Life And Adventures Of Martin Chuzzlewit

by Charles Dickens

  Tom gazed at her steadfastly, and seemed to say, “What else?” But he said not a word.

  “That person whom you think the best of men,” said Mary, looking up, and speaking with a quivering lip and flashing eye.

  “Lord bless me!” muttered Tom, staggering back. “Wait a moment. That person whom I think the best of men! You mean Pecksniff, of course. Yes, I see you mean Pecksniff. Good gracious me, don't speak without authority. What has he done? If he is not the best of men, what is he?”

  “The worst. The falsest, craftiest, meanest, cruellest, most sordid, most shameless,” said the trembling girl—trembling with her indignation.

  Tom sat down on a seat, and clasped his hands.

  “What is he,” said Mary, “who receiving me in his house as his guest; his unwilling guest; knowing my history, and how defenceless and alone I am, presumes before his daughters to affront me so, that if I had a brother but a child, who saw it, he would instinctively have helped me?”

  “He is a scoundrel!” exclaimed Tom. “Whoever he may be, he is a scoundrel.”

  Mr Pecksniff dived again.

  “What is he,” said Mary, “who, when my only friend—a dear and kind one, too—was in full health of mind, humbled himself before him, but was spurned away (for he knew him then) like a dog. Who, in his forgiving spirit, now that that friend is sunk into a failing state, can crawl about him again, and use the influence he basely gains for every base and wicked purpose, and not for one—not one—that's true or good?”

  “I say he is a scoundrel!” answered Tom.

  “But what is he—oh, Mr Pinch, what IS he—who, thinking he could compass these designs the better if I were his wife, assails me with the coward's argument that if I marry him, Martin, on whom I have brought so much misfortune, shall be restored to something of his former hopes; and if I do not, shall be plunged in deeper ruin? What is he who makes my very constancy to one I love with all my heart a torture to myself and wrong to him; who makes me, do what I will, the instrument to hurt a head I would heap blessings on! What is he who, winding all these cruel snares about me, explains their purpose to me, with a smooth tongue and a smiling face, in the broad light of day; dragging me on, the while, in his embrace, and holding to his lips a hand,” pursued the agitated girl, extending it, “which I would have struck off, if with it I could lose the shame and degradation of his touch?”

  “I say,” cried Tom, in great excitement, “he is a scoundrel and a villain! I don't care who he is, I say he is a double-dyed and most intolerable villain!”

  Covering her face with her hands again, as if the passion which had sustained her through these disclosures lost itself in an overwhelming sense of shame and grief, she abandoned herself to tears.

  Any sight of distress was sure to move the tenderness of Tom, but this especially. Tears and sobs from her were arrows in his heart. He tried to comfort her; sat down beside her; expended all his store of homely eloquence; and spoke in words of praise and hope of Martin. Aye, though he loved her from his soul with such a selfdenying love as woman seldom wins; he spoke from first to last of Martin. Not the wealth of the rich Indies would have tempted Tom to shirk one mention of her lover's name.

  When she was more composed, she impressed upon Tom that this man she had described, was Pecksniff in his real colours; and word by word and phrase by phrase, as well as she remembered it, related what had passed between them in the wood: which was no doubt a source of high gratification to that gentleman himself, who in his desire to see and his dread of being seen, was constantly diving down into the state pew, and coming up again like the intelligent householder in Punch's Show, who avoids being knocked on the head with a cudgel. When she had concluded her account, and had besought Tom to be very distant and unconscious in his manner towards her after this explanation, and had thanked him very much, they parted on the alarm of footsteps in the burial-ground; and Tom was left alone in the church again.

  And now the full agitation and misery of the disclosure came rushing upon Tom indeed. The star of his whole life from boyhood had become, in a moment, putrid vapour. It was not that Pecksniff, Tom's Pecksniff, had ceased to exist, but that he never had existed. In his death Tom would have had the comfort of remembering what he used to be, but in this discovery, he had the anguish of recollecting what he never was. For, as Tom's blindness in this matter had been total and not partial, so was his restored sight. HIS Pecksniff could never have worked the wickedness of which he had just now heard, but any other Pecksniff could; and the Pecksniff who could do that could do anything, and no doubt had been doing anything and everything except the right thing, all through his career. From the lofty height on which poor Tom had placed his idol it was tumbled down headlong, and

  Not all the king's horses, nor all the king's men,

  Could have set Mr Pecksniff up again.

  Legions of Titans couldn't have got him out of the mud; and serve him right! But it was not he who suffered; it was Tom. His compass was broken, his chart destroyed, his chronometer had stopped, his masts were gone by the board; his anchor was adrift, ten thousand leagues away.

  Mr Pecksniff watched him with a lively interest, for he divined the purpose of Tom's ruminations, and was curious to see how he conducted himself. For some time, Tom wandered up and down the aisle like a man demented, stopping occasionally to lean against a pew and think it over; then he stood staring at a blank old monument bordered tastefully with skulls and cross-bones, as if it were the finest work of Art he had ever seen, although at other times he held it in unspeakable contempt; then he sat down; then walked to and fro again; then went wandering up into the organ-loft, and touched the keys. But their minstrelsy was changed, their music gone; and sounding one long melancholy chord, Tom drooped his head upon his hands and gave it up as hopeless.

  “I wouldn't have cared,” said Tom Pinch, rising from his stool and looking down into the church as if he had been the Clergyman, “I wouldn't have cared for anything he might have done to Me, for I have tried his patience often, and have lived upon his sufferance and have never been the help to him that others could have been. I wouldn't have minded, Pecksniff,” Tom continued, little thinking who heard him, “if you had done Me any wrong; I could have found plenty of excuses for that; and though you might have hurt me, could have still gone on respecting you. But why did you ever fall so low as this in my esteem! Oh Pecksniff, Pecksniff, there is nothing I would not have given, to have had you deserve my old opinion of you; nothing!”

  Mr Pecksniff sat upon the hassock pulling up his shirt-collar, while Tom, touched to the quick, delivered this apostrophe. After a pause he heard Tom coming down the stairs, jingling the church keys; and bringing his eye to the top of the pew again, saw him go slowly out and lock the door.

  Mr Pecksniff durst not issue from his place of concealment; for through the windows of the church he saw Tom passing on among the graves, and sometimes stopping at a stone, and leaning there as if he were a mourner who had lost a friend. Even when he had left the churchyard, Mr Pecksniff still remained shut up; not being at all secure but that in his restless state of mind Tom might come wandering back. At length he issued forth, and walked with a pleasant countenance into the vestry; where he knew there was a window near the ground, by which he could release himself by merely stepping out.

  He was in a curious frame of mind, Mr Pecksniff; being in no hurry to go, but rather inclining to a dilatory trifling with the time, which prompted him to open the vestry cupboard, and look at himself in the parson's little glass that hung within the door. Seeing that his hair was rumpled, he took the liberty of borrowing the canonical brush and arranging it. He also took the liberty of opening another cupboard; but he shut it up again quickly, being rather startled by the sight of a black and a white surplice dangling against the wall; which had very much the appearance of two curates who had committed suicide by hanging themselves. Remembering that he had seen in the first cupboard a port-wine bottle and some biscuits, he
peeped into it again, and helped himself with much deliberation; cogitating all the time though, in a very deep and weighty manner, as if his thoughts were otherwise employed.

  He soon made up his mind, if it had ever been in doubt; and putting back the bottle and biscuits, opened the casement. He got out into the churchyard without any difficulty; shut the window after him; and walked straight home.

  “Is Mr Pinch indoors?” asked Mr Pecksniff of his serving-maid.

  “Just come in, sir.”

  “Just come in, eh?” repeated Mr Pecksniff, cheerfully. “And gone upstairs, I suppose?”

  “Yes sir. Gone upstairs. Shall I call him, sir?”

  “No,” said Mr Pecksniff, “no. You needn't call him, Jane. Thank you, Jane. How are your relations, Jane?”

  “Pretty well, I thank you, sir.”

  “I am glad to hear it. Let them know I asked about them, Jane. Is Mr Chuzzlewit in the way, Jane?”

  “Yes, sir. He's in the parlour, reading.”

  “He's in the parlour, reading, is he, Jane?” said Mr Pecksniff. “Very well. Then I think I'll go and see him, Jane.”

  Never had Mr Pecksniff been beheld in a more pleasant humour!

  But when he walked into the parlour where the old man was engaged as Jane had said; with pen and ink and paper on a table close at hand (for Mr Pecksniff was always very particular to have him well supplied with writing materials), he became less cheerful. He was not angry, he was not vindictive, he was not cross, he was not moody, but he was grieved; he was sorely grieved. As he sat down by the old man's side, two tears—not tears like those with which recording angels blot their entries out, but drops so precious that they use them for their ink—stole down his meritorious cheeks.

  “What is the matter?” asked old Martin. “Pecksniff, what ails you, man?”

  “I am sorry to interrupt you, my dear sir, and I am still more sorry for the cause. My good, my worthy friend, I am deceived.”

  “You are deceived!”

  “Ah!” cried Mr Pecksniff, in an agony, “deceived in the tenderest point. Cruelly deceived in that quarter, sir, in which I placed the most unbounded confidence. Deceived, Mr Chuzzlewit, by Thomas Pinch.”

  “Oh! bad, bad, bad!” said Martin, laying down his book. “Very bad! I hope not. Are you certain?”

  “Certain, my good sir! My eyes and ears are witnesses. I wouldn't have believed it otherwise. I wouldn't have believed it, Mr Chuzzlewit, if a Fiery Serpent had proclaimed it from the top of Salisbury Cathedral. I would have said,” cried Mr Pecksniff, “that the Serpent lied. Such was my faith in Thomas Pinch, that I would have cast the falsehood back into the Serpent's teeth, and would have taken Thomas to my heart. But I am not a Serpent, sir, myself, I grieve to say, and no excuse or hope is left me.”

  Martin was greatly disturbed to see him so much agitated, and to hear such unexpected news. He begged him to compose himself, and asked upon what subject Mr Pinch's treachery had been developed.

  “That is almost the worst of all, sir,” Mr Pecksniff answered. “on a subject nearly concerning YOU. Oh! is it not enough,” said Mr Pecksniff, looking upward, “that these blows must fall on me, but must they also hit my friends!”

  “You alarm me,” cried the old man, changing colour. “I am not so strong as I was. You terrify me, Pecksniff!”

  “Cheer up, my noble sir,” said Mr Pecksniff, taking courage, “and we will do what is required of us. You shall know all, sir, and shall be righted. But first excuse me, sir, excuse me. I have a duty to discharge, which I owe to society.”

  He rang the bell, and Jane appeared. “Send Mr Pinch here, if you please, Jane.”

  Tom came. Constrained and altered in his manner, downcast and dejected, visibly confused; not liking to look Pecksniff in the face.

  The honest man bestowed a glance on Mr Chuzzlewit, as who should say “You see!” and addressed himself to Tom in these terms:

  “Mr Pinch, I have left the vestry-window unfastened. Will you do me the favour to go and secure it; then bring the keys of the sacred edifice to me!”

  “The vestry-window, sir?” cried Tom.

  “You understand me, Mr Pinch, I think,” returned his patron. “Yes, Mr Pinch, the vestry-window. I grieve to say that sleeping in the church after a fatiguing ramble, I overheard just now some fragments,” he emphasised that word, “of a dialogue between two parties; and one of them locking the church when he went out, I was obliged to leave it myself by the vestry-window. Do me the favour to secure that vestry-window, Mr Pinch, and then come back to me.”

  No physiognomist that ever dwelt on earth could have construed Tom's face when he heard these words. Wonder was in it, and a mild look of reproach, but certainly no fear or guilt, although a host of strong emotions struggled to display themselves. He bowed, and without saying one word, good or bad, withdrew.

  “Pecksniff,” cried Martin, in a tremble, “what does all this mean? You are not going to do anything in haste, you may regret!”

  “No, my good sir,” said Mr Pecksniff, firmly, “No. But I have a duty to discharge which I owe to society; and it shall be discharged, my friend, at any cost!”

  Oh, late-remembered, much-forgotten, mouthing, braggart duty, always owed, and seldom paid in any other coin than punishment and wrath, when will mankind begin to know thee! When will men acknowledge thee in thy neglected cradle, and thy stunted youth, and not begin their recognition in thy sinful manhood and thy desolate old age! Oh, ermined Judge whose duty to society is, now, to doom the ragged criminal to punishment and death, hadst thou never, Man, a duty to discharge in barring up the hundred open gates that wooed him to the felon's dock, and throwing but ajar the portals to a decent life! Oh, prelate, prelate, whose duty to society it is to mourn in melancholy phrase the sad degeneracy of these bad times in which thy lot of honours has been cast, did nothing go before thy elevation to the lofty seat, from which thou dealest out thy homilies to other tarriers for dead men's shoes, whose duty to society has not begun! Oh! magistrate, so rare a country gentleman and brave a squire, had you no duty to society, before the ricks were blazing and the mob were mad; or did it spring up, armed and booted from the earth, a corps of yeomanry full-grown!

  Mr Pecksniff's duty to society could not be paid till Tom came back. The interval which preceded the return of that young man, he occupied in a close conference with his friend; so that when Tom did arrive, he found the two quite ready to receive him. Mary was in her own room above, whither Mr Pecksniff, always considerate, had besought old Martin to entreat her to remain some half-hour longer, that her feelings might be spared.

  When Tom came back, he found old Martin sitting by the window, and Mr Pecksniff in an imposing attitude at the table. On one side of him was his pocket-handkerchief; and on the other a little heap (a very little heap) of gold and silver, and odd pence. Tom saw, at a glance, that it was his own salary for the current quarter.

  “Have you fastened the vestry-window, Mr Pinch?” said Pecksniff.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you. Put down the keys if you please, Mr Pinch.”

  Tom placed them on the table. He held the bunch by the key of the organ-loft (though it was one of the smallest), and looked hard at it as he laid it down. It had been an old, old friend of Tom's; a kind companion to him, many and many a day.

  “Mr Pinch,” said Pecksniff, shaking his head; “oh, Mr Pinch! I wonder you can look me in the face!”

  Tom did it though; and notwithstanding that he has been described as stooping generally, he stood as upright then as man could stand.

  “Mr Pinch,” said Pecksniff, taking up his handkerchief, as if he felt that he should want it soon, “I will not dwell upon the past. I will spare you, and I will spare myself, that pain at least.”

  Tom's was not a very bright eye, but it was a very expressive one when he looked at Mr Pecksniff, and said:

  “Thank you, sir. I am very glad you will not refer to the past.”

  “The presen
t is enough,” said Mr Pecksniff, dropping a penny, “and the sooner THAT is past, the better. Mr Pinch, I will not dismiss you without a word of explanation. Even such a course would be quite justifiable under the circumstances; but it might wear an appearance of hurry, and I will not do it; for I am,” said Mr Pecksniff, knocking down another penny, “perfectly self-possessed. Therefore I will say to you, what I have already said to Mr Chuzzlewit.”

  Tom glanced at the old gentleman, who nodded now and then as approving of Mr Pecksniff's sentences and sentiments, but interposed between them in no other way.

  “From fragments of a conversation which I overheard in the church, just now, Mr Pinch,” said Pecksniff, “between yourself and Miss Graham—I say fragments, because I was slumbering at a considerable distance from you, when I was roused by your voices—and from what I saw, I ascertained (I would have given a great deal not to have ascertained, Mr Pinch) that you, forgetful of all ties of duty and of honour, sir; regardless of the sacred laws of hospitality, to which you were pledged as an inmate of this house; have presumed to address Miss Graham with unreturned professions of attachment and proposals of love.”

  Tom looked at him steadily.

  “Do you deny it, sir?” asked Mr Pecksniff, dropping one pound two and fourpence, and making a great business of picking it up again.

  “No, sir,” replied Tom. “I do not.”

  “You do not,” said Mr Pecksniff, glancing at the old gentleman. “Oblige me by counting this money, Mr Pinch, and putting your name to this receipt. You do not?”

  No, Tom did not. He scorned to deny it. He saw that Mr Pecksniff having overheard his own disgrace, cared not a jot for sinking lower yet in his contempt. He saw that he had devised this fiction as the readiest means of getting rid of him at once, but that it must end in that any way. He saw that Mr Pecksniff reckoned on his not denying it, because his doing so and explaining would incense the old man more than ever against Martin and against Mary; while Pecksniff himself would only have been mistaken in his “fragments.”Deny it! No.