“Susan Kenwigs,” said Mr. Lillyvick, turning humbly to his niece, “don’t you say anything to me?”
“She is not equal to it, sir,” said Mr. Kenwigs, striking the table emphatically. “What with the nursing of a healthy babby, and the reflections upon your cruel conduct, four pints of malt liquor a day is hardly able to sustain her.”
“I am glad,” said the poor collector meekly, “that the baby is a healthy one. I am very glad of that.”
This was touching the Kenwigses on their tenderest point. Mrs. Kenwigs instantly burst into tears, and Mr. Kenwigs evinced great emotion.
“My pleasantest feeling, all the time that child was expected,” said Mr. Kenwigs, mournfully, “was a thinking, ‘If it’s a boy, as I hope it may be; for I have heard its uncle Lillyvick say again and again he would prefer our having a boy next, if it’s a boy, what will his uncle Lillyvick say? What will he like him to be called? Will he be Peter, or Alexander, or Pompey, or Diorgeenes, or what will he be?’ And now when I look at him; a precious, unconscious, helpless infant, with no use in his little arms but to tear his little cap, and no use in his little legs but to kick his little self—when I see him a lying on his mother’s lap, cooing and cooing, and, in his innocent state, almost a choking his-self with his little fist—when I see him such a infant as he is, and think that that uncle Lillyvick, as was once a-going to be so fond of him, has withdrawed himself away, such a feeling of wengeance comes over me as no language can depicter, and I feel as if even that holy babe was a telling me to hate him.”
This affecting picture moved Mrs. Kenwigs deeply. After several imperfect words, which vainly attempted to struggle to the surface, but were drowned and washed away by the strong tide of her tears, she spake.
“Uncle,” said Mrs. Kenwigs, “to think that you should have turned your back upon me and my dear children, and upon Kenwigs which is the author of their being—you who was once so kind and affectionate, and who, if anybody had told us such a thing of, we should have withered with scorn like lightning—you that little Lillyvick, our first and earliest boy, was named after at the very altar! Oh gracious!”
“Was it money that we cared for?” said Mr. Kenwigs. “Was it property that we ever thought of?”
“No,” cried Mrs. Kenwigs, “I scorn it.”
“So do I,” said Mr. Kenwigs, “and always did.”
“My feelings have been lancerated,” said Mrs. Kenwigs, “my heart has been torn asunder with anguish, I have been thrown back in my confinement, my unoffending infant has been rendered uncomfortable and fractious, Morleena has pined herself away to nothing; all this I forget and forgive, and with you, uncle, I never can quarrel. But never ask me to receive her, never do it, uncle. For I will not, I will not, I won’t, I won’t, I won’t!”
“Susan, my dear,” said Mr. Kenwigs, “consider your child.”
“Yes,” shrieked Mrs. Kenwigs, “I will consider my child! I will consider my child! My own child, that no uncles can deprive me of; my own hated, despised, deserted, cutoff little child.” And, here, the emotions of Mrs. Kenwigs became so violent, that Mr. Kenwigs was fain to administer hartshorn internally, and vinegar externally, and to destroy a staylace, four petticoat strings, and several small buttons.
Newman had been a silent spectator of this scene; for Mr. Lillyvick had signed to him not to withdraw, and Mr. Kenwigs had further solicited his presence by a nod of invitation. When Mrs. Kenwigs had been, in some degree, restored, and Newman, as a person possessed of some influence with her, had remonstrated and begged her to compose herself, Mr. Lillyvick said in a faltering voice:
“I never shall ask anybody here to receive my—I needn’t mention the word; you know what I mean. Kenwigs and Susan, yesterday was a week she eloped with a half-pay captain!”
Mr. and Mrs. Kenwigs started together.
“Eloped with a half-pay captain,” repeated Mr. Lillyvick, “basely and falsely eloped with a half-pay captain. With a bottle-nosed captain that any man might have considered himself safe from. It was in this room,” said Mr. Lillyvick, looking sternly round, “that I first see Henrietta Petowker. It is in this room that I turn her off, forever.”
This declaration completely changed the whole posture of affairs. Mrs. Kenwigs threw herself upon the old gentleman’s neck, bitterly reproaching herself for her late harshness, and exclaiming, if she had suffered, what must his sufferings have been! Mr. Kenwigs grasped his hand, and vowed eternal friendship and remorse. Mrs. Kenwigs was horror-stricken to think that she should ever have nourished in her bosom such a snake, adder, viper, serpent, and base crocodile as Henrietta Petowker. Mr. Kenwigs argued that she must have been bad indeed not to have improved by so long a contemplation of Mrs. Kenwigs’s virtue. Mrs. Kenwigs remembered that Mr. Kenwigs had often said that he was not quite satisfied of the propriety of Miss Petowker’s conduct, and wondered how it was that she could have been blinded by such a wretch. Mr. Kenwigs remembered that he had had his suspicions, but did not wonder why Mrs. Kenwigs had not had hers, as she was all chastity, purity, and truth, and Henrietta all baseness, falsehood, and deceit. And Mr. and Mrs. Kenwigs both said, with strong feelings and tears of sympathy, that everything happened for the best; and conjured the good collector not to give way to unavailing grief, but to seek consolation in the society of those affectionate relations whose arms and hearts were ever open to him.
“Out of affection and regard for you, Susan and Kenwigs,” said Mr. Lillyvick, “and not out of revenge and spite against her, for she is below it, I shall, tomorrow morning, settle upon your children, and make payable
