[Illustration]
_Involving a serious Change in the Weller Family, and the untimely
Downfall of the Red-nosed Mr. Stiggins_
Considering it a matter of delicacy to abstain from introducing either
Bob Sawyer or Ben Allen to the young couple, until they were fully
prepared to expect them, and wishing to spare Arabella's feelings as
much as possible, Mr. Pickwick proposed that he and Sam should alight
in the neighbourhood of the George and Vulture, and that the two
young men should for the present take up their quarters elsewhere. To
this, they very readily agreed, and the proposition was accordingly
acted upon; Mr. Ben Allen and Mr. Bob Sawyer betaking themselves
to a sequestered pot-shop on the remotest confines of the Borough,
behind the bar-door of which their names had in other days very often
appeared, at the head of long and complex calculations worked in white
chalk.
"Dear me, Mr. Weller," said the pretty housemaid, meeting Sam at the
door.
"Dear _me_, I vish it vos, my dear," replied Sam, dropping behind to
let his master get out of hearing. "Wot a sweet-looking creetur you
are, Mary!"
"Lor, Mr. Weller, what nonsense you do talk!" said Mary. "Oh! _don't_,
Mr. Weller."
"Don't what, my dear?" said Sam.
"Why, that," replied the pretty housemaid. "Lor, do get along with
you." Thus admonishing him, the pretty housemaid pushed Sam against the
wall, declaring that he had tumbled her cap, and put her hair quite out
of curl.
"And prevented what I was going to say, besides," added Mary. "There's
a letter been waiting for you four days; you hadn't been gone half an
hour when it came; and more than that, it's got 'Immediate' on the
outside."
"Vere is it, my love?" inquired Sam.
"I took care of it for you, or I dare say it would have been lost
long before this," replied Mary. "There, take it; it's more than you
deserve."
With these words, after many pretty little coquettish doubts and fears,
and wishes that she might not have lost it, Mary produced the letter
from behind the nicest little muslin tucker possible, and handed it
over to Sam, who thereupon kissed it with much gallantry and devotion.
"My goodness me!" said Mary, adjusting the tucker and feigning
unconsciousness, "you seem to have grown very fond of it all at once."
To this Mr. Weller only replied by a wink, the intense meaning of which
no description could convey the faintest idea of; and, sitting himself
down beside Mary on a window seat, opened the letter and glanced at the
contents.
"Hallo!" exclaimed Sam, "wot's all this?"
"Nothing the matter, I hope?" said Mary, peeping over his shoulder.
"Bless them eyes o' yourn!" said Sam, looking up.
"Never mind my eyes; you had much better read your letter," said the
pretty housemaid; and as she said so, she made the eyes twinkle with
such slyness and beauty that they were perfectly irresistible.
Sam refreshed himself with a kiss, and read as follows:
"_Markis Gran
By dorken
Wensdy_
"My dear Sammle,
"I am wery sorry to have the pleasure of bein a Bear of ill news
your Mother in law cort cold consekens of imprudently settin too
long on the damp grass in the rain a hearin of a shepherd who
warnt able to leave off till late at night owen to his havin
vound his-self up vith brandy and vater and not bein able to stop
his-self till he got a little sober which took a many hours to
do the doctor says that if she'd svallo'd varm brandy and vater
artervards insted of afore she mightn't have been no vus her veels
wos immedetly greased and everythink done to set her agoin as could
be inwented your farther had hopes as she vould have vorked round
as usual but just as she wos a turnen the corner my boy she took
the wrong road and vent down hill vith a welocity you never see
and notvithstandin that the drag wos put on drectly by the medikel
man it wornt of no use at all for she paid the last pike at twenty
minutes afore six o'clock yesterday evenin havin done the jouney
wery much under the reglar time vich praps was partly owen to her
haven taken in wery little luggage by the vay your father says that
if you vill come and see me Sammy he vill take it as a wery great
favor for I am wery lonely Samivel n b he _vill_ have it spelt that
vay vich I say ant right as there is sich a many things to settle
he is sure your guvner wont object of course he vill not Sammy for
I knows him better so he sends his dooty in which I join and am
Samivel infernally yours
+Tony Veller+."
"Wot a incomprehensible letter," said Sam; "who's to know wot it means,
vith all this he-ing and I-ing! It ain't my father's writin' cept this
here signater in print letters; that's his."
"Perhaps he got somebody to write it for him, and signed it himself
afterwards," said the pretty housemaid.
"Stop a minit," replied Sam, running over the letter again, and pausing
here and there, to reflect, as he did so. "You've hit it. The gen'l'm'n
as wrote it wos a tellin' all about the misfortun' in a proper vay,
and then my father comes a lookin' over him, and complicates the whole
concern by puttin' his oar in. That's just the wery sort o' thing he'd
do. You're right, Mary, my dear."
Having satisfied himself on this point, Sam read the letter all over
once more, and, appearing to form a clear notion of its contents for
the first time, ejaculated thoughtfully, as he folded it up:
"And so the poor creetur's dead! I'm sorry for it. She warn't a bad
disposed 'ooman, if them shepherds had let her alone. I'm wery sorry
for it."
Mr. Weller uttered these words in so serious a manner, that the pretty
housemaid cast down her eyes and looked very grave.
"Hows'ever," said Sam, putting the letter in his pocket with a gentle
sigh, "it wos to be--and wos, as the old lady said arter she'd married
the footman. Can't be helped now, can it, Mary?"
Mary shook her head, and sighed too.
"I must apply to the hemperor for leave of absence," said Sam.
Mary sighed again. The letter was so very affecting.
"Good-bye!" said Sam.
"Good-bye," rejoined the pretty housemaid, turning her head away.
"Well, shake hands, won't you?" said Sam.
The pretty housemaid put out a hand which, although it was a
housemaid's, was a very small one, and rose to go.
"I shan't be wery long avay," said Sam.
"You're always away," said Mary, giving her head the slightest possible
toss in the air. "You no sooner come, Mr. Weller, than you go again."
Mr. Weller drew the household beauty closer to him, and entered upon
a whispering conversation, which had not proceeded far, when she
turned her face round and condescended to look at him again. When they
parted, it was somehow or other indispensably necessary for her to go
to her room, and arrange the cap and curls before she could think of
presenting herself to her mistress; which preparatory ceremony she
went off to perform, bestowing many nods and smiles on Sam over the
banisters as she tripped upstairs.
"I shan't be avay more than a day, or two, sir, at the farthest," said
Sam, when he had communicated to Mr. Pickwick the intelligence of his
father's loss.
"As long as may be necessary, Sam," replied Mr. Pickwick, "you have my
full permission to remain."
Sam bowed.
"You will tell your father, Sam, that if I can be of any assistance to
him in his present situation, I shall be most willing and ready to lend
him any aid in my power," said Mr. Pickwick.
"Thankee, sir," rejoined Sam. "I'll mention it, sir."
And with some expressions of mutual good-will and interest, master and
man separated.
It was just seven o'clock when Samuel Weller, alighting from the box of
a stage-coach which passed through Dorking, stood within a few hundred
yards of the Marquis of Granby. It was a cold, dull, evening; the
little street looked dreary and dismal; and the mahogany countenance of
the noble and gallant Marquis seemed to wear a more sad and melancholy
expression than it was wont to do, as it swung to and fro, creaking
mournfully in the wind. The blinds were pulled down, and the shutters
partly closed; of the knot of loungers that usually collected about the
door, not one was to be seen; the place was silent and desolate.
Seeing nobody of whom he could ask any preliminary questions, Sam
walked softly in. Glancing round, he quickly recognised his parent in
the distance.
The widower was seated at a small round table in the little room behind
the bar, smoking a pipe, with his eyes intently fixed upon the fire.
The funeral had evidently taken place that day; for attached to his
hat, which he still retained on his head, was a hatband measuring about
a yard and a half in length, which hung over the top-rail of the chair
and streamed negligently down. Mr. Weller was in a very abstracted and
contemplative mood. Notwithstanding that Sam called him by name several
times, he still continued to smoke with the same fixed and quiet
countenance, and was only roused ultimately by his son's placing the
palm of his hand on his shoulder.
"Sammy," said Mr. Weller, "you're velcome."
"I've been a callin' to you half a dozen times," said Sam, hanging his
hat on a peg, "but you didn't hear me."
"No, Sammy," replied Mr. Weller, again looking thoughtfully at the
fire. "I wos in a referee, Sammy."
"Wot about?" inquired Sam, drawing his chair up to the fire.
"In a referee, Sammy," replied the elder Mr. Weller, "regarding _her_,
Samivel." Here Mr. Weller jerked his head in the direction of Dorking
churchyard, in mute explanation that his words referred to the late
Mrs. Weller.
"I wos a thinkin', Sammy," said Mr. Weller, eyeing his son, with
great earnestness, over his pipe; as if to assure him that, however
extraordinary and incredible the declaration might appear, it was
nevertheless calmly and deliberately uttered. "I wos a thinkin', Sammy,
that upon the whole I wos wery sorry she wos gone."
"Vell, and so you ought to be," replied Sam.
Mr. Weller nodded his acquiescence in the sentiment, and again
fastening his eyes on the fire, shrouded himself in a cloud, and mused
deeply.
"Those wos wery sensible observations as she made, Sammy," said Mr.
Weller, driving the smoke away with his hand, after a long silence.
"Wot observations?" inquired Sam.
"Them as she made, arter she was took ill," replied the old gentleman.
"Wot wos they?"
"Somethin' to this here effect. 'Veller,' she says, 'I'm afeard
I've not done by you quite wot I ought to have done; you're a wery
kind-hearted man, and I might ha' made your home more comfortabler.
I begin to see now,' she says, 'ven it's too late, that if a married
'ooman vishes to be religious, she should begin vith dischargin' her
dooties at home, and makin' them as is about her cheerful and happy,
and that vile she goes to church or chapel, or wot not, at all proper
times, she should be wery careful not to conwert this sort o' thing
into a excuse for idleness or self-indulgence. I _have_ done this,' she
says, 'and I've wasted time and substance on them as has done it more
than me; but I hope ven I'm gone, Veller, that you'll think on me as I
wos afore I know'd them people, and as I raly wos by natur'.' 'Susan,'
says I--I wos took up wery short by this, Samivel; I von't deny it, my
boy--'Susan,' I says, 'you've been a wery good vife to me, altogether;
don't say nothin' at all about it: keep a good heart, my dear; and
you'll live to see me punch that 'ere Stiggins's head yet.' She smiled
at this, Samivel," said the old gentleman, stifling a sigh with his
pipe, "but she died arter all!"
"Vell," said Sam, venturing to offer a little homely consolation, after
the lapse of three or four minutes, consumed by the old gentleman in
slowly shaking his head from side to side and solemnly smoking; "vell,
gov'ner, ve must all come to it, one day or another."
"So we must, Sammy," said Mr. Weller the elder.
"There's a Providence in it all," said Sam.
"O' course there is," replied his father, with a nod of grave approval.
"Wot 'ud become of the undertakers without it, Sammy?"
Lost in the immense field of conjecture opened by this reflection, the
elder Mr. Weller laid his pipe on the table, and stirred the fire with
a meditative visage.
While the old gentleman was thus engaged, a very buxom-looking cook,
dressed in mourning, who had been bustling about in the bar, glided
into the room, and bestowing many smirks of recognition upon Sam,
silently stationed herself at the back of his father's chair, and
announced her presence by a slight cough; the which, being disregarded,
was followed by a louder one.
"Hallo!" said the elder Mr. Weller, dropping the poker as he looked
round, and hastily drew his chair away. "Wot's the matter now?"
"Have a cup of tea, there's a good soul," replied the buxom female,
coaxingly.
"I von't," replied Mr. Weller, in a somewhat boisterous manner, "I'll
see you"--Mr. Weller hastily checked himself, and added in a low tone,
"furder fust."
"Oh, dear, dear! How adversity does change people!" said the lady,
looking upwards.
"It's the only think 'twixt this and the doctor as shall change _my_
condition," muttered Mr. Weller.
"I really never saw a man so cross," said the buxom female.
"Never mind. It's all for my own good; vich is the reflection vith wich
the penitent schoolboy comforted his feelin's ven they flogged him,"
rejoined the old gentleman.
The buxom female shook her head with a compassionate and sympathising
air; and, appealing to Sam, inquired whether his father really ought
not to make an effort to keep up, and not give way to that lowness of
spirits.
"You see, Mr. Samuel," said the buxom female, "as I was telling him
yesterday, he _will_ feel lonely, he can't expect but what he should,
sir, but he should keep up a good heart, because, dear me, I'm sure we
all pity his loss, and are ready to do anything for him; and there's no
situation in life so bad, Mr. Samuel, that it can't be mended. Which is
what a very worthy person said to me when my husband died." Here the
speaker, putting her hand before her mouth, coughed again, and looked
affectionately at the elder Mr. Weller.
"As I don't rekvire any o' your conversation just now, mum, vill you
have the goodness to re-tire?" inquired Mr. Weller in grave and steady
voice.
"Well, Mr. Weller," said the buxom female, "I'm sure I only spoke to
you out of kindness."
"Wery likely, mum," replied Mr. Weller. "Samivel, show the lady out,
and shut the door arter her."
This hint was not lost upon the buxom female; for she at once left the
room, and slammed the door behind her, upon which Mr. Weller senior,
falling back in his chair in a violent perspiration, said:
"Sammy, if I was to stop here alone vun veek--only vun veek, my
boy--that 'ere 'ooman 'ud marry me by force and wiolence afore it was
over."
"Wot! Is she so wery fond on you?" inquired Sam.
"Fond!" replied his father, "I can't keep her avay from me. If I was
locked up in a fire-proof chest vith a patent Brahmin, she'd find means
to get at me, Sammy."
"Wot a thing it is to be so sought arter!" observed Sam, smiling.
"I don't take no pride out on it, Sammy," replied Mr. Weller, poking
the fire vehemently, "it's a horrid sitiwation. I'm actiwally drove
out o' house and home by it. The breath was scarcely out o' your
poor mother-in-law's body, ven vun old 'ooman sends me a pot o' jam,
and another a pot o' jelly, and another brews a blessed large jug
o' camomile-tea, vich she brings in vith her own hands." Mr. Weller
paused with an aspect of intense disgust, and, looking round, added
in a whisper: "They wos all widders, Sammy, all on 'em, 'cept the
camomile-tea vun, as wos a single young lady o' fifty-three."
Sam gave a comical look in reply, and the old gentleman having broken
an obstinate lump of coal, with a countenance expressive of as much
earnestness and malice as if it had been the head of one of the widows
last mentioned, said:
"In short, Sammy, I feel that I ain't safe anyveres but on the box."
"How are you safer there than anyveres else?" interrupted Sam.
"'Cos a coachman's a privileged indiwidual," replied Mr. Weller,
looking fixedly at his son. "'Cos a coachman may do vithout suspicion
wot other men may not; 'cos a coachman may be on the wery amicablest
terms with eighty mile o' females, and yet nobody think that he ever
means to marry any vun among 'em. And wot other man can say the same,
Sammy?"
"Vell, there's somethin' in that," said Sam.
"If your gov'ner had been a coachman," reasoned Mr. Weller, "do you
suppose as that 'ere jury 'ud ever ha' conwicted him, s'posin' it
possible as the matter could ha' gone to that extremity? They dustn't
ha' done it."
"Vy not?" said Sam, rather disparagingly.
"Vy not!" rejoined Mr. Weller; "'cos it 'ud ha' gone agin their
consciences. A reg'lar coachman's a sort o' con-nectin' link betwixt
singleness and matrimony, and every practicable man knows it."
"Wot! You mean, they're gen'ral fav'rites, and nobody takes adwantage
on 'em, p'raps?" said Sam.
His father nodded.
"How it ever come to that 'ere pass," resumed the parent Weller,
"I can't say. Vy it is that long-stage coachmen possess such
insiniwations, and is alvays looked up to--a-dored I may say--by ev'ry
young 'ooman in ev'ry town he vurks through, I don't know. I only know
that it is so. It's a reg'lation of natur--a dispensary, as your poor
mother-in-law used to say."
"A dispensation," said Sam, correcting the old gentleman.
"Wery good, Samivel, a dispensation if you like it better," returned
Mr. Weller; "_I_ call it a dispensary, and it's alvays writ up so, at
the places vere they gives you physic for nothin' in your own bottles;
that's all."
With these words Mr. Weller re-filled and re-lighted his pipe, and once
more summing up a meditative expression of countenance, continued as
follows:
"Therefore, my boy, as I do not see the adwisability o' stoppin' here
to be married vether I vant to or not, and as at the same time I do
not wish to separate myself from them interestin' members o' society
altogether, I have come to the determination o' drivin the Safety,
and puttin' up vunce more at the Bell Savage, vich is my nat'ral-born
element, Sammy."
"And wot's to become o' the bis'ness?" inquired Sam.
"The bis'ness, Samivel," replied the old gentleman, "good-vill, stock,
and fixters, vill be sold by private contract; and out o' the money,
two hundred pound, agreeable to rekvest o' your mother-in-law's to me
a little afore she died, vill be inwested in your name in--wot do you
call them things agin?"
"Wot things?" inquired Sam.
"Them things as is alvays a goin' up and down, in the City."
"Omnibuses?" suggested Sam.
"Nonsense," replied Mr. Weller. "Them things as is alvays a
fluctooatin', and gettin' theirselves inwolved somehow or another vith
the national debt, and the checquers bills, and all that."
"Oh! the funds," said Sam.
"Ah!" rejoined Mr. Weller, "the funs; two hundred pounds o' the money
is to be inwested for you, Samivel, in the funs; four and a half per
cent. reduced counsels, Sammy."
"Wery kind o' the old lady to think o' me," said Sam, "and I'm wery
much obliged to her."
"The rest vill be inwested in my name," continued the elder Mr. Weller;
"and ven I'm took off the road, it'll come to you, so take care you
don't spend it all at vunst, my boy, and mind that no widder gets a
inklin' o' your fortun', or you're done."
Having delivered this warning, Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with a more
serene countenance; the disclosure of these matters appearing to have
eased his mind considerably.
"Somebody's a tappin' at the door," said Sam.
"Let 'em tap," replied his father, with dignity.
Sam acted upon the direction. There was another tap, and another, and
then a long row of taps; upon which Sam inquired why the tapper was not
admitted.
"Hush," whispered Mr. Weller, with apprehensive looks, "don't take no
notice on 'em, Sammy, it's vun o' the widders, p'raps."
No notice being taken of the taps, the unseen visitor, after a short
lapse, ventured to open the door and peep in. It was no female head
that was thrust in at the partially opened door, but the long black
locks and red face of Mr. Stiggins. Mr. Weller's pipe fell from his
hands.
The reverend gentleman gradually opened the door by almost imperceptible
degrees, until the aperture was just wide enough to admit of the
passage of his lank body, when he glided into the room and closed it
after him with great care and gentleness. Turning towards Sam, and
raising his hands and eyes in token of the unspeakable sorrow with
which he regarded the calamity that had befallen the family, he carried
the high-backed chair to his old corner by the fire, and, seating
himself on the very edge, drew forth a brown pocket-handkerchief, and
applied the same to his optics.
While this was going forward, the elder Mr. Weller sat back in his
chair, with his eyes wide open, his hands planted on his knees,
and his whole countenance expressive of absorbing and overwhelming
astonishment. Sam sat opposite him in perfect silence, waiting, with
eager curiosity, for the termination of the scene.
Mr. Stiggins kept the brown pocket-handkerchief before his eyes for
some minutes, moaning decently meanwhile, and then, mastering his
feelings by a strong effort, put it in his pocket and buttoned it up.
After this he stirred the fire; after that, he rubbed his hands and
looked at Sam.
"Oh, my young friend," said Mr. Stiggins, breaking the silence in a
very low voice, "here's a sorrowful affliction!"
Sam nodded very slightly.
"For the man of wrath, too!" added Mr. Stiggins; "it makes a vessel's
heart bleed!"
Mr. Weller was overheard by his son to murmur something relative to
making a vessel's nose bleed; but Mr. Stiggins heard him not.
"Do you know, young man," whispered Mr. Stiggins, drawing his chair
closer to Sam, "whether she has left Emanuel anything?"
"Who's he?" inquired Sam.
"The chapel," replied Mr. Stiggins; "our chapel; our fold, Mr. Samuel."
"She hasn't left the fold nothin', nor the shepherd nothin', nor the
animals nothin'," said Sam, decisively; "nor the dogs neither."
Mr. Stiggins looked slyly at Sam; glanced at the old gentleman, who was
sitting with his eyes closed, as if asleep; and drawing his chair still
nearer, said:
"Nothing for _me_, Mr. Samuel?"
Sam shook his head.
"I think there's something," said Stiggins, turning as pale as he could
turn. "Consider, Mr. Samuel; no little token?"
"Not so much as the vorth o' that 'ere old umberella o' yourn," replied
Sam.
"Perhaps," said Mr. Stiggins, hesitatingly, after a few moments' deep
thought, "perhaps she recommended me to the care of the man of wrath,
Mr. Samuel?"
"I think that's wery likely, from what he said," rejoined Sam; "he wos
speakin' about you, jist now."
"Was he, though?" exclaimed Stiggins, brightening up. "Ah! He's
changed, I dare say. We might live very comfortably together now, Mr.
Samuel, eh? I could take care of his property when you are away--good
care, you see."
Heaving a long-drawn sigh, Mr. Stiggins paused for a response. Sam
nodded, and Mr. Weller the elder gave vent to an extraordinary sound,
which being neither a groan, nor a grunt, nor a gasp, nor a growl,
seemed to partake in some degree of the character of all four.
Mr. Stiggins, encouraged by this sound, which he understood to betoken
remorse or repentance, looked about him, rubbed his hands, wept,
smiled, wept again, and then, walking softly across the room to a
well-remembered shelf in one corner, took down a tumbler, and with
great deliberation put four lumps of sugar in it. Having got thus far,
he looked about him again, and sighed grievously; with that, he walked
softly into the bar, and presently returning with the tumbler half full
of pine-apple rum, advanced to the kettle which was singing gaily on
the hob, mixed his grog, stirred it, sipped it, sat down, and taking a
long and hearty pull at the rum and water, stopped for breath.
The elder Mr. Weller, who still continued to make various strange and
uncouth attempts to appear asleep, offered not a single word during
these proceedings; but when Stiggins stopped for breath, he darted upon
him, and snatching the tumbler from his hand, threw the remainder of
the rum and water in his face, and the glass itself into the grate.
Then, seizing the reverend gentleman firmly by the collar, he suddenly
fell to kicking him most furiously: accompanying every application
of his top-boots to Mr. Stiggins's person, with sundry violent and
incoherent anathemas upon his limbs, eyes, and body.
"Sammy," said Mr. Weller, "put my hat on tight for me."
Sam dutifully adjusted the hat with the long hatband more firmly on his
father's head, and the old gentleman, resuming his kicking with greater
agility than before, tumbled with Mr. Stiggins through the bar, and
through the passage, out at the front door, and so into the street; the
kicking continuing the whole way, and increasing in vehemence, rather
than diminishing, every time the top-boot was lifted.
It was a beautiful and exhilarating sight to see the red-nosed man
writhing in Mr. Weller's grasp, and his whole frame quivering with
anguish as kick followed kick in rapid succession; it was a still more
exciting spectacle to behold Mr. Weller, after a powerful struggle,
immersing Mr. Stiggins's head in a horse-trough full of water, and
holding it there, until he was half suffocated.
"There!" said Mr. Weller, throwing all his energy into one most
complicated kick, as he at length permitted Mr. Stiggins to withdraw
his head from the trough, "send any vun o' them lazy shepherds here,
and I'll pound him to a jelly first, and drownd him artervards! Sammy,
help me in, and fill me a small glass of brandy. I'm out o' breath, my
boy."
[Illustration: _It was a beautiful and exhilarating sight to see the
red-nosed man writhing in Mr. Weller's grasp._]