what entire possession he had obtained over the mind and person of old Mr Chuzzlewit, and what high honour he designed for Mary. On receipt of this intelligence, Martin's slippers flew off in a twinkling, and he began pulling on his wet boots with that indefinite intention of going somewhere instantly, and doing something to somebody, which is the first safety-valve of a hot temper.
“He!” said Martin, “smooth-tongued villain that he is! He! Give me that other boot, Mark?”
“Where was you a-thinking of going to, sir?” inquired Mr Tapley drying the sole at the fire, and looking coolly at it as he spoke, as if it were a slice of toast.
“Where!” repeated Martin. “You don't suppose I am going to remain here, do you?”
The imperturbable Mark confessed that he did.
You do!” retorted Martin angrily. “I am much obliged to you. What do you take me for?”
“I take you for what you are, sir,” said Mark; “and, consequently, am quite sure that whatever you do will be right and sensible. The boot, sir.”
Martin darted an impatient look at him, without taking it, and walked rapidly up and down the kitchen several times, with one boot and a stocking on. But, mindful of his Eden resolution, he had already gained many victories over himself when Mark was in the case, and he resolved to conquer now. So he came back to the book-jack, laid his hand on Mark's shoulder to steady himself, pulled the boot off, picked up his slippers, put them on, and sat down again. He could not help thrusting his hands to the very bottom of his pockets, and muttering at intervals, “Pecksniff too! That fellow! Upon my soul! In-deed! What next?” and so forth; nor could he help occasionally shaking his fist at the chimney, with a very threatening countenance; but this did not last long; and he heard Mrs Lupin out, if not with composure, at all events in silence.
“As to Mr Pecksniff himself,” observed the hostess in conclusion, spreading out the skirts of her gown with both hands, and nodding her head a great many times as she did so, “I don't know what to say. Somebody must have poisoned his mind, or influenced him in some extraordinary way. I cannot believe that such a noble-spoken gentleman would go and do wrong of his own accord!”
A noble-spoken gentleman! How many people are there in the world, who, for no better reason, uphold their Pecksniffs to the last and abandon virtuous men, when Pecksniffs breathe upon them!
“As to Mr Pinch,” pursued the landlady, “if ever there was a dear, good, pleasant, worthy soul alive, Pinch, and no other, is his name. But how do we know that old Mr Chuzzlewit himself was not the cause of difference arising between him and Mr Pecksniff? No one but themselves can tell; for Mr Pinch has a proud spirit, though he has such a quiet way; and when he left us, and was so sorry to go, he scorned to make his story good, even to me.”
“Poor old Tom!” said Martin, in a tone that sounded like remorse.
“It's a comfort to know,” resumed the landlady, “that he has his sister living with him, and is doing well. Only yesterday he sent me back, by post, a little'—here the colour came into her cheeks— “a little trifle I was bold enough to lend him when he went away; saying, with many thanks, that he had good employment, and didn't want it. It was the same note; he hadn't broken it. I never thought I could have been so little pleased to see a bank-note come back to me as I was to see that.”
“Kindly said, and heartily!” said Martin. “Is it not, Mark?”
“She can't say anything as does not possess them qualities,” returned Mr Tapley; “which as much belongs to the Dragon as its licence. And now that we have got quite cool and fresh, to the subject again, sir; what will you do? If you're not proud, and can make up your mind to go through with what you spoke of, coming along, that's the course for you to take. If you started wrong with your grandfather (which, you'll excuse my taking the liberty of saying, appears to have been the case), up with you, sir, and tell him so, and make an appeal to his affections. Don't stand out. He's a great deal older than you, and if he was hasty, you was hasty too. Give way, sir, give way.”
The eloquence of Mr Tapley was not without its effect on Martin but he still hesitated, and expressed his reason thus:
“That's all very true, and perfectly correct, Mark; and if it were a mere question of humbling myself before HIM, I would not consider it twice. But don't you see, that being wholly under this hypocrite's government, and having (if what we hear be true) no mind or will of his own, I throw myself, in fact, not at his feet, but at the feet of Mr Pecksniff? And when I am rejected and spurned away,” said Martin, turning crimson at the thought, “it is not by him; my own blood stirred against me; but by Pecksniff—Pecksniff, Mark!”
“Well, but we know beforehand,” returned the politic Mr Tapley, “that Pecksniff is a wagabond, a scoundrel, and a willain.”
“A most pernicious villain!” said Martin.
“A most pernicious willain. We know that beforehand, sir; and, consequently, it's no shame to be defeated by Pecksniff. Blow Pecksniff!” cried Mr Tapley, in the fervour of his eloquence. “Who's he! It's not in the natur of Pecksniff to shame US, unless he agreed with us, or done us a service; and, in case he offered any audacity of that description, we could express our sentiments in the English language, I hope. Pecksniff!” repeated Mr Tapley, with ineffable disdain. “What's Pecksniff, who's Pecksniff, where's Pecksniff, that he's to be so much considered? We're not acalculating for ourselves;” he laid uncommon emphasis on the last syllable of that word, and looked full in Martin's face; “we're making a effort for a young lady likewise as has undergone her share; and whatever little hope we have, this here Pecksniff is not to stand in its way, I expect. I never heard of any act of Parliament, as was made by Pecksniff. Pecksniff! Why, I wouldn't see the man myself; I wouldn't hear him; I wouldn't choose to know he was in company. I'd scrape my shoes on the scraper of the door, and call that Pecksniff, if you liked; but I wouldn't condescend no further.”
The amazement of Mrs Lupin, and indeed of Mr Tapley himself for that matter, at this impassioned flow of language, was immense. But Martin, after looking thoughtfully at the fire for a short time, said:
“You are right, Mark. Right or wrong, it shall be done. I'll do it.”
“One word more, sir,” returned Mark. “Only think of him so far as not to give him a handle against you. Don't you do anything secret that he can report before you get there. Don't you even see Miss Mary in the morning, but let this here dear friend of ours'—Mr Tapley bestowed a smile upon the hostess—'prepare her for what's agoing to happen, and carry any little message as may be agreeable. She knows how. Don't you?” Mrs Lupin laughed and tossed her head. “Then you go in, bold and free as a gentleman should. “I haven't done nothing under-handed,” says you. “I haven't been skulking about the premises, here I am, for-give me, I ask your pardon, God Bless You!”
Martin smiled, but felt that it was good advice notwithstanding, and resolved to act upon it. When they had ascertained from Mrs Lupin that Pecksniff had already returned from the great ceremonial at which they had beheld him in his glory; and when they had fully arranged the order of their proceedings; they went to bed, intent upon the morrow.
In pursuance of their project as agreed upon at this discussion, Mr Tapley issued forth next morning, after breakfast, charged with a letter from Martin to his grandfather, requesting leave to wait upon him for a few minutes. And postponing as he went along the congratulations of his numerous friends until a more convenient season, he soon arrived at Mr Pecksniff's house. At that gentleman's door; with a face so immovable that it would have been next to an impossibility for the most acute physiognomist to determine what he was thinking about, or whether he was thinking at all; he straightway knocked.
A person of Mr Tapley's observation could not long remain insensible to the fact that Mr Pecksniff was making the end of his nose very blunt against the glass of the parlour window, in an angular attempt to discover who had knocked at the door. Nor was Mr Tapley slow to baffle this movement on the part of the enemy, by perching himself on the top step, and presenting the crown of his hat in that direction. But possibly Mr Pecksniff had already seen him, for Mark soon heard his shoes creaking, as he advanced to open the door with his own hands.
Mr Pecksniff was as cheerful as ever, and sang a little song in the passage.
“How d'ye do, sir?” said Mark.
“Oh!” cried Mr Pecksniff. “Tapley, I believe? The Prodigal returned! We don't want any beer, my friend.”
“Thankee, sir,” said Mark. “I couldn't accommodate you if you did. A letter, sir. Wait for an answer.”
“For me?” cried Mr Pecksniff. “And an answer, eh?”
“Not for you, I think, sir,” said Mark, pointing out the direction. “Chuzzlewit, I believe the name is, sir.”
“Oh!” returned Mr Pecksniff. “Thank you. Yes. Who's it from, my good young man?”
“The gentleman it comes from wrote his name inside, sir,” returned Mr Tapley with extreme politeness. “I
