“Will you hold your tongue, sir, and let me speak?”
Mr. Pecksniff deferred to him with a submissive bow; and said within himself, “I knew his hand was changed, and that his writing staggered. I said so yesterday. Ahem! Dear me!”
“Jonas is sweet upon your daughter, Pecksniff,” said the old man, in his usual tone.
“We spoke of that, if you remember, sir, at Mrs. Todgers’s,” replied the courteous architect.
“You needn’t speak so loud,” retorted Anthony. “I’m not so deaf as that.”
Mr. Pecksniff had certainly raised his voice pretty high; not so much because he thought Anthony was deaf, as because he felt convinced that his perceptive faculties were waxing dim; but this quick resentment of his considerate behaviour greatly disconcerted him, and, not knowing what tack to shape his course upon, he made another inclination of the head, yet more submissive that the last.
“I have said,” repeated the old man, “that Jonas is sweet upon your daughter.”
“A charming girl, sir,” murmured Mr. Pecksniff, seeing that he waited for an answer. “A dear girl, Mr. Chuzzlewit, though I say it who should not.”
“You know better,” cried the old man, advancing his weazen face at least a yard, and starting forward in his chair to do it. “You lie! What, you will be a hypocrite, will you?”
“My good sir,” Mr. Pecksniff began.
“Don’t call me a good sir,” retorted Anthony, “and don’t claim to be one yourself. If your daughter was what you would have me believe, she wouldn’t do for Jonas. Being what she is, I think she will. He might be deceived in a wife. She might run riot, contract debts, and waste his substance. Now when I am dead—”
His face altered so horribly as he said the word, that Mr. Pecksniff really was fain to look another way.
“—It will be worse for me to know of such doings than if I was alive; for to be tormented for getting that together, which even while I suffer for its acquisition is flung into the very kennels of the streets, would be insupportable torture. No,” said the old man, hoarsely, “let that be saved at least; let there be something gained, and kept fast hold of, when so much is lost.”
“My dear Mr. Chuzzlewit,” said Pecksniff, “these are unwholesome fancies; quite unnecessary, sir, quite uncalled for, I am sure. The truth is, my dear sir, that you are not well!”
“Not dying though!” cried Anthony, with something like the snarl of a wild animal. “Not yet! There are years of life in me. Why, look at him,” pointing to his feeble clerk. “Death has no right to leave him standing, and to mow me down!”
Mr. Pecksniff was so much afraid of the old man, and so completely taken aback by the state in which he found him, that he had not even presence of mind enough to call up a scrap of morality from the great storehouse within his own breast. Therefore he stammered out that no doubt it was, in fairness and decency, Mr. Chuffey’s turn to expire; and that from all he had heard of Mr. Chuffey, and the little he had the pleasure of knowing of that gentleman, personally, he felt convinced in his own mind that he would see the propriety of expiring with as little delay as possible.
“Come here!” said the old man, beckoning him to draw nearer. “Jonas will be my heir, Jonas will be rich, and a great catch for you. You know that. Jonas is sweet upon your daughter.”
“I know that too,” thought Mr. Pecksniff, “for you have said it often enough.”
“He might get more money than with her,” said the old man, “but she will help him to take care of what they have. She is not too young or heedless, and comes of a good hard gripping stock. But don’t you play too fine a game. She only holds him by a thread; and if you draw it too tight (I know his temper) it’ll snap. Bind him when he’s in the mood, Pecksniff; bind him. You’re too deep. In your way of leading him on, you’ll leave him miles behind. Bah, you man of oil, have I no eyes to see how you have angled with him from the first?”
“Now I wonder,” thought Mr. Pecksniff, looking at him with a wistful face, “whether this is all he has to say?”
Old Anthony rubbed his hands and muttered to himself; complained again that he was cold; drew his chair before the fire; and, sitting with his back to Mr. Pecksniff, and his chin sunk down upon his breast, was, in another minute, quite regardless or forgetful of his presence.
Uncouth and unsatisfactory as this short interview had been, it had furnished Mr. Pecksniff with a hint which, supposing nothing further were imparted to him, repaid the journey up and home again. For the good gentleman had never (for want of an opportunity) dived into the depths of Mr. Jonas’s nature; and any recipe for catching such a son-in-law (much more one written on a leaf out of his own father’s book) was worth the having. In order that he might lose no chance of improving so fair an opportunity by allowing Anthony to fall asleep before he had finished all he had to say, Mr. Pecksniff, in the disposal of the refreshments on the table, a work to which he now applied himself in earnest, resorted to many ingenious contrivances for attracting his attention; such as coughing, sneezing,
