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.