The good man smiled a greasy smile; and drew her closer to him.
“Pray, pray release me, Mr. Pecksniff. I cannot listen to your proposal. I cannot receive it. There are many to whom it may be acceptable, but it is not so to me. As an act of kindness and an act of pity, leave me!”
Mr. Pecksniff walked on with his arm round her waist, and her hand in his, as contentedly as if they had been all in all to each other, and were joined in the bonds of truest love.
“If you force me by your superior strength,” said Mary, who finding that good words had not the least effect upon him, made no further effort to suppress her indignation; “if you force me by your superior strength to accompany you back, and to be the subject of your insolence upon the way, you cannot constrain the expression of my thoughts. I hold you in the deepest abhorrence. I know your real nature and despise it.”
“No, no,” said Mr. Pecksniff, sweetly. “No, no, no!”
“By what arts or unhappy chances you have gained your influence over Mr. Chuzzlewit, I do not know,” said Mary; “it may be strong enough to soften even this, but he shall know of this, trust me, sir.”
Mr. Pecksniff raised his heavy eyelids languidly, and let them fall again. It was saying with perfect coolness, “Aye, aye! Indeed!”
“Is it not enough,” said Mary, “that you warp and change his nature, adapt his every prejudice to your bad ends, and harden a heart naturally kind by shutting out the truth and allowing none but false and distorted views to reach it; is it not enough that you have the power of doing this, and that you exercise it, but must you also be so coarse, so cruel, and so cowardly to me?”
Still Mr. Pecksniff led her calmly on, and looked as mild as any lamb that ever pastured in the fields.
“Will nothing move you, sir?” cried Mary.
“My dear,” observed Mr. Pecksniff, with a placid leer, “a habit of self-examination, and the practice of—shall I say of virtue?”
“Of hypocrisy,” said Mary.
“No, no,” resumed Mr. Pecksniff, chafing the captive hand reproachfully, “of virtue—have enabled me to set such guards upon myself, that it is really difficult to ruffle me. It is a curious fact, but it is difficult, do you know, for anyone to ruffle me. And did she think,” said Mr. Pecksniff, with a playful tightening of his grasp “that she could! How little did she know his heart!”
Little, indeed! Her mind was so strangely constituted that she would have preferred the caresses of a toad, an adder, or a serpent—nay, the hug of a bear—to the endearments of Mr. Pecksniff.
“Come, come,” said that good gentleman, “a word or two will set this matter right, and establish a pleasant understanding between us. I am not angry, my love.”
“You angry!”
“No,” said Mr. Pecksniff, “I am not. I say so. Neither are you.”
There was a beating heart beneath his hand that told another story though.
“I am sure you are not,” said Mr. Pecksniff: “and I will tell you why. There are two Martin Chuzzlewits, my dear; and your carrying your anger to one might have a serious effect—who knows!—upon the other. You wouldn’t wish to hurt him, would you?”
She trembled violently, and looked at him with such a proud disdain that he turned his eyes away. No doubt lest he should be offended with her in spite of his better self.
“A passive quarrel, my love,” said Mr. Pecksniff, “may be changed into an active one, remember. It would be sad to blight even a disinherited young man in his already blighted prospects; but how easy to do it. Ah, how easy! Have I influence with our venerable friend, do you think? Well, perhaps I have. Perhaps I have.”
He raised his eyes to hers; and nodded with an air of banter that was charming.
“No,” he continued, thoughtfully. “Upon the whole, my sweet, if I were you I’d keep my secret to myself. I am not at all sure—very far from it—that it would surprise our friend in any way, for he and I have had some conversation together only this morning, and he is anxious, very anxious, to establish you in some more settled manner. But whether he was surprised or not surprised, the consequence of your imparting it might be the same. Martin junior might suffer severely. I’d have compassion on Martin junior, do you know?” said Mr. Pecksniff, with a persuasive smile. “Yes. He don’t deserve it, but I would.”
She wept so bitterly now, and was so much distressed, that he thought it prudent to unclasp her waist, and hold her only by the hand.
“As to our own share in the precious little mystery,” said Mr. Pecksniff, “we will keep it to ourselves, and talk of it between ourselves, and you shall think it over. You will consent, my love; you will consent, I know. Whatever you may think; you will. I seem to remember to have heard—I really don’t know where, or how”—he added, with bewitching frankness, “that you and Martin junior, when you were children, had a sort of childish fondness for each other. When we are married, you shall have the satisfaction of thinking that it didn’t last to ruin him, but passed away to do him good; for we’ll see then what we can do to put some trifling help in Martin junior’s way. Have I any influence with our venerable friend? Well! Perhaps I have. Perhaps I have.”
The outlet from the wood in which these tender passages occurred, was close to Mr. Pecksniff’s house. They were now so near it that he stopped, and holding up her little finger, said in playful accents, as a parting fancy:
“Shall I bite it?”
Receiving no reply he kissed it instead; and
