“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
