[Illustration]
_Mr. Pickwick Journeys to Ipswich, and meets with a Romantic
Adventure with a Middle-aged Lady in Yellow Curl-papers_
"That 'ere your governor's luggage, Sammy?" inquired Mr. Weller of his
affectionate son, as he entered the yard of the Bull Inn, Whitechapel,
with a travelling bag and a small portmanteau.
"You might ha' made a worser guess than that, old feller," replied Mr.
Weller the younger, setting down his burden in the yard, and sitting
himself down upon it afterwards. "The governor hisself 'll be down here
presently."
"He's a cabbin' it, I suppose?" said the father.
"Yes, he's a havin' two mile o' danger at eightpence," responded the
son. "How's mother-in-law this mornin'?"
"Queer, Sammy, queer," replied the elder Mr. Weller, with impressive
gravity. "She's been gettin' rayther in the Methodistical order lately,
Sammy; and she is uncommon pious, to be sure. She's too good a creetur
for me, Sammy. I feel I don't deserve her."
"Ah," said Mr. Samuel, "that's wery self-denyin' o' you."
"Wery," replied his parent, with a sigh. "She's got hold o' some
inwention for grown-up people being born again, Sammy; the new birth,
I thinks they calls it. I should wery much like to see that system in
haction, Sammy. I should wery much like to see your mother-in-law born
again. Wouldn't I put her out to nurse!"
"What do you think them women does t'other day," continued Mr. Weller,
after a short pause, during which he had significantly struck the side
of his nose with his fore-finger some half-dozen times. "What do you
think they does, t'other day, Sammy?"
"Don't know," replied Sam; "what?"
"Goes and gets up a grand tea-drinkin' for a feller they calls their
shepherd," said Mr. Weller. "I was a standing starin' in at the pictur
shop down at our place, when I sees a little bill about it; 'tickets
half-a-crown. All applications to be made to the committee. Secretary,
Mrs. Weller;' and when I got home there was the committee a sittin'
in our back parlour. Fourteen women; I wish you could ha' heard 'em,
Sammy. There they was, a passin' resolutions, and wotin' supplies, and
all sorts o' games. Well, what with your mother-in-law a worrying me
to go, and what with my looking for'ard to seein' some queer starts
if I did, I put my name down for a ticket; at six o'clock on the
Friday evenin' I dresses myself out wery smart, and off I goes with
the old 'ooman, and up we walks into a fust floor where there was
tea things for thirty, and a whole lot o' women as begins whisperin'
to one another, and lookin' at me, as if they'd never seen a rayther
stout gen'lm'n of eight-and-fifty afore. By-and-bye, there comes a
great bustle down-stairs, and a lanky chap with a red nose and a white
neckcloth rushes up, and sings out, 'Here's the shepherd a coming to
wisit his faithful flock;' and in comes a fat chap in black, vith a
great white face, a smilin' avay like clockwork. Such goin's on, Sammy!
'The kiss of peace,' says the shepherd; and then he kissed the women
all round, and ven he'd done, the man vith the red nose began. I was
just a thinkin' whether I hadn't better begin too--'specially as there
was a wery nice lady a sittin' next me--ven in comes the tea, and your
mother-in-law, as had been makin' the kettle bile down-stairs. At it
they went, tooth and nail. Such a precious loud hymn, Sammy, while the
tea was a brewing; such a grace, such eatin' and drinkin'! I wish you
could ha' seen the shepherd walkin' into the ham and muffins. I never
see such a chap to eat and drink; never. The red-nosed man warn't by
no means the sort of person you'd like to grub by contract, but he
was nothin' to the shepherd. Well; arter the tea was over, they sang
another hymn, and then the shepherd began to preach: and wery well he
did it, considerin' how heavy them muffins must have lied on his chest.
Presently he pulls up, all of a sudden, and hollers out, 'Where is
the sinner? where is the mis'rable sinner?' Upon which, all the women
looked at me, and began to groan as if they was a dying. I thought it
was rather sing'ler, but hows'ever, I says nothing. Presently he pulls
up again, and lookin' wery hard at me, says, 'Where is the sinner?
where is the mis'rable sinner?' and all the women groans again, ten
times louder than afore. I got rather wild at this, so I takes a step
or two for'ard and says, 'My friend,' says I, 'did you apply that 'ere
obserwation to me?' 'Stead of begging my pardon as any gent'lm'n would
ha' done, he got more abusive than ever: called me a wessel, Sammy--a
wessel of wrath--and all sorts o' names. So my blood being reg'larly
up, I first give him two or three for himself, and then two or three
more to hand over to the man with the red nose, and walked off. I wish
you could ha' heard how the women screamed, Sammy, ven they picked up
the shepherd from under the table--Hallo! here's the governor, the size
of life."
As Mr. Weller spoke, Mr. Pickwick dismounted from a cab, and entered
the yard.
"Fine mornin', sir," said Mr. Weller senior.
"Beautiful indeed," replied Mr. Pickwick.
"Beautiful indeed," echoed a red-haired man with an inquisitive nose
and blue spectacles, who had unpacked himself from a cab at the same
moment as Mr. Pickwick. "Going to Ipswich, sir?"
"I am," replied Mr. Pickwick.
"Extraordinary coincidence. So am I."
Mr. Pickwick bowed.
"Going outside?" said the red-haired man.
Mr. Pickwick bowed again.
"Bless my soul, how remarkable--I am going outside, too," said the
red-haired man: "we are positively going together." And the red-haired
man, who was an important-looking, sharp-nosed, mysterious-spoken
personage, with a bird-like habit of giving his head a jerk every
time he said anything, smiled as if he had made one of the strangest
discoveries that ever fell to the lot of human wisdom.
"I am happy in the prospect of your company, sir," said Mr. Pickwick.
"Ah," said the new-comer, "it's a good thing for both of us, isn't it?
Company, you see--company is--is--it's a very different thing from
solitude--ain't it?"
"There's no denying that 'ere," said Mr. Weller, joining in the
conversation, with an affable smile. "That's what I call a self-evident
proposition, as the dog's-meat man said, when the housemaid told him he
warn't a gentleman."
"Ah," said the red-haired man, surveying Mr. Weller from head to foot
with a supercilious look. "Friend of yours, sir?"
"Not exactly a friend," replied Mr. Pickwick in a low tone. "The fact
is, he is my servant, but I allow him to take a good many liberties;
for, between ourselves, I flatter myself he is an original, and I am
rather proud of him."
"Ah," said the red-haired man, "that, you see, is a matter of taste.
I am not fond of anything original; I don't like it; don't see the
necessity for it. What's your name, sir?"
"Here is my card, sir," replied Mr. Pickwick, much amused by the
abruptness of the question, and the singular manner of the stranger.
"Ah," said the red-haired man, placing the card in his pocket-book,
"Pickwick; very good. I like to know a man's name, it saves so much
trouble. That's my card, sir, Magnus, you will perceive, sir--Magnus is
my name. It's rather a good name, I think, sir?"
"A very good name, indeed," said Mr. Pickwick, wholly unable to repress
a smile.
"Yes, I think it is," resumed Mr. Magnus. "There's a good name before
it, too, you will observe. Permit me, sir--if you hold the card a
little slanting, this way, you catch the light upon the up-stroke.
There--Peter Magnus--sounds well, I think, sir?"
"Very," said Mr. Pickwick.
"Curious circumstance about those initials, sir," said Mr. Magnus.
"You will observe--P.M.--post meridian. In hasty notes to intimate
acquaintance, I sometimes sign myself 'Afternoon.' It amuses my friends
very much, Mr. Pickwick."
"It is calculated to afford them the highest gratification, I should
conceive," said Mr. Pickwick, rather envying the ease with which Mr.
Magnus's friends were entertained.
"Now, gen'lm'n," said the hostler, "coach is ready, if you please."
"Is all my luggage in?" inquired Mr. Magnus.
"All right, sir."
"Is the red bag in?"
"All right, sir."
"And the striped bag?"
"Fore boot, sir."
"And the brown-paper parcel?"
"Under the seat, sir."
"And the leather hat-box?"
"They're all in, sir."
"Now, will you get up?" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Excuse me," replied Magnus, standing on the wheel. "Excuse me, Mr.
Pickwick. I cannot consent to get up, in this state of uncertainty. I
am quite satisfied from that man's manner, that that leather hat-box is
_not_ in."
The solemn protestations of the hostler being wholly unavailing, the
leather hat-box was obliged to be raked up from the lowest depth of the
boot, to satisfy him that it had been safely packed; and after he had
been assured on this head, he felt a solemn presentiment, first, that
the red bag was mislaid, and next that the striped bag had been stolen,
and then that the brown-paper parcel "had come untied." At length, when
he had received ocular demonstration of the groundless nature of each
and every of these suspicions, he consented to climb up to the roof of
the coach, observing that now he had taken everything off his mind, he
felt quite comfortable and happy.
"You're given to nervousness, ain't you, sir?" inquired Mr. Weller
senior, eyeing the stranger askance, as he mounted to his place.
"Yes; I always am rather, about these little matters," said the
stranger, "but I am all right now--quite right."
"Well, that's a blessin'," said Mr. Weller. "Sammy, help your master
up to the box: t'other leg, sir, that's it; give us your hand, sir. Up
with you. You was a lighter weight when you was a boy, sir."
"True enough, that, Mr. Weller," said the breathless Mr. Pickwick,
good-humouredly, as he took his seat on the box beside him.
"Jump up in front, Sammy," said Mr. Weller. "Now Villam, run 'em
out. Take care o' the archvay, gen'lm'n. 'Heads,' as the pieman
says. That'll do, Villam. Let 'em alone." And away went the coach
up Whitechapel, to the admiration of the whole population of that
pretty-densely populated quarter.
"Not a wery nice neighbourhood this, sir," said Sam, with a touch of
the hat, which always preceded his entering into conversation with his
master.
"It is not, indeed, Sam," replied Mr. Pickwick, surveying the crowded
and filthy street through which they were passing.
"It's a wery remarkable circumstance, sir," said Sam, "that poverty and
oysters always seems to go together."
"I don't understand you, Sam," said Mr. Pickwick.
"What I mean, sir," said Sam, "is, that the poorer a place is, the
greater call there seems to be for oysters. Look here, sir; here's a
oyster stall to every half-dozen houses. The street's lined vith 'em.
Blessed if I don't think that ven a man's wery poor, he rushes out of
his lodgings, and eats oysters in reg'lar desperation."
"To be sure he does," said Mr. Weller senior; "and it's just the same
vith pickled salmon!"
"Those are two very remarkable facts, which never occurred to me
before," said Mr. Pickwick. "The very first place we stop at, I'll make
a note of them."
By this time they had reached the turnpike at Mile End; a profound
silence prevailed until they had got two or three miles further on,
when Mr. Weller senior, turning suddenly to Mr. Pickwick, said:
"Wery queer life is a pike-keeper's, sir."
"A what?" said Mr. Pickwick.
"A pike-keeper."
"What do you mean by a pike-keeper?" inquired Mr. Peter Magnus.
"The old 'un means a turnpike keeper, gen'lm'n," observed Mr. Samuel
Weller, in explanation.
"Oh," said Mr. Pickwick, "I see. Yes; very curious life. Very
uncomfortable."
"They're all on 'em men as has met vith some disappointment in life,"
said Mr. Weller senior.
"Ay, ay?" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Yes. Consequence of vich, they retires from the world, and shuts
themselves up in pikes; partly vith the view of being solitary, and
partly to rewenge themselves on mankind, by takin' tolls."
"Dear me," said Mr. Pickwick, "I never knew that before."
"Fact, sir," said Mr. Weller; "if they was gen'lm'n you'd call 'em
misanthropes, but as it is, they only takes to pike-keepin'."
With such conversation, possessing the inestimable charm of blending
amusement with instruction, did Mr. Weller beguile the tediousness of
the journey, during the greater part of the day. Topics of conversation
were never wanting, for even when any pause occurred in Mr. Weller's
loquacity, it was abundantly supplied by the desire evinced by Mr.
Magnus to make himself acquainted with the whole of the personal
history of his fellow-travellers, and his loudly-expressed anxiety at
every stage, respecting the safety and well-being of the two bags, the
leather hat-box, and the brown-paper parcel.
In the main street of Ipswich, on the left-hand side of the way, a
short distance after you have passed through the open space fronting
the Town Hall, stands an inn known far and wide by the appellation
of the Great White Horse, rendered the more conspicuous by a stone
statue of some rampacious animal with flowing mane and tail, distantly
resembling an insane cart-horse, which is elevated above the principal
door. The Great White Horse is famous in the neighbourhood, in the same
degree as a prize ox, or county-paper-chronicled turnip, or unwieldy
pig--for its enormous size. Never were such labyrinths of uncarpeted
passages, such clusters of mouldy, ill-lighted rooms, such huge numbers
of small dens for eating or sleeping in, beneath any one roof, as are
collected together between the four walls of the Great White Horse at
Ipswich.
It was at the door of this overgrown tavern that the London coach
stopped, at the same hour every evening; and it was from this same
London coach, that Mr. Pickwick, Sam Weller, and Mr. Peter Magnus
dismounted, on the particular evening to which this chapter of our
history bears reference.
"Do you stop here, sir?" inquired Mr. Peter Magnus, when the striped
bag, and the red bag, and the brown-paper parcel, and the leather
hat-box, had all been deposited in the passage. "Do you stop here, sir?"
"I do," said Mr. Pickwick.
"Dear me," said Mr. Magnus, "I never knew anything like these
extraordinary coincidences. Why, I stop here too. I hope we dine
together?"
"With pleasure," replied Mr. Pickwick. "I am not quite certain whether
I have any friends here or not, though. Is there any gentleman of the
name of Tupman here, waiter?"
A corpulent man, with a fortnight's napkin under his arm, and coeval
stockings on his legs, slowly desisted from his occupation of staring
down the street, on this question being put to him by Mr. Pickwick;
and, after minutely inspecting that gentleman's appearance, from
the crown of his hat to the lowest button of his gaiters, replied
emphatically:
"No."
"Nor any gentleman of the name of Snodgrass?" inquired Mr. Pickwick.
"No."
"Nor Winkle?"
"No."
"My friends have not arrived to-day, sir," said Mr. Pickwick. "We will
dine alone, then. Show us a private room, waiter."
On this request being preferred, the corpulent man condescended to
order the boots to bring in the gentlemen's luggage; and preceding them
down a long dark passage, ushered them into a large, badly-furnished
apartment, with a dirty grate, in which a small fire was making a
wretched attempt to be cheerful, but was fast sinking beneath the
dispiriting influence of the place. After the lapse of an hour, a
bit of fish and a steak were served up to the travellers, and when
the dinner was cleared away, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Peter Magnus drew
their chairs up to the fire, and having ordered a bottle of the worst
possible port wine, at the highest possible price, for the good of the
house, drank brandy and water for their own.
Mr. Peter Magnus was naturally of a very communicative disposition, and
the brandy and water operated with wonderful effect in warming into
life the deepest hidden secrets of his bosom. After sundry accounts
of himself, his family, his connexions, his friends, his jokes, his
business, and his brothers (most talkative men have a great deal to
say about their brothers), Mr. Peter Magnus took a blue view of Mr.
Pickwick through his coloured spectacles for several minutes, and then
said, with an air of modesty:
"And what do you think--what _do_ you think, Mr. Pickwick--I have come
down here for?"
"Upon my word," said Mr. Pickwick, "it is wholly impossible for me to
guess; on business, perhaps?"
"Partly right, sir," replied Mr. Peter Magnus, "but partly wrong, at
the same time: try again, Mr. Pickwick."
"Really," said Mr. Pickwick, "I must throw myself on your mercy, to
tell me or not, as you may think best; for I should never guess, if I
were to try all night."
"Why, then, he--he--he!" said Mr. Peter Magnus, with a bashful titter,
"what should you think, Mr. Pickwick, if I had come down here, to make
a proposal, sir, eh? He--he--he!"
"Think! That you are very likely to succeed," replied Mr. Pickwick,
with one of his beaming smiles.
"Ah!" said Mr. Magnus. "But do you really think so, Mr. Pickwick? Do
you, though?"
"Certainly," said Mr. Pickwick.
"No; but you're joking, though?"
"I am not, indeed."
"Why, then," said Mr. Magnus, "to let you into a little secret, _I_
think so too. I don't mind telling you, Mr. Pickwick, although I'm
dreadful jealous by nature--horrid--that the lady is in this house."
Here Mr. Magnus took off his spectacles, on purpose to wink, and then
put them on again.
"That's what you were running out of the room for, before dinner, then,
so often?" said Mr. Pickwick, archly.
"Hush! Yes, you're right, that was it; not such a fool as to see her,
though."
"No!"
"No; wouldn't do, you know, after having just come off a journey.
Wait till to-morrow, sir; double the chance then. Mr. Pickwick, sir,
there is a suit of clothes in that bag, and a hat in that box, which I
expect, in the effect they will produce, will be invaluable to me, sir."
"Indeed!" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Yes; you must have observed my anxiety about them to-day. I do not
believe that such another suit of clothes, and such a hat, could be
bought for money, Mr. Pickwick."
Mr. Pickwick congratulated the fortunate owner of the irresistible
garments, on their acquisition; and Mr. Peter Magnus remained for a few
moments apparently absorbed in contemplation.
"She's a fine creature," said Mr. Magnus.
"Is she?" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Very," said Mr. Magnus, "very. She lives about twenty miles from here,
Mr. Pickwick. I heard she would be here to-night and all to-morrow
forenoon, and came down to seize the opportunity. I think an inn is a
good sort of a place to propose to a single woman in, Mr. Pickwick. She
is more likely to feel the loneliness of her situation in travelling,
perhaps, than she would be at home. What do you think, Mr. Pickwick?"
"I think it very probable," replied that gentleman.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Pickwick," said Mr. Peter Magnus, "but I am
naturally rather curious; what may _you_ have come down here for?"
"On a far less pleasant errand, sir," replied Mr. Pickwick, the colour
mounting to his face at the recollection. "I have come down here, sir,
to expose the treachery and falsehood of an individual, upon whose
truth and honour I placed implicit reliance."
"Dear me," said Mr. Peter Magnus, "that's very unpleasant. It is a
lady, I presume? Eh? ah! Sly, Mr. Pickwick, sly. Well, Mr. Pickwick,
sir, I wouldn't probe your feelings for the world. Painful subjects,
these, sir, very painful. Don't mind me, Mr. Pickwick, if you wish to
give vent to your feelings. I know what it is to be jilted, sir; I have
endured that sort of thing three or four times."
"I am much obliged to you, for your condolence on what you presume to
be my melancholy case," said Mr. Pickwick, winding up his watch, and
laying it on the table, "but----"
"No, no," said Mr. Peter Magnus, "not a word more: it's a painful
subject. I see, I see. What's the time, Mr. Pickwick?"
"Past twelve."
"Dear me, it's time to go to bed. It will never do, sitting here. I
shall be pale to-morrow, Mr. Pickwick."
At the bare notion of such a calamity, Mr. Peter Magnus rang the
bell for the chamber-maid; and the striped bag, the red bag, the
leathern hat-box, and the brown-paper parcel, having been conveyed
to his bed-room, he retired in company with a japanned candlestick,
to one side of the house, while Mr. Pickwick, and another japanned
candlestick, were conducted, through a multitude of tortuous windings,
to another.
"This is your room, sir," said the chamber-maid.
"Very well," replied Mr. Pickwick, looking round him. It was a
tolerably large double-bedded room, with a fire; upon the whole, a more
comfortable-looking apartment than Mr. Pickwick's short experience of
the accommodations of the Great White Horse had led him to expect.
"Nobody sleeps in the other bed, of course?" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Oh no, sir."
"Very good. Tell my servant to bring me up some hot water at half-past
eight in the morning, and that I shall not want him any more to-night."
"Yes, sir." And bidding Mr. Pickwick good-night, the chamber-maid
retired, and left him alone.
Mr. Pickwick sat himself down in a chair before the fire, and fell
into a train of rambling meditations. First he thought of his friends,
and wondered when they would join him; then his mind reverted to Mrs.
Martha Bardell; and from that lady it wandered, by a natural process,
to the dingy counting-house of Dodson and Fogg. From Dodson and
Fogg's it flew off at a tangent, to the very centre of the history of
the queer client; and then it came back to the Great White Horse at
Ipswich, with sufficient clearness to convince Mr. Pickwick that he was
falling asleep. So he roused himself, and began to undress, when he
recollected he had left his watch on the table down-stairs.
Now, this watch was a special favourite with Mr. Pickwick, having been
carried about beneath the shadow of his waistcoat, for a greater number
of years than we feel called upon to state at present. The possibility
of going to sleep, unless it were ticking gently beneath his pillow,
or in the watch-pocket over his head, had never entered Mr. Pickwick's
brain. So as it was pretty late now, and he was unwilling to ring his
bell at that hour of the night, he slipped on his coat, of which he had
just divested himself, and taking the japanned candlestick in his hand,
walked quietly down-stairs.
The more stairs Mr. Pickwick went down, the more stairs there seemed
to be to descend, and again and again, when Mr. Pickwick got into some
narrow passage, and began to congratulate himself on having gained the
ground-floor, did another flight of stairs appear before his astonished
eyes. At last he reached a stone hall, which he remembered to have
seen when he entered the house. Passage after passage did he explore;
room after room did he peep into; at length, as he was on the point of
giving up the search in despair, he opened the door of the identical
room in which he had spent the evening, and beheld his missing property
on the table.
Mr. Pickwick seized the watch in triumph, and proceeded to retrace his
steps to his bed-chamber. If his progress downward had been attended
with difficulties and uncertainty, his journey back was infinitely
more perplexing. Rows of doors, garnished with boots of every shape,
make, and size, branched off in every possible direction. A dozen times
did he softly turn the handle of some bed-room door which resembled
his own, when a gruff cry from within of "Who the devil's that?" or
"What do you want here?" caused him to steal away, on tiptoe, with a
perfectly marvellous celerity. He was reduced to the verge of despair,
when an open door attracted his attention. He peeped in. Right at last!
There were the two beds, whose situation he perfectly remembered,
and the fire still burning. His candle, not a long one when he first
received it, had flickered away in the drafts of air through which he
had passed, and sank into the socket as he closed the door after him.
"No matter," said Mr. Pickwick, "I can undress myself just as well by
the light of the fire."
The bedsteads stood one on each side of the door; and on the inner side
of each was a little path, terminating in a rush-bottomed chair, just
wide enough to admit of a person's getting into or out of bed, on that
side, if he or she thought proper. Having carefully drawn the curtains
of his bed on the outside, Mr. Pickwick sat down on the rush-bottomed
chair, and leisurely divested himself of his shoes and gaiters. He then
took off and folded up his coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth, and slowly
drawing on his tasselled night-cap, secured it firmly on his head, by
tying beneath his chin the strings which he always had attached to
that article of dress. It was at this moment that the absurdity of his
recent bewilderment struck upon his mind. Throwing himself back in the
rush-bottomed chair, Mr. Pickwick laughed to himself so heartily, that
it would have been quite delightful to any man of well-constituted mind
to have watched the smiles that expanded his amiable features as they
shone forth from beneath the night-cap.
"It is the best idea," said Mr. Pickwick to himself, smiling till he
almost cracked the night-cap strings: "it is the best idea, my losing
myself in this place, and wandering about those staircases, that I ever
heard of. Droll, droll, very droll." Here Mr. Pickwick smiled again,
a broader smile than before, and was about to continue the process of
undressing, in the best possible humour, when he was suddenly stopped
by a most unexpected interruption; to wit, the entrance into the room
of some person with a candle, who, after locking the door, advanced to
the dressing-table, and set down the light upon it.
The smile that played on Mr. Pickwick's features was instantaneously
lost in a look of the most unbounded and wonder-stricken surprise. The
person, whoever it was, had come in so suddenly and with so little
noise, that Mr. Pickwick had had no time to call out, or oppose their
entrance. Who could it be? A robber? Some evil-minded person who had
seen him come up-stairs with a handsome watch in his hand, perhaps.
What was he to do?
The only way in which Mr. Pickwick could catch a glimpse of his
mysterious visitor with the least danger of being seen himself, was by
creeping on to the bed, and peeping out from between the curtains on
the opposite side. To this manoeuvre he accordingly resorted. Keeping
the curtains carefully closed with his hand, so that nothing more of
him could be seen than his face and night-cap, and putting on his
spectacles, he mustered up courage, and looked out.
Mr. Pickwick almost fainted with horror and dismay. Standing before a
dressing-glass was a middle-aged lady, in yellow curl-papers, busily
engaged in brushing what ladies call their "back-hair." However the
unconscious middle-aged lady came into that room, it was quite clear
that she contemplated remaining there for the night; for she had
brought a rushlight and shade with her, which, with praiseworthy
precaution against fire, she had stationed in a basin on the floor,
where it was glimmering away, like a gigantic light-house in a
particularly small piece of water.
"Bless my soul," thought Mr. Pickwick, "what a dreadful thing!"
"Hem!" said the lady; and in went Mr. Pickwick's head with
automaton-like rapidity.
"I never met with anything so awful as this," thought poor Mr.
Pickwick, the cold perspiration starting in drops upon his night-cap.
"Never. This is fearful."
It was quite impossible to resist the urgent desire to see what was
going forward. So out went Mr. Pickwick's head again. The prospect was
worse than before. The middle-aged lady had finished arranging her
hair; had carefully enveloped it in a muslin night-cap with a small
plaited border; and was gazing pensively on the fire.
"This matter is growing alarming," reasoned Mr. Pickwick with himself.
"I can't allow things to go on in this way. By the self-possession
of that lady it is clear to me that I must have come into the wrong
room. If I call out she'll alarm the house; but if I remain here the
consequences will be still more frightful."
Mr. Pickwick, it is quite unnecessary to say, was one of the most
modest and delicate-minded of mortals. The very idea of exhibiting his
night-cap to a lady overpowered him, but he had tied those confounded
strings in a knot, and, do what he would, he couldn't get it off. The
disclosure must be made. There was only one other way of doing it. He
shrunk behind the curtains, and called out very loudly:
"Ha-hum!"
That the lady started at this unexpected sound was evident, by her
falling up against the rushlight shade; that she persuaded herself it
must have been the effect of imagination was equally clear, for when
Mr. Pickwick, under the impression that she had fainted away stone-dead
from fright, ventured to peep out again, she was gazing pensively on
the fire as before.
"Most extraordinary female this," thought Mr. Pickwick, popping in
again. "Ha--hum!"
These last sounds, so like those in which, as legends inform us, the
ferocious giant Blunderbore was in the habit of expressing his opinion
that it was time to lay the cloth, were too distinctly audible to be
again mistaken for the workings of fancy.
"Gracious Heaven!" said the middle-aged lady, "what's that?"
"It's--it's--only a gentleman, ma'am," said Mr. Pickwick, from behind
the curtains.
"A gentleman!" said the lady with a terrific scream.
"It's all over!" thought Mr. Pickwick.
"A strange man!" shrieked the lady. Another instant and the house would
be alarmed. Her garments rustled as she rushed towards the door.
"Ma'am," said Mr. Pickwick, thrusting out his head, in the extremity of
his desperation, "Ma'am!"
Now, although Mr. Pickwick was not actuated by any definite object
in putting out his head, it was instantaneously productive of a good
effect. The lady, as we have already stated, was near the door. She
must pass it, to reach the staircase, and she would most undoubtedly
have done so by this time, had not the sudden apparition of Mr.
Pickwick's night-cap driven her back into the remotest corner of the
apartment, where she stood staring wildly at Mr. Pickwick, while Mr.
Pickwick in his turn stared wildly at her.
"Wretch!" said the lady, covering her eyes with her hands, "what do you
want here?"
"Nothing, ma'am; nothing whatever, ma'am;" said Mr. Pickwick, earnestly.
"Nothing!" said the lady, looking up.
"Nothing, ma'am, upon my honour," said Mr. Pickwick, nodding his head
so energetically that the tassel of his night-cap danced again. "I am
almost ready to sink, ma'am, beneath the confusion of addressing a lady
in my night-cap" (here the lady hastily snatched off hers), "but I
can't get it off, ma'am" (here Mr. Pickwick gave it a tremendous tug,
in proof of the statement). "It is evident to me, ma'am, now, that
I have mistaken this bed-room for my own. I had not been here five
minutes, ma'am, when you suddenly entered it."
"If this improbable story be really true, sir," said the lady, sobbing
violently, "you will leave it instantly."
"I will, ma'am, with the greatest pleasure," replied Mr. Pickwick.
"Instantly, sir," said the lady.
"Certainly, ma'am," interposed Mr. Pickwick very quickly. "Certainly,
ma'am. I--I--am very sorry, ma'am," said Mr. Pickwick, making his
appearance at the bottom of the bed, "to have been the innocent
occasion of this alarm and emotion; deeply sorry, ma'am."
The lady pointed to the door. One excellent quality of Mr. Pickwick's
character was beautifully displayed at this moment, under the most
trying circumstances. Although he had hastily put on his hat over his
night-cap, after the manner of the old patrol; although he carried his
shoes and gaiters in his hand, and his coat and waistcoat over his
arm; nothing could subdue his native politeness.
"I am exceedingly sorry, ma'am," said Mr. Pickwick, bowing very low.
"If you are, sir, you will at once leave the room," said the lady.
"Immediately, ma'am; this instant, ma'am," said Mr. Pickwick, opening
the door, and dropping both his shoes with a crash in so doing.
"I trust, ma'am," resumed Mr. Pickwick, gathering up his shoes, and
turning round to bow again: "I trust, ma'am, that my unblemished
character, and the devoted respect I entertain for your sex, will plead
as some slight excuse for this"--But before Mr. Pickwick could conclude
the sentence the lady had thrust him into the passage, and locked and
bolted the door behind him.
[Illustration: "_I trust, ma'am," resumed Mr. Pickwick, "that my
unblemished character and the devoted respect I entertain for your
sex----_"]
Whatever grounds of self-congratulation Mr. Pickwick might have for
having escaped so quietly from his late awkward situation, his present
position was by no means enviable. He was alone, in an open passage, in
a strange house, in the middle of the night, half dressed; it was not
to be supposed that he could find his way in perfect darkness to a room
which he had been wholly unable to discover with a light, and if he
made the slightest noise in his fruitless attempts to do so, he stood
every chance of being shot at, and perhaps killed, by some wakeful
traveller. He had no resource but to remain where he was until daylight
appeared. So after groping his way a few paces down the passage, and,
to his infinite alarm, stumbling over several pairs of boots in so
doing, Mr. Pickwick crouched into a little recess in the wall, to wait
for morning as philosophically as he might.
He was not destined, however, to undergo this additional trial of
patience: for he had not long been ensconced in his present concealment
when, to his unspeakable horror, a man, bearing a light, appeared
at the end of the passage. His horror was suddenly converted into
joy, however, when he recognised the form of his faithful attendant.
It was indeed Mr. Samuel Weller, who, after sitting up thus late in
conversation with the Boots, who was sitting up for the mail, was now
about to retire to rest.
"Sam," said Mr. Pickwick, suddenly appearing before him, "where's my
bedroom?"
[Illustration: "_Sam," said Mr. Pickwick, "where's my bedroom?_"]
Mr. Weller stared at his master with the most emphatic surprise; and it
was not until the question had been repeated three several times, that
he turned round and led the way to the long-sought apartment.
"Sam," said Mr. Pickwick, as he got into bed, "I have made one of the
most extraordinary mistakes to-night, that ever were heard of."
"Wery likely, sir," replied Mr. Weller, dryly.
"But of this I am determined, Sam," said Mr. Pickwick; "that if I were
to stop in this house for six months, I would never trust myself about
it, alone, again."
"That's the wery prudentest resolution as you could come to, sir,"
replied Mr. Weller. "You rayther want somebody to look arter you, sir,
ven your judgment goes out a wisitin'."
"What do you mean by that, Sam?" said Mr. Pickwick. He raised himself
in bed, and extended his hand, as if he were about to say something
more; but suddenly checking himself, turned round, and bade his valet
"Good night."
"Good night, sir," replied Mr. Weller. He paused when he got outside
the door--shook his head--walked on--stopped--snuffed the candle--shook
his head again--and finally proceeded slowly to his chamber, apparently
buried in the profoundest meditation.