see him a-signing of it at the end, while I was a-waitin”.”
“And he said he wanted an answer, did he?” asked Mr Pecksniff in his most persuasive manner.
Mark replied in the affirmative.
“He shall have an answer. Certainly,” said Mr Pecksniff, tearing the letter into small pieces, as mildly as if that were the most flattering attention a correspondent could receive. “Have the goodness to give him that, with my compliments, if you please. Good morning!” Whereupon he handed Mark the scraps; retired, and shut the door.
Mark thought it prudent to subdue his personal emotions, and return to Martin at the Dragon. They were not unprepared for such a reception, and suffered an hour or so to elapse before making another attempt. When this interval had gone by, they returned to Mr Pecksniff's house in company. Martin knocked this time, while Mr Tapley prepared himself to keep the door open with his foot and shoulder, when anybody came, and by that means secure an enforced parley. But this precaution was needless, for the servant-girl appeared almost immediately. Brushing quickly past her as he had resolved in such a case to do, Martin (closely followed by his faithful ally) opened the door of that parlour in which he knew a visitor was most likely to be found; passed at once into the room; and stood, without a word of notice or announcement, in the presence of his grandfather.
Mr Pecksniff also was in the room; and Mary. In the swift instant of their mutual recognition, Martin saw the old man droop his grey head, and hide his face in his hands.
It smote him to the heart. In his most selfish and most careless day, this lingering remnant of the old man's ancient love, this buttress of a ruined tower he had built up in the time gone by, with so much pride and hope, would have caused a pang in Martin's heart. But now, changed for the better in his worst respect; looking through an altered medium on his former friend, the guardian of his childhood, so broken and bowed down; resentment, sullenness, self-confidence, and pride, were all swept away, before the starting tears upon the withered cheeks. He could not bear to see them. He could not bear to think they fell at sight of him. He could not bear to view reflected in them, the reproachful and irrevocable Past.
He hurriedly advanced to seize the old man's hand in his, when Mr Pecksniff interposed himself between them.
“No, young man!” said Mr Pecksniff, striking himself upon the breast, and stretching out his other arm towards his guest as if it were a wing to shelter him. “No, sir. None of that. Strike here, sir, here! Launch your arrows at me, sir, if you'll have the goodness; not at Him!”
“Grandfather!” cried Martin. “Hear me! I implore you, let me speak!”
“Would you, sir? Would you?” said Mr Pecksniff, dodging about, so as to keep himself always between them. “Is it not enough, sir, that you come into my house like a thief in the night, or I should rather say, for we can never be too particular on the subject of Truth, like a thief in the day-time; bringing your dissolute companions with you, to plant themselves with their backs against the insides of parlour doors, and prevent the entrance or issuing forth of any of my household'—Mark had taken up this position, and held it quite unmoved—'but would you also strike at venerable Virtue? Would you? Know that it is not defenceless. I will be its shield, young man. Assail me. Come on, sir. Fire away!”
“Pecksniff,” said the old man, in a feeble voice. “Calm yourself. Be quiet.”
“I can't be calm,” cried Mr Pecksniff, “and I won't be quiet. My benefactor and my friend! Shall even my house be no refuge for your hoary pillow!”
“Stand aside!” said the old man, stretching out his hand; “and let me see what it is I used to love so dearly.”
“It is right that you should see it, my friend,” said Mr Pecksniff. “It is well that you should see it, my noble sir. It is desirable that you should contemplate it in its true proportions. Behold it! There it is, sir. There it is!”
Martin could hardly be a mortal man, and not express in his face something of the anger and disdain with which Mr Pecksniff inspired him. But beyond this he evinced no knowledge whatever of that gentleman's presence or existence. True, he had once, and that at first, glanced at him involuntarily, and with supreme contempt; but for any other heed he took of him, there might have been nothing in his place save empty air.
As Mr Pecksniff withdrew from between them, agreeably to the wish just now expressed (which he did during the delivery of the observations last recorded), old Martin, who had taken Mary Graham's hand in his, and whispered kindly to her, as telling her she had no cause to be alarmed, gently pushed her from him, behind his chair; and looked steadily at his grandson.
“And that,” he said, “is he. Ah! that is he! Say what you wish to say. But come no nearer,”
“His sense of justice is so fine,” said Mr Pecksniff, “that he will hear even him, although he knows beforehand that nothing can come of it. Ingenuous mind!” Mr Pecksniff did not address himself immediately to any person in saying this, but assuming the position of the Chorus in a Greek Tragedy, delivered his opinion as a commentary on the proceedings.
“Grandfather!” said Martin, with great earnestness. “From a painful journey, from a hard life, from a sick-bed, from privation and distress, from gloom and disappointment, from almost hopelessness and despair, I have come back to you.”
“Rovers of this sort,” observed Mr Pecksniff, as Chorus, “very commonly come back when they find they don't meet with the success they expected in their marauding ravages.”
“But for this faithful man,” said Martin, turning towards Mark, “whom I first knew in this place, and who went away with me voluntarily, as a servant, but has been, throughout, my zealous and devoted friend; but for him, I must have died abroad. Far from home, far from any help or consolation; far from the probability even of my wretched fate being ever known to any one who cared to hear it—oh, that you would let me say, of being known to you!”
The old man looked at Mr Pecksniff. Mr Pecksniff looked at him. “Did you speak, my worthy sir?” said Mr Pecksniff, with a smile. The old man answered in the negative. “I know what you thought,” said Mr Pecksniff, with another smile. “Let him go on my friend. The development of self-interest in the human mind is always a curious study. Let him go on, sir.”
“Go on!” observed the old man; in a mechanical obedience, it appeared, to Mr Pecksniff's suggestion.
“I have been so wretched and so poor,” said Martin, “that I am indebted to the charitable help of a stranger, in a land of strangers, for the means of returning here. All this tells against me in your mind, I know. I have given you cause to think I have been driven here wholly by want, and have not been led on, in any degree, by affection or regret. When I parted from you, Grandfather, I deserved that suspicion, but I do not now. I do not now.”
The Chorus put its hand in its waistcoat, and smiled. “Let him go on, my worthy sir,” it said. “I know what you are thinking of, but don't express it prematurely.”
Old Martin raised his eyes to Mr Pecksniff's face, and appearing to derive renewed instruction from his looks and words, said, once again:
“Go on!”
“I have little more to say,” returned Martin. “And as I say it now, with little or no hope, Grandfather; whatever dawn of hope I had on entering the room; believe it to be true. At least, believe it to be true.”
“Beautiful Truth!” exclaimed the Chorus, looking upward. “How is your name profaned by vicious persons! You don't live in a well, my holy principle, but on the lips of false mankind. It is hard to bear with mankind, dear sir'—addressing the elder Mr Chuzzlewit; “but let us do so meekly. It is our duty so to do. Let us be among the Few who do their duty. If,” pursued the Chorus, soaring up into a lofty flight, “as the poet informs us, England expects Every man to do his duty, England is the most sanguine country on the face of the earth, and will find itself continually disappointed.”
“Upon that subject,” said Martin, looking calmly at the old man as he spoke, but glancing once at Mary, whose face was now buried in her hands, upon the back of his easy-chair; “upon that subject which first occasioned a division between us, my mind and heart are incapable of change. Whatever influence they have undergone, since that unhappy time, has not been one to weaken but to strengthen me. I cannot profess sorrow for that, nor irresolution in that, nor shame in that. Nor would you wish me, I know. But that I might have trusted to your love, if I had thrown myself manfully upon it; that I might have won you over with ease, if I had been more yielding and more considerate; that I should have best remembered myself in forgetting myself, and recollecting you; reflection, solitude, and misery, have taught me. I came resolved to say this, and to ask your forgiveness; not so much in hope for the future, as in regret for the past; for all that I would ask of you is, that you would aid me to live. Help me to get honest work to do, and I would do it. My condition places me at the disadvantage of seeming to have only my
