IN WHICH THE TABLES ARE TURNED, COMPLETELY UPSIDE DOWN  
Old Martin’s cherished projects, so long hidden in his own breast, so frequently in danger of abrupt disclosure through the bursting forth of the indignation he had hoarded up during his residence with Mr Pecksniff, were retarded, but not beyond a few hours, by the occurrences just now related. Stunned, as he had been at first by the intelligence conveyed to him through Tom Pinch and John Westlock, of the supposed manner of his brother’s death; overwhelmed as he was by the subsequent narratives of Chuffey and Nadgett, and the forging of that chain of circumstances ending in the death of Jonas, of which catastrophe he was immediately informed; scattered as his purposes and hopes were for the moment, by the crowding in of all these incidents between him and his end; still their very intensity and the tumult of their assemblage nerved him to the rapid and unyielding execution of his scheme. In every single circumstance, whether it were cruel, cowardly, or false, he saw the flowering of the same pregnant seed. Self; grasping, eager, narrow-ranging, overreaching self; with its long train of suspicions, lusts, deceits, and all their growing consequences; was the root of the vile tree. Mr Pecksniff had so presented his character before the old man’s eyes, that he—the good, the tolerant, enduring Pecksniff—had become the incarnation of all selfishness and treachery; and the more odious the shapes in which those vices ranged themselves before him now, the sterner consolation he had in his design of setting Mr Pecksniff right and Mr Pecksniff’s victims too.
To this work he brought, not only the energy and determination natural to his character (which, as the reader may have observed in the beginning of his or her acquaintance with this gentleman, was remarkable for the strong development of those qualities), but all the forced and unnaturally nurtured energy consequent upon their long suppression. And these two tides of resolution setting into one and sweeping on, became so strong and vigorous, that, to prevent themselves from being carried away before it, Heaven knows where, was as much as John Westlock and Mark Tapley together (though they were tolerably energetic too) could manage to effect.
He had sent for John Westlock immediately on his arrival; and John, under the conduct of Tom Pinch, had waited on him. Having a lively recollection of Mr Tapley, he had caused that gentleman’s attendance to be secured, through John’s means, without delay; and thus, as we have seen, they had all repaired together to the City. But his grandson he had refused to see until to-morrow, when Mr Tapley was instructed to summon him to the Temple at ten o’clock in the forenoon. Tom he would not allow to be employed in anything, lest he should be wrongfully suspected; but he was a party to all their proceedings, and was with them until late at night—until after they knew of the death of Jonas; when he went home to tell all these wonders to little Ruth, and to prepare her for accompanying him to the Temple in the morning, agreeably to Mr Chuzzlewit’s particular injunction.
It was characteristic of old Martin, and his looking on to something which he had distinctly before him, that he communicated to them nothing of his intentions, beyond such hints of reprisal on Mr Pecksniff as they gathered from the game he had played in that gentleman’s house, and the brightening of his eyes whenever his name was mentioned. Even to John Westlock, in whom he was evidently disposed to place great confidence (which may indeed be said of every one of them), he gave no explanation whatever. He merely requested him to return in the morning; and with this for their utmost satisfaction, they left him, when the night was far advanced, alone.
The events of such a day might have worn out the body and spirit of a much younger man than he, but he sat in deep and painful meditation until the morning was bright. Nor did he even then seek any prolonged repose, but merely slumbered in his chair, until seven o’clock, when Mr Tapley had appointed to come to him by his desire; and came—as fresh and clean and cheerful as the morning itself.
‘You are punctual,’ said Mr Chuzzlewit, opening the door to him in reply to his light knock, which had roused him instantly.
‘My wishes, sir,’ replied Mr Tapley, whose mind would appear from the context to have been running on the matrimonial service, ‘is to love, honour, and obey. The clock’s a-striking now, sir.’
‘Come in!’
‘Thank’ee, sir,’ rejoined Mr Tapley, ‘what could I do for you first, sir?’
‘You gave my message to Martin?’ said the old man, bending his eyes upon him.
‘I did, sir,’ returned Mark; ‘and you never see a gentleman more surprised in all your born days than he was.’
‘What more did you tell him?’ Mr Chuzzlewit inquired.
‘Why, sir,’ said Mr Tapley, smiling, ‘I should have liked to tell him a deal more, but not being able, sir, I didn’t tell it him.’
‘You told him all you knew?’
‘But it was precious little, sir,’ retorted Mr Tapley. ‘There was very little respectin’ you that I was able to tell him, sir. I only mentioned my opinion that Mr Pecksniff would find himself deceived, sir, and that you would find yourself deceived, and that he would find himself deceived, sir.’
‘In what?’ asked Mr Chuzzlewit.
‘Meaning him, sir?’
‘Meaning both him and me.’
‘Well, sir,’ said Mr Tapley. ‘In your old opinions of each other. As to him, sir, and his opinions, I know he’s a altered man. I know it. I know’d it long afore he spoke to you t’other day, and I must say it. Nobody don’t know half as much of him as I do. Nobody can’t. There was always a deal of good in him, but a little of it got crusted over, somehow. I can’t say who rolled the paste of that ‘ere crust myself, but—’
‘Go on,’ said Martin. ‘Why do you stop?’
‘But it—well! I beg your pardon, but I think it may have been you, sir. Unintentional I think it may have been you. I don’t believe that neither of you gave the other quite a fair chance. There! Now I’ve got rid on it,’ said Mr Tapley in a fit of desperation: ‘I can’t go a-carryin’ it about in my own mind, bustin’ myself with it; yesterday was quite long enough. It’s out now. I can’t help it. I’m sorry for it. Don’t wisit on him, sir, that’s all.’
It was clear that Mark expected to be ordered out immediately, and was quite prepared to go.
‘So you think,’ said Martin, ‘that his old faults are, in some degree, of my creation, do you?’
‘Well, sir,’ retorted Mr Tapley, ‘I’m werry sorry, but I can’t unsay it. It’s hardly fair of you, sir, to make a ignorant man conwict himself in this way, but I do think so. I am as respectful disposed to you, sir, as a man can be; but I do think so.’
The light of a faint smile seemed to break through the dull steadiness of Martin’s face, as he looked attentively at him, without replying.
‘Yet you are an ignorant man, you say,’ he observed after a long pause.
‘Werry much so,’ Mr Tapley replied.
‘And I a learned, well-instructed man, you think?’
‘Likewise wery much so,’ Mr Tapley answered.
The old man, with his chin resting on his hand, paced the room twice or thrice before he added:
‘You have left him this morning?’
‘Come straight from him now, sir.’
‘For what does he suppose?’
‘He don’t know what to suppose, sir, no more than myself. I told him jest wot passed yesterday, sir, and that you had said to me, “Can you be here by seven in the morning?” and that you had said to him, through me, “Can you be here by ten in the morning?” and that I had said “Yes” to both. That’s all, sir.’
His frankness was so genuine that it plainly was all.
‘Perhaps,’ said Martin, ‘he may think you are going to desert him, and to serve me?’
‘I have served him in that sort of way, sir,’ replied Mark, without the loss of any atom of his self-possession; ‘and we have been that sort of companions in misfortune, that my opinion is, he don’t believe a word on it. No more than you do, sir.’
‘Will you help me to dress, and get me some breakfast from the hotel?’ asked Martin.
‘With pleasure, sir,’ said Mark.
‘And by-and-bye,’ said Martin, ‘remaining in the room, as I wish you to do, will you attend to the door yonder—give admission to visitors, I mean, when they knock?’
‘Certainly, sir,’ said Mr Tapley.
‘You will not find it necessary to express surprise at their appearance,’ Martin suggested.
‘Oh dear no, sir!’ said Mr Tapley, ‘not at all.’
Although he pledged himself to this with perfect confidence, he was in a state of unbounded astonishment even now. Martin appeared to observe it, and to have some sense of the ludicrous bearing of Mr Tapley under these perplexing circumstances; for, in spite of the composure of his voice and the gravity of his face, the same indistinct light flickered on the latter several times. Mark bestirred himself, however, to execute the offices with which he was entrusted; and soon lost all tendency to any outward expression of his surprise, in the occupation of being brisk and busy.
But when he had put Mr Chuzzlewit’s clothes in good order for dressing, and when that gentleman was dressed and sitting at his breakfast, Mr Tapley’s feelings of wonder began to return upon him with great violence; and, standing beside the old man with a napkin under his arm (it was as natural and easy to joke to Mark to be a butler in the Temple, as it had been to volunteer as cook on board the Screw), he found it difficult to resist the temptation of casting sidelong glances at him very often. Nay, he found it impossible; and accordingly yielded to this impulse so often, that Martin caught him in the fact some fifty times. The extraordinary things Mr Tapley did with his own face when any of these detections occurred; the sudden occasions he had to rub his eyes or his nose or his chin; the look of wisdom with which he immediately plunged into the deepest thought, or became intensely interested in the habits and customs of the flies upon the ceiling, or the sparrows out of doors; or the overwhelming politeness with which he endeavoured to hide his confusion by handing the muffin; may not unreasonably be assumed to have exercised the utmost power of feature that even Martin Chuzzlewit the elder possessed.
But he sat perfectly quiet and took his breakfast at his leisure, or made a show of doing so, for he scarcely ate or drank, and frequently lapsed into long intervals of musing. When he had finished, Mark sat down to his breakfast at the same table; and Mr Chuzzlewit, quite silent still, walked up and down the room.
Mark cleared away in due course, and set a chair out for him, in which, as the time drew on towards ten o’clock, he took his seat, leaning his hands upon his stick, and clenching them upon the handle, and resting his chin on them again. All his impatience and abstraction of manner had vanished now; and as he sat there, looking, with his keen eyes, steadily towards the door, Mark could not help thinking what a firm, square, powerful face it was; or exulting in the thought that Mr Pecksniff, after playing a pretty long game of bowls with its owner, seemed to be at last in a very fair way of coming in for a rubber or two.
Mark’s uncertainty in respect of what was going to be done or said, and by whom to whom, would have excited him in itself. But knowing for a certainty besides, that young Martin was coming, and in a very few minutes must arrive, he found it by no means easy to remain quiet and silent. But, excepting that he occasionally coughed in a hollow and unnatural manner to relieve himself, he behaved with great decorum through the longest ten minutes he had ever known.
A knock at the door. Mr Westlock. Mr Tapley, in admitting him, raised his eyebrows to the highest possible pitch, implying thereby that he considered himself in an unsatisfactory position. Mr Chuzzlewit received him very courteously.
Mark waited at the door for Tom Pinch and his sister, who were coming up the stairs. The old man went to meet them; took their hands in his; and kissed her on the cheek. As this looked promising, Mr Tapley smiled benignantly.
Mr Chuzzlewit had resumed his chair before young Martin, who was close behind them, entered. The old man, scarcely looking at him, pointed to a distant seat. This was less encouraging; and Mr Tapley’s spirits fell again.
He was quickly summoned to the door by another knock. He did not start, or cry, or tumble down, at sight of Miss Graham and Mrs Lupin, but he drew a very long breath, and came back perfectly resigned, looking on them and on the rest with an expression which seemed to say that nothing could surprise him any more; and that he was rather glad to have done with that sensation for ever.
The old man received Mary no less tenderly than he had received Tom Pinch’s sister. A look of friendly recognition passed between himself and Mrs Lupin, which implied the existence of a perfect understanding between them. It engendered no astonishment in Mr Tapley; for, as he afterwards observed, he had retired from the business, and sold off the stock.
Not the least curious feature in this assemblage was, that everybody present was so much surprised and embarrassed by the sight of everybody else, that nobody ventured to speak. Mr Chuzzlewit alone broke silence.
‘Set the door open, Mark!’ he said; ‘and come here.’
Mark obeyed.
The last appointed footstep sounded now upon the stairs. They all knew it. It was Mr Pecksniff’s; and Mr Pecksniff was in a hurry too, for he came bounding up with such uncommon expedition that he stumbled twice or thrice.
‘Where is my venerable friend?’ he cried upon the upper landing; and then with open arms came darting in.
Old Martin merely looked at him; but Mr Pecksniff started back as if he had received the charge from an electric battery.
‘My venerable friend is well?’ cried Mr Pecksniff.
‘Quite well.’
It seemed to reassure the anxious inquirer. He clasped his hands and, looking upwards with a pious joy, silently expressed his gratitude. He then looked round on the assembled group, and shook his head reproachfully. For such a man severely, quite severely.
‘Oh, vermin!’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Oh, bloodsuckers! Is it not enough that you have embittered the existence of an individual wholly unparalleled in the biographical records of amiable persons, but must you now, even now, when he has made his election, and reposed his trust in a Numble, but at least sincere and disinterested relative; must you now, vermin and swarmers (I regret to make use of these strong expressions, my dear sir, but there are times when honest indignation will not be controlled), must you now, vermin and swarmers (for I will repeat it), take advantage of his unprotected state, assemble round him from all quarters, as wolves and vultures, and other animals of the feathered tribe assemble round—I will not say round carrion or a carcass, for Mr Chuzzlewit is quite the contrary—but round their prey; their prey; to rifle and despoil; gorging their voracious maws, and staining their offensive beaks, with every description of carnivorous enjoyment!’
As he stopped to fetch his breath, he waved them off, in a solemn manner, with his hand.
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‘Horde of unnatural plunderers and robbers!’ he continued; ‘leave him! leave him, I say! Begone! Abscond! You had better be off! Wander over the face of the earth, young sirs, like vagabonds as you are, and do not presume to remain in a spot which is hallowed by the grey hairs of the patriarchal gentleman to whose tottering limbs I have the honour to act as an unworthy, but I hope an unassuming, prop and staff. And you, my tender sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, addressing himself in a tone of gentle remonstrance to the old man, ‘how could you ever leave me, though even for this short period! You have absented yourself, I do not doubt, upon some act of kindness to me; bless you for it; but you must not do it; you must not be so venturesome. I should really be angry with you if I could, my friend!’
He advanced with outstretched arms to take the old man’s hand. But he had not seen how the hand clasped and clutched the stick within its grasp. As he came smiling on, and got within his reach, old Martin, with his burning indignation crowded into one vehement burst, and flashing out of every line and wrinkle in his face, rose up, and struck him down upon the ground.
With such a well-directed nervous blow, that down he went, as heavily and true as if the charge of a Life-Guardsman had tumbled him out of a saddle. And whether he was stunned by the shock, or only confused by the wonder and novelty of this warm reception, he did not offer to get up again; but lay there, looking about him with a disconcerted meekness in his face so enormously ridiculous, that neither Mark Tapley nor John Westlock could repress a smile, though both were actively interposing to prevent a repetition of the blow; which the old man’s gleaming eyes and vigorous attitude seemed to render one of the most probable events in the world.
‘Drag him away! Take him out of my reach!’ said Martin; ‘or I can’t help it. The strong restraint I have put upon my hands has been enough to palsy them. I am not master of myself while he is within their range. Drag him away!’
Seeing that he still did not rise, Mr Tapley, without any compromise about it, actually did drag him away, and stick him up on the floor, with his back against the opposite wall.
‘Hear me, rascal!’ said Mr Chuzzlewit. ‘I have summoned you here to witness your own work. I have summoned you here to witness it, because I know it will be gall and wormwood to you! I have summoned you here to witness it, because I know the sight of everybody here must be a dagger in your mean, false heart! What! do you know me as I am, at last!’
Mr Pecksniff had cause to stare at him, for the triumph in his face and speech and figure was a sight to stare at.
‘Look there!’ said the old man, pointing at him, and appealing to the rest. ‘Look there! And then—come hither, my dear Martin—look here! here! here!’ At every repetition of the word he pressed his grandson closer to his breast.
‘The passion I felt, Martin, when I dared not do this,’ he said, ‘was in the blow I struck just now. Why did we ever part! How could we ever part! How could you ever fly from me to him!’
Martin was about to answer, but he stopped him, and went on.
‘The fault was mine no less than yours. Mark has told me so today, and I have known it long; though not so long as I might have done. Mary, my love, come here.’
As she trembled and was very pale, he sat her in his own chair, and stood beside it with her hand in his; and Martin standing by him.
‘The curse of our house,’ said the old man, looking kindly down upon her, ‘has been the love of self; has ever been the love of self. How often have I said so, when I never knew that I had wrought it upon others.’
He drew one hand through Martin’s arm, and standing so, between them, proceeded thus:
‘You all know how I bred this orphan up, to tend me. None of you can know by what degrees I have come to regard her as a daughter; for she has won upon me, by her self-forgetfulness, her tenderness, her patience, all the goodness of her nature, when Heaven is her witness that I took but little pains to draw it forth. It blossomed without cultivation, and it ripened without heat. I cannot find it in my heart to say that I am sorry for it now, or yonder fellow might be holding up his head.’
Mr Pecksniff put his hand into his waistcoat, and slightly shook that part of him to which allusion had been made; as if to signify that it was still uppermost.
‘There is a kind of selfishness,’ said Martin—‘I have learned it in my own experience of my own breast—which is constantly upon the watch for selfishness in others; and holding others at a distance, by suspicions and distrusts, wonders why they don’t approach, and don’t confide, and calls that selfishness in them. Thus I once doubted those about me—not without reason in the beginning—and thus I once doubted you, Martin.’
‘Not without reason,’ Martin answered, ‘either.’
‘Listen, hypocrite! Listen, smooth-tongued, servile, crawling knave!’ said Martin. ‘Listen, you shallow dog. What! When I was seeking him, you had already spread your nets; you were already fishing for him, were ye? When I lay ill in this good woman’s house and your meek spirit pleaded for my grandson, you had already caught him, had ye? Counting on the restoration of the love you knew I bore him, you designed him for one of your two daughters did ye? Or failing that, you traded in him as a speculation which at any rate should blind me with the lustre of your charity, and found a claim upon me! Why, even then I knew you, and I told you so. Did I tell you that I knew you, even then?’
‘I am not angry, sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, softly. ‘I can bear a great deal from you. I will never contradict you, Mr Chuzzlewit.’
‘Observe!’ said Martin, looking round. ‘I put myself in that man’s hands on terms as mean and base, and as degrading to himself, as I could render them in words. I stated them at length to him, before his own children, syllable by syllable, as coarsely as I could, and with as much offence, and with as plain an exposition of my contempt, as words—not looks and manner merely—could convey. If I had only called the angry blood into his face, I would have wavered in my purpose. If I had only stung him into being a man for a minute I would have abandoned it. If he had offered me one word of remonstrance, in favour of the grandson whom he supposed I had disinherited; if he had pleaded with me, though never so faintly, against my appeal to him to abandon him to misery and cast him from his house; I think I could have borne with him for ever afterwards. But not a word, not a word. Pandering to the worst of human passions was the office of his nature; and faithfully he did his work!’
‘I am not angry,’ observed Mr Pecksniff. ‘I am hurt, Mr Chuzzlewit; wounded in my feelings; but I am not angry, my good sir.’
Mr Chuzzlewit resumed.
‘Once resolved to try him, I was resolute to pursue the trial to the end; but while I was bent on fathoming the depth of his duplicity, I made a sacred compact with myself that I would give him credit on the other side for any latent spark of goodness, honour, forbearance—any virtue—that might glimmer in him. For first to last there............