As the surgeon’s first care after amputating a limb, is to take up the arteries1 the cruel knife has severed2, so it is the duty of this history, which in its remorseless course has cut from the Pecksniffian trunk its right arm, Mercy, to look to the parent stem, and see how in all its various ramifications3 it got on without her.
And first of Mr Pecksniff it may be observed, that having provided for his youngest daughter that choicest of blessings4, a tender and indulgent husband; and having gratified the dearest wish of his parental6 heart by establishing her in life so happily; he renewed his youth, and spreading the plumage of his own bright conscience, felt himself equal to all kinds of flights. It is customary with fathers in stage-plays, after giving their daughters to the men of their hearts, to congratulate themselves on having no other business on their hands but to die immediately; though it is rarely found that they are in a hurry to do it. Mr Pecksniff, being a father of a more sage9 and practical class, appeared to think that his immediate8 business was to live; and having deprived himself of one comfort, to surround himself with others.
But however much inclined the good man was to be jocose10 and playful, and in the garden of his fancy to disport11 himself (if one may say so) like an architectural kitten, he had one impediment constantly opposed to him. The gentle Cherry, stung by a sense of slight and injury, which far from softening13 down or wearing out, rankled14 and festered in her heart—the gentle Cherry was in flat rebellion. She waged fierce war against her dear papa, she led her parent what is usually called, for want of a better figure of speech, the life of a dog. But never did that dog live, in kennel15, stable-yard, or house, whose life was half as hard as Mr Pecksniff’s with his gentle child.
The father and daughter were sitting at their breakfast. Tom had retired16, and they were alone. Mr Pecksniff frowned at first; but having cleared his brow, looked stealthily at his child. Her nose was very red indeed, and screwed up tight, with hostile preparation.
‘Cherry,’ cried Mr Pecksniff, ‘what is amiss between us? My child, why are we disunited?’
Miss Pecksniff’s answer was scarcely a response to this gush17 of affection, for it was simply, ‘Bother, Pa!’
‘Oh! ‘tis too late, Pa,’ said his daughter, calmly ‘to talk to me like this. I know what it means, and what its value is.’
‘This is hard!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, addressing his breakfast-cup. ‘This is very hard! She is my child. I carried her in my arms when she wore shapeless worsted shoes—I might say, mufflers—many years ago!’
‘You needn’t taunt19 me with that, Pa,’ retorted Cherry, with a spiteful look. ‘I am not so many years older than my sister, either, though she is married to your friend!’
‘Ah, human nature, human nature! Poor human nature!’ said Mr Pecksniff, shaking his head at human nature, as if he didn’t belong to it. ‘To think that this discord20 should arise from such a cause! oh dear, oh dear!’
‘From such a cause indeed!’ cried Cherry. ‘State the real cause, Pa, or I’ll state it myself. Mind! I will!’
Perhaps the energy with which she said this was infectious. However that may be, Mr Pecksniff changed his tone and the expression of his face for one of anger, if not downright violence, when he said:
‘You will! you have. You did yesterday. You do always. You have no decency21; you make no secret of your temper; you have exposed yourself to Mr Chuzzlewit a hundred times.’
‘Myself!’ cried Cherry, with a bitter smile. ‘Oh indeed! I don’t mind that.’
‘Me, too, then,’ said Mr Pecksniff.
His daughter answered with a scornful laugh.
‘And since we have come to an explanation, Charity,’ said Mr Pecksniff, rolling his head portentously22, ‘let me tell you that I won’t allow it. None of your nonsense, Miss! I won’t permit it to be done.’
‘I shall do,’ said Charity, rocking her chair backwards23 and forwards, and raising her voice to a high pitch, ‘I shall do, Pa, what I please and what I have done. I am not going to be crushed in everything, depend upon it. I’ve been more shamefully24 used than anybody ever was in this world,’ here she began to cry and sob25, ‘and may expect the worse treatment from you, I know. But I don’t care for that. No, I don’t!’
Mr Pecksniff was made so desperate by the loud tone in which she spoke26, that, after looking about him in frantic27 uncertainty28 for some means of softening it, he rose and shook her until the ornamental29 bow of hair upon her head nodded like a plume30. She was so very much astonished by this assault, that it really had the desired effect.
‘I’ll do it again!’ cried Mr Pecksniff, as he resumed his seat and fetched his breath, ‘if you dare to talk in that loud manner. How do you mean about being shamefully used? If Mr Jonas chose your sister in preference to you, who could help it, I should wish to know? What have I to do with it?’
‘Wasn’t I made a convenience of? Weren’t my feelings trifled with? Didn’t he address himself to me first?’ sobbed31 Cherry, clasping her hands; ‘and oh, good gracious, that I should live to be shook!’
‘You’ll live to be shaken again,’ returned her parent, ‘if you drive me to that means of maintaining the decorum of this humble32 roof. You surprise me. I wonder you have not more spirit. If Mr Jonas didn’t care for you, how could you wish to have him?’
‘I wish to have him!’ exclaimed Cherry. ‘I wish to have him, Pa!’
‘Then what are you making all this piece of work for,’ retorted her father, ‘if you didn’t wish to have him?’
‘Because I was treated with duplicity,’ said Cherry; ‘and because my own sister and my own father conspired33 against me. I am not angry with her,’ said Cherry; looking much more angry than ever. ‘I pity her. I’m sorry for her. I know the fate that’s in store for her, with that Wretch34.’
‘Mr Jonas will survive your calling him a wretch, my child, I dare say,’ said Mr Pecksniff, with returning resignation; ‘but call him what you like and make an end of it.’
‘Not an end, Pa,’ said Charity. ‘No, not an end. That’s not the only point on which we’re not agreed. I won’t submit to it. It’s better you should know that at once. No; I won’t submit to it indeed, Pa! I am not quite a fool, and I am not blind. All I have got to say is, I won’t submit to it.’
Whatever she meant, she shook Mr Pecksniff now; for his lame35 attempt to seem composed was melancholy36 in the last degree. His anger changed to meekness38, and his words were mild and fawning40.
‘My dear,’ he said; ‘if in the short excitement of an angry moment I resorted to an unjustifiable means of suppressing a little outbreak calculated to injure you as well as myself—it’s possible I may have done so; perhaps I did—I ask your pardon. A father asking pardon of his child,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘is, I believe, a spectacle to soften12 the most rugged41 nature.’
But it didn’t at all soften Miss Pecksniff; perhaps because her nature was not rugged enough. On the contrary, she persisted in saying, over and over again, that she wasn’t quite a fool, and wasn’t blind, and wouldn’t submit to it.
‘You labour under some mistake, my child!’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘but I will not ask you what it is; I don’t desire to know. No, pray!’ he added, holding out his hand and colouring again, ‘let us avoid the subject, my dear, whatever it is!’
‘It’s quite right that the subject should be avoided between us, sir,’ said Cherry. ‘But I wish to be able to avoid it altogether, and consequently must beg you to provide me with a home.’
Mr Pecksniff looked about the room, and said, ‘A home, my child!’
‘Another home, papa,’ said Cherry, with increasing stateliness ‘Place me at Mrs Todgers’s or somewhere, on an independent footing; but I will not live here, if such is to be the case.’
It is possible that Miss Pecksniff saw in Mrs Todgers’s a vision of enthusiastic men, pining to fall in adoration42 at her feet. It is possible that Mr Pecksniff, in his new-born juvenility43, saw, in the suggestion of that same establishment, an easy means of relieving himself from an irksome charge in the way of temper and watchfulness44. It is undoubtedly45 a fact that in the attentive46 ears of Mr Pecksniff, the proposition did not sound quite like the dismal47 knell48 of all his hopes.
But he was a man of great feeling and acute sensibility; and he squeezed his pocket-handkerchief against his eyes with both hands—as such men always do, especially when they are observed. ‘One of my birds,’ Mr Pecksniff said, ‘has left me for the stranger’s breast; the other would take wing to Todgers’s! Well, well, what am I? I don’t know what I am, exactly. Never mind!’
Even this remark, made more pathetic perhaps by his breaking down in the middle of it, had no effect upon Charity. She was grim, rigid49, and inflexible50.
‘But I have ever,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘sacrificed my children’s happiness to my own—I mean my own happiness to my children’s—and I will not begin to regulate my life by other rules of conduct now. If you can be happier at Mrs Todgers’s than in your father’s house, my dear, go to Mrs Todgers’s! Do not think of me, my girl!’ said Mr Pecksniff with emotion; ‘I shall get on pretty well, no doubt.’
Miss Charity, who knew he had a secret pleasure in the contemplation of the proposed change, suppressed her own, and went on to negotiate the terms. His views upon this subject were at first so very limited that another difference, involving possibly another shaking, threatened to ensue; but by degrees they came to something like an understanding, and the storm blew over. Indeed, Miss Charity’s idea was so agreeable to both, that it would have been strange if they had not come to an amicable51 agreement. It was soon arranged between them that the project should be tried, and that immediately; and that Cherry’s not being well, and needing change of scene, and wishing to be near her sister, should form the excuse for her departure to Mr Chuzzlewit and Mary, to both of whom she had pleaded indisposition for some time past. These premises53 agreed on, Mr Pecksniff gave her his blessing5, with all the dignity of a self-denying man who had made a hard sacrifice, but comforted himself with the reflection that virtue54 is its own reward. Thus they were reconciled for the first time since that not easily forgiven night, when Mr Jonas, repudiating55 the elder, had confessed his passion for the younger sister, and Mr Pecksniff had abetted56 him on moral grounds.
But how happened it—in the name of an unexpected addition to that small family, the Seven Wonders of the World, whatever and wherever they may be, how happened it—that Mr Pecksniff and his daughter were about to part? How happened it that their mutual57 relations were so greatly altered? Why was Miss Pecksniff so clamorous58 to have it understood that she was neither blind nor foolish, and she wouldn’t bear it? It is not possible that Mr Pecksniff had any thoughts of marrying again; or that his daughter, with the sharp eye of a single woman, fathomed59 his design!
Let us inquire into this.
Mr Pecksniff, as a man without reproach, from whom the breath of slander60 passed like common breath from any other polished surface, could afford to do what common men could not. He knew the purity of his own motives62; and when he had a motive61 worked at it as only a very good man (or a very bad one) can. Did he set before himself any strong and palpable motives for taking a second wife? Yes; and not one or two of them, but a combination of very many.
Old Martin Chuzzlewit had gradually undergone an important change. Even upon the night when he made such an ill-timed arrival at Mr Pecksniff’s house, he was comparatively subdued63 and easy to deal with. This Mr Pecksniff attributed, at the time, to the effect his brother’s death had had upon him. But from that hour his character seemed to have modified by regular degrees, and to have softened64 down into a dull indifference65 for almost every one but Mr Pecksniff. His looks were much the same as ever, but his mind was singularly altered. It was not that this or that passion stood out in brighter or in dimmer hues66; but that the colour of the whole man was faded. As one trait disappeared, no other trait sprung up to take its place. His senses dwindled67 too. He was less keen of sight; was deaf sometimes; took little notice of what passed before him; and would be profoundly taciturn for days together. The process of this alteration68 was so easy that almost as soon as it began to be observed it was complete. But Mr Pecksniff saw it first, and having Anthony Chuzzlewit fresh in his recollection, saw in his brother Martin the same process of decay.
To a gentleman of Mr Pecksniff’s tenderness, this was a very mournful sight. He could not but foresee the probability of his respected relative being made the victim of designing persons, and of his riches falling into worthless hands. It gave him so much pain that he resolved to secure the property to himself; to keep bad testamentary suitors at a distance; to wall up the old gentleman, as it were, for his own use. By little and little, therefore, he began to try whether Mr Chuzzlewit gave any promise of becoming an instrument in his hands, and finding that he did, and indeed that he was very supple69 in his plastic fingers, he made it the business of his life—kind soul!—to establish an ascendancy70 over him; and every little test he durst apply meeting with a success beyond his hopes, he began to think he heard old Martin’s cash already chinking in his own unworldly pockets.
But when Mr Pecksniff pondered on this subject (as, in his zealous71 way, he often did), and thought with an uplifted heart of the train of circumstances which had delivered the old gentleman into his hands for the confusion of evil-doers and the triumph of a righteous nature, he always felt that Mary Graham was his stumbling-block. Let the old man say what he would, Mr Pecksniff knew he had a strong affection for her. He knew that he showed it in a thousand little ways; that he liked to have her near him, and was never quite at ease when she was absent long. That he had ever really sworn to leave her nothing in his will, Mr Pecksniff greatly doubted. That even if he had, there were many ways by which he could evade72 the oath and satisfy his conscience, Mr Pecksniff knew. That her unprotected state was no light burden on the old man’s mind, he also knew, for Mr Chuzzlewit had plainly told him so. ‘Then,’ said Mr Pecksniff ‘what if I married her! What,’ repeated Mr Pecksniff, sticking up his hair and glancing at his bust73 by Spoker; ‘what if, making sure of his approval first—he is nearly imbecile, poor gentleman—I married her!’
Mr Pecksniff had a lively sense of the Beautiful; especially in women. His manner towards the sex was remarkable74 for its insinuating75 character. It is recorded of him in another part of these pages, that he embraced Mrs Todgers on the smallest provocation76; and it was a way he had; it was a part of the gentle placidity78 of his disposition52. Before any thought of matrimony was in his mind, he had bestowed79 on Mary many little tokens of his spiritual admiration80. They had been indignantly received, but that was nothing. True, as the idea expanded within him, these had become too ardent81 to escape the piercing eye of Cherry, who read his scheme at once; but he had always felt the power of Mary’s charms. So Interest and Inclination82 made a pair, and drew the curricle of Mr Pecksniff’s plan.
As to any thought of revenging himself on young Martin for his insolent83 expressions when they parted, and of shutting him out still more effectually from any hope of reconciliation84 with his grandfather, Mr Pecksniff was much too meek37 and forgiving to be suspected of harbouring it. As to being refused by Mary, Mr Pecksniff was quite satisfied that in her position she could never hold out if he and Mr Chuzzlewit were both against her. As to consulting the wishes of her heart in such a case, it formed no part of Mr Pecksniff’s moral code; for he knew what a good man he was, and what a blessing he must be to anybody. His daughter having broken the ice, and the murder being out between them, Mr Pecksniff had now only to pursue his design as cleverly as he could, and by the craftiest85 approaches.
‘Well, my good sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, meeting old Martin in the garden, for it was his habit to walk in and out by that way, as the fancy took him; ‘and how is my dear friend this delicious morning?’
‘Do you mean me?’ asked the old man.
‘Ah!’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘one of his deaf days, I see. Could I mean any one else, my dear sir?’
‘You might have meant Mary,’ said the old man.
‘Indeed I might. Quite true. I might speak of her as a dear, dear friend, I hope?’ observed Mr Pecksniff.
‘I hope so,’ returned old Martin. ‘I think she deserves it.’
‘Think!’ cried Pecksniff, ‘think, Mr Chuzzlewit!’
‘You are speaking, I know,’ returned Martin, ‘but I don’t catch what you say. Speak up!’
‘He’s getting deafer than a flint,’ said Pecksniff. ‘I was saying, my dear sir, that I am afraid I must make up my mind to part with Cherry.’
‘What has she been doing?’ asked the old man.
‘He puts the most ridiculous questions I ever heard!’ muttered Mr Pecksniff. ‘He’s a child to-day.’ After which he added, in a mild roar: ‘She hasn’t been doing anything, my dear friend.’
‘What are you going to part with her for?’ demanded Martin.
‘She hasn’t her health by any means,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘She misses her sister, my dear sir; they doted on each other from the cradle. And I think of giving her a run in London for a change. A good long run, sir, if I find she likes it.’
‘I am glad to hear you say so. I hope you mean to bear me company in this dull part, while she’s away?’ said Mr Pecksniff.
‘I have no intention of removing from it,’ was Martin’s answer.
‘Then why,’ said Mr Pecksniff, taking the old man’s arm in his, and walking slowly on; ‘Why, my good sir, can’t you come and stay with me? I am sure I could surround you with more comforts—lowly as is my Cot—than you can obtain at a village house of entertainment. And pardon me, Mr Chuzzlewit, pardon me if I say that such a place as the Dragon, however well-conducted (and, as far as I know, Mrs Lupin is one of the worthiest87 creatures in this county), is hardly a home for Miss Graham.’
‘No. You’re quite right; it is not.’
‘The very sight of skittles,’ Mr Pecksniff eloquently89 pursued, ‘is far from being congenial to a delicate mind.’
‘It’s an amusement of the vulgar,’ said old Martin, ‘certainly.’
‘Of the very vulgar,’ Mr Pecksniff answered. ‘Then why not bring Miss Graham here, sir? Here is the house. Here am I alone in it, for Thomas Pinch I do not count as any one. Our lovely friend shall occupy my daughter’s chamber90; you shall choose your own; we shall not quarrel, I hope!’
‘We are not likely to do that,’ said Martin.
Mr Pecksniff pressed his hand. ‘We understand each other, my dear sir, I see!—I can wind him,’ he thought, with exultation91, ‘round my little finger.’
‘You leave the recompense to me?’ said the old man, after a minute’s silence.
‘Oh! do not speak of recompense!’ cried Pecksniff.
‘I say,’ repeated Martin, with a glimmer92 of his old obstinacy93, ‘you leave the recompense to me. Do you?’
‘Since you desire it, my good sir.’
‘I always desire it,’ said the old man. ‘You know I always desire it. I wish to pay as I go, even when I buy of you. Not that I do not leave a balance to be settled one day, Pecksniff.’
The architect was too much overcome to speak. He tried to drop a tear upon his patron’s hand, but couldn’t find one in his dry distillery.
‘May that day be very distant!’ was his pious94 exclamation95. ‘Ah, sir! If I could say how deep an interest I have in you and yours! I allude96 to our beautiful young friend.’
‘True,’ he answered. ‘True. She need have some one interested in her. I did her wrong to train her as I did. Orphan97 though she was, she would have found some one to protect her whom she might have loved again. When she was a child, I pleased myself with the thought that in gratifying my whim98 of placing her between me and false-hearted knaves99, I had done her a kindness. Now she is a woman, I have no such comfort. She has no protector but herself. I have put her at such odds100 with the world, that any dog may bark or fawn39 upon her at his pleasure. Indeed she stands in need of delicate consideration. Yes; indeed she does!’
‘If her position could be altered and defined, sir?’ Mr Pecksniff hinted.
‘How can that be done? Should I make a seamstress of her, or a governess?’
‘Heaven forbid!’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘My dear sir, there are other ways. There are indeed. But I am much excited and embarrassed at present, and would rather not pursue the subject. I scarcely know what I mean. Permit me to resume it at another time.’
‘You are not unwell?’ asked Martin anxiously.
‘No, no!’ cried Pecksniff. ‘No. Permit me to resume it at another time. I’ll walk a little. Bless you!’
Old Martin blessed him in return, and squeezed his hand. As he turned away, and slowly walked towards the house, Mr Pecksniff stood gazing after him; being pretty well recovered from his late emotion, which, in any other man, one might have thought had been assumed as a machinery101 for feeling Martin’s pulse. The change in the old man found such a slight expression in his figure, that Mr Pecksniff, looking after him, could not help saying to himself:
‘And I can wind him round my little finger! Only think!’
Old Martin happening to turn his head, saluted102 him affectionately. Mr Pecksniff returned the gesture.
‘Why, the time was,’ said Mr Pecksniff; ‘and not long ago, when he wouldn’t look at me! How soothing103 is this change. Such is the delicate texture104 of the human heart; so complicated is the process of its being softened! Externally he looks the same, and I can wind him round my little finger. Only think!’
In sober truth, there did appear to be nothing on which Mr Pecksniff might not have ventured with Martin Chuzzlewit; for whatever Mr Pecksniff said or did was right, and whatever he advised was done. Martin had escaped so many snares105 from needy106 fortune-hunters, and had withered107 in the shell of his suspicion and distrust for so many years, but to become the good man’s tool and plaything. With the happiness of this conviction painted on his face, the architect went forth108 upon his morning walk.
The summer weather in his bosom109 was reflected in the breast of Nature. Through deep green vistas110 where the boughs111 arched overhead, and showed the sunlight flashing in the beautiful perspective; through dewy fern from which the startled hares leaped up, and fled at his approach; by mantled112 pools, and fallen trees, and down in hollow places, rustling113 among last year’s leaves whose scent114 woke memory of the past; the placid77 Pecksniff strolled. By meadow gates and hedges fragrant115 with wild roses; and by thatched-roof cottages whose inmates116 humbly117 bowed before him as a man both good and wise; the worthy118 Pecksniff walked in tranquil119 meditation120. The bee passed onward121, humming of the work he had to do; the idle gnats122 for ever going round and round in one contracting and expanding ring, yet always going on as fast as he, danced merrily before him; the colour of the long grass came and went, as if the light clouds made it timid as they floated through the distant air. The birds, so many Pecksniff consciences, sang gayly upon every branch; and Mr Pecksniff paid his homage123 to the day by ruminating124 on his projects as he walked along.
Chancing to trip, in his abstraction, over the spreading root of an old tree, he raised his pious eyes to take a survey of the ground before him. It startled him to see the embodied125 image of his thoughts not far ahead. Mary herself. And alone.
At first Mr Pecksniff stopped as if with the intention of avoiding her; but his next impulse was to advance, which he did at a brisk pace; caroling as he went so sweetly and with so much innocence126 that he only wanted feathers and wings to be a bird.
Hearing notes behind her, not belonging to the songsters of the grove127, she looked round. Mr Pecksniff kissed his hand, and was at her side immediately.
‘Communing with nature?’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘So am I.’
She said the morning was so beautiful that she had walked further than she intended, and would return. Mr Pecksniff said it was exactly his case, and he would return with her.
‘Take my arm, sweet girl,’ said Mr Pecksniff.
Mary declined it, and walked so very fast that he remonstrated128. ‘You were loitering when I came upon you,’ Mr Pecksniff said. ‘Why be so cruel as to hurry now? You would not shun129 me, would you?’
‘Yes, I would,’ she answered, turning her glowing cheek indignantly upon him, ‘you know I would. Release me, Mr Pecksniff. Your touch is disagreeable to me.’
His touch! What? That chaste130 patriarchal touch which Mrs Todgers—surely a discreet131 lady—had endured, not only without complaint, but with apparent satisfaction! This was positively132 wrong. Mr Pecksniff was sorry to hear her say it.
‘If you have not observed,’ said Mary, ‘that it is so, pray take assurance from my lips, and do not, as you are a gentleman, continue to offend me.’
‘Well, well!’ said Mr Pecksniff, mildly, ‘I feel that I might consider this becoming in a daughter of my own, and why should I object to it in one so beautiful! It’s harsh. It cuts me to the soul,’ said Mr Pecksniff; ‘but I cannot quarrel with you, Mary.’
She tried to say she was sorry to hear it, but burst into tears. Mr Pecksniff now repeated the Todgers performance on a comfortable scale, as if he intended it to last some time; and in his disengaged hand, catching133 hers, employed himself in separating the fingers with his own, and sometimes kissing them, as he pursued the conversation thus:
‘I am glad we met. I am very glad we met. I am able now to ease my bosom of a heavy load, and speak to you in confidence. Mary,’ said Mr Pecksniff in his tenderest tones, indeed they were so very tender that he almost squeaked134: ‘My soul! I love you!’
‘I love you,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘my gentle life, with a devotion which is quite surprising, even to myself. I did suppose that the sensation was buried in the silent tomb of a lady, only second to you in qualities of the mind and form; but I find I am mistaken.’
She tried to disengage her hand, but might as well have tried to free herself from the embrace of an affectionate boa-constrictor; if anything so wily may be brought into comparison with Pecksniff.
‘Although I am a widower137,’ said Mr Pecksniff, examining the rings upon her fingers, and tracing the course of one delicate blue vein138 with his fat thumb, ‘a widower with two daughters, still I am not encumbered139, my love. One of them, as you know, is married. The other, by her own desire, but with a view, I will confess—why not?—to my altering my condition, is about to leave her father’s house. I have a character, I hope. People are pleased to speak well of me, I think. My person and manner are not absolutely those of a monster, I trust. Ah! naughty Hand!’ said Mr Pecksniff, apostrophizing the reluctant prize, ‘why did you take me prisoner? Go, go!’
He slapped the hand to punish it; but relenting, folded it in his waistcoat to comfort it again.
‘Blessed in each other, and in the society of our venerable friend, my darling,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘we shall be happy. When he is wafted140 to a haven141 of rest, we will console each other. My pretty primrose142, what do you say?’
‘It is possible,’ Mary answered, in a hurried manner, ‘that I ought to feel grateful for this mark of your confidence. I cannot say that I do, but I am willing to suppose you may deserve my thanks. Take them; and pray leave me, Mr Pecksniff.’
‘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 contentedly144 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 insolence145 upon the way, you cannot constrain146 the expression of my thoughts. I hold you in the deepest abhorrence147. 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 eyelids148 languidly, and let them fall again. It was saying with perfect coolness, ‘Aye, aye! Indeed!’
‘Is it not enough,’ said Mary, ‘that you warp149 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, chafing150 the captive hand reproachfully, ‘of virtue—have enabled me to set such guards upon myself, that it is really difficult to ruffle151 me. It is a curious fact, but it is difficult, do you know, for any one to ruffle me. And did she think,’ said Mr Pecksniff, with a playful tightening152 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 caresses153 of a toad154, an adder155, or a serpent—nay, the hug of a bear—to the endearments156 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 disdain157 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 blight158 even a disinherited young man in his already blighted159 prospects160; 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.’
‘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 severely162. I’d have compassion163 on Martin junior, do you know?’ said Mr Pecksniff, with a persuasive164 smile. ‘Yes. He don’t deserve it, but I would.’
She wept so bitterly now, and was so much distressed165, that he thought it prudent166 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 trifling167 help in Martin junior’s way. Have I any influence with our venerable friend? Well! Perhaps I have. Perhaps I have.’
The outlet168 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 then stooping down, inclined his flabby face to hers—he had a flabby face, although he was a good man—and with a blessing, which from such a source was quite enough to set her up in life, and prosper169 her from that time forth permitted her to leave him.
Gallantry in its true sense is supposed to ennoble and dignify170 a man; and love has shed refinements171 on innumerable Cymons. But Mr Pecksniff—perhaps because to one of his exalted172 nature these were mere173 grossnesses—certainly did not appear to any unusual advantage, now that he was left alone. On the contrary, he seemed to be shrunk and reduced; to be trying to hide himself within himself; and to be wretched at not having the power to do it. His shoes looked too large; his sleeve looked too long; his hair looked too limp; his features looked too mean; his exposed throat looked as if a halter would have done it good. For a minute or two, in fact, he was hot, and pale, and mean, and shy, and slinking, and consequently not at all Pecksniffian. But after that, he recovered himself, and went home with as beneficent an air as if he had been the High Priest of the summer weather.
‘I have arranged to go, Papa,’ said Charity, ‘to-morrow.’
‘So soon, my child!’
‘I can’t go too soon,’ said Charity, ‘under the circumstances. I have written to Mrs Todgers to propose an arrangement, and have requested her to meet me at the coach, at all events. You’ll be quite your own master now, Mr Pinch!’
Mr Pecksniff had just gone out of the room, and Tom had just come into it.
‘My own master!’ repeated Tom.
‘Yes, you’ll have nobody to interfere174 with you,’ said Charity. ‘At least I hope you won’t. Hem7! It’s a changing world.’
‘What! are you going to be married, Miss Pecksniff?’ asked Tom in great surprise.
‘Not exactly,’ faltered175 Cherry. ‘I haven’t made up my mind to be. I believe I could be, if I chose, Mr Pinch.’
‘Of course you could!’ said Tom. And he said it in perfect good faith. He believed it from the bottom of his heart.
‘No,’ said Cherry, ‘I am not going to be married. Nobody is, that I know of. Hem! But I am not going to live with Papa. I have my reasons, but it’s all a secret. I shall always feel very kindly176 towards you, I assure you, for the boldness you showed that night. As to you and me, Mr Pinch, we part the best friends possible!’
Tom thanked her for her confidence, and for her friendship, but there was a mystery in the former which perfectly177 bewildered him. In his extravagant178 devotion to the family, he had felt the loss of Merry more than any one but those who knew that for all the slights he underwent he thought his own demerits were to blame, could possibly have understood. He had scarcely reconciled himself to that when here was Charity about to leave them. She had grown up, as it were, under Tom’s eye. The sisters were a part of Pecksniff, and a part of Tom; items in Pecksniff’s goodness, and in Tom’s service. He couldn’t bear it; not two hours’ sleep had Tom that night, through dwelling179 in his bed upon these dreadful changes.
When morning dawned he thought he must have dreamed this piece of ambiguity180; but no, on going downstairs he found them packing trunks and cording boxes, and making other preparations for Miss Charity’s departure, which lasted all day long. In good time for the evening coach, Miss Charity deposited her housekeeping keys with much ceremony upon the parlour table; took a gracious leave of all the house; and quitted her paternal181 roof—a blessing for which the Pecksniffian servant was observed by some profane182 persons to be particularly active in the thanksgiving at church next Sunday.
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1
arteries
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| n.动脉( artery的名词复数 )；干线，要道 | |
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2
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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3
ramifications
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| n.结果，后果( ramification的名词复数 ) | |
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4
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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5
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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7
hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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8
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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9
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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10
jocose
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| adj.开玩笑的，滑稽的 | |
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11
disport
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| v.嬉戏，玩 | |
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12
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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13
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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14
rankled
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15
kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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16
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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17
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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18
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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19
taunt
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| n.辱骂，嘲弄；v.嘲弄 | |
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20
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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21
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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22
portentously
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23
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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24
shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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25
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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26
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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27
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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28
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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29
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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30
plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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31
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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32
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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33
conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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34
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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35
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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36
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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37
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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38
meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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39
fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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40
fawning
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| adj.乞怜的，奉承的v.（尤指狗等）跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的现在分词 )；巴结；讨好 | |
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41
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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42
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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43
juvenility
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| n.年轻，不成熟 | |
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44
watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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45
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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46
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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47
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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48
knell
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| n.丧钟声；v.敲丧钟 | |
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49
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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50
inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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51
amicable
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| adj.和平的，友好的；友善的 | |
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52
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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53
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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54
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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55
repudiating
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| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的现在分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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56
abetted
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| v.教唆（犯罪）( abet的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；怂恿；支持 | |
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57
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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58
clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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59
fathomed
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| 理解…的真意( fathom的过去式和过去分词 )； 彻底了解； 弄清真相 | |
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60
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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61
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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62
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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63
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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64
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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65
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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66
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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67
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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69
supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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70
ascendancy
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| n.统治权，支配力量 | |
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71
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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72
evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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73
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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74
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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75
insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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76
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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77
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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78
placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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79
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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81
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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82
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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83
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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84
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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85
craftiest
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| 狡猾的，狡诈的( crafty的最高级 ) | |
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86
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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87
worthiest
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| 应得某事物( worthy的最高级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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88
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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89
eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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90
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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91
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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92
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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93
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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94
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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95
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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96
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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97
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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98
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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99
knaves
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| n.恶棍，无赖( knave的名词复数 )；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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100
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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101
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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102
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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103
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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104
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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105
snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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106
needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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107
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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108
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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109
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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110
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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111
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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112
mantled
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| 披着斗篷的，覆盖着的 | |
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113
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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114
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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115
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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116
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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117
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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118
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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119
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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120
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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121
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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122
gnats
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| n.叮人小虫( gnat的名词复数 ) | |
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123
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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124
ruminating
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| v.沉思( ruminate的现在分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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125
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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126
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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127
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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128
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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129
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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130
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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131
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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132
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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133
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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134
squeaked
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的过去式和过去分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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135
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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136
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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137
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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138
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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139
encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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140
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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141
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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142
primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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143
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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144
contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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145
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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146
constrain
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| vt.限制，约束；克制，抑制 | |
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147
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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148
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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149
warp
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| vt.弄歪，使翘曲，使不正常，歪曲，使有偏见 | |
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150
chafing
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| n.皮肤发炎v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的现在分词 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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151
ruffle
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| v.弄皱，弄乱；激怒，扰乱；n.褶裥饰边 | |
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152
tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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153
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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154
toad
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| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆 | |
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155
adder
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| n.蝰蛇；小毒蛇 | |
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156
endearments
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| n.表示爱慕的话语，亲热的表示( endearment的名词复数 ) | |
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157
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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158
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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159
blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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160
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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161
banter
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| n.嘲弄，戏谑；v.取笑，逗弄，开玩笑 | |
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162
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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163
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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164
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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165
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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166
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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167
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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168
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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169
prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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170
dignify
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| vt.使有尊严；使崇高；给增光 | |
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171
refinements
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| n.（生活）风雅；精炼( refinement的名词复数 )；改良品；细微的改良；优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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172
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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173
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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174
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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175
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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176
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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177
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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178
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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179
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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180
ambiguity
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| n.模棱两可；意义不明确 | |
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181
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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182
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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