Chapter Three

Martin Chuzzlewit

by Charles Dickens

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?