[Illustration]
_In which is given a Faithful Portraiture of two Distinguished
Persons; and an Accurate Description of a Public Breakfast in
their House and Grounds: which Public Breakfast leads to the
Recognition of an Old Acquaintance, and the Commencement of
another Chapter_
Mr. Pickwick's conscience had been somewhat reproaching him for his
recent neglect of his friends at the Peacock; and he was just on the
point of walking forth in quest of them, on the third morning after the
election had terminated, when his faithful valet put into his hand a
card, on which was engraved the following inscription:--
*Mrs. Leo Hunter.*
_The Den. Eatanswill._
"Person's a waitin'," said Sam, epigrammatically.
"Does the person want me, Sam?" inquired Mr. Pickwick.
"He wants you particklar; and no one else'll do, as the Devil's private
secretary said ven he fetched avay Doctor Faustus," replied Mr. Weller.
"_He._ Is it a gentleman?" said Mr. Pickwick.
"A wery good imitation o' one, if it an't," replied Mr. Weller.
"But this is a lady's card," said Mr. Pickwick.
"Given me by a gen'lm'n, hows'ever," replied Sam, "and he's a waitin'
in the drawing-room--said he'd rather wait all day, than not see you."
Mr. Pickwick, on hearing this determination, descended to the
drawing-room, where sat a grave man, who started up on his entrance,
and said, with an air of profound respect:
"Mr. Pickwick, I presume?"
"The same."
"Allow me, sir, the honour of grasping your hand. Permit me, sir, to
shake it," said the grave man.
"Certainly," said Mr. Pickwick.
The stranger shook the extended hand, and then continued.
"We have heard of your fame, sir. The noise of your antiquarian
discussion has reached the ears of Mrs. Leo Hunter--my wife, sir; _I_
am _Mr._ Leo Hunter"--the stranger paused, as if he expected that
Mr. Pickwick would be overcome by the disclosure; but seeing that he
remained perfectly calm, proceeded.
"My wife, sir--Mrs. Leo Hunter--is proud to number among her
acquaintance all those who have rendered themselves celebrated by their
works and talents. Permit me, sir, to place in a conspicuous part of
the list the name of Mr. Pickwick, and his brother members of the club
that derives its name from him."
"I shall be extremely happy to make the acquaintance of such a lady,
sir," replied Mr. Pickwick.
"You _shall_ make it, sir," said the grave man. "To-morrow morning,
sir, we give a public breakfast--a _fête champêtre_--to a great number
of those who have rendered themselves celebrated by their works and
talents. Permit Mrs. Leo Hunter, sir, to have the gratification of
seeing you at the Den."
"With great pleasure," replied Mr. Pickwick.
"Mrs. Leo Hunter has many of these breakfasts, sir," resumed the new
acquaintance--"'feasts of reason, sir, and flows of soul,' as somebody
who wrote a sonnet to Mrs. Leo Hunter on her breakfasts, feelingly and
originally observed."
"Was _he_ celebrated for his works and talents?" inquired Mr. Pickwick.
"He was, sir," replied the grave man, "all Mrs. Leo Hunter's
acquaintance are; it is her ambition, sir, to have no other
acquaintance."
"It is a very noble ambition," said Mr. Pickwick.
"When I inform Mrs. Leo Hunter, that that remark fell from _your_
lips, sir, she will indeed be proud," said the grave man. "You have a
gentleman in your train, who has produced some beautiful little poems,
I think, sir?"
"My friend Mr. Snodgrass has a great taste for poetry," replied Mr.
Pickwick.
"So has Mrs. Leo Hunter, sir. She dotes on poetry, sir. She adores it;
I may say that her whole soul and mind are wound up, and entwined with
it. She has produced some delightful pieces, herself, sir. You may have
met with her 'Ode to an Expiring Frog,' sir?"
"I don't think I have," said Mr. Pickwick.
"You astonish me, sir," said Mr. Leo Hunter. "It created an immense
sensation. It was signed with an 'L' and eight stars, and appeared
originally in a Lady's Magazine. It commenced:
'Can I view thee panting, lying
On thy stomach, without sighing!
Can I unmoved see thee dying
On a log,
Expiring frog!'"
"Beautiful!" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Fine," said Mr. Leo Hunter; "so simple."
"Very," said Mr. Pickwick.
"The next verse is still more touching. Shall I repeat it?"
"If you please," said Mr. Pickwick.
"It runs thus," said the grave man, still more gravely:
"'Say, have fiends in shape of boys,
With wild halloo and brutal noise,
Hunted thee from marshy joys,
With a dog,
Expiring frog?'"
"Finely expressed," said Mr. Pickwick.
"All point, sir," said Mr. Leo Hunter, "but you shall hear Mrs. Leo
Hunter repeat it. _She_ can do justice to it, sir. She will repeat it,
in character, sir, to-morrow morning."
"In character!"
"As Minerva. But I forgot--it's a fancy-dress breakfast."
"Dear me," said Mr. Pickwick, glancing at his own figure--"I can't
possibly----"
"Can't sir; can't!" exclaimed Mr. Leo Hunter. "Solomon Lucas, the Jew
in the High Street, has thousands of fancy dresses. Consider, sir, how
many appropriate characters are open for your selection. Plato, Zeno,
Epicurus, Pythagoras--all founders of clubs."
"I know that," said Mr. Pickwick, "but as I cannot put myself in
competition with those great men, I cannot presume to wear their
dresses."
The grave man considered deeply, for a few seconds, and then said:
"On reflection, sir, I don't know whether it would not afford Mrs.
Leo Hunter greater pleasure, if her guests saw a gentleman of your
celebrity in his own costume, rather than in an assumed one. I may
venture to promise an exception in your case, sir--yes, I am quite
certain that on behalf of Mrs. Leo Hunter, I may venture to do so."
"In that case," said Mr. Pickwick, "I shall have great pleasure in
coming."
"But I waste your time, sir," said the grave man, as if suddenly
recollecting himself. "I know its value, sir. I will not detain you.
I may tell Mrs. Leo Hunter, then, that she may confidently expect
you and your distinguished friends? Good morning, sir, I am proud to
have beheld so eminent a personage--not a step, sir; not a word." And
without giving Mr. Pickwick time to offer remonstrance or denial, Mr.
Leo Hunter stalked gravely away.
Mr. Pickwick took up his hat, and repaired to the Peacock, but Mr.
Winkle had conveyed the intelligence of the fancy ball there, before
him.
"Mrs. Pott's going," were the first words with which he saluted his
leader.
"Is she?" said Mr. Pickwick.
"As Apollo," replied Mr. Winkle. "Only Pott objects to the tunic."
"He is right. He is quite right," said Mr. Pickwick, emphatically.
"Yes;--so she's going to wear a white satin gown with gold spangles."
"They'll hardly know what she's meant for; will they?" inquired Mr.
Snodgrass.
"Of course they will," replied Mr. Winkle, indignantly. "They'll see
her lyre, won't they?"
"True; I forgot that," said Mr. Snodgrass.
"I shall go as a bandit," interposed Mr. Tupman.
"What!" said Mr. Pickwick, with a sudden start.
"As a bandit," repeated Mr. Tupman, mildly.
"You don't mean to say," said Mr. Pickwick, gazing with solemn
sternness at his friend--"you don't mean to say, Mr. Tupman, that it
is your intention to put yourself into a green velvet jacket, with a
two-inch tail?"
"Such _is_ my intention, sir," replied Mr. Tupman, warmly. "And why
not, sir?"
"Because, sir," said Mr. Pickwick, considerably excited, "because you
are too old, sir."
"Too old!" exclaimed Mr. Tupman.
"And if any further ground of objection be wanting," continued Mr.
Pickwick, "you are too fat, sir."
"Sir," said Mr. Tupman, his face suffused with a crimson glow, "this is
an insult."
"Sir," replied Mr. Pickwick, in the same tone, "it is not half the
insult to you, that your appearance in my presence in a green velvet
jacket, with a two-inch tail, would be to me."
"Sir," said Mr. Tupman, "you're a fellow!"
"Sir," said Mr. Pickwick, "you're another!"
Mr. Tupman advanced a step or two, and glared at Mr. Pickwick. Mr.
Pickwick returned the glare, concentrated into a focus by means of his
spectacles, and breathed a bold defiance. Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle
looked on, petrified at beholding such a scene between two such men.
"Sir," said Mr. Tupman, after a short pause, speaking in a low, deep
voice, "you have called me old."
"I have," said Mr. Pickwick.
"And fat."
"I reiterate the charge."
"And a fellow."
"So you are!"
There was a fearful pause.
"My attachment to your person, sir," said Mr. Tupman, speaking in a
voice tremulous with emotion, and tucking up his wristbands meanwhile,
"is great--very great--but upon that person, I must take summary
vengeance."
"Come on, sir!" replied Mr. Pickwick. Stimulated by the exciting nature
of the dialogue, the heroic man actually threw himself into a paralytic
attitude, confidently supposed by the two by-standers to have been
intended as a posture of defence.
"What!" exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass, suddenly recovering the power of
speech, of which intense astonishment had previously bereft him,
and rushing between the two, at the imminent hazard of receiving an
application on the temple from each. "What! Mr. Pickwick, with the eyes
of the world upon you! Mr. Tupman! Who, in common with us all, derives
a lustre from his undying name! For shame, gentlemen; for shame."
The unwonted lines which momentary passion had ruled in Mr. Pickwick's
clear and open brow, gradually melted away, as his young friend
spoke, like the marks of a black-lead pencil beneath the softening
influence of India rubber. His countenance had resumed its usual benign
expression, ere he concluded.
"I have been hasty," said Mr. Pickwick, "very hasty. Tupman; your hand."
The dark shadow passed from Mr. Tupman's face, as he warmly grasped the
hand of his friend.
"I have been hasty, too," said he.
"No, no," interrupted Mr. Pickwick, "the fault was mine. You will wear
the green velvet jacket?"
"No, no," replied Mr. Tupman.
"To oblige me, you will?" resumed Mr. Pickwick.
"Very well, I will," said Mr. Tupman.
It was accordingly settled that Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr.
Snodgrass, should all wear fancy dresses. Thus Mr. Pickwick was led
by the very warmth of his good feelings to give his consent to a
proceeding from which his better judgment would have recoiled--a more
striking illustration of his amiable character could hardly have been
conceived, even if the events recorded in these pages had been wholly
imaginary.
Mr. Leo Hunter had not exaggerated the resources of Mr. Solomon Lucas.
His wardrobe was extensive--very extensive--not strictly classical
perhaps, nor quite new, nor did it contain any one garment made
precisely after the fashion of any age or time, but everything was more
or less spangled; and what _can_ be prettier than spangles! It may be
objected that they are not adapted to the daylight, but everybody knows
that they would glitter if there were lamps; and nothing can be clearer
than that if people give fancy balls in the day-time, and the dresses
do not show quite as well as they would by night, the fault lies solely
with the people who give the fancy balls, and is in no wise chargeable
on the spangles. Such was the convincing reasoning of Mr. Solomon
Lucas; and influenced by such arguments did Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and
Mr. Snodgrass, engage to array themselves in costumes, which his taste
and experience induced him to recommend as admirably suited to the
occasion.
A carriage was hired from the Town Arms, for the accommodation of the
Pickwickians, and a chariot was ordered from the same repository,
for the purpose of conveying Mr. and Mrs. Pott to Mrs. Leo Hunter's
grounds, which Mr. Pott, as a delicate acknowledgment of having
received an invitation, had already confidently predicted in the
_Eatanswill Gazette_ "would present a scene of varied and delicious
enchantment--a bewildering coruscation of beauty and talent--a lavish
and prodigal display of hospitality--above all, a degree of splendour
softened by the most exquisite taste; and adornment refined with
perfect harmony and the chastest good keeping--compared with which,
the fabled gorgeousness of Eastern Fairy-land itself, would appear to
be clothed in as many dark and murky colours, as must be the mind of
the splenetic and unmanly being who could presume to taint with the
venom of his envy, the preparations making by the virtuous and highly
distinguished lady, at whose shrine this humble tribute of admiration
was offered." This last was a piece of biting sarcasm against the
_Independent_, who in consequence of not having been invited at all,
had been through four numbers affecting to sneer at the whole affair,
in his very largest type, with all the adjectives in capital letters.
The morning came: it was a pleasant sight to behold Mr. Tupman in
full Brigand's costume, with a very tight jacket, sitting like a
pincushion over his back and shoulders: the upper portion of his legs
encased in the velvet shorts, and the lower part thereof swathed
in the complicated bandages to which all Brigands are peculiarly
attached. It was pleasing to see his open and ingenuous countenance,
well mustachioed and corked, looking out from an open shirt-collar;
and to contemplate the sugar-loaf hat, decorated with ribbons of all
colours, which he was compelled to carry on his knee, inasmuch as no
known conveyance with a top to it, would admit of any man's carrying
it between his head and the roof. Equally humorous and agreeable was
the appearance of Mr. Snodgrass in blue satin trunks and cloak, white
silk tights and shoes, and Grecian helmet: which everybody knows (and
if they do not, Mr. Solomon Lucas did) to have been the regular,
authentic, every-day costume of a Troubadour, from the earliest ages
down to the time of their final disappearance from the face of the
earth. All this was pleasant, but this was nothing compared with the
shouting of the populace when the carriage drew up, behind Mr. Pott's
chariot, which chariot itself drew up at Mr. Pott's door, which door
itself opened, and displayed the great Pott accoutred as a Russian
officer of justice, with a tremendous knout in his hand--tastefully
typical of the stern and mighty power of the _Eatanswill Gazette_, and
the fearful lashings it bestowed on public offenders.
"Bravo!" shouted Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass from the passage, when
they beheld the walking allegory.
"Hoo--roar, Pott!" shouted the populace. Amid these salutations, Mr.
Pott, smiling with that kind of bland dignity which sufficiently
testified that he felt his power, and knew how to exert it, got into
the chariot.
Then there emerged from the house, Mrs. Pott, who would have looked
very like Apollo if she hadn't had a gown on: conducted by Mr. Winkle,
who in his light-red coat, could not possibly have been mistaken for
anything but a sportsman, if he had not borne an equal resemblance
to a general postman. Last of all came Mr. Pickwick, whom the boys
applauded as loud as anybody, probably under the impression that his
tights and gaiters were some remnants of the dark ages; and then the
two vehicles proceeded towards Mrs. Leo Hunter's: Mr. Weller (who was
to assist in waiting) being stationed on the box of that in which his
master was seated.
[Illustration: _Mr. Pickwick, with the Brigand on one arm, and the
Troubadour on the other_]
Every one of the men, women, boys, girls, and babies, who were
assembled to see the visitors in their fancy dresses, screamed with
delight and ecstasy, when Mr. Pickwick, with the Brigand on one arm,
and the Troubadour on the other, walked solemnly up the entrance. Never
were such shouts heard, as those which greeted Mr. Tupman's efforts to
fix the sugar-loaf hat on his head, by way of entering the garden in
style.
The preparations were on the most delightful scale; fully realising
the prophetic Pott's anticipations about the gorgeousness of Eastern
Fairyland, and at once affording a sufficient contradiction to the
malignant statements of the reptile _Independent_. The grounds were
more than an acre and a quarter in extent, and they were filled with
people! Never was such a blaze of beauty, and fashion, and literature.
There was the young lady who "did" the poetry in the _Eatanswill
Gazette_, in the garb of a sultana, leaning upon the arm of the young
gentleman who "did" the review department, and who was appropriately
habited in a field-marshal's uniform--the boots excepted. There were
hosts of these geniuses, and any reasonable person would have thought
it honour enough to meet them. But more than these, there were half
a dozen lions from London--authors, real authors, who had written
whole books, and printed them afterwards--and here you might see
'em, walking about, like ordinary men, smiling, and talking--aye, and
talking pretty considerable nonsense too, no doubt with the benign
intention of rendering themselves intelligible to the common people
about them. Moreover, there was a band of music in pasteboard caps;
four something-ean singers in the costume of their country, and a
dozen hired waiters in the costume of _their_ country--and very dirty
costume too. And above all, there was Mrs. Leo Hunter in the character
of Minerva, receiving the company, and overflowing with pride and
gratification at the notion of having called such distinguished
individuals together.
"Mr. Pickwick, ma'am," said a servant, as that gentleman approached
the presiding goddess, with his hat in his hand, and the Brigand and
Troubadour on either arm.
"What! Where!" exclaimed Mrs. Leo Hunter, starting up, in an affected
rapture of surprise.
"Here," said Mr. Pickwick.
"Is it possible that I have really the gratification of beholding Mr.
Pickwick himself!" ejaculated Mrs. Leo Hunter.
"No other, ma'am," replied Mr. Pickwick, bowing very low. "Permit me
to introduce my friends--Mr. Tupman--Mr. Winkle--Mr. Snodgrass--to the
authoress of 'The Expiring Frog.'"
Very few people but those who have tried it, know what a difficult
process it is, to bow in green velvet smalls, and a tight jacket,
and high-crowned hat: or in blue satin trunks and white silks: or
knee-cords and top-boots that were never made for the wearer, and have
been fixed upon him without the remotest reference to the comparative
dimensions of himself and the suit. Never were such distortions
as Mr. Tupman's frame underwent in his efforts to appear easy and
graceful--never was such ingenious posturing, as his fancy-dressed
friends exhibited.
"Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Leo Hunter, "I must make you promise not to
stir from my side the whole day. There are hundreds of people here,
that I must positively introduce you to."
"You are very kind, ma'am," said Mr. Pickwick.
"In the first place, here are my little girls; I had almost forgotten
them," said Minerva, carelessly pointing towards a couple of
full-grown young ladies, of whom one might be about twenty, and the
other a year or two older, and who were dressed in very juvenile
costumes--whether to make them look young, or their mamma younger, Mr.
Pickwick does not distinctly inform us.
"They are very beautiful," said Mr. Pickwick, as the juveniles turned
away, after being presented.
"They are very like their mamma, sir," said Mr. Pott, majestically.
"Oh you naughty man!" exclaimed Mrs. Leo Hunter, playfully tapping the
editor's arm with her fan (Minerva with a fan!).
"Why now, my dear Mrs. Hunter," said Mr. Pott, who was trumpeter in
ordinary at the Den, "you _know_ that when your picture was in the
Exhibition at the Royal Academy, last year, everybody inquired whether
it was intended for you, or your youngest daughter; for you were so
much alike that there was no telling the difference between you."
"Well, and if they did, why need you repeat it, before strangers?" said
Mrs. Leo Hunter, bestowing another tap on the slumbering lion of the
_Eatanswill Gazette_.
"Count, Count!" screamed Mrs. Leo Hunter to a well-whiskered individual
in a foreign uniform, who was passing by.
"Ah! you want me?" said the Count, turning back.
"I want to introduce two very clever people to each other," said
Mrs. Leo Hunter. "Mr. Pickwick, I have great pleasure in introducing
you to Count Smorltork." She added in a hurried whisper to Mr.
Pickwick--"the famous foreigner--gathering materials for his great work
on England--hem!--Count Smorltork, Mr. Pickwick."
Mr. Pickwick saluted the Count with all the reverence due to so great a
man, and the Count drew forth a set of tablets.
"What you say, Mrs. Hunt?" inquired the Count, smiling graciously
on the gratified Mrs. Leo Hunter, "Pig Vig or Big Vig--what you
call--Lawyer--eh? I see--that is it. Big Vig"--and the Count was
proceeding to enter Mr. Pickwick in his tablets, as a gentleman of
the long robe, who derived his name from the profession to which he
belonged, when Mrs. Leo Hunter interposed.
"No, no, Count," said the lady, "Pick-wick."
"Ah, ah, I see," replied the Count. "Peek--Christian name;
Weeks--surname; good, ver good. Peek Weeks. How you do, Weeks?"
"Quite well, I thank you," replied Mr. Pickwick, with all his usual
affability. "Have you been long in England?"
"Long--ver long time--fortnight--more."
"Do you stay here long?"
"One week."
"You will have enough to do," said Mr. Pickwick, smiling, "to gather
all the materials you want, in that time."
"Eh, they are gathered," said the Count.
"Indeed!" said Mr. Pickwick.
"They are here," added the Count, tapping his forehead significantly.
"Large book at home--full of notes--music, picture, science, potry,
poltic; all tings."
"The word politics, sir," said Mr. Pickwick, "comprises, in itself, a
difficult study of no inconsiderable magnitude."
"Ah!" said the Count, drawing out the tablets again, "ver good--fine
words to begin a chapter. Chapter forty-seven. Poltics. The word poltic
surprises by himself--" And down went Mr. Pickwick's remark, in Count
Smorltork's tablets, with such variations and additions as the Count's
exuberant fancy suggested, or his imperfect knowledge of the language
occasioned.
"Count," said Mrs. Leo Hunter.
"Mrs. Hunt," replied the Count.
"This is Mr. Snodgrass, a friend of Mr. Pickwick's, and a poet."
"Stop!" exclaimed the Count, bringing out the tablets once more. "Head,
potry--chapter, literary friends--name, Snowgrass; ver good. Introduced
to Snowgrass--great poet, friend of Peek Weeks--by Mrs. Hunt, which
wrote other sweet poem--what is that name?--Frog--Perspiring Fog--ver
good--ver good indeed." And the Count put up his tablets, and with
sundry bows and acknowledgments walked away, thoroughly satisfied that
he had made the most important and valuable additions to his stock of
information.
"Wonderful man, Count Smorltork," said Mrs. Leo Hunter.
"Sound philosopher," said Mr. Pott.
"Clear-headed, strong-minded person," added Mr. Snodgrass.
A chorus of bystanders took up the shout of Count Smorltork's praise,
shook their heads sagely, and unanimously cried "Very!"
As the enthusiasm in Count Smorltork's favour ran very high, his
praises might have been sung until the end of the festivities, if
the four something-ean singers had not ranged themselves in front
of a small apple-tree, to look picturesque, and commenced singing
their national songs, which appeared by no means difficult of
execution, inasmuch as the grand secret seemed to be, that three of
the something-ean singers should grunt, while the fourth howled. This
interesting performance having concluded amidst the loud plaudits
of the whole company, a boy forthwith proceeded to entangle himself
with the rails of a chair, and to jump over it, and crawl under it,
and fall down with it, and do everything but sit upon it, and then to
make a cravat of his legs, and tie them round his neck, and then to
illustrate the ease with which a human being can be made to look like a
magnified toad--all which feats yielded high delight and satisfaction
to the assembled spectators. After which the voice of Mrs. Pott was
heard to chirp faintly forth, something which courtesy interpreted
into a song, which was all very classical, and strictly in character,
because Apollo was himself a composer, and composers can very seldom
sing their own music, or anybody else's, either. This was succeeded by
Mrs. Leo Hunter's recitation of her far-famed Ode to an Expiring Frog,
which was encored once, and would have been encored twice, if the major
part of the guests, who thought it was high time to get something to
eat, had not said that it was perfectly shameful to take advantage of
Mrs. Hunter's good nature. So although Mrs. Leo Hunter professed her
perfect willingness to recite the ode again, her kind and considerate
friends wouldn't hear of it on any account; and the refreshment room
being thrown open, all the people who had ever been there before,
scrambled in with all possible despatch: Mrs. Leo Hunter's usual course
of proceeding being, to issue cards for a hundred, and breakfast for
fifty, or in other words to feed only the very particular lions, and
let the smaller animals take care of themselves.
"Where is Mr. Pott?" said Mrs. Leo Hunter, as she placed the aforesaid
lions around her.
"Here I am," said the editor, from the remotest end of the room; far
beyond all hope of food, unless something was done for him by the
hostess.
"Won't you come up here?"
"Oh pray don't mind him," said Mrs. Pott, in the most obliging
voice--"you give yourself a great deal of unnecessary trouble, Mrs.
Hunter. You'll do very well there, won't you--dear?"
"Certainly--love," replied the unhappy Pott, with a grim smile. Alas
for the knout! The nervous arm that wielded it, with such gigantic
force, on public characters, was paralysed beneath the glance of the
imperious Mrs. Pott.
Mrs. Leo Hunter looked round her in triumph. Count Smorltork was busily
engaged in taking notes of the contents of the dishes; Mr. Tupman
was doing the honours of the lobster salad to several lionesses,
with a degree of grace which no Brigand ever exhibited before; Mr.
Snodgrass having cut out the young gentleman who cut up the books
for the _Eatanswill Gazette_, was engaged in an impassioned argument
with the young lady who did the poetry; and Mr. Pickwick was making
himself universally agreeable. Nothing seemed wanting to render the
select circle complete, when Mr. Leo Hunter--whose department on
these occasions, was to stand about in doorways, and talk to the less
important people--suddenly called out--
"My dear; here's Mr. Charles Fitz-Marshall."
"Oh dear," said Mrs. Leo Hunter, "how anxiously I have been expecting
him. Pray make room, to let Mr. Fitz-Marshall pass. Tell Mr.
Fitz-Marshall, my dear, to come up to me directly, to be scolded for
coming so late."
"Coming, my dear ma'am," cried a voice, "as quick as I can--crowds of
people--full room--hard work--very."
Mr. Pickwick's knife and fork fell from his hand. He stared across the
table at Mr. Tupman, who had dropped _his_ knife and fork, and was
looking as if he were about to sink into the ground without further
notice.
"Ah!" cried the voice, as its owner pushed his way among the last
five and twenty Turks, officers, cavaliers, and Charles the Seconds,
that remained between him and the table, "regular mangle--Baker's
patent--not a crease in my coat, after all this squeezing--might
have 'got up my linen' as I came along--ha! ha! not a bad idea,
that--queer thing to have it mangled when it's upon one, though--trying
process--very."
With these broken words, a young man dressed as a naval officer made
his way up to the table and presented to the astonished Pickwickians,
the identical form and features of Mr. Alfred Jingle.
The offender had barely time to take Mrs. Leo Hunter's proffered hand,
when his eyes encountered the indignant orbs of Mr. Pickwick.
"Hallo!" said Jingle. "Quite forgot--no directions to postilion--give
'em at once--back in a minute."
"The servant, or Mr. Hunter, will do it in a moment, Mr.
Fitz-Marshall," said Mrs. Leo Hunter.
"No, no--I'll do it--shan't be long--back in no time," replied Jingle.
With these words he disappeared among the crowd.
"Will you allow me to ask you, ma'am," said the excited Mr. Pickwick,
rising from his seat, "who that young man is, and where he resides?"
"He is a gentleman of fortune, Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Leo Hunter, "to
whom I very much want to introduce you. The Count will be delighted
with him."
"Yes, yes," said Mr. Pickwick, hastily. "His residence----"
"Is at present at the Angel at Bury."
"At Bury?"
"At Bury St. Edmunds, not many miles from here. But dear me, Mr.
Pickwick, you are not going to leave us: surely, Mr. Pickwick, you
cannot think of going so soon."
But long before Mrs. Leo Hunter had finished speaking, Mr. Pickwick
had plunged through the throng, and reached the garden, whither he was
shortly afterwards joined by Mr. Tupman, who had followed his friend
closely.
"It's of no use," said Mr. Tupman. "He has gone."
"I know it," said Mr. Pickwick, "and I will follow him."
"Follow him! Where?" inquired Mr. Tupman.
"To the Angel at Bury," replied Mr. Pickwick, speaking very quickly.
"How do we know whom he is deceiving there? He deceived a worthy man
once, and we were the innocent cause. He shall not do it again, if I
can help it; I'll expose him! Where's my servant?"
"Here you are, sir," said Mr. Weller, emerging from a sequestered spot,
where he had been engaged in discussing a bottle of Madeira, which he
had abstracted from the breakfast-table, an hour or two before. "Here's
your servant, sir. Proud o' the title, as the Living Skellinton said,
ven they show'd him."
"Follow me instantly," said Mr. Pickwick. "Tupman, if I stay at Bury,
you can join me there, when I write. Till then, good-bye!"
Remonstrances were useless. Mr. Pickwick was roused, and his mind was
made up. Mr. Tupman returned to his companions; and in another hour had
drowned all present recollection of Mr. Alfred Jingle, or Mr. Charles
Fitz-Marshall, in an exhilarating quadrille and a bottle of champagne.
By that time, Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller, perched on the outside of
a stage coach, were every succeeding minute placing a less and less
distance between themselves and the good old town of Bury St. Edmunds.