,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'if I can be of

service. I am very glad I have come. What is the matter, Mrs

Lupin?'

 

'A gentleman taken ill upon the road, has been so very bad upstairs,

sir,' said the tearful hostess.

 

'A gentleman taken ill upon the road, has been so very bad upstairs,

has he?' repeated Mr Pecksniff. 'Well, well!'

 

Now there was nothing that one may call decidedly original in this

remark, nor can it be exactly said to have contained any wise

precept theretofore unknown to mankind, or to have opened any

hidden source of consolation; but Mr Pecksniff's manner was so

bland, and he nodded his head so soothingly, and showed in

everything such an affable sense of his own excellence, that anybody

would have been, as Mrs Lupin was, comforted by the mere voice and

presence of such a man; and, though he had merely said 'a verb must

agree with its nominative case in number and person, my good

friend,' or 'eight times eight are sixty-four, my worthy soul,' must

have felt deeply grateful to him for his humanity and wisdom.

 

'And how,' asked Mr Pecksniff, drawing off his gloves and warming

his hands before the fire, as benevolently as if they were somebody

else's, not his; 'and how is he now?'

 

'He is better, and quite tranquil,' answered Mrs Lupin.

 

'He is better, and quite tranquil,' said Mr Pecksniff. 'Very well!

Ve-ry well!'

 

Here again, though the statement was Mrs Lupin's and not Mr

Pecksniff's, Mr Pecksniff made it his own and consoled her with it.

It was not much when Mrs Lupin said it, but it was a whole book when

Mr Pecksniff said it. 'I observe,' he seemed to say, 'and through

me, morality in general remarks, that he is better and quite

tranquil.'

 

'There must be weighty matters on his mind, though,' said the

hostess, shaking her head, 'for he talks, sir, in the strangest way

you ever heard. He is far from easy in his thoughts, and wants some

proper advice from those whose goodness makes it worth his having.'

 

'Then,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'he is the sort of customer for me.' But

though he said this in the plainest language, he didn't speak a

word. He only shook his head; disparagingly of himself too.

 

'I am afraid, sir,' continued the landlady, first looking round to

assure herself that there was nobody within hearing, and then

looking down upon the floor. 'I am very much afraid, sir, that his

conscience is troubled by his not being related to--or--or even

married to--a very young lady--'

 

'Mrs Lupin!' said Mr Pecksniff, holding up his hand with something

in his manner as nearly approaching to severity as any expression of

his, mild being that he was, could ever do. 'Person! young person?'

 

'A very young person,' said Mrs Lupin, curtseying and blushing; '--I

beg your pardon, sir, but I have been so hurried to-night, that I

don't know what I say--who is with him now.'

 

'Who is with him now,' ruminated Mr Pecksniff, warming his back (as

he had warmed his hands) as if it were a widow's back, or an

orphan's back, or an enemy's back, or a back that any less excellent

man would have suffered to be cold. 'Oh dear me, dear me!'

 

'At the same time I am bound to say, and I do say with all my

heart,' observed the hostess, earnestly, 'that her looks and manner

almost disarm suspicion.'

 

'Your suspicion, Mrs Lupin,' said Mr Pecksniff gravely, 'is very

natural.'

 

Touching which remark, let it be written down to their confusion,

that the enemies of this worthy man unblushingly maintained that he

always said of what was very bad, that it was very natural; and that

he unconsciously betrayed his own nature in doing so.

 

'Your suspicion, Mrs Lupin,' he repeated, 'is very natural, and I

have no doubt correct. I will wait upon these travellers.'

 

With that he took off his great-coat, and having run his fingers

through his hair, thrust one hand gently in the bosom of his waist-

coat and meekly signed to her to lead the way.

 

'Shall I knock?' asked Mrs Lupin, when they reached the chamber

door.

 

'No,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'enter if you please.'

 

They went in on tiptoe; or rather the hostess took that precaution

for Mr Pecksniff always walked softly. The old gentleman was still

asleep, and his young companion still sat reading by the fire.

 

'I am afraid,' said Mr Pecksniff, pausing at the door, and giving

his head a melancholy roll, 'I am afraid that this looks artful. I

am afraid, Mrs Lupin, do you know, that this looks very artful!'

 

As he finished this whisper, he advanced before the hostess; and at

the same time the young lady, hearing footsteps, rose. Mr Pecksniff

glanced at the volume she held, and whispered Mrs Lupin again; if

possible, with increased despondency.

 

'Yes, ma'am,' he said, 'it is a good book. I was fearful of that

beforehand. I am apprehensive that this is a very deep thing

indeed!'

 

'What gentleman is this?' inquired the object of his virtuous

doubts.

 

'Hush! don't trouble yourself, ma'am,' said Mr Pecksniff, as the

landlady was about to answer. 'This young'--in spite of himself he

hesitated when "person" rose to his lips, and substituted another

word: 'this young stranger, Mrs Lupin, will excuse me for replying

briefly, that I reside in this village; it may be in an influential

manner, however, undeserved; and that I have been summoned here by

you. I am here, as I am everywhere, I hope, in sympathy for the

sick and sorry.'

 

With these impressive words, Mr Pecksniff passed over to the

bedside, where, after patting the counterpane once or twice in a

very solemn manner, as if by that means he gained a clear insight

into the patient's disorder, he took his seat in a large arm-chair,

and in an attitude of some thoughtfulness and much comfort, waited

for his waking. Whatever objection the young lady urged to Mrs

Lupin went no further, for nothing more was said to Mr Pecksniff,

and Mr Pecksniff said nothing more to anybody else.

 

Full half an hour elapsed before the old man stirred, but at length

he turned himself in bed, and, though not yet awake, gave tokens

that his sleep was drawing to an end. By little and little he

removed the bed-clothes from about his head, and turned still more

towards the side where Mr Pecksniff sat. In course of time his eyes

opened; and he lay for a few moments as people newly roused

sometimes will, gazing indolently at his visitor, without any

distinct consciousness of his presence.

 

There was nothing remarkable in these proceedings, except the

influence they worked on Mr Pecksniff, which could hardly have been

surpassed by the most marvellous of natural phenomena. Gradually

his hands became tightly clasped upon the elbows of the chair, his

eyes dilated with surprise, his mouth opened, his hair stood more

erect upon his forehead than its custom was, until, at length, when

the old man rose in bed, and stared at him with scarcely less

emotion than he showed himself, the Pecksniff doubts were all

resolved, and he exclaimed aloud:

 

'You ARE Martin Chuzzlewit!'

 

His consternation of surprise was so genuine, that the old man, with

all the disposition that he clearly entertained to believe it

assumed, was convinced of its reality.

 

'I am Martin Chuzzlewit,' he said, bitterly: 'and Martin Chuzzlewit

wishes you had been hanged, before you had come here to disturb him

in his sleep. Why, I dreamed of this fellow!' he said, lying down

again, and turning away his face, 'before I knew that he was near

me!'

 

'My good cousin--' said Mr Pecksniff.

 

'There! His very first words!' cried the old man, shaking his grey

head to and fro upon the pillow, and throwing up his hands. 'In his

very first words he asserts his relationship! I knew he would; they

all do it! Near or distant, blood or water, it's all one. Ugh! What

a calendar of deceit, and lying, and false-witnessing, the sound of

any word of kindred opens before me!'

 

'Pray do not be hasty, Mr Chuzzlewit,' said Pecksniff, in a tone

that was at once in the sublimest degree compassionate and

dispassionate; for he had by this time recovered from his surprise,

and was in full possession of his virtuous self. 'You will regret

being hasty, I know you will.'

 

'You know!' said Martin, contemptuously.

 

'Yes,' retorted Mr Pecksniff. 'Aye, aye, Mr Chuzzlewit; and don't

imagine that I mean to court or flatter you; for nothing is further

from my intention. Neither, sir, need you entertain the least

misgiving that I shall repeat that obnoxious word which has given

you so much offence already. Why should I? What do I expect or

want from you? There is nothing in your possession that I know of,

Mr Chuzzlewit, which is much to be coveted for the happiness it

brings you.'

 

'That's true enough,' muttered the old man.

 

'Apart from that consideration,' said Mr Pecksniff, watchful of the

effect he made, 'it must be plain to you (I am sure) by this time,

that if I had wished to insinuate myself into your good opinion, I

should have been, of all things, careful not to address you as a

relative; knowing your humour, and being quite certain beforehand

that I could not have a worse letter of recommendation.'

 

Martin made not any verbal answer; but he as clearly implied though

only by a motion of his legs beneath the bed-clothes, that there was

reason in this, and that he could not dispute it, as if he had said

as much in good set terms.

 

'No,' said Mr Pecksniff, keeping his hand in his waistcoat as though

he were ready, on the shortest notice, to produce his heart for

Martin Chuzzlewit's inspection, 'I came here to offer my services to

a stranger. I make no offer of them to you, because I know you

would distrust me if I did. But lying on that bed, sir, I regard

you as a stranger, and I have just that amount of interest in you

which I hope I should feel in any stranger, circumstanced as you

are. Beyond that, I am quite as indifferent to you, Mr Chuzzlewit,

as you are to me.'

 

Having said which, Mr Pecksniff threw himself back in the easy-chair;

so radiant with ingenuous honesty, that Mrs Lupin almost wondered

not to see a stained-glass Glory, such as the Saint wore in the

church, shining about his head.

 

A long pause succeeded. The old man, with increased restlessness,

changed his posture several times. Mrs Lupin and the young lady

gazed in silence at the counterpane. Mr Pecksniff toyed

abstractedly with his eye-glass, and kept his eyes shut, that he

might ruminate the better.

 

'Eh?' he said at last, opening them suddenly, and looking towards

the bed. 'I beg your pardon. I thought you spoke. Mrs Lupin,' he

continued, slowly rising 'I am not aware that I can be of any

service to you here. The gentleman is better, and you are as good a

nurse as he can have. Eh?'

 

This last note of interrogation bore reference to another change of

posture on the old man's part, which brought his face towards Mr

Pecksniff for the first time since he had turned away from him.

 

'If you desire to speak to me before I go, sir,' continued that

gentleman, after another pause, 'you may command my leisure; but I

must stipulate, in justice to myself, that you do so as to a

stranger, strictly as to a stranger.'

 

Now if Mr Pecksniff knew, from anything Martin Chuzzlewit had

expressed in gestures, that he wanted to speak to him, he could only

have found it out on some such principle as prevails in melodramas,

and in virtue of which the elderly farmer with the comic son always

knows what the dumb girl means when she takes refuge in his garden,

and relates her personal memoirs in incomprehensible pantomime. But

without stopping to make any inquiry on this point, Martin

Chuzzlewit signed to his young companion to withdraw, which she

immediately did, along with the landlady leaving him and Mr

Pecksniff alone together. For some time they looked at each other

in silence; or rather the old man looked at Mr Pecksniff, and Mr

Pecksniff again closing his eyes on all outward objects, took an

inward survey of his own breast. That it amply repaid him for his

trouble, and afforded a delicious and enchanting prospect, was clear

from the expression of his face.

 

'You wish me to speak to you as to a total stranger,' said the old

man, 'do you?'

 

Mr Pecksniff replied, by a shrug of his shoulders and an apparent

turning round of his eyes in their sockets before he opened them,

that he was still reduced to the necessity of entertaining that

desire.

 

'You shall be gratified,' said Martin. 'Sir, I am a rich man. Not

so rich as some suppose, perhaps, but yet wealthy. I am not a miser

sir, though even that charge is made against me, as I hear, and

currently believed. I have no pleasure in hoarding. I have no

pleasure in the possession of money, The devil that we call by that

name can give me nothing but unhappiness.'

 

It would be no description of Mr Pecksniff's gentleness of manner to

adopt the common parlance, and say that he looked at this moment as

if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. He rather looked as if any

quantity of butter might have been made out of him, by churning the

milk of human kindness, as it spouted upwards from his heart.

 

'For the same reason that I am not a hoarder of money,' said the old

man, 'I am not lavish of it. Some people find their gratification

in storing it up; and others theirs in parting with it; but I have

no gratification connected with the thing. Pain and bitterness are

the only goods it ever could procure for me. I hate it. It is a

spectre walking before me through the world, and making every social

pleasure hideous.'

 

A thought arose in Pecksniff's mind, which must have instantly

mounted to his face, or Martin Chuzzlewit would not have resumed as

quickly and as sternly as he did:

 

'You would advise me for my peace of mind, to get rid of this source

of misery, and transfer it to some one who could bear it better.

Even you, perhaps, would rid me of a burden under which I suffer so

grievously. But, kind stranger,' said the old man, whose every

feature darkened as he spoke, 'good Christian stranger, that is a

main part of my trouble. In other hands, I have known money do

good; in other hands I have known it triumphed in, and boasted of

with reason, as the master-key to all the brazen gates that close

upon the paths to worldly honour, fortune, and enjoyment. To what

man or woman; to what worthy, honest, incorruptible creature; shall

I confide such a talisman, either now or when I die? Do you know

any such person? YOUR virtues are of course inestimable, but can

you tell me of any other living creature who will bear the test of

contact with myself?'

 

'Of contact with yourself, sir?' echoed Mr Pecksniff.

 

'Aye,' returned the old man, 'the test of contact with me--with me.

You have heard of him whose misery (the gratification of his own

foolish wish) was, that he turned every thing he touched into gold.

The curse of my existence, and the realisation of my own mad desire

is that by the golden standard which I bear about me, I am doomed to

try the metal of all other men, and find it false and hollow.'

 

Mr Pecksniff shook his head, and said, 'You think so.'

 

'Oh yes,' cried the old man, 'I think so! and in your telling me "I

think so," I recognize the true unworldly ring of YOUR metal. I

tell you, man,' he added, with increasing bitterness, 'that I have

gone, a rich man, among people of all grades and kinds; relatives,

friends, and strangers; among people in whom, when I was poor, I had

confidence, and justly, for they never once deceived me then, or, to

me, wronged each other. But I have never found one nature, no, not

one, in which, being wealthy and alone, I was not forced to detect

the latent corruption that lay hid within it waiting for such as I

to bring it forth. Treachery, deceit, and low design; hatred of

competitors, real or fancied, for my favour; meanness, falsehood,

baseness, and servility; or,' and here he looked closely in his

cousin's eyes, 'or an assumption of honest independence, almost

worse than all; these are the beauties which my wealth has brought

to light. Brother against brother, child against parent, friends

treading on the faces of friends, this is the social company by whom

my way has been attended. There are stories told--they may be true

or false--of rich men who, in the garb of poverty, have found out

virtue and rewarded it. They were dolts and idiots for their pains.

They should have made the search in their own characters. They

should have shown themselves fit objects to be robbed and preyed

upon and plotted against and adulated by any knaves, who, but for

joy, would have spat upon their coffins when they died their dupes;

and then their search would have ended as mine has done, and they

would be what I am.'

 

Mr Pecksniff, not at all knowing what it might be best to say in the

momentary pause which ensued upon these remarks, made an elaborate

demonstration of intending to deliver something very oracular

indeed; trusting to the certainty of the old man interrupting him,

before he should utter a word. Nor was he mistaken, for Martin

Chuzzlewit having taken breath, went on to say:

 

'Hear me to an end; judge what profit you are like to gain from any

repetition of this visit; and leave me. I have so corrupted and

changed the nature of all those who have ever attended on me, by

breeding avaricious plots and hopes within them; I have engendered

such domestic strife and discord, by tarrying even with members of

my own family; I have been such a lighted torch in peaceful homes,

kindling up all the inflammable gases and vapours in their moral

atmosphere, which, but for me, might have proved harmless to the

end, that I have, I may say, fled from all who knew me, and taking

refuge in secret places have lived, of late, the life of one who is

hunted. The young girl whom you just now saw--what! your eye

lightens when I talk of her! You hate her already, do you?'

 

'Upon my word, sir!' said Mr Pecksniff, laying his hand upon his

breast, and dropping his eyelids.

 

'I forgot,' cried the old man, looking at him with a keenness which

the other seemed to feel, although he did not raise his eyes so as

to see it. 'I ask your pardon. I forgot you were a stranger. For

the moment you reminded me of one Pecksniff, a cousin of mine. As I

was saying--the young girl whom you just now saw, is an orphan

child, whom, with one steady purpose, I have bred and educated, or,

if you prefer the word, adopted. For a year or more she has been my

constant companion, and she is my only one. I have taken, as she

knows, a solemn oath never to leave her sixpence when I die, but

while I live I make her an annual allowance; not extravagant in its

amount and yet not stinted. There is a compact between us that no

term of affectionate cajolery shall ever be addressed by either to

the other, but that she shall call me always by my Christian name; I

her, by hers. She is bound to me in life by ties of interest, and

losing by my death, and having no expectation disappointed, will

mourn it, perhaps; though for that I care little. This is the only

kind of friend I have or will have. Judge from such premises what a

profitable hour you have spent in coming here, and leave me, to

return no more.'

 

With these words, the old man fell slowly back upon his pillow. Mr

Pecksniff as slowly rose, and, with a prefatory hem, began as

follows:

 

'Mr Chuzzlewit.'

 

'There. Go!' interposed the other. 'Enough of this. I am weary of

you.'

 

'I am sorry for that, sir,' rejoined Mr Pecksniff, 'because I have a

duty to discharge, from which, depend upon it, I shall not shrink.

No, sir, I shall not shrink.'

 

It is a lamentable fact, that as Mr Pecksniff stood erect beside the

bed, in all the dignity of Goodness, and addressed him thus, the old

man cast an angry glance towards the candlestick, as if he were

possessed by a strong inclination to launch it at his cousin's head.

But he constrained himself, and pointing with his finger to the

door, informed him that his road lay there.

 

'Thank you,' said Mr Pecksniff; 'I am aware of that. I am going.

But before I go, I crave your leave to speak, and more than that, Mr

Chuzzlewit, I must and will--yes indeed, I repeat it, must and will

--be heard. I am not surprised, sir, at anything you have told me

tonight. It is natural, very natural, and the greater part of it

was known to me before. I will not say,' continued Mr Pecksniff,

drawing out his pocket-handkerchief, and winking with both eyes at

once, as it were, against his will, 'I will not say that you are

mistaken in me. While you are in your present mood I would not say

so for the world. I almost wish, indeed, that I had a different

nature, that I might repress even this slight confession of

weakness; which I cannot disguise from you; which I feel is

humiliating; but which you will have the goodness to excuse. We

will say, if you please,' added Mr Pecksniff, with great tenderness

of manner, 'that it arises from a cold in the head, or is

attributable to snuff, or smelling-salts, or onions, or anything but

the real cause.'

 

Here he paused for an instant, and concealed his face behind his

pocket-handkerchief. Then, smiling faintly, and holding the bed

furniture with one hand, he resumed:

 

'But, Mr Chuzzlewit, while I am forgetful of myself, I owe it to

myself, and to my character--aye, sir, and I HAVE a character which

is very dear to me, and will be the best inheritance of my two

daughters--to tell you, on behalf of another, that your conduct is

wrong, unnatural, indefensible, monstrous. And I tell you, sir,'

said Mr Pecksniff, towering on tiptoe among the curtains, as if he

were literally rising above all worldly considerations, and were

fain to hold on tight, to keep himself from darting skyward like a

rocket, 'I tell you without fear or favour, that it will not do for

you to be unmindful of your grandson, young Martin, who has the

strongest natural claim upon you. It will not do, sir,' repeated Mr

Pecksniff, shaking his head. 'You may think it will do, but it

won't. You must provide for that young man; you shall provide for

him; you WILL provide for him. I believe,' said Mr Pecksniff,

glancing at the pen-and-ink, 'that in secret you have already done

so. Bless you for doing so. Bless you for doing right, sir. Bless

you for hating me. And good night!'

 

So saying, Mr Pecksniff waved his right hand with much solemnity,

and once more inserting it in his waistcoat, departed. There was

emotion in his manner, but his step was firm. Subject to human

weaknesses, he was upheld by conscience.

 

Martin lay for some time, with an expression on his face of silent

wonder, not unmixed with rage; at length he muttered in a whisper:

 

'What does this mean? Can the false-hearted boy have chosen such a

tool as yonder fellow who has just gone out? Why not! He has

conspired against me, like the rest, and they are but birds of one

feather. A new plot; a new plot! Oh self, self, self! At every

turn nothing but self!'

 

He fell to trifling, as he ceased to speak, with the ashes of the

burnt paper in the candlestick. He did so, at first, in pure

abstraction, but they presently became the subject of his thoughts.

 

'Another will made and destroyed,' he said, 'nothing determined on,

nothing done, and I might have died to-night! I plainly see to what

foul uses all this money will be put at last,' he cried, almost

writhing in the bed; 'after filling me with cares and miseries all

my life, it will perpetuate discord and bad passions when I am dead.

So it always is. What lawsuits grow out of the graves of rich men,

every day; sowing perjury, hatred, and lies among near kindred,

where there should be nothing but love! Heaven help us, we have much

to answer for! Oh self, self, self! Every man for himself, and no

creature for me!'

 

Universal self! Was there nothing of its shadow in these

reflections, and in the history of Martin Chuzzlewit, on his own

showing? _

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