[Illustration]
_Clearing up all Doubts (if any existed) of the Disinterestedness
of Mr. Jingle's Character_
There are in London several old inns, once the headquarters of
celebrated coaches in the days when coaches performed their journeys in
a graver and more solemn manner than they do in these times; but which
have now degenerated into little more than the abiding and booking
places of country waggons. The reader would look in vain for any of
these ancient hostelries, among the Golden Crosses and Bull and Mouths,
which rear their stately fronts in the improved streets of London. If
he would light upon any of these old places, he must direct his steps
to the obscurer quarters of the town; and there in some secluded nooks
he will find several, still standing with a kind of gloomy sturdiness,
amidst the modern innovations which surround them.
In the Borough especially, there still remain some half-dozen old inns,
which have preserved their external features unchanged, and which have
escaped alike the rage for public improvement, and the encroachments
of private speculation. Great, rambling, queer old places they are,
with galleries, and passages, and staircases wide enough and antiquated
enough to furnish materials for a hundred ghost stories, supposing we
should ever be reduced to the lamentable necessity of inventing any,
and that the world should exist long enough to exhaust the innumerable
veracious legends connected with old London Bridge, and its adjacent
neighbourhood on the Surrey side.
It was in the yard of one of these inns--of no less celebrated a one
than the White Hart--that a man was busily employed in brushing the
dirt off a pair of boots, early on the morning succeeding the events
narrated in the last chapter. He was habited in a coarse-striped
waistcoat, with black calico sleeves, and blue glass buttons; drab
breeches and leggings. A bright red handkerchief was wound in a very
loose and unstudied style round his neck, and an old white hat was
carelessly thrown on one side of his head. There were two rows of boots
before him, one cleaned and the other dirty, and at every addition he
made to the clean row, he paused from his work and contemplated its
results with evident satisfaction.
The yard presented none of that bustle and activity which are the usual
characteristics of a large coach inn. Three or four lumbering waggons,
each with a pile of goods beneath its ample canopy, about the height of
the second-floor window of an ordinary house, were stowed away beneath
a lofty roof which extended over one end of the yard; and another,
which was probably to commence its journey that morning, was drawn
out into the open space. A double tier of bed-room galleries, with
old clumsy balustrades, ran round two sides of the straggling area,
and a double row of bells to correspond, sheltered from the weather
by a little sloping roof, hung over the door leading to the bar and
coffee-room. Two or three gigs and chaise-carts were wheeled up under
different little sheds and pent-houses; and the occasional heavy tread
of a cart-horse, or rattling of a chain at the further end of the yard,
announced to anybody who cared about the matter, that the stable lay
in that direction. When we add that a few boys in smock frocks were
lying asleep on heavy packages, woolpacks, and other articles that
were scattered about on heaps of straw, we have described as fully as
need be the general appearance of the yard of the White Hart Inn, High
Street, Borough, on the particular morning in question.
A loud ringing of one of the bells, was followed by the appearance of a
smart chambermaid in the upper sleeping gallery, who, after tapping at
one of the doors, and receiving a request from within, called over the
balustrades--
"Sam!"
"Hallo," replied the man with the white hat.
"Number twenty-two wants his boots."
"Ask number twenty-two, vether he'll have 'em now, or wait till he gets
'em," was the reply.
"Come, don't be a fool, Sam," said the girl, coaxingly, "the gentleman
wants his boots directly."
"Well, you _are_ a nice young 'ooman for a musical party, you are,"
said the boot-cleaner. "Look at these here boots--eleven pair o' boots;
and one shoe as b'longs to number six, with the wooden leg. The eleven
boots is to be called at half-past eight and the shoe at nine. Who's
number twenty-two, that's to put all the others out? No, no; reg'lar
rotation, as Jack Ketch said, ven he tied the men up. Sorry to keep you
a waitin', sir, but I'll attend to you directly."
Saying which, the man in the white hat set to work upon a top-boot with
increased assiduity.
There was another loud ring; and the bustling old landlady of the White
Hart made her appearance in the opposite gallery.
"Sam," cried the landlady--"where's that lazy, idle--why, Sam--oh,
there you are; why don't you answer?"
"Wouldn't be gen-teel to answer, 'till you'd done talking," replied
Sam, gruffly.
"Here, clean them shoes for number seventeen directly, and take 'em to
private sitting-room, number five, first floor."
The landlady flung a pair of lady's shoes into the yard, and bustled
away.
"Number five," said Sam, as he picked up the shoes, and taking a piece
of chalk from his pocket, made a memorandum of their destination on the
soles--"Lady's shoes and private sittin' room. I suppose _she_ didn't
come in the vaggin."
"She came in early this morning," cried the girl, who was still leaning
over the railing of the gallery, "with a gentleman in a hackney coach,
and it's him as wants his boots, and you'd better do 'em, that's all
about it."
"Vy didn't you say so before," said Sam, with great indignation,
singling out the boots in question from the heap before him. "For all I
know'd he vas one o' the regular threepennies. Private room! and a lady
too! If he's anything of a gen'lm'n, he's vorth a shillin' a day, let
alone the arrands."
Stimulated by this inspiring reflection, Mr. Samuel brushed away with
such hearty good will, that in a few minutes the boots and shoes, with
a polish which would have struck envy to the soul of the amiable Mr.
Warren (for they used Day and Martin at the White Hart), had arrived at
the door of number five.
"Come in," said a man's voice, in reply to Sam's rap at the door.
Sam made his best bow, and stepped into the presence of a lady and
gentleman seated at breakfast. Having officiously deposited the
gentleman's boots right and left at his feet, and the lady's shoes
right and left at hers, he backed towards the door.
"Boots," said the gentleman.
"Sir," said Sam, closing the door, and keeping his hand on the knob of
the lock.
"Do you know--what's-a-name--Doctors' Commons?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where is it?"
"Paul's Churchyard, sir; low archway on the carriage-side, bookseller's
at one corner, hot-el on the other, and two porters in the middle as
touts for licences."
"Touts for licences!" said the gentleman.
"Touts for licences," replied Sam. "Two coves in vhite aprons--touches
their hats ven you walk in--'Licence, sir, licence?' Queer sort, them,
and their mas'rs too, sir--Old Bailey Proctors--and no mistake."
"What do they do?" inquired the gentleman.
"Do! _You_, sir! That an't the wost on it, neither. They puts
things into old gen'lm'n's heads as they never dreamed of. My
father, sir, vos a coachman. A widower he vos, and fat enough for
anything--uncommon fat, to be sure. His missis dies and leaves
him four hundred pound. Down he goes to the Commons, to see the
lawyer and draw the blunt--very smart--top-boots on--nosegay in his
button-hole--broad-brimmed tile--green shawl--quite the gen'lm'n. Goes
through the archvay, thinking how he should inwest the money--up comes
the touter, touches his hat--'Licence, sir, licence?'--'What's that?'
says my father.--'Licence, sir,' says he.--'What licence?' says my
father.--'Marriage licence,' says the touter.--'Dash my veskit,' says
my father, 'I never thought o' that.'--'I think you wants one, sir?'
says the touter. My father pulls up, and thinks a bit--'No,' says
he, 'damme, I'm too old, b'sides I'm a many sizes too large,' says
he.--'Not a bit on it, sir,' says the touter.--'Think not?' says my
father.--'I'm sure not,' says he; 'we married a gen'lm'n twice your
size, last Monday.'--'Did you, though?' said my father.--'To be sure
we did,' says the touter, 'you're a babby to him--this vay, sir--this
vay!'--and sure enough my father walks arter him, like a tame monkey
behind a horgan, into a little back office, vere a feller sat among
dirty papers and tin boxes, making believe he was busy. 'Pray take a
seat, vile I makes out the affidavit, sir,' says the lawyer.--'Thankee,
sir,' says my father, and down he sat, and stared with all his eyes,
and his mouth vide open, at the names on the boxes. 'What's your name,
sir?' says the lawyer.--'Tony Weller,' says my father.--'Parish?'
says the lawyer.--'Belle Savage,' says my father; for he stopped
there wen he drove up, and he know'd nothing about parishes, _he_
didn't.--'And what's the lady's name?' says the lawyer. My father was
struck all of a heap. 'Blessed if I know,' says he.--'Not know!' says
the lawyer.--'No more nor you do,' says my father; 'can't I put that
in arterwards?'--'Impossible!' says the lawyer.--'Wery well,' says my
father, after he'd thought a moment, 'put down Mrs. Clarke.'--'What
Clarke?' says the lawyer, dipping his pen in the ink.--'Susan Clarke,
Markis o' Granby, Dorking,' says my father; 'she'll have me, if I ask,
I des-say--I never said nothing to her, but she'll have me, I know.'
The licence was made out, and she _did_ have him, and what's more she's
got him now; and _I_ never had any of the four hundred pound, worse
luck. Beg your pardon, sir," said Sam, when he had concluded, "but wen
I gets on this here grievance, I runs on like a new barrow vith the
vheel greased." Having said which, and having paused for an instant to
see whether he was wanted for anything more, Sam left the room.
"Half-past nine--just the time--off at once;" said the gentleman, whom
we need hardly introduce as Mr. Jingle.
"Time--for what?" said the spinster aunt, coquettishly.
"Licence, dearest of angels--give notice at the church--call you mine,
to-morrow"--said Mr. Jingle, and he squeezed the spinster aunt's hand.
"The licence!" said Rachael, blushing.
"The licence," repeated Mr. Jingle--
"'In hurry, post-haste for a licence,
In hurry, ding dong I come back.'"
"How you run on," said Rachael.
"Run on--nothing to the hours, days, weeks, months,
years, when we're united--_run_ on--they'll fly
on--bolt--mizzle--steam-engine--thousand-horse power--nothing to it."
"Can't--can't we be married before to-morrow morning?" inquired Rachael.
"Impossible--can't be--notice at the church--leave the licence
to-day--ceremony come off to-morrow."
"I am so terrified, lest my brother should discover us!" said Rachael.
"Discover--nonsense--too much shaken by the break down--besides--extreme
caution--gave up the post-chaise--walked on--took a hackney coach--came
to the Borough--last place in the world that he'd look in--ha! ha!
capital notion that--very."
"Don't be long," said the spinster, affectionately, as Mr. Jingle stuck
the pinched-up hat on his head.
"Long away from _you_?--Cruel charmer," and Mr. Jingle skipped
playfully up to the spinster aunt, imprinted a chaste kiss upon her
lips, and danced out of the room.
"Dear man!" said the spinster as the door closed after him.
"Rum old girl," said Mr. Jingle, as he walked down the passage.
It is painful to reflect upon the perfidy of our species; and we will
not, therefore, pursue the thread of Mr. Jingle's meditations, as he
wended his way to Doctors' Commons. It will be sufficient for our
purpose to relate, that escaping the snares of the dragons in white
aprons, who guard the entrance to that enchanted region, he reached
the Vicar-General's office in safety, and having procured a highly
flattering address on parchment, from the Archbishop of Canterbury,
to his "trusty and well-beloved Alfred Jingle and Rachael Wardle,
greeting," he carefully deposited the mystic document in his pocket,
and retraced his steps in triumph to the Borough.
He was yet on his way to the White Hart, when two plump gentlemen and
one thin one entered the yard, and looked round in search of some
authorised person of whom they could make a few inquiries. Mr. Samuel
Weller happened to be at that moment engaged in burnishing a pair of
painted tops, the personal property of a farmer who was refreshing
himself with a slight lunch of two or three pounds of cold beef and a
pot or two of porter, after the fatigues of the Borough market; and to
him the thin gentleman straightway advanced.
"My friend," said the thin gentleman.
"You're one o' the adwice gratis order," thought Sam, "or you wouldn't
be so werry fond o' me all at once." But he only said--"Well, sir?"
"My friend," said the thin gentleman, with a conciliatory hem--"Have
you got many people stopping here, now? Pretty busy, eh?"
Sam stole a look at the inquirer. He was a little high-dried man, with
a dark squeezed-up face, and small restless black eyes, that kept
winking and twinkling on each side of his little inquisitive nose, as
if they were playing a perpetual game of peep-bo with that feature. He
was dressed all in black, with boots as shiny as his eyes, a low white
neckcloth, and a clean shirt with a frill to it. A gold watch-chain,
and seals, depended from his fob. He carried his black kid gloves
_in_ his hands, not _on_ them; and as he spoke, thrust his wrists
beneath his coat-tails, with the air of a man who was in the habit of
propounding some regular posers.
"Pretty busy, eh?" said the little man.
[Illustration: _Sam at The White Hart._]
"Oh, werry well, sir," replied Sam, "we shan't be bankrupts, and
we shan't make our fort'ns. We eats our biled mutton without capers,
and don't care for horse-radish ven ve can get beef."
"Ah," said the little man, "you're a wag, an't you?"
"My eldest brother was troubled with that complaint," said Sam; "it may
be catching--I used to sleep with him."
"This is a curious old house of yours," said the little man, looking
around him.
"If you'd sent word you was coming, we'd ha' had it repaired," replied
the imperturbable Sam.
The little man seemed rather baffled by these several repulses, and a
short consultation took place between him and the two plump gentlemen.
At its conclusion, the little man took a pinch of snuff from an
oblong silver box, and was apparently on the point of renewing the
conversation, when one of the plump gentlemen, who in addition to a
benevolent countenance, possessed a pair of spectacles, and a pair of
black gaiters, interfered--
"The fact of the matter is," said the benevolent gentleman, "that my
friend here (pointing to the other plump gentleman) will give you half
a guinea, if you'll answer one or two----"
"Now, my dear sir--my dear sir," said the little man, "pray, allow
me--my dear sir, the very first principle to be observed in these
cases, is this: if you place a matter in the hands of a professional
man, you must in no way interfere in the progress of the business; you
must repose implicit confidence in him. Really, Mr. (he turned to the
other plump gentleman, and said)--I forget your friend's name."
"Pickwick," said Mr. Wardle, for it was no other than that jolly
personage.
"Ah, Pickwick--really, Mr. Pickwick, my dear sir, excuse me--I shall be
happy to receive any private suggestions of yours, as _amicus curiæ_,
but you must see the impropriety of your interfering with my conduct in
this case, with such an _ad captandum_ argument as the offer of half
a guinea. Really, my dear sir, really;" and the little man took an
argumentative pinch of snuff, and looked very profound.
"My only wish, sir," said Mr. Pickwick, "was to bring this very
unpleasant matter to as speedy a close as possible."
"Quite right--quite right," said the little man.
"With which view," continued Mr. Pickwick, "I made use of the argument
which my experience of men has taught me is the most likely to succeed
in any case."
"Ay, ay," said the little man, "very good, very good, indeed; but you
should have suggested it to _me_. My dear sir, I'm quite certain you
cannot be ignorant of the extent of confidence which must be placed in
professional men. If any authority can be necessary on such a point, my
dear sir, let me refer you to the well-known case in Barnwell and----"
"Never mind George Barnwell," interrupted Sam, who had remained a
wondering listener during this short colloquy: "everybody knows vhat
sort of a case his was, tho' it's always been my opinion, mind you,
that the young 'ooman deserved scragging a precious sight more than he
did. Hows'ever, that's neither here nor there. You want me to except
of half a guinea. Werry well, I'm agreeable: I can't say no fairer
than that, can I, sir? (Mr. Pickwick smiled.) Then the next question
is, what the devil do you want with me, as the man said ven he see the
ghost?"
"We want to know--" said Mr. Wardle.
"Now, my dear sir--my dear sir," interposed the busy little man.
Mr. Wardle shrugged his shoulders and was silent.
"We want to know," said the little man, solemnly; "and we ask the
question of you, in order that we may not awaken apprehensions
inside--we want to know who you've got in this house, at present?"
"Who there is in the house!" said Sam, in whose mind the inmates were
always represented by that particular article of their costume which
came under his immediate superintendence. "There's a vooden leg in
number six; there's a pair of Hessians in thirteen; there's two pair
of halves in the commercial; there's these here painted tops in the
snuggery inside the bar; and five more tops in the coffee-room."
"Nothing more?" said the little man.
"Stop a bit," replied Sam, suddenly recollecting himself. "Yes;
there's a pair of Vellingtons a good deal worn, and a pair o' lady's
shoes, in number five."
"What sort of shoes?" hastily inquired Wardle, who, together with Mr.
Pickwick, had been lost in bewilderment at the singular catalogue of
visitors.
"Country make," replied Sam.
"Any maker's name?"
"Brown."
"Where of?"
"Muggleton."
"It _is_ them!" exclaimed Wardle. "By heavens, we've found them!"
"Hush!" said Sam. "The Vellingtons has gone to Doctors' Commons."
"No?" said the little man.
"Yes, for a licence."
"We're in time," exclaimed Wardle. "Show us the room; not a moment is
to be lost."
"Pray, my dear sir--pray," said the little man; "caution, caution." He
drew from his pocket a red silk purse, and looked very hard at Sam as
he drew out a sovereign.
Sam grinned expressively.
"Show us into the room at once, without announcing us," said the little
man, "and it's yours."
Sam threw the painted tops into a corner, and led the way through a
dark passage, and up a wide staircase. He paused at the end of a second
passage, and held out his hand.
"Here it is," whispered the attorney, as he deposited the money in the
hand of their guide.
The man stepped forward for a few paces, followed by the two friends
and their legal adviser. He stopped at a door.
"Is this the room?" murmured the little gentleman.
Sam nodded assent.
Old Wardle opened the door; and the whole three walked into the room
just as Mr. Jingle, who had that moment returned, had produced the
licence to the spinster aunt.
The spinster uttered a loud shriek, and, throwing herself in a chair,
covered her face with her hands. Mr. Jingle crumpled up the licence,
and thrust it into his coat-pocket. The unwelcome visitors advanced
into the middle of the room.
"You--you are a nice rascal, aren't you?" exclaimed Wardle, breathless
with passion.
"My dear sir, my dear sir," said the little man, laying his hat on
the table. "Pray, consider--pray. Defamation of character: action for
damages. Calm yourself, my dear sir, pray----"
"How dare you drag my sister from my house?" said the old man.
"Ay--ay--very good," said the little gentleman, "you may ask that. How
dare you, sir?--eh, sir?"
"Who the devil are you?" inquired Mr. Jingle, in so fierce a tone, that
the little gentleman involuntarily fell back a step or two.
"Who is he, you scoundrel?" interposed Wardle. "He's my lawyer,
Mr. Perker, of Gray's Inn. Perker, I'll have this fellow
prosecuted--indicted--I'll--I'll--I'll ruin him. And you," continued
Mr. Wardle, turning abruptly round to his sister, "you, Rachael,
at a time of life when you ought to know better, what do _you_
mean by running away with a vagabond, disgracing your family, and
making yourself miserable? Get on your bonnet, and come back. Call
a hackney-coach there, directly, and bring this lady's bill, d'ye
hear--d'ye hear?"
"Cert'nly, sir," replied Sam, who had answered Wardle's violent
ringing of the bell with a degree of celerity which must have appeared
marvellous to anybody who didn't know that his eye had been applied to
the outside of the keyhole during the whole interview.
[Illustration]
"Get on your bonnet," repeated Wardle.
"Do nothing of the kind," said Jingle. "Leave the room, sir--no
business here--lady's free to act as she pleases--more than
one-and-twenty."
"More than one-and-twenty!" ejaculated Wardle, contemptuously. "More
than one-and-forty!"
"I an't," said the spinster aunt, her indignation getting the better of
her determination to faint.
"You are," replied Wardle, "you're fifty if you're an hour."
Here the spinster aunt uttered a loud shriek, and became senseless.
"A _glass_ of water," said the humane Mr. Pickwick, summoning the
landlady.
"A glass of water!" said the passionate Wardle. "Bring a bucket and
throw it over her; it'll do her good, and she richly deserves it."
"Ugh, you brute!" ejaculated the kind-hearted landlady. "Poor dear."
And with sundry ejaculations, of "Come now, there's a dear--drink a
little of this--it'll do you good--don't give way so--there's a love,"
&c. &c., the landlady, assisted by a chambermaid, proceeded to vinegar
the forehead, beat the hands, titillate the nose, and unlace the stays
of the spinster aunt, and to administer such other restoratives as are
usually applied by compassionate females to ladies who are endeavouring
to ferment themselves into hysterics.
"Coach is ready, sir," said Sam, appearing at the door.
"Come along," cried Wardle. "I'll carry her downstairs."
At this proposition, the hysterics came on with redoubled violence.
The landlady was about to enter a very violent protest against this
proceeding, and had already given vent to an indignant inquiry whether
Mr. Wardle considered himself a lord of the creation, when Mr. Jingle
interposed--
"Boots," said he, "get me an officer."
"Stay, stay," said little Mr. Perker. "Consider, sir, consider."
"I'll _not_ consider," replied Jingle. "She's her own mistress--see who
dares to take her away--unless she wishes it."
"I _won't_ be taken away," murmured the spinster aunt. "I _don't_ wish
it." (Here there was a frightful relapse.)
"My dear sir," said the little man, in a low tone, taking Mr. Wardle
and Mr. Pickwick apart: "My dear sir, we're in a very awkward
situation. It's a distressing case--very; I never knew one more so; but
really, my dear sir, really we have no power to control this lady's
actions. I warned you before we came, my dear sir, that there was
nothing to look to but a compromise."
There was a short pause.
"What kind of compromise would you recommend?" inquired Mr. Pickwick.
"Why, my dear sir, our friend's in an unpleasant position--very much
so. We must be content to suffer some pecuniary loss."
"I'll suffer any, rather than submit to this disgrace, and let her,
fool as she is, be made miserable for life," said Wardle.
"I rather think it can be done," said the bustling little man. "Mr.
Jingle, will you step with us into the next room for a moment?"
Mr. Jingle assented, and the quartette walked into an empty apartment.
"Now, sir," said the little man, as he carefully closed the door, "is
there no way of accommodating this matter?--step this way, sir, for a
moment--into this window, sir, where we can be alone--there sir, there,
pray sit down, sir. Now, my dear sir, between you and I, we know very
well, my dear sir, that you have run off with this lady for the sake
of her money. Don't frown, sir, don't frown; I say, between you and I,
_we_ know it. We are both men of the world, and _we_ know very well
that our friends here, are not--eh?"
Mr. Jingle's face gradually relaxed; and something distantly resembling
a wink quivered for an instant in his left eye.
"Very good, very good," said the little man, observing the impression
he had made. "Now, the fact is, that beyond a few hundreds, the lady
has little or nothing till the death of her mother--fine old lady, my
dear sir."
"_Old_," said Mr. Jingle, briefly but emphatically.
"Why, yes," said the attorney, with a slight cough. "You are right, my
dear sir, she is _rather_ old. She comes of an old family though, my
dear sir; old in every sense of the word. The founder of that family
came into Kent, when Julius Cæsar invaded Britain;--only one member of
it, since, who hasn't lived to eighty-five, and _he_ was beheaded by
one of the Henrys. The old lady is not seventy-three now, my dear sir."
The little man paused, and took a pinch of snuff.
"Well?" cried Mr. Jingle.
"Well, my dear sir--you don't take snuff?--ah! so much the
better--expensive habit--well, my dear sir, you're a fine young man,
man of the world--able to push your fortune, if you had capital, eh?"
"Well?" said Mr. Jingle again.
"Do you comprehend me?"
"Not quite."
"Don't you think--now, my dear sir, I put it to you, _don't_ you
think--that fifty pounds and liberty, would be better than Miss Wardle
and expectation?"
"Won't do--not half enough!" said Mr. Jingle, rising.
"Nay, nay, my dear sir," remonstrated the little attorney, seizing him
by the button. "Good round sum--a man like you could treble it in no
time--great deal to be done with fifty pounds, my dear sir."
"More to be done with a hundred and fifty," replied Mr. Jingle, coolly.
"Well, my dear sir, we won't waste time in splitting straws," resumed
the little man, "say--say--seventy."
"Won't do," said Mr. Jingle.
"Don't go away, my dear sir--pray don't hurry," said the little man.
"Eighty; come: I'll write you a cheque at once."
"Won't do," said Mr. Jingle.
"Well, my dear sir, well," said the little man, still detaining him;
"just tell me what _will_ do."
"Expensive affair," said Mr. Jingle. "Money out of pocket--posting,
nine pounds; licence, three--that's twelve--compensation, a
hundred--hundred and twelve--Breach of honour--and loss of the
lady----"
"Yes, my dear sir, yes," said the little man, with a knowing look,
"never mind the last two items. That's a hundred and twelve--say a
hundred--come."
"And twenty," said Mr. Jingle.
"Come, come, I'll write you a cheque," said the little man; and down he
sat at the table for that purpose.
"I'll make it payable the day after to-morrow," said the little
man, with a look towards Mr. Wardle, "and we can get the lady away,
meanwhile." Mr. Wardle sullenly nodded assent.
"A hundred," said the little man.
"And twenty," said Mr. Jingle.
"My dear sir," remonstrated the little man.
"Give it him," interposed Mr. Wardle, "and let him go."
The cheque was written by the little gentleman, and pocketed by Mr.
Jingle.
"Now, leave this house instantly!" said Wardle, starting up.
"My dear sir," urged the little man.
"And mind," said Mr. Wardle, "that nothing should have induced me to
make this compromise--not even a regard for my family--if I had not
known that the moment you got any money in that pocket of yours, you'd
go to the devil faster, if possible, than you would without it----"
"My dear sir," urged the little man again.
"Be quiet, Perker," resumed Wardle. "Leave the room, sir."
"Off directly," said the unabashed Jingle. "Bye-bye, Pickwick."
If any dispassionate spectator could have beheld the countenance of
the illustrious man, whose name forms the leading feature of the title
of this work, during the latter part of this conversation, he would
have been almost induced to wonder that the indignant fire which
flashed from his eyes, did not melt the glasses of his spectacles--so
majestic was his wrath. His nostrils dilated, and his fists clenched
involuntarily, as he heard himself addressed by the villain. But he
restrained himself again--he did _not_ pulverise him.
"Here," continued the hardened traitor, tossing the licence at Mr.
Pickwick's feet; "get the name altered--take home the lady--do for
Tuppy."
Mr. Pickwick was a philosopher, but philosophers are only men in
armour, after all. The shaft had reached him, penetrated through his
philosophical harness, to his very heart. In the frenzy of his rage, he
hurled the inkstand madly forward, and followed it up himself. But Mr.
Jingle had disappeared, and he found himself caught in the arms of Sam.
"Hallo," said that eccentric functionary, "furniter's cheap vere you
come from, sir. Self-acting ink, that 'ere; it's wrote your mark upon
the wall, old gen'lm'n. Hold still, sir: wot's the use o' runnin' arter
a man as has made his lucky, and got to t'other end of the Borough by
this time?"
Mr. Pickwick's mind, like those of all truly great men, was open to
conviction. He was a quick and powerful reasoner; and a moment's
reflection sufficed to remind him of the impotency of his rage. It
subsided as quickly as it had been roused. He panted for breath, and
looked benignantly round upon his friends.
Shall we tell the lamentations that ensued, when Miss Wardle found
herself deserted by the faithless Jingle? Shall we extract Mr.
Pickwick's masterly description of that heart-rending scene? His
note-book, blotted with the tears of sympathising humanity, lies open
before us; one word, and it is in the printer's hands. But, no! we will
be resolute! We will not wring the public bosom with the delineation of
such suffering!
Slowly and sadly did the two friends and the deserted lady return next
day in the Muggleton heavy coach. Dimly and darkly had the sombre
shadows of a summer's night fallen upon all around, when they again
reached Dingley Dell, and stood within the entrance to Manor Farm.