there are some odd gentry there. Whereabouts were your apartments, Mr.
Pickwick?’
‘My one room,’ replied that much-injured gentleman, ‘was on the coffee-
room flight.’
‘Oh, indeed!’ said Dodson. ‘I believe that is a very pleasant part of
the establishment.’
‘Very,’ replied Mr. Pickwick drily.
There was a coolness about all this, which, to a gentleman of an
excitable temperament, had, under the circumstances, rather an
exasperating tendency. Mr. Pickwick restrained his wrath by gigantic
efforts; but when Perker wrote a cheque for the whole amount, and Fogg
deposited it in a small pocket-book, with a triumphant smile playing
over his pimply features, which communicated itself likewise to the
stern countenance of Dodson, he felt the blood in his cheeks tingling
with indignation.
‘Now, Mr. Dodson,’ said Fogg, putting up the pocket-book and drawing on
his gloves, ‘I am at your service.’
‘Very good,’ said Dodson, rising; ‘I am quite ready.’
‘I am very happy,’ said Fogg, softened by the cheque, ‘to have had the
pleasure of making Mr. Pickwick’s acquaintance. I hope you don’t think
quite so ill of us, Mr. Pickwick, as when we first had the pleasure of
seeing you.’
‘I hope not,’ said Dodson, with the high tone of calumniated virtue.
‘Mr. Pickwick now knows us better, I trust; whatever your opinion of
gentlemen of our profession may be, I beg to assure you, sir, that I
bear no ill-will or vindictive feeling towards you for the sentiments
you thought proper to express in our office in Freeman’s Court,
Cornhill, on the occasion to which my partner has referred.’
‘Oh, no, no; nor I,’ said Fogg, in a most forgiving manner.
‘Our conduct, Sir,’ said Dodson, ‘will speak for itself, and justify
itself, I hope, upon every occasion. We have been in the profession some
years, Mr. Pickwick, and have been honoured with the confidence of many
excellent clients. I wish you good-morning, Sir.’
‘Good-morning, Mr. Pickwick,’ said Fogg. So saying, he put his umbrella
under his arm, drew off his right glove, and extended the hand of
reconciliation to that most indignant gentleman; who, thereupon, thrust
his hands beneath his coat tails, and eyed the attorney with looks of
scornful amazement.
‘Lowten!’ cried Perker, at this moment. ‘Open the door.’
‘Wait one instant,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Perker, I _will _speak.’
‘My dear Sir, pray let the matter rest where it is,’ said the little
attorney, who had been in a state of nervous apprehension during the
whole interview; ‘Mr. Pickwick, I beg--’
‘I will not be put down, Sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick hastily. ‘Mr.
Dodson, you have addressed some remarks to me.’
Dodson turned round, bent his head meekly, and smiled.
‘Some remarks to me,’ repeated Mr. Pickwick, almost breathless; ‘and
your partner has tendered me his hand, and you have both assumed a tone
of forgiveness and high-mindedness, which is an extent of impudence that
I was not prepared for, even in you.’
‘What, sir!’ exclaimed Dodson.
‘What, sir!’ reiterated Fogg.
‘Do you know that I have been the victim of your plots and
conspiracies?’ continued Mr. Pickwick. ‘Do you know that I am the man
whom you have been imprisoning and robbing? Do you know that you were
the attorneys for the plaintiff, in Bardell and Pickwick?’
‘Yes, sir, we do know it,’ replied Dodson.
‘Of course we know it, Sir,’ rejoined Fogg, slapping his pocket--perhaps
by accident.
‘I see that you recollect it with satisfaction,’ said Mr. Pickwick,
attempting to call up a sneer for the first time in his life, and
failing most signally in so doing. ‘Although I have long been anxious to
tell you, in plain terms, what my opinion of you is, I should have let
even this opportunity pass, in deference to my friend Perker’s wishes,
but for the unwarrantable tone you have assumed, and your insolent
familiarity. I say insolent familiarity, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick,
turning upon Fogg with a fierceness of gesture which caused that person
to retreat towards the door with great expedition.
‘Take care, Sir,’ said Dodson, who, though he was the biggest man of the
party, had prudently entrenched himself behind Fogg, and was speaking
over his head with a very pale face. ‘Let him assault you, Mr. Fogg;
don’t return it on any account.’
‘No, no, I won’t return it,’ said Fogg, falling back a little more as he
spoke; to the evident relief of his partner, who by these means was
gradually getting into the outer office.
‘You are,’ continued Mr. Pickwick, resuming the thread of his discourse-
-’you are a well-matched pair of mean, rascally, pettifogging robbers.’
‘Well,’ interposed Perker, ‘is that all?’
‘It is all summed up in that,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick; ‘they are mean,
rascally, pettifogging robbers.’
‘There!’ said Perker, in a most conciliatory tone. ‘My dear sirs, he has
said all he has to say. Now pray go. Lowten, is that door open?’
Mr. Lowten, with a distant giggle, replied in the affirmative.
‘There, there--good-morning--good-morning--now pray, my dear sirs--Mr.
Lowten, the door!’ cried the little man, pushing Dodson & Fogg, nothing
loath, out of the office; ‘this way, my dear sirs--now pray don’t
prolong this--Dear me--Mr. Lowten--the door, sir--why don’t you attend?’
‘If there’s law in England, sir,’ said Dodson, looking towards Mr.
Pickwick, as he put on his hat, ‘you shall smart for this.’
‘You are a couple of mean--’
‘Remember, sir, you pay dearly for this,’ said Fogg.
‘--Rascally, pettifogging robbers!’ continued Mr. Pickwick, taking not
the least notice of the threats that were addressed to him.
‘Robbers!’ cried Mr. Pickwick, running to the stair-head, as the two
attorneys descended.
‘Robbers!’ shouted Mr. Pickwick, breaking from Lowten and Perker, and
thrusting his head out of the staircase window.
When Mr. Pickwick drew in his head again, his countenance was smiling
and placid; and, walking quietly back into the office, he declared that
he had now removed a great weight from his mind, and that he felt
perfectly comfortable and happy.
Perker said nothing at all until he had emptied his snuff-box, and sent
Lowten out to fill it, when he was seized with a fit of laughing, which
lasted five minutes; at the expiration of which time he said that he
supposed he ought to be very angry, but he couldn’t think of the
business seriously yet--when he could, he would be.
‘Well, now,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘let me have a settlement with you.’
Of the same kind as the last?’ inquired Perker, with another laugh.
‘Not exactly,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick, drawing out his pocket-book, and
shaking the little man heartily by the hand, ‘I only mean a pecuniary
settlement. You have done me many acts of kindness that I can never
repay, and have no wish to repay, for I prefer continuing the
obligation.’
With this preface, the two friends dived into some very complicated
accounts and vouchers, which, having been duly displayed and gone
through by Perker, were at once discharged by Mr. Pickwick with many
professions of esteem and friendship.
They had no sooner arrived at this point, than a most violent and
startling knocking was heard at the door; it was not an ordinary double-
knock, but a constant and uninterrupted succession of the loudest single
raps, as if the knocker were endowed with the perpetual motion, or the
person outside had forgotten to leave off.
‘Dear me, what’s that?’ exclaimed Perker, starting.
‘I think it is a knock at the door,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as if there
could be the smallest doubt of the fact.
The knocker made a more energetic reply than words could have yielded,
for it continued to hammer with surprising force and noise, without a
moment’s cessation.
‘Dear me!’ said Perker, ringing his bell, ‘we shall alarm the inn. Mr.
Lowten, don’t you hear a knock?’
‘I’ll answer the door in one moment, Sir,’ replied the clerk.
The knocker appeared to hear the response, and to assert that it was
quite impossible he could wait so long. It made a stupendous uproar.
‘It’s quite dreadful,’ said Mr. Pickwick, stopping his ears.
‘Make haste, Mr. Lowten,’ Perker called out; ‘we shall have the panels
beaten in.’
Mr. Lowten, who was washing his hands in a dark closet, hurried to the
door, and turning the handle, beheld the appearance which is described
in the next chapter.
CHAPTER LIV. CONTAINING SOME PARTICULARS RELATIVE TO THE DOUBLE KNOCK,
AND OTHER MATTERS: AMONG WHICH CERTAIN INTERESTING DISCLOSURES RELATIVE
TO MR. SNODGRASS AND A YOUNG LADY ARE BY NO MEANS IRRELEVANT TO THIS
HISTORY
The object that presented itself to the eyes of the astonished clerk,
was a boy--a wonderfully fat boy--habited as a serving lad, standing
upright on the mat, with his eyes closed as if in sleep. He had never
seen such a fat boy, in or out of a travelling caravan; and this,
coupled with the calmness and repose of his appearance, so very
different from what was reasonably to have been expected of the
inflicter of such knocks, smote him with wonder.
‘What’s the matter?’ inquired the clerk.
The extraordinary boy replied not a word; but he nodded once, and
seemed, to the clerk’s imagination, to snore feebly.
‘Where do you come from?’ inquired the clerk.
The boy made no sign. He breathed heavily, but in all other respects was
motionless.
The clerk repeated the question thrice, and receiving no answer,
prepared to shut the door, when the boy suddenly opened his eyes, winked
several times, sneezed once, and raised his hand as if to repeat the
knocking. Finding the door open, he stared about him with astonishment,
and at length fixed his eyes on Mr. Lowten’s face.
‘What the devil do you knock in that way for?’ inquired the clerk
angrily.
‘Which way?’ said the boy, in a slow and sleepy voice.
‘Why, like forty hackney-coachmen,’ replied the clerk.
‘Because master said, I wasn’t to leave off knocking till they opened
the door, for fear I should go to sleep,’ said the boy.
‘Well,’ said the clerk, ‘what message have you brought?’
‘He’s downstairs,’ rejoined the boy.
‘Who?’
‘Master. He wants to know whether you’re at home.’
Mr. Lowten bethought himself, at this juncture, of looking out of the
window. Seeing an open carriage with a hearty old gentleman in it,
looking up very anxiously, he ventured to beckon him; on which, the old
gentleman jumped out directly.
‘That’s your master in the carriage, I suppose?’ said Lowten.
The boy nodded.
All further inquiries were superseded by the appearance of old Wardle,
who, running upstairs and just recognising Lowten, passed at once into
Mr. Perker’s room.
‘Pickwick!’ said the old gentleman. ‘Your hand, my boy! Why have I never
heard until the day before yesterday of your suffering yourself to be
cooped up in jail? And why did you let him do it, Perker?’
‘I couldn’t help it, my dear Sir,’ replied Perker, with a smile and a
pinch of snuff; ‘you know how obstinate he is?’
‘Of course I do; of course I do,’ replied the old gentleman. ‘I am
heartily glad to see him, notwithstanding. I will not lose sight of him
again, in a hurry.’
With these words, Wardle shook Mr. Pickwick’s hand once more, and,
having done the same by Perker, threw himself into an arm-chair, his
jolly red face shining again with smiles and health.
‘Well!’ said Wardle. ‘Here are pretty goings on--a pinch of your snuff,
Perker, my boy--never were such times, eh?’
‘What do you mean?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘Mean!’ replied Wardle. ‘Why, I think the girls are all running mad;
that’s no news, you’ll say? Perhaps it’s not; but it’s true, for all
that.’
‘You have not come up to London, of all places in the world, to tell us
that, my dear Sir, have you?’ inquired Perker.
‘No, not altogether,’ replied Wardle; ‘though it was the main cause of
my coming. How’s Arabella?’
‘Very well,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘and will be delighted to see you, I
am sure.’
‘Black-eyed little jilt!’ replied Wardle. ‘I had a great idea of
marrying her myself, one of these odd days. But I am glad of it too,
very glad.’
‘How did the intelligence reach you?’ asked Mr. Pickwick.
‘Oh, it came to my girls, of course,’ replied Wardle. ‘Arabella wrote,
the day before yesterday, to say she had made a stolen match without her
husband’s father’s consent, and so you had gone down to get it when his
refusing it couldn’t prevent the match, and all the rest of it. I
thought it a very good time to say something serious to my girls; so I
said what a dreadful thing it was that children should marry without
their parents’ consent, and so forth; but, bless your hearts, I couldn’t
make the least impression upon them. They thought it such a much more
dreadful thing that there should have been a wedding without
bridesmaids, that I might as well have preached to Joe himself.’
Here the old gentleman stopped to laugh; and having done so to his
heart’s content, presently resumed--
‘But this is not the best of it, it seems. This is only half the love-
making and plotting that have been going forward. We have been walking
on mines for the last six months, and they’re sprung at last.’
‘What do you mean?’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, turning pale; ‘no other
secret marriage, I hope?’
‘No, no,’ replied old Wardle; ‘not so bad as that; no.’
‘What then?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick; ‘am I interested in it?’
‘Shall I answer that question, Perker?’ said Wardle.
‘If you don’t commit yourself by doing so, my dear Sir.’
‘Well then, you are,’ said Wardle.
‘How?’ asked Mr. Pickwick anxiously. ‘In what way?’
‘Really,’ replied Wardle, ‘you’re such a fiery sort of a young fellow
that I am almost afraid to tell you; but, however, if Perker will sit
between us to prevent mischief, I’ll venture.’
Having closed the room door, and fortified himself with another
application to Perker’s snuff-box, the old gentleman proceeded with his
great disclosure in these words--
‘The fact is, that my daughter Bella--Bella, who married young Trundle,
you know.’
‘Yes, yes, we know,’ said Mr. Pickwick impatiently.
‘Don’t alarm me at the very beginning. My daughter Bella--Emily having
gone to bed with a headache after she had read Arabella’s letter to me--
sat herself down by my side the other evening, and began to talk over
this marriage affair. “Well, pa,” she says, “what do you think of it?”
“Why, my dear,” I said, “I suppose it’s all very well; I hope it’s for
the best.” I answered in this way because I was sitting before the fire
at the time, drinking my grog rather thoughtfully, and I knew my
throwing in an undecided word now and then, would induce her to continue
talking. Both my girls are pictures of their dear mother, and as I grow
old I like to sit with only them by me; for their voices and looks carry
me back to the happiest period of my life, and make me, for the moment,
as young as I used to be then, though not quite so light-hearted. “It’s
quite a marriage of affection, pa,” said Bella, after a short silence.
“Yes, my dear,” said I, “but such marriages do not always turn out the
happiest.”’
‘I question that, mind!’ interposed Mr. Pickwick warmly.
‘Very good,’ responded Wardle, ‘question anything you like when it’s
your turn to speak, but don’t interrupt me.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Granted,’ replied Wardle. ‘“I am sorry to hear you express your opinion
against marriages of affection, pa,” said Bella, colouring a little. “I
was wrong; I ought not to have said so, my dear, either,” said I,
patting her cheek as kindly as a rough old fellow like me could pat it,
“for your mother’s was one, and so was yours.” “It’s not that I meant,
pa,” said Bella. “The fact is, pa, I wanted to speak to you about
Emily.”’
Mr. Pickwick started.
‘What’s the matter now?’ inquired Wardle, stopping in his narrative.
‘Nothing,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘Pray go on.’
‘I never could spin out a story,’ said Wardle abruptly. ‘It must come
out, sooner or later, and it’ll save us all a great deal of time if it
comes at once. The long and the short of it is, then, that Bella at last
mustered up courage to tell me that Emily was very unhappy; that she and
your young friend Snodgrass had been in constant correspondence and
communication ever since last Christmas; that she had very dutifully
made up her mind to run away with him, in laudable imitation of her old
friend and school-fellow; but that having some compunctions of
conscience on the subject, inasmuch as I had always been rather kindly
disposed to both of them, they had thought it better in the first
instance to pay me the compliment of asking whether I would have any
objection to their being married in the usual matter-of-fact manner.
There now, Mr. Pickwick, if you can make it convenient to reduce your
eyes to their usual size again, and to let me hear what you think we
ought to do, I shall feel rather obliged to you!’
The testy manner in which the hearty old gentleman uttered this last
sentence was not wholly unwarranted; for Mr. Pickwick’s face had settled
down into an expression of blank amazement and perplexity, quite curious
to behold.
‘Snodgrass!--since last Christmas!’ were the first broken words that
issued from the lips of the confounded gentleman.
‘Since last Christmas,’ replied Wardle; ‘that’s plain enough, and very
bad spectacles we must have worn, not to have discovered it before.’
‘I don’t understand it,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ruminating; ‘I cannot really
understand it.’
‘It’s easy enough to understand it,’ replied the choleric old gentleman.
‘If you had been a younger man, you would have been in the secret long
ago; and besides,’ added Wardle, after a moment’s hesitation, ‘the truth
is, that, knowing nothing of this matter, I have rather pressed Emily
for four or five months past, to receive favourably (if she could; I
would never attempt to force a girl’s inclinations) the addresses of a
young gentleman down in our neighbourhood. I have no doubt that, girl-
like, to enhance her own value and increase the ardour of Mr. Snodgrass,
she has represented this matter in very glowing colours, and that they
have both arrived at the conclusion that they are a terribly-persecuted
pair of unfortunates, and have no resource but clandestine matrimony, or
charcoal. Now the question is, what’s to be done?’
‘What have _you _done?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘_I!_’
‘I mean what did you do when your married daughter told you this?’
‘Oh, I made a fool of myself of course,’ rejoined Wardle.
‘Just so,’ interposed Perker, who had accompanied this dialogue with
sundry twitchings of his watch-chain, vindictive rubbings of his nose,
and other symptoms of impatience. ‘That’s very natural; but how?’
‘I went into a great passion and frightened my mother into a fit,’ said
Wardle.
‘That was judicious,’ remarked Perker; ‘and what else?’
‘I fretted and fumed all next day, and raised a great disturbance,’
rejoined the old gentleman. ‘At last I got tired of rendering myself
unpleasant and making everybody miserable; so I hired a carriage at
Muggleton, and, putting my own horses in it, came up to town, under
pretence of bringing Emily to see Arabella.’
‘Miss Wardle is with you, then?’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘To be sure she is,’ replied Wardle. ‘She is at Osborne’s Hotel in the
Adelphi at this moment, unless your enterprising friend has run away
with her since I came out this morning.’
‘You are reconciled then?’ said Perker.
‘Not a bit of it,’ answered Wardle; ‘she has been crying and moping ever
since, except last night, between tea and supper, when she made a great
parade of writing a letter that I pretended to take no notice of.’
‘You want my advice in this matter, I suppose?’ said Perker, looking
from the musing face of Mr. Pickwick to the eager countenance of Wardle,
and taking several consecutive pinches of his favourite stimulant.
‘I suppose so,’ said Wardle, looking at Mr. Pickwick.
‘Certainly,’ replied that gentleman.
‘Well then,’ said Perker, rising and pushing his chair back, ‘my advice
is, that you both walk away together, or ride away, or get away by some
means or other, for I’m tired of you, and just talk this matter over
between you. If you have not settled it by the next time I see you, I’ll
tell you what to do.’
‘This is satisfactory,’ said Wardle, hardly knowing whether to smile or
be offended.
‘Pooh, pooh, my dear Sir,’ returned Perker. ‘I know you both a great
deal better than you know yourselves. You have settled it already, to
all intents and purposes.’
Thus expressing himself, the little gentleman poked his snuff-box first
into the chest of Mr. Pickwick, and then into the waistcoat of Mr.
Wardle, upon which they all three laughed, especially the two last-named
gentlemen, who at once shook hands again, without any obvious or
particular reason.
‘You dine with me to-day,’ said Wardle to Perker, as he showed them out.
‘Can’t promise, my dear Sir, can’t promise,’ replied Perker. ‘I’ll look
in, in the evening, at all events.’
‘I shall expect you at five,’ said Wardle. ‘Now, Joe!’ And Joe having
been at length awakened, the two friends departed in Mr. Wardle’s
carriage, which in common humanity had a dickey behind for the fat boy,
who, if there had been a footboard instead, would have rolled off and
killed himself in his very first nap.
Driving to the George and Vulture, they found that Arabella and her maid
had sent for a hackney-coach immediately on the receipt of a short note
from Emily announcing her arrival in town, and had proceeded straight to
the Adelphi. As Wardle had business to transact in the city, they sent
the carriage and the fat boy to his hotel, with the information that he
and Mr. Pickwick would return together to dinner at five o’clock.
Charged with this message, the fat boy returned, slumbering as peaceably
in his dickey, over the stones, as if it had been a down bed on watch
springs. By some extraordinary miracle he awoke of his own accord, when
the coach stopped, and giving himself a good shake to stir up his
faculties, went upstairs to execute his commission.
Now, whether the shake had jumbled the fat boy’s faculties together,
instead of arranging them in proper order, or had roused such a quantity
of new ideas within him as to render him oblivious of ordinary forms and
ceremonies, or (which is also possible) had proved unsuccessful in
preventing his falling asleep as he ascended the stairs, it is an
undoubted fact that he walked into the sitting-room without previously
knocking at the door; and so beheld a gentleman with his arms clasping
his young mistress’s waist, sitting very lovingly by her side on a sofa,
while Arabella and her pretty handmaid feigned to be absorbed in looking
out of a window at the other end of the room. At the sight of this
phenomenon, the fat boy uttered an interjection, the ladies a scream,
and the gentleman an oath, almost simultaneously.
‘Wretched creature, what do you want here?’ said the gentleman, who it
is needless to say was Mr. Snodgrass.
To this the fat boy, considerably terrified, briefly responded,
‘Missis.’
‘What do you want me for,’ inquired Emily, turning her head aside, ‘you
stupid creature?’
‘Master and Mr. Pickwick is a-going to dine here at five,’ replied the
fat boy.
‘Leave the room!’ said Mr. Snodgrass, glaring upon the bewildered youth.
‘No, no, no,’ added Emily hastily. ‘Bella, dear, advise me.’
Upon this, Emily and Mr. Snodgrass, and Arabella and Mary, crowded into
a corner, and conversed earnestly in whispers for some minutes, during
which the fat boy dozed.
‘Joe,’ said Arabella, at length, looking round with a most bewitching
smile, ‘how do you do, Joe?’
‘Joe,’ said Emily, ‘you’re a very good boy; I won’t forget you, Joe.’
‘Joe,’ said Mr. Snodgrass, advancing to the astonished youth, and
seizing his hand, ‘I didn’t know you before. There’s five shillings for
you, Joe!”
‘I’ll owe you five, Joe,’ said Arabella, ‘for old acquaintance sake, you
know;’ and another most captivating smile was bestowed upon the
corpulent intruder.
The fat boy’s perception being slow, he looked rather puzzled at first
to account for this sudden prepossession in his favour, and stared about
him in a very alarming manner. At length his broad face began to show
symptoms of a grin of proportionately broad dimensions; and then,
thrusting half-a-crown into each of his pockets, and a hand and wrist
after it, he burst into a horse laugh: being for the first and only time
in his existence.
‘He understands us, I see,’ said Arabella.
‘He had better have something to eat, immediately,’ remarked Emily.
The fat boy almost laughed again when he heard this suggestion. Mary,
after a little more whispering, tripped forth from the group and said--
‘I am going to dine with you to-day, sir, if you have no objection.’
‘This way,’ said the fat boy eagerly. ‘There is such a jolly meat-pie!’
With these words, the fat boy led the way downstairs; his pretty
companion captivating all the waiters and angering all the chambermaids
as she followed him to the eating-room.
There was the meat-pie of which the youth had spoken so feelingly, and
there were, moreover, a steak, and a dish of potatoes, and a pot of
porter.
‘Sit down,’ said the fat boy. ‘Oh, my eye, how prime! I am _so_ hungry.’
Having apostrophised his eye, in a species of rapture, five or six
times, the youth took the head of the little table, and Mary seated
herself at the bottom.
‘Will you have some of this?’ said the fat boy, plunging into the pie up
to the very ferules of the knife and fork.
‘A little, if you please,’ replied Mary.
The fat boy assisted Mary to a little, and himself to a great deal, and
was just going to begin eating when he suddenly laid down his knife and
fork, leaned forward in his chair, and letting his hands, with the knife
and fork in them, fall on his knees, said, very slowly--
‘I say! How nice you look!’
This was said in an admiring manner, and was, so far, gratifying; but
still there was enough of the cannibal in the young gentleman’s eyes to
render the compliment a double one.
‘Dear me, Joseph,’ said Mary, affecting to blush, ‘what do you mean?’
The fat boy, gradually recovering his former position, replied with a
heavy sigh, and, remaining thoughtful for a few moments, drank a long
draught of the porter. Having achieved this feat, he sighed again, and
applied himself assiduously to the pie.
‘What a nice young lady Miss Emily is!’ said Mary, after a long silence.
The fat boy had by this time finished the pie. He fixed his eyes on
Mary, and replied--
‘I knows a nicerer.’
‘Indeed!’ said Mary.
‘Yes, indeed!’ replied the fat boy, with unwonted vivacity.
‘What’s her name?’ inquired Mary.
‘What’s yours?’
‘Mary.’
‘So’s hers,’ said the fat boy. ‘You’re her.’ The boy grinned to add
point to the compliment, and put his eyes into something between a
squint and a cast, which there is reason to believe he intended for an
ogle.
‘You mustn’t talk to me in that way,’ said Mary; ‘you don’t mean it.’
‘Don’t I, though?’ replied the fat boy. ‘I say?’
‘Well?’
‘Are you going to come here regular?’
‘No,’ rejoined Mary, shaking her head, ‘I’m going away again to-night.
Why?’
‘Oh,’ said the fat boy, in a tone of strong feeling; ‘how we should have
enjoyed ourselves at meals, if you had been!’
‘I might come here sometimes, perhaps, to see you,’ said Mary, plaiting
the table-cloth in assumed coyness, ‘if you would do me a favour.’
The fat boy looked from the pie-dish to the steak, as if he thought a
favour must be in a manner connected with something to eat; and then
took out one of the half-crowns and glanced at it nervously.
‘Don’t you understand me?’ said Mary, looking slily in his fat face.
Again he looked at the half-crown, and said faintly, ‘No.’
‘The ladies want you not to say anything to the old gentleman about the
young gentleman having been upstairs; and I want you too.’
‘Is that all?’ said the fat boy, evidently very much relieved, as he
pocketed the half-crown again. ‘Of course I ain’t a-going to.’
‘You see,’ said Mary, ‘Mr. Snodgrass is very fond of Miss Emily, and
Miss Emily’s very fond of him, and if you were to tell about it, the old
gentleman would carry you all away miles into the country, where you’d
see nobody.’
‘No, no, I won’t tell,’ said the fat boy stoutly.
‘That’s a dear,’ said Mary. ‘Now it’s time I went upstairs, and got my
lady ready for dinner.’
‘Don’t go yet,’ urged the fat boy.
‘I must,’ replied Mary. ‘Good-bye, for the present.’
The fat boy, with elephantine playfulness, stretched out his arms to
ravish a kiss; but as it required no great agility to elude him, his
fair enslaver had vanished before he closed them again; upon which the
apathetic youth ate a pound or so of steak with a sentimental
countenance, and fell fast asleep.
There was so much to say upstairs, and there were so many plans to
concert for elopement and matrimony in the event of old Wardle
continuing to be cruel, that it wanted only half an hour of dinner when
Mr. Snodgrass took his final adieu. The ladies ran to Emily’s bedroom to
dress, and the lover, taking up his hat, walked out of the room. He had
scarcely got outside the door, when he heard Wardle’s voice talking
loudly, and looking over the banisters beheld him, followed by some
other gentlemen, coming straight upstairs. Knowing nothing of the house,
Mr. Snodgrass in his confusion stepped hastily back into the room he had
just quitted, and passing thence into an inner apartment (Mr. Wardle’s
bedchamber), closed the door softly, just as the persons he had caught a
glimpse of entered the sitting-room. These were Mr. Wardle, Mr.
Pickwick, Mr. Nathaniel Winkle, and Mr. Benjamin Allen, whom he had no
difficulty in recognising by their voices.
‘Very lucky I had the presence of mind to avoid them,’ thought Mr.
Snodgrass with a smile, and walking on tiptoe to another door near the
bedside; ‘this opens into the same passage, and I can walk quietly and
comfortably away.’
There was only one obstacle to his walking quietly and comfortably away,
which was that the door was locked and the key gone.
‘Let us have some of your best wine to-day, waiter,’ said old Wardle,
rubbing his hands.
‘You shall have some of the very best, sir,’ replied the waiter.
‘Let the ladies know we have come in.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Devoutly and ardently did Mr. Snodgrass wish that the ladies could know
he had come in. He ventured once to whisper, ‘Waiter!’ through the
keyhole, but the probability of the wrong waiter coming to his relief,
flashed upon his mind, together with a sense of the strong resemblance
between his own situation and that in which another gentleman had been
recently found in a neighbouring hotel (an account of whose misfortunes
had appeared under the head of ‘Police’ in that morning’s paper), he sat
himself on a portmanteau, and trembled violently.
‘We won’t wait a minute for Perker,’ said Wardle, looking at his watch;
‘he is always exact. He will be here, in time, if he means to come; and
if he does not, it’s of no use waiting. Ha! Arabella!’
‘My sister!’ exclaimed Mr. Benjamin Allen, folding her in a most
romantic embrace.
‘Oh, Ben, dear, how you do smell of tobacco,’ said Arabella, rather
overcome by this mark of affection.
‘Do I?’ said Mr. Benjamin Allen. ‘Do I, Bella? Well, perhaps I do.’
Perhaps he did, having just left a pleasant little smoking-party of
twelve medical students, in a small back parlour with a large fire.
‘But I am delighted to see you,’ said Mr. Ben Allen. ‘Bless you, Bella!’
‘There,’ said Arabella, bending forward to kiss her brother; ‘don’t take
hold of me again, Ben, dear, because you tumble me so.’
At this point of the reconciliation, Mr. Ben Allen allowed his feelings
and the cigars and porter to overcome him, and looked round upon the
beholders with damp spectacles.
‘Is nothing to be said to me?’ cried Wardle, with open arms.
‘A great deal,’ whispered Arabella, as she received the old gentleman’s
hearty caress and congratulation. ‘You are a hard-hearted, unfeeling,
cruel monster.’
‘You are a little rebel,’ replied Wardle, in the same tone, ‘and I am
afraid I shall be obliged to forbid you the house. People like you, who
get married in spite of everybody, ought not to be let loose on society.
But come!’ added the old gentleman aloud, ‘here’s the dinner; you shall
sit by me. Joe; why, damn the boy, he’s awake!’
To the great distress of his master, the fat boy was indeed in a state
of remarkable vigilance, his eyes being wide open, and looking as if
they intended to remain so. There was an alacrity in his manner, too,
which was equally unaccountable; every time his eyes met those of Emily
or Arabella, he smirked and grinned; once, Wardle could have sworn, he
saw him wink.
This alteration in the fat boy’s demeanour originated in his increased
sense of his own importance, and the dignity he acquired from having
been taken into the confidence of the young ladies; and the smirks, and
grins, and winks were so many condescending assurances that they might
depend upon his fidelity. As these tokens were rather calculated to
awaken suspicion than allay it, and were somewhat embarrassing besides,
they were occasionally answered by a frown or shake of the head from
Arabella, which the fat boy, considering as hints to be on his guard,
expressed his perfect understanding of, by smirking, grinning, and
winking, with redoubled assiduity.
‘Joe,’ said Mr. Wardle, after an unsuccessful search in all his pockets,
‘is my snuff-box on the sofa?’
‘No, sir,’ replied the fat boy.
‘Oh, I recollect; I left it on my dressing-table this morning,’ said
Wardle. ‘Run into the next room and fetch it.’
The fat boy went into the next room; and, having been absent about a
minute, returned with the snuff-box, and the palest face that ever a fat
boy wore.
‘What’s the matter with the boy?’ exclaimed Wardle.
‘Nothen’s the matter with me,’ replied Joe nervously.
‘Have you been seeing any spirits?’ inquired the old gentleman.
‘Or taking any?’ added Ben Allen.
‘I think you’re right,’ whispered Wardle across the table. ‘He is
intoxicated, I’m sure.’
Ben Allen replied that he thought he was; and, as that gentleman had
seen a vast deal of the disease in question, Wardle was confirmed in an
impression which had been hovering about his mind for half an hour, and
at once arrived at the conclusion that the fat boy was drunk.
‘Just keep your eye upon him for a few minutes,’ murmured Wardle. ‘We
shall soon find out whether he is or not.’
The unfortunate youth had only interchanged a dozen words with Mr.
Snodgrass, that gentleman having implored him to make a private appeal
to some friend to release him, and then pushed him out with the snuff-
box, lest his prolonged absence should lead to a discovery. He ruminated
a little with a most disturbed expression of face, and left the room in
search of Mary.
But Mary had gone home after dressing her mistress, and the fat boy came
back again more disturbed than before.
Wardle and Mr. Ben Allen exchanged glances.
‘Joe!’ said Wardle.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What did you go away for?’
The fat boy looked hopelessly in the face of everybody at table, and
stammered out that he didn’t know.
‘Oh,’ said Wardle, ‘you don’t know, eh? Take this cheese to Mr.
Pickwick.’
Now, Mr. Pickwick being in the very best health and spirits, had been
making himself perfectly delightful all dinner-time, and was at this
moment engaged in an energetic conversation with Emily and Mr. Winkle;
bowing his head, courteously, in the emphasis of his discourse, gently
waving his left hand to lend force to his observations, and all glowing
with placid smiles. He took a piece of cheese from the plate, and was on
the point of turning round to renew the conversation, when the fat boy,
stooping so as to bring his head on a level with that of Mr. Pickwick,
pointed with his thumb over his shoulder, and made the most horrible and
hideous face that was ever seen out of a Christmas pantomime.
‘Dear me!’ said Mr. Pickwick, starting, ‘what a very--Eh?’ He stopped,
for the fat boy had drawn himself up, and was, or pretended to be, fast
asleep.
‘What’s the matter?’ inquired Wardle.
‘This is such an extremely singular lad!’ replied Mr. Pickwick, looking
uneasily at the boy. ‘It seems an odd thing to say, but upon my word I
am afraid that, at times, he is a little deranged.’
‘Oh! Mr. Pickwick, pray don’t say so,’ cried Emily and Arabella, both at
once.
‘I am not certain, of course,’ said Mr. Pickwick, amidst profound
silence and looks of general dismay; ‘but his manner to me this moment
really was very alarming. Oh!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, suddenly jumping
up with a short scream. ‘I beg your pardon, ladies, but at that moment
he ran some sharp instrument into my leg. Really, he is not safe.’
‘He’s drunk,’ roared old Wardle passionately. ‘Ring the bell! Call the
waiters! He’s drunk.’
‘I ain’t,’ said the fat boy, falling on his knees as his master seized
him by the collar. ‘I ain’t drunk.’
‘Then you’re mad; that’s worse. Call the waiters,’ said the old
gentleman.
‘I ain’t mad; I’m sensible,’ rejoined the fat boy, beginning to cry.
‘Then, what the devil did you run sharp instruments into Mr. Pickwick’s
legs for?’ inquired Wardle angrily.
‘He wouldn’t look at me,’ replied the boy. ‘I wanted to speak to him.’
‘What did you want to say?’ asked half a dozen voices at once.
The fat boy gasped, looked at the bedroom door, gasped again, and wiped
two tears away with the knuckle of each of his forefingers.
‘What did you want to say?’ demanded Wardle, shaking him.
‘Stop!’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘allow me. What did you wish to communicate
to me, my poor boy?’
‘I want to whisper to you,’ replied the fat boy.
‘You want to bite his ear off, I suppose,’ said Wardle. ‘Don’t come near
him; he’s vicious; ring the bell, and let him be taken downstairs.’
Just as Mr. Winkle caught the bell-rope in his hand, it was arrested by
a general expression of astonishment; the captive lover, his face
burning with confusion, suddenly walked in from the bedroom, and made a
comprehensive bow to the company.
‘Hollo!’ cried Wardle, releasing the fat boy’s collar, and staggering
back. ‘What’s this?’
‘I have been concealed in the next room, sir, since you returned,’
explained Mr. Snodgrass.
‘Emily, my girl,’ said Wardle reproachfully, ‘I detest meanness and
deceit; this is unjustifiable and indelicate in the highest degree. I
don’t deserve this at your hands, Emily, indeed!’
‘Dear papa,’ said Emily, ‘Arabella knows--everybody here knows--Joe
knows--that I was no party to this concealment. Augustus, for Heaven’s
sake, explain it!’
Mr. Snodgrass, who had only waited for a hearing, at once recounted how
he had been placed in his then distressing predicament; how the fear of
giving rise to domestic dissensions had alone prompted him to avoid Mr.
Wardle on his entrance; how he merely meant to depart by another door,
but, finding it locked, had been compelled to stay against his will. It
was a painful situation to be placed in; but he now regretted it the
less, inasmuch as it afforded him an opportunity of acknowledging,
before their mutual friends, that he loved Mr. Wardle’s daughter deeply
and sincerely; that he was proud to avow that the feeling was mutual;
and that if thousands of miles were placed between them, or oceans
rolled their waters, he could never for an instant forget those happy
days, when first--et cetera, et cetera.
Having delivered himself to this effect, Mr. Snodgrass bowed again,
looked into the crown of his hat, and stepped towards the door.
‘Stop!’ shouted Wardle. ‘Why, in the name of all that’s--’
‘Inflammable,’ mildly suggested Mr. Pickwick, who thought something
worse was coming.
‘Well--that’s inflammable,’ said Wardle, adopting the substitute;
‘couldn’t you say all this to me in the first instance?’
‘Or confide in me?’ added Mr. Pickwick.
‘Dear, dear,’ said Arabella, taking up the defence, ‘what is the use of
asking all that now, especially when you know you had set your covetous
old heart on a richer son-in-law, and are so wild and fierce besides,
that everybody is afraid of you, except me? Shake hands with him, and
order him some dinner, for goodness gracious’ sake, for he looks half
starved; and pray have your wine up at once, for you’ll not be tolerable
until you have taken two bottles at least.’
The worthy old gentleman pulled Arabella’s ear, kissed her without the
smallest scruple, kissed his daughter also with great affection, and
shook Mr. Snodgrass warmly by the hand.
‘She is right on one point at all events,’ said the old gentleman
cheerfully. ‘Ring for the wine!’
The wine came, and Perker came upstairs at the same moment. Mr.
Snodgrass had dinner at a side table, and, when he had despatched it,
drew his chair next Emily, without the smallest opposition on the old
gentleman’s part.
The evening was excellent. Little Mr. Perker came out wonderfully, told
various comic stories, and sang a serious song which was almost as funny
as the anecdotes. Arabella was very charming, Mr. Wardle very jovial,
Mr. Pickwick very harmonious, Mr. Ben Allen very uproarious, the lovers
very silent, Mr. Winkle very talkative, and all of them very happy.
CHAPTER LV. MR. SOLOMON PELL, ASSISTED BY A SELECT COMMITTEE OF
COACHMEN, ARRANGES THE AFFAIRS OF THE ELDER MR. WELLER
Samivel,’ said Mr. Weller, accosting his son on the morning after the
funeral, ‘I’ve found it, Sammy. I thought it wos there.’
‘Thought wot wos there?’ inquired Sam.
‘Your mother-in-law’s vill, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘In wirtue o’
vich, them arrangements is to be made as I told you on, last night,
respectin’ the funs.’
‘Wot, didn’t she tell you were it wos?’ inquired Sam.
‘Not a bit on it, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘We wos a adjestin’ our
little differences, and I wos a-cheerin’ her spirits and bearin’ her up,
so that I forgot to ask anythin’ about it. I don’t know as I should ha’
done it, indeed, if I had remembered it,’ added Mr. Weller, ‘for it’s a
rum sort o’ thing, Sammy, to go a-hankerin’ arter anybody’s property,
ven you’re assistin’ ‘em in illness. It’s like helping an outside
passenger up, ven he’s been pitched off a coach, and puttin’ your hand
in his pocket, vile you ask him, vith a sigh, how he finds his-self,
Sammy.’
With this figurative illustration of his meaning, Mr. Weller unclasped
his pocket-book, and drew forth a dirty sheet of letter-paper, on which
were inscribed various characters crowded together in remarkable
confusion.
‘This here is the dockyment, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘I found it in the
little black tea-pot, on the top shelf o’ the bar closet. She used to
keep bank-notes there, ‘fore she vos married, Samivel. I’ve seen her
take the lid off, to pay a bill, many and many a time. Poor creetur, she
might ha’ filled all the tea-pots in the house vith vills, and not have
inconwenienced herself neither, for she took wery little of anythin’ in
that vay lately, ‘cept on the temperance nights, ven they just laid a
foundation o’ tea to put the spirits atop on!’
‘What does it say?’ inquired Sam.
‘Jist vot I told you, my boy,’ rejoined his parent. ‘Two hundred pound
vurth o’ reduced counsels to my son-in-law, Samivel, and all the rest o’
my property, of ev’ry kind and description votsoever, to my husband, Mr.
Tony Veller, who I appint as my sole eggzekiter.’
‘That’s all, is it?’ said Sam.
‘That’s all,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘And I s’pose as it’s all right and
satisfactory to you and me as is the only parties interested, ve may as
vell put this bit o’ paper into the fire.’
‘Wot are you a-doin’ on, you lunatic?’ said Sam, snatching the paper
away, as his parent, in all innocence, stirred the fire preparatory to
suiting the action to the word. ‘You’re a nice eggzekiter, you are.’
‘Vy not?’ inquired Mr. Weller, looking sternly round, with the poker in
his hand.
‘Vy not?’ exclaimed Sam. ‘’Cos it must be proved, and probated, and
swore to, and all manner o’ formalities.’
‘You don’t mean that?’ said Mr. Weller, laying down the poker.
Sam buttoned the will carefully in a side pocket; intimating by a look,
meanwhile, that he did mean it, and very seriously too.
‘Then I’ll tell you wot it is,’ said Mr. Weller, after a short
meditation, ‘this is a case for that ‘ere confidential pal o’ the
Chancellorship’s. Pell must look into this, Sammy. He’s the man for a
difficult question at law. Ve’ll have this here brought afore the
Solvent Court, directly, Samivel.’
‘I never did see such a addle-headed old creetur!’ exclaimed Sam
irritably; ‘Old Baileys, and Solvent Courts, and alleybis, and ev’ry
species o’ gammon alvays a-runnin’ through his brain. You’d better get
your out o’ door clothes on, and come to town about this bisness, than
stand a-preachin’ there about wot you don’t understand nothin’ on.’
‘Wery good, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller, ‘I’m quite agreeable to anythin’
as vill hexpedite business, Sammy. But mind this here, my boy, nobody
but Pell--nobody but Pell as a legal adwiser.’
‘I don’t want anybody else,’ replied Sam. ‘Now, are you a-comin’?’
‘Vait a minit, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller, who, having tied his shawl
with the aid of a small glass that hung in the window, was now, by dint
of the most wonderful exertions, struggling into his upper garments.
‘Vait a minit’ Sammy; ven you grow as old as your father, you von’t get
into your veskit quite as easy as you do now, my boy.’
‘If I couldn’t get into it easier than that, I’m blessed if I’d vear vun
at all,’ rejoined his son.
‘You think so now,’ said Mr. Weller, with the gravity of age, ‘but
you’ll find that as you get vider, you’ll get viser. Vidth and visdom,
Sammy, alvays grows together.’
As Mr. Weller delivered this infallible maxim--the result of many years’
personal experience and observation--he contrived, by a dexterous twist
of his body, to get the bottom button of his coat to perform its office.
Having paused a few seconds to recover breath, he brushed his hat with
his elbow, and declared himself ready.
‘As four heads is better than two, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, as they
drove along the London Road in the chaise-cart, ‘and as all this here
property is a wery great temptation to a legal gen’l’m’n, ve’ll take a
couple o’ friends o’ mine vith us, as’ll be wery soon down upon him if
he comes anythin’ irreg’lar; two o’ them as saw you to the Fleet that
day. They’re the wery best judges,’ added Mr. Weller, in a half-whisper-
-’the wery best judges of a horse, you ever know’d.’
‘And of a lawyer too?’ inquired Sam.
‘The man as can form a ackerate judgment of a animal, can form a
ackerate judgment of anythin’,’ replied his father, so dogmatically,
that Sam did not attempt to controvert the position.
In pursuance of this notable resolution, the services of the mottled-
faced gentleman and of two other very fat coachmen--selected by Mr.
Weller, probably, with a view to their width and consequent wisdom--were
put into requisition; and this assistance having been secured, the party
proceeded to the public-house in Portugal Street, whence a messenger was
despatched to the Insolvent Court over the way, requiring Mr. Solomon
Pell’s immediate attendance.
The messenger fortunately found Mr. Solomon Pell in court, regaling
himself, business being rather slack, with a cold collation of an
Abernethy biscuit and a saveloy. The message was no sooner whispered in
his ear than he thrust them in his pocket among various professional
documents, and hurried over the way with such alacrity that he reached
the parlour before the messenger had even emancipated himself from the
court.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Mr. Pell, touching his hat, ‘my service to you all. I
don’t say it to flatter you, gentlemen, but there are not five other men
in the world, that I’d have come out of that court for, to-day.’
‘So busy, eh?’ said Sam.
‘Busy!’ replied Pell; ‘I’m completely sewn up, as my friend the late
Lord Chancellor many a time used to say to me, gentlemen, when he came
out from hearing appeals in the House of Lords. Poor fellow; he was very
susceptible to fatigue; he used to feel those appeals uncommonly. I
actually thought more than once that he’d have sunk under ‘em; I did,
indeed.’
Here Mr. Pell shook his head and paused; on which, the elder Mr. Weller,
nudging his neighbour, as begging him to mark the attorney’s high
connections, asked whether the duties in question produced any permanent
ill effects on the constitution of his noble friend.
‘I don’t think he ever quite recovered them,’ replied Pell; ‘in fact I’m
sure he never did. “Pell,” he used to say to me many a time, “how the
blazes you can stand the head-work you do, is a mystery to me.”--“Well,”
I used to answer, “I hardly know how I do it, upon my life.”--“Pell,”
he’d add, sighing, and looking at me with a little envy--friendly envy,
you know, gentlemen, mere friendly envy; I never minded it--“Pell,
you’re a wonder; a wonder.” Ah! you’d have liked him very much if you
had known him, gentlemen. Bring me three-penn’orth of rum, my dear.’
Addressing this latter remark to the waitress, in a tone of subdued
grief, Mr. Pell sighed, looked at his shoes and the ceiling; and, the
rum having by that time arrived, drank it up.
‘However,’ said Pell, drawing a chair to the table, ‘a professional man
has no right to think of his private friendships when his legal
assistance is wanted. By the bye, gentlemen, since I saw you here
before, we have had to weep over a very melancholy occurrence.’
Mr. Pell drew out a pocket-handkerchief, when he came to the word weep,
but he made no further use of it than to wipe away a slight tinge of rum
which hung upon his upper lip.
‘I saw it in the ADVERTISER, Mr. Weller,’ continued Pell. ‘Bless my
soul, not more than fifty-two! Dear me--only think.’
These indications of a musing spirit were addressed to the mottled-faced
man, whose eyes Mr. Pell had accidentally caught; on which, the mottled-
faced man, whose apprehension of matters in general was of a foggy
nature, moved uneasily in his seat, and opined that, indeed, so far as
that went, there was no saying how things was brought about; which
observation, involving one of those subtle propositions which it is
difficult to encounter in argument, was controverted by nobody.
‘I have heard it remarked that she was a very fine woman, Mr. Weller,’
said Pell, in a sympathising manner.
‘Yes, sir, she wos,’ replied the elder Mr. Weller, not much relishing
this mode of discussing the subject, and yet thinking that the attorney,
from his long intimacy with the late Lord Chancellor, must know best on
all matters of polite breeding. ‘She wos a wery fine ‘ooman, sir, ven I
first know’d her. She wos a widder, sir, at that time.’
‘Now, it’s curious,’ said Pell, looking round with a sorrowful smile;
‘Mrs. Pell was a widow.’
‘That’s very extraordinary,’ said the mottled-faced man.
‘Well, it is a curious coincidence,’ said Pell.
‘Not at all,’ gruffly remarked the elder Mr. Weller. ‘More widders is
married than single wimin.’
‘Very good, very good,’ said Pell, ‘you’re quite right, Mr. Weller. Mrs.
Pell was a very elegant and accomplished woman; her manners were the
theme of universal admiration in our neighbourhood. I was proud to see
that woman dance; there was something so firm and dignified, and yet
natural, in her motion. Her cutting, gentlemen, was simplicity itself.
Ah! well, well! Excuse my asking the question, Mr. Samuel,’ continued
the attorney in a lower voice, ‘was your mother-in-law tall?’
‘Not wery,’ replied Sam.
‘Mrs. Pell was a tall figure,’ said Pell, ‘a splendid woman, with a
noble shape, and a nose, gentlemen, formed to command and be majestic.
She was very much attached to me--very much--highly connected, too. Her
mother’s brother, gentlemen, failed for eight hundred pounds, as a law
stationer.’
‘Vell,’ said Mr. Weller, who had grown rather restless during this
discussion, ‘vith regard to bis’ness.’
The word was music to Pell’s ears. He had been revolving in his mind
whether any business was to be transacted, or whether he had been merely
invited to partake of a glass of brandy-and-water, or a bowl of punch,
or any similar professional compliment, and now the doubt was set at
rest without his appearing at all eager for its solution. His eyes
glistened as he laid his hat on the table, and said--
‘What is the business upon which--um? Either of these gentlemen wish to
go through the court? We require an arrest; a friendly arrest will do,
you know; we are all friends here, I suppose?’
‘Give me the dockyment, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, taking the will from
his son, who appeared to enjoy the interview amazingly. ‘Wot we rekvire,
sir, is a probe o’ this here.’
‘Probate, my dear Sir, probate,’ said Pell.
‘Well, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller sharply, ‘probe and probe it, is wery
much the same; if you don’t understand wot I mean, sir, I des-say I can
find them as does.’
‘No offence, I hope, Mr. Weller,’ said Pell meekly. ‘You are the
executor, I see,’ he added, casting his eyes over the paper.
‘I am, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.
‘These other gentlemen, I presume, are legatees, are they?’ inquired
Pell, with a congratulatory smile.
‘Sammy is a leg-at-ease,’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘these other gen’l’m’n is
friends o’ mine, just come to see fair; a kind of umpires.’
‘Oh!’ said Pell, ‘very good. I have no objections, I’m sure. I shall
want a matter of five pound of you before I begin, ha! ha! ha!’
It being decided by the committee that the five pound might be advanced,
Mr. Weller produced that sum; after which, a long consultation about
nothing particular took place, in the course whereof Mr. Pell
demonstrated to the perfect satisfaction of the gentlemen who saw fair,
that unless the management of the business had been intrusted to him, it
must all have gone wrong, for reasons not clearly made out, but no doubt
sufficient. This important point being despatched, Mr. Pell refreshed
himself with three chops, and liquids both malt and spirituous, at the
expense of the estate; and then they all went away to Doctors’ Commons.
The next day there was another visit to Doctors’ Commons, and a great
to-do with an attesting hostler, who, being inebriated, declined
swearing anything but profane oaths, to the great scandal of a proctor
and surrogate. Next week, there were more visits to Doctors’ Commons,
and there was a visit to the Legacy Duty Office besides, and there were
treaties entered into, for the disposal of the lease and business, and
ratifications of the same, and inventories to be made out, and lunches
to be taken, and dinners to be eaten, and so many profitable things to
be done, and such a mass of papers accumulated that Mr. Solomon Pell,
and the boy, and the blue bag to boot, all got so stout that scarcely
anybody would have known them for the same man, boy, and bag, that had
loitered about Portugal Street, a few days before.
At length all these weighty matters being arranged, a day was fixed for
selling out and transferring the stock, and of waiting with that view
upon Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, stock-broker, of somewhere near the bank,
who had been recommended by Mr. Solomon Pell for the purpose.
It was a kind of festive occasion, and the parties were attired
accordingly. Mr. Weller’s tops were newly cleaned, and his dress was
arranged with peculiar care; the mottled-faced gentleman wore at his
button-hole a full-sized dahlia with several leaves; and the coats of
his two friends were adorned with nosegays of laurel and other
evergreens. All three were habited in strict holiday costume; that is to
say, they were wrapped up to the chins, and wore as many clothes as
possible, which is, and has been, a stage-coachman’s idea of full dress
ever since stage-coaches were invented.
Mr. Pell was waiting at the usual place of meeting at the appointed
time; even he wore a pair of gloves and a clean shirt, much frayed at
the collar and wristbands by frequent washings.
‘A quarter to two,’ said Pell, looking at the parlour clock. ‘If we are
with Mr. Flasher at a quarter past, we shall just hit the best time.’
‘What should you say to a drop o’ beer, gen’l’m’n?’ suggested the
mottled-faced man.
‘And a little bit o’ cold beef,’ said the second coachman.
‘Or a oyster,’ added the third, who was a hoarse gentleman, supported by
very round legs.
‘Hear, hear!’ said Pell; ‘to congratulate Mr. Weller, on his coming into
possession of his property, eh? Ha! ha!’
‘I’m quite agreeable, gen’l’m’n,’ answered Mr. Weller. ‘Sammy, pull the
bell.’
Sammy complied; and the porter, cold beef, and oysters being promptly
produced, the lunch was done ample justice to. Where everybody took so
active a part, it is almost invidious to make a distinction; but if one
individual evinced greater powers than another, it was the coachman with
the hoarse voice, who took an imperial pint of vinegar with his oysters,
without betraying the least emotion.
‘Mr. Pell, Sir,’ said the elder Mr. Weller, stirring a glass of brandy-
and-water, of which one was placed before every gentleman when the
oyster shells were removed--‘Mr. Pell, Sir, it wos my intention to have
proposed the funs on this occasion, but Samivel has vispered to me--’
Here Mr. Samuel Weller, who had silently eaten his oysters with tranquil
smiles, cried, ‘Hear!’ in a very loud voice.
‘--Has vispered to me,’ resumed his father, ‘that it vould be better to
dewote the liquor to vishin’ you success and prosperity, and thankin’
you for the manner in which you’ve brought this here business through.
Here’s your health, sir.’
‘Hold hard there,’ interposed the mottled-faced gentleman, with sudden
energy; ‘your eyes on me, gen’l’m’n!’
Saying this, the mottled-faced gentleman rose, as did the other
gentlemen. The mottled-faced gentleman reviewed the company, and slowly
lifted his hand, upon which every man (including him of the mottled
countenance) drew a long breath, and lifted his tumbler to his lips. In
one instant, the mottled-faced gentleman depressed his hand again, and
every glass was set down empty. It is impossible to describe the
thrilling effect produced by this striking ceremony. At once dignified,
solemn, and impressive, it combined every element of grandeur.
‘Well, gentlemen,’ said Mr. Pell, ‘all I can say is, that such marks of
confidence must be very gratifying to a professional man. I don’t wish
to say anything that might appear egotistical, gentlemen, but I’m very
glad, for your own sakes, that you came to me; that’s all. If you had
gone to any low member of the profession, it’s my firm conviction, and I
assure you of it as a fact, that you would have found yourselves in
Queer Street before this. I could have wished my noble friend had been
alive to have seen my management of this case. I don’t say it out of
pride, but I think--However, gentlemen, I won’t trouble you with that.
I’m generally to be found here, gentlemen, but if I’m not here, or over
the way, that’s my address. You’ll find my terms very cheap and
reasonable, and no man attends more to his clients than I do, and I hope
I know a little of my profession besides. If you have any opportunity of
recommending me to any of your friends, gentlemen, I shall be very much
obliged to you, and so will they too, when they come to know me. Your
healths, gentlemen.’
With this expression of his feelings, Mr. Solomon Pell laid three small
written cards before Mr. Weller’s friends, and, looking at the clock
again, feared it was time to be walking. Upon this hint Mr. Weller
settled the bill, and, issuing forth, the executor, legatee, attorney,
and umpires, directed their steps towards the city.
The office of Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, of the Stock Exchange, was in a
first floor up a court behind the Bank of England; the house of Wilkins
Flasher, Esquire, was at Brixton, Surrey; the horse and stanhope of
Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, were at an adjacent livery stable; the groom
of Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, was on his way to the West End to deliver
some game; the clerk of Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, had gone to his
dinner; and so Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, himself, cried, ‘Come in,’ when
Mr. Pell and his companions knocked at the counting-house door.
‘Good-morning, Sir,’ said Pell, bowing obsequiously. ‘We want to make a
little transfer, if you please.’
‘Oh, just come in, will you?’ said Mr. Flasher. ‘Sit down a minute; I’ll
attend to you directly.’
‘Thank you, Sir,’ said Pell, ‘there’s no hurry. Take a chair, Mr.
Weller.’
Mr. Weller took a chair, and Sam took a box, and the umpires took what
they could get, and looked at the almanac and one or two papers which
were wafered against the wall, with as much open-eyed reverence as if
they had been the finest efforts of the old masters.
‘Well, I’ll bet you half a dozen of claret on it; come!’ said Wilkins
Flasher, Esquire, resuming the conversation to which Mr. Pell’s entrance
had caused a momentary interruption.
This was addressed to a very smart young gentleman who wore his hat on
his right whisker, and was lounging over the desk, killing flies with a
ruler. Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, was balancing himself on two legs of an
office stool, spearing a wafer-box with a penknife, which he dropped
every now and then with great dexterity into the very centre of a small
red wafer that was stuck outside. Both gentlemen had very open
waistcoats and very rolling collars, and very small boots, and very big
rings, and very little watches, and very large guard-chains, and
symmetrical inexpressibles, and scented pocket-handkerchiefs.
‘I never bet half a dozen!’ said the other gentleman. ‘I’ll take a
dozen.’
‘Done, Simmery, done!’ said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire.
‘P. P., mind,’ observed the other.
‘Of course,’ replied Wilkins Flasher, Esquire. Wilkins Flasher, Esquire,
entered it in a little book, with a gold pencil-case, and the other
gentleman entered it also, in another little book with another gold
pencil-case.
‘I see there’s a notice up this morning about Boffer,’ observed Mr.
Simmery. ‘Poor devil, he’s expelled the house!’
‘I’ll bet you ten guineas to five, he cuts his throat,’ said Wilkins
Flasher, Esquire.
‘Done,’ replied Mr. Simmery.
‘Stop! I bar,’ said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps he
may hang himself.’
‘Very good,’ rejoined Mr. Simmery, pulling out the gold pencil-case
again. ‘I’ve no objection to take you that way. Say, makes away with
himself.’
‘Kills himself, in fact,’ said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire.
‘Just so,’ replied Mr. Simmery, putting it down. ‘“Flasher--ten guineas
to five, Boffer kills himself.” Within what time shall we say?’
‘A fortnight?’ suggested Wilkins Flasher, Esquire.
‘Con-found it, no,’ rejoined Mr. Simmery, stopping for an instant to
smash a fly with the ruler. ‘Say a week.’
‘Split the difference,’ said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire. ‘Make it ten
days.’
‘Well; ten days,’ rejoined Mr. Simmery.
So it was entered down on the little books that Boffer was to kill
himself within ten days, or Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, was to hand over
to Frank Simmery, Esquire, the sum of ten guineas; and that if Boffer
did kill himself within that time, Frank Simmery, Esquire, would pay to
Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, five guineas, instead.
‘I’m very sorry he has failed,’ said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire. ‘Capital
dinners he gave.’
‘Fine port he had too,’ remarked Mr. Simmery. ‘We are going to send our
butler to the sale to-morrow, to pick up some of that sixty-four.’
‘The devil you are!’ said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire. ‘My man’s going too.
Five guineas my man outbids your man.’
‘Done.’
Another entry was made in the little books, with the gold pencil-cases;
and Mr. Simmery, having by this time killed all the flies and taken all
the bets, strolled away to the Stock Exchange to see what was going
forward.
Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, now condescended to receive Mr. Solomon Pell’s
instructions, and having filled up some printed forms, requested the
party to follow him to the bank, which they did: Mr. Weller and his
three friends staring at all they beheld in unbounded astonishment, and
Sam encountering everything with a coolness which nothing could disturb.
Crossing a courtyard which was all noise and bustle, and passing a
couple of porters who seemed dressed to match the red fire engine which
was wheeled away into a corner, they passed into an office where their
business was to be transacted, and where Pell and Mr. Flasher left them
standing for a few moments, while they went upstairs into the Will
Office.
‘Wot place is this here?’ whispered the mottled-faced gentleman to the
elder Mr. Weller.
‘Counsel’s Office,’ replied the executor in a whisper.
‘Wot are them gen’l’men a-settin’ behind the counters?’ asked the hoarse
coachman.
‘Reduced counsels, I s’pose,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘Ain’t they the
reduced counsels, Samivel?’
‘Wy, you don’t suppose the reduced counsels is alive, do you?’ inquired
Sam, with some disdain.
‘How should I know?’ retorted Mr. Weller; ‘I thought they looked wery
like it. Wot are they, then?’
‘Clerks,’ replied Sam.
‘Wot are they all a-eatin’ ham sangwidges for?’ inquired his father.
‘’Cos it’s in their dooty, I suppose,’ replied Sam, ‘it’s a part o’ the
system; they’re alvays a-doin’ it here, all day long!’
Mr. Weller and his friends had scarcely had a moment to reflect upon
this singular regulation as connected with the monetary system of the
country, when they were rejoined by Pell and Wilkins Flasher, Esquire,
who led them to a part of the counter above which was a round blackboard
with a large ‘W.’ on it.
‘Wot’s that for, Sir?’ inquired Mr. Weller, directing Pell’s attention
to the target in question.
‘The first letter of the name of the deceased,’ replied Pell.
‘I say,’ said Mr. Weller, turning round to the umpires, there’s
somethin’ wrong here. We’s our letter--this won’t do.’
The referees at once gave it as their decided opinion that the business
could not be legally proceeded with, under the letter W., and in all
probability it would have stood over for one day at least, had it not
been for the prompt, though, at first sight, undutiful behaviour of Sam,
who, seizing his father by the skirt of the coat, dragged him to the
counter, and pinned him there, until he had affixed his signature to a
couple of instruments; which, from Mr. Weller’s habit of printing, was a
work of so much labour and time, that the officiating clerk peeled and
ate three Ribstone pippins while it was performing.
As the elder Mr. Weller insisted on selling out his portion forthwith,
they proceeded from the bank to the gate of the Stock Exchange, to which
Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, after a short absence, returned with a cheque
on Smith, Payne, & Smith, for five hundred and thirty pounds; that being
the money to which Mr. Weller, at the market price of the day, was
entitled, in consideration of the balance of the second Mrs. Weller’s
funded savings. Sam’s two hundred pounds stood transferred to his name,
and Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, having been paid his commission, dropped
the money carelessly into his coat pocket, and lounged back to his
office.
Mr. Weller was at first obstinately determined on cashing the cheque in
nothing but sovereigns; but it being represented by the umpires that by
so doing he must incur the expense of a small sack to carry them home
in, he consented to receive the amount in five-pound notes.
‘My son,’ said Mr. Weller, as they came out of the banking-house--‘my
son and me has a wery partickler engagement this arternoon, and I should
like to have this here bis’ness settled out of hand, so let’s jest go
straight avay someveres, vere ve can hordit the accounts.’
A quiet room was soon found, and the accounts were produced and audited.
Mr. Pell’s bill was taxed by Sam, and some charges were disallowed by
the umpires; but, notwithstanding Mr. Pell’s declaration, accompanied
with many solemn asseverations that they were really too hard upon him,
it was by very many degrees the best professional job he had ever had,
and one on which he boarded, lodged, and washed, for six months
afterwards.
The umpires having partaken of a dram, shook hands and departed, as they
had to drive out of town that night. Mr. Solomon Pell, finding that
nothing more was going forward, either in the eating or drinking way,
took a friendly leave, and Sam and his father were left alone.
‘There!’ said Mr. Weller, thrusting his pocket-book in his side pocket.
‘Vith the bills for the lease, and that, there’s eleven hundred and
eighty pound here. Now, Samivel, my boy, turn the horses’ heads to the
George and Wulter!’
CHAPTER LVI. AN IMPORTANT CONFERENCE TAKES PLACE BETWEEN MR. PICKWICK
AND SAMUEL WELLER, AT WHICH HIS PARENT ASSISTS--AN OLD GENTLEMAN IN A
SNUFF-COLOURED SUIT ARRIVES UNEXPECTEDLY
Mr. Pickwick was sitting alone, musing over many things, and thinking
among other considerations how he could best provide for the young
couple whose present unsettled condition was matter of constant regret
and anxiety to him, when Mary stepped lightly into the room, and,
advancing to the table, said, rather hastily--
‘Oh, if you please, Sir, Samuel is downstairs, and he says may his
father see you?’
‘Surely,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.
‘Thank you, Sir,’ said Mary, tripping towards the door again.
‘Sam has not been here long, has he?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘Oh, no, Sir,’ replied Mary eagerly. ‘He has only just come home. He is
not going to ask you for any more leave, Sir, he says.’
Mary might have been conscious that she had communicated this last
intelligence with more warmth than seemed actually necessary, or she
might have observed the good-humoured smile with which Mr. Pickwick
regarded her, when she had finished speaking. She certainly held down
her head, and examined the corner of a very smart little apron, with
more closeness than there appeared any absolute occasion for.
‘Tell them they can come up at once, by all means,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
Mary, apparently much relieved, hurried away with her message.
Mr. Pickwick took two or three turns up and down the room; and, rubbing
his chin with his left hand as he did so, appeared lost in thought.
‘Well, well,’ said Mr. Pickwick, at length in a kind but somewhat
melancholy tone, ‘it is the best way in which I could reward him for his
attachment and fidelity; let it be so, in Heaven’s name. It is the fate
of a lonely old man, that those about him should form new and different
attachments and leave him. I have no right to expect that it should be
otherwise with me. No, no,’ added Mr. Pickwick more cheerfully, ‘it
would be selfish and ungrateful. I ought to be happy to have an
opportunity of providing for him so well. I am. Of course I am.’
Mr. Pickwick had been so absorbed in these reflections, that a knock at
the door was three or four times repeated before he heard it. Hastily
seating himself, and calling up his accustomed pleasant looks, he gave
the required permission, and Sam Weller entered, followed by his father.
‘Glad to see you back again, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘How do you do,
Mr. Weller?’
‘Wery hearty, thank’ee, sir,’ replied the widower; ‘hope I see you well,
sir.’
‘Quite, I thank you,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.
‘I wanted to have a little bit o’ conwersation with you, sir,’ said Mr.
Weller, ‘if you could spare me five minits or so, sir.’
‘Certainly,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘Sam, give your father a chair.’
‘Thank’ee, Samivel, I’ve got a cheer here,’ said Mr. Weller, bringing
one forward as he spoke; ‘uncommon fine day it’s been, sir,’ added the
old gentleman, laying his hat on the floor as he sat himself down.
‘Remarkably so, indeed,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘Very seasonable.’
‘Seasonablest veather I ever see, sir,’ rejoined Mr. Weller. Here, the
old gentleman was seized with a violent fit of coughing, which, being
terminated, he nodded his head and winked and made several supplicatory
and threatening gestures to his son, all of which Sam Weller steadily
abstained from seeing.
Mr. Pickwick, perceiving that there was some embarrassment on the old
gentleman’s part, affected to be engaged in cutting the leaves of a book
that lay beside him, and waited patiently until Mr. Weller should arrive
at the object of his visit.
‘I never see sich a aggrawatin’ boy as you are, Samivel,’ said Mr.
Weller, looking indignantly at his son; ‘never in all my born days.’
‘What is he doing, Mr. Weller?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘He von’t begin, sir,’ rejoined Mr. Weller; ‘he knows I ain’t ekal to
ex-pressin’ myself ven there’s anythin’ partickler to be done, and yet
he’ll stand and see me a-settin’ here taking up your walable time, and
makin’ a reg’lar spectacle o’ myself, rayther than help me out vith a
syllable. It ain’t filial conduct, Samivel,’ said Mr. Weller, wiping his
forehead; ‘wery far from it.’
‘You said you’d speak,’ replied Sam; ‘how should I know you wos done up
at the wery beginnin’?’
‘You might ha’ seen I warn’t able to start,’ rejoined his father; ‘I’m
on the wrong side of the road, and backin’ into the palin’s, and all
manner of unpleasantness, and yet you von’t put out a hand to help me.
I’m ashamed on you, Samivel.’
‘The fact is, Sir,’ said Sam, with a slight bow, ‘the gov’nor’s been a-
drawin’ his money.’
‘Wery good, Samivel, wery good,’ said Mr. Weller, nodding his head with
a satisfied air, ‘I didn’t mean to speak harsh to you, Sammy. Wery good.
That’s the vay to begin. Come to the pint at once. Wery good indeed,
Samivel.’
Mr. Weller nodded his head an extraordinary number of times, in the
excess of his gratification, and waited in a listening attitude for Sam
to resume his statement.
‘You may sit down, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, apprehending that the
interview was likely to prove rather longer than he had expected.
Sam bowed again and sat down; his father looking round, he continued--
‘The gov’nor, sir, has drawn out five hundred and thirty pound.’
‘Reduced counsels,’ interposed Mr. Weller, senior, in an undertone.
‘It don’t much matter vether it’s reduced counsels, or wot not,’ said
Sam; ‘five hundred and thirty pounds is the sum, ain’t it?’
‘All right, Samivel,’ replied Mr. Weller.
‘To vich sum, he has added for the house and bisness--’
‘Lease, good-vill, stock, and fixters,’ interposed Mr. Weller.
‘As much as makes it,’ continued Sam, ‘altogether, eleven hundred and
eighty pound.’
‘Indeed!’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘I am delighted to hear it. I congratulate
you, Mr. Weller, on having done so well.’
‘Vait a minit, Sir,’ said Mr. Weller, raising his hand in a deprecatory
manner. ‘Get on, Samivel.’
‘This here money,’ said Sam, with a little hesitation, ‘he’s anxious to
put someveres, vere he knows it’ll be safe, and I’m wery anxious too,
for if he keeps it, he’ll go a-lendin’ it to somebody, or inwestin’
property in horses, or droppin’ his pocket-book down an airy, or makin’
a Egyptian mummy of his-self in some vay or another.’
‘Wery good, Samivel,’ observed Mr. Weller, in as complacent a manner as
if Sam had been passing the highest eulogiums on his prudence and
foresight. ‘Wery good.’
‘For vich reasons,’ continued Sam, plucking nervously at the brim of his
hat--‘for vich reasons, he’s drawn it out to-day, and come here vith me
to say, leastvays to offer, or in other vords--’
‘To say this here,’ said the elder Mr. Weller impatiently, ‘that it
ain’t o’ no use to me. I’m a-goin’ to vork a coach reg’lar, and ha’n’t
got noveres to keep it in, unless I vos to pay the guard for takin’ care
on it, or to put it in vun o’ the coach pockets, vich ‘ud be a
temptation to the insides. If you’ll take care on it for me, sir, I
shall be wery much obliged to you. P’raps,’ said Mr. Weller, walking up
to Mr. Pickwick and whispering in his ear--‘p’raps it’ll go a little vay
towards the expenses o’ that ‘ere conwiction. All I say is, just you
keep it till I ask you for it again.’ With these words, Mr. Weller
placed the pocket-book in Mr. Pickwick’s hands, caught up his hat, and
ran out of the room with a celerity scarcely to be expected from so
corpulent a subject.
‘Stop him, Sam!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick earnestly. ‘Overtake him; bring
him back instantly! Mr. Weller--here--come back!’
Sam saw that his master’s injunctions were not to be disobeyed; and,
catching his father by the arm as he was descending the stairs, dragged
him back by main force.
‘My good friend,’ said Mr. Pickwick, taking the old man by the hand,
‘your honest confidence overpowers me.’
‘I don’t see no occasion for nothin’ o’ the kind, Sir,’ replied Mr.
Weller obstinately.
‘I assure you, my good friend, I have more money than I can ever need;
far more than a man at my age can ever live to spend,’ said Mr.
Pickwick.
‘No man knows how much he can spend, till he tries,’ observed Mr.
Weller.
‘Perhaps not,’ replied Mr. Pickwick; ‘but as I have no intention of
trying any such experiments, I am not likely to come to want. I must beg
you to take this back, Mr. Weller.’
Wery well,’ said Mr. Weller, with a discontented look. ‘Mark my vords,
Sammy, I’ll do somethin’ desperate vith this here property; somethin’
desperate!’
‘You’d better not,’ replied Sam.
Mr. Weller reflected for a short time, and then, buttoning up his coat
with great determination, said--
‘I’ll keep a pike.’
‘Wot!’ exclaimed Sam.
‘A pike!’ rejoined Mr. Weller, through his set teeth; ‘I’ll keep a pike.
Say good-bye to your father, Samivel. I dewote the remainder of my days
to a pike.’
This threat was such an awful one, and Mr. Weller, besides appearing
fully resolved to carry it into execution, seemed so deeply mortified by
Mr. Pickwick’s refusal, that that gentleman, after a short reflection,
said--
‘Well, well, Mr. Weller, I will keep your money. I can do more good with
it, perhaps, than you can.’
‘Just the wery thing, to be sure,’ said Mr. Weller, brightening up; ‘o’
course you can, sir.’
‘Say no more about it,’ said Mr. Pickwick, locking the pocket-book in
his desk; ‘I am heartily obliged to you, my good friend. Now sit down
again. I want to ask your advice.’
The internal laughter occasioned by the triumphant success of his visit,
which had convulsed not only Mr. Weller’s face, but his arms, legs, and
body also, during the locking up of the pocket-book, suddenly gave place
to the most dignified gravity as he heard these words.
‘Wait outside a few minutes, Sam, will you?’ said Mr. Pickwick.
Sam immediately withdrew.
Mr. Weller looked uncommonly wise and very much amazed, when Mr.
Pickwick opened the discourse by saying--
‘You are not an advocate for matrimony, I think, Mr. Weller?’
Mr. Weller shook his head. He was wholly unable to speak; vague thoughts
of some wicked widow having been successful in her designs on Mr.
Pickwick, choked his utterance.
‘Did you happen to see a young girl downstairs when you came in just now
with your son?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘Yes. I see a young gal,’ replied Mr. Weller shortly.
‘What did you think of her, now? Candidly, Mr. Weller, what did you
think of her?’
‘I thought she wos wery plump, and vell made,’ said Mr. Weller, with a
critical air.
‘So she is,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘so she is. What did you think of her
manners, from what you saw of her?’
‘Wery pleasant,’ rejoined Mr. Weller. ‘Wery pleasant and comformable.’
The precise meaning which Mr. Weller attached to this last-mentioned
adjective, did not appear; but, as it was evident from the tone in which
he used it that it was a favourable expression, Mr. Pickwick was as well
satisfied as if he had been thoroughly enlightened on the subject.
‘I take a great interest in her, Mr. Weller,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
Mr. Weller coughed.
‘I mean an interest in her doing well,’ resumed Mr. Pickwick; ‘a desire
that she may be comfortable and prosperous. You understand?’
‘Wery clearly,’ replied Mr. Weller, who understood nothing yet.
‘That young person,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘is attached to your son.’
‘To Samivel Veller!’ exclaimed the parent.
‘Yes,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘It’s nat’ral,’ said Mr. Weller, after some consideration, ‘nat’ral, but
rayther alarmin’. Sammy must be careful.’
‘How do you mean?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘Wery careful that he don’t say nothin’ to her,’ responded Mr. Weller.
‘Wery careful that he ain’t led avay, in a innocent moment, to say
anythin’ as may lead to a conwiction for breach. You’re never safe vith
‘em, Mr. Pickwick, ven they vunce has designs on you; there’s no knowin’
vere to have ‘em; and vile you’re a-considering of it, they have you. I
wos married fust, that vay myself, Sir, and Sammy wos the consekens o’
the manoover.’
‘You give me no great encouragement to conclude what I have to say,’
observed Mr. Pickwick, ‘but I had better do so at once. This young
person is not only attached to your son, Mr. Weller, but your son is
attached to her.’
‘Vell,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘this here’s a pretty sort o’ thing to come to
a father’s ears, this is!’
‘I have observed them on several occasions,’ said Mr. Pickwick, making
no comment on Mr. Weller’s last remark; ‘and entertain no doubt at all
about it. Supposing I were desirous of establishing them comfortably as
man and wife in some little business or situation, where they might hope
to obtain a decent living, what should you think of it, Mr. Weller?’
At first, Mr. Weller received with wry faces a proposition involving the
marriage of anybody in whom he took an interest; but, as Mr. Pickwick
argued the point with him, and laid great stress on the fact that Mary
was not a widow, he gradually became more tractable. Mr. Pickwick had
great influence over him, and he had been much struck with Mary’s
appearance; having, in fact, bestowed several very unfatherly winks upon
her, already. At length he said that it was not for him to oppose Mr.
Pickwick’s inclination, and that he would be very happy to yield to his
advice; upon which, Mr. Pickwick joyfully took him at his word, and
called Sam back into the room.
‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, clearing his throat, ‘your father and I have
been having some conversation about you.’
‘About you, Samivel,’ said Mr. Weller, in a patronising and impressive
voice.
‘I am not so blind, Sam, as not to have seen, a long time since, that
you entertain something more than a friendly feeling towards Mrs.
Winkle’s maid,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘You hear this, Samivel?’ said Mr. Weller, in the same judicial form of
speech as before.
‘I hope, Sir,’ said Sam, addressing his master, ‘I hope there’s no harm
in a young man takin’ notice of a young ‘ooman as is undeniably good-
looking and well-conducted.’
‘Certainly not,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Not by no means,’ acquiesced Mr. Weller, affably but magisterially.
‘So far from thinking there is anything wrong in conduct so natural,’
resumed Mr. Pickwick, ‘it is my wish to assist and promote your wishes
in this respect. With this view, I have had a little conversation with
your father; and finding that he is of my opinion--’
‘The lady not bein’ a widder,’ interposed Mr. Weller in explanation.
‘The lady not being a widow,’ said Mr. Pickwick, smiling. ‘I wish to
free you from the restraint which your present position imposes upon
you, and to mark my sense of your fidelity and many excellent qualities,
by enabling you to marry this girl at once, and to earn an independent
livelihood for yourself and family. I shall be proud, Sam,’ said Mr.
Pickwick, whose voice had faltered a little hitherto, but now resumed
its customary tone, ‘proud and happy to make your future prospects in
life my grateful and peculiar care.’
There was a profound silence for a short time, and then Sam said, in a
low, husky sort of voice, but firmly withal--
‘I’m very much obliged to you for your goodness, Sir, as is only like
yourself; but it can’t be done.’
‘Can’t be done!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick in astonishment.
‘Samivel!’ said Mr. Weller, with dignity.
‘I say it can’t be done,’ repeated Sam in a louder key. ‘Wot’s to become
of you, Sir?’
‘My good fellow,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘the recent changes among my
friends will alter my mode of life in future, entirely; besides, I am
growing older, and want repose and quiet. My rambles, Sam, are over.’
‘How do I know that ‘ere, sir?’ argued Sam. ‘You think so now! S’pose
you wos to change your mind, vich is not unlikely, for you’ve the spirit
o’ five-and-twenty in you still, what ‘ud become on you vithout me? It
can’t be done, Sir, it can’t be done.’
‘Wery good, Samivel, there’s a good deal in that,’ said Mr. Weller
encouragingly.
‘I speak after long deliberation, Sam, and with the certainty that I
shall keep my word,’ said Mr. Pickwick, shaking his head. ‘New scenes
have closed upon me; my rambles are at an end.’
‘Wery good,’ rejoined Sam. ‘Then, that’s the wery best reason wy you
should alvays have somebody by you as understands you, to keep you up
and make you comfortable. If you vant a more polished sort o’ feller,
vell and good, have him; but vages or no vages, notice or no notice,
board or no board, lodgin’ or no lodgin’, Sam Veller, as you took from
the old inn in the Borough, sticks by you, come what may; and let
ev’rythin’ and ev’rybody do their wery fiercest, nothin’ shall ever
perwent it!’
At the close of this declaration, which Sam made with great emotion, the
elder Mr. Weller rose from his chair, and, forgetting all considerations
of time, place, or propriety, waved his hat above his head, and gave
three vehement cheers.
‘My good fellow,’ said Mr. Pickwick, when Mr. Weller had sat down again,
rather abashed at his own enthusiasm, ‘you are bound to consider the
young woman also.’
‘I do consider the young ‘ooman, Sir,’ said Sam. ‘I have considered the
young ‘ooman. I’ve spoke to her. I’ve told her how I’m sitivated; she’s
ready to vait till I’m ready, and I believe she vill. If she don’t,
she’s not the young ‘ooman I take her for, and I give her up vith
readiness. You’ve know’d me afore, Sir. My mind’s made up, and nothin’
can ever alter it.’
Who could combat this resolution? Not Mr. Pickwick. He derived, at that
moment, more pride and luxury of feeling from the disinterested
attachment of his humble friends, than ten thousand protestations from
the greatest men living could have awakened in his heart.
While this conversation was passing in Mr. Pickwick’s room, a little old
gentleman in a suit of snuff-coloured clothes, followed by a porter
carrying a small portmanteau, presented himself below; and, after
securing a bed for the night, inquired of the waiter whether one Mrs.
Winkle was staying there, to which question the waiter of course
responded in the affirmative.
‘Is she alone?’ inquired the old gentleman.
‘I believe she is, Sir,’ replied the waiter; ‘I can call her own maid,
Sir, if you--’
‘No, I don’t want her,’ said the old gentleman quickly. ‘Show me to her
room without announcing me.’
‘Eh, Sir?’ said the waiter.
‘Are you deaf?’ inquired the little old gentleman.
‘No, sir.’
‘Then listen, if you please. Can you hear me now?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘That’s well. Show me to Mrs. Winkle’s room, without announcing me.’
As the little old gentleman uttered this command, he slipped five
shillings into the waiter’s hand, and looked steadily at him.
‘Really, sir,’ said the waiter, ‘I don’t know, sir, whether--’
‘Ah! you’ll do it, I see,’ said the little old gentleman. ‘You had
better do it at once. It will save time.’
There was something so very cool and collected in the gentleman’s
manner, that the waiter put the five shillings in his pocket, and led
him upstairs without another word.
‘This is the room, is it?’ said the gentleman. ‘You may go.’
The waiter complied, wondering much who the gentleman could be, and what
he wanted; the little old gentleman, waiting till he was out of sight,
tapped at the door.
‘Come in,’ said Arabella.
‘Um, a pretty voice, at any rate,’ murmured the little old gentleman;
‘but that’s nothing.’ As he said this, he opened the door and walked in.
Arabella, who was sitting at work, rose on beholding a stranger--a
little confused--but by no means ungracefully so.
‘Pray don’t rise, ma’am,’ said the unknown, walking in, and closing the
door after him. ‘Mrs. Winkle, I believe?’
Arabella inclined her head.
‘Mrs. Nathaniel Winkle, who married the son of the old man at
Birmingham?’ said the stranger, eyeing Arabella with visible curiosity.
Again Arabella inclined her head, and looked uneasily round, as if
uncertain whether to call for assistance.
‘I surprise you, I see, ma’am,’ said the old gentleman.
‘Rather, I confess,’ replied Arabella, wondering more and more.
‘I’ll take a chair, if you’ll allow me, ma’am,’ said the stranger.
He took one; and drawing a spectacle-case from his pocket, leisurely
pulled out a pair of spectacles, which he adjusted on his nose.
‘You don’t know me, ma’am?’ he said, looking so intently at Arabella
that she began to feel alarmed.
‘No, sir,’ she replied timidly.
‘No,’ said the gentleman, nursing his left leg; ‘I don’t know how you
should. You know my name, though, ma’am.’
‘Do I?’ said Arabella, trembling, though she scarcely knew why. ‘May I
ask what it is?’
‘Presently, ma’am, presently,’ said the stranger, not having yet removed
his eyes from her countenance. ‘You have been recently married, ma’am?’
‘I have,’ replied Arabella, in a scarcely audible tone, laying aside her
work, and becoming greatly agitated as a thought, that had occurred to
her before, struck more forcibly upon her mind.
‘Without having represented to your husband the propriety of first
consulting his father, on whom he is dependent, I think?’ said the
stranger.
Arabella applied her handkerchief to her eyes.
‘Without an endeavour, even, to ascertain, by some indirect appeal, what
were the old man’s sentiments on a point in which he would naturally
feel much interested?’ said the stranger.
‘I cannot deny it, Sir,’ said Arabella.
‘And without having sufficient property of your own to afford your
husband any permanent assistance in exchange for the worldly advantages
which you knew he would have gained if he had married agreeably to his
father’s wishes?’ said the old gentleman. ‘This is what boys and girls
call disinterested affection, till they have boys and girls of their
own, and then they see it in a rougher and very different light!’
Arabella’s tears flowed fast, as she pleaded in extenuation that she was
young and inexperienced; that her attachment had alone induced her to
take the step to which she had resorted; and that she had been deprived
of the counsel and guidance of her parents almost from infancy.
‘It was wrong,’ said the old gentleman in a milder tone, ‘very wrong. It
was romantic, unbusinesslike, foolish.’
‘It was my fault; all my fault, Sir,’ replied poor Arabella, weeping.
‘Nonsense,’ said the old gentleman; ‘it was not your fault that he fell
in love with you, I suppose? Yes it was, though,’ said the old
gentleman, looking rather slily at Arabella. ‘It was your fault. He
couldn’t help it.’
This little compliment, or the little gentleman’s odd way of paying it,
or his altered manner--so much kinder than it was, at first--or all
three together, forced a smile from Arabella in the midst of her tears.
‘Where’s your husband?’ inquired the old gentleman, abruptly; stopping a
smile which was just coming over his own face.
‘I expect him every instant, sir,’ said Arabella. ‘I persuaded him to
take a walk this morning. He is very low and wretched at not having
heard from his father.’
‘Low, is he?’ said the old gentlemen. ‘Serve him right!’
‘He feels it on my account, I am afraid,’ said Arabella; ‘and indeed,
Sir, I feel it deeply on his. I have been the sole means of bringing him
to his present condition.’
‘Don’t mind it on his account, my dear,’ said the old gentleman. ‘It
serves him right. I am glad of it--actually glad of it, as far as he is
concerned.’
The words were scarcely out of the old gentleman’s lips, when footsteps
were heard ascending the stairs, which he and Arabella seemed both to
recognise at the same moment. The little gentleman turned pale; and,
making a strong effort to appear composed, stood up, as Mr. Winkle
entered the room.
‘Father!’ cried Mr. Winkle, recoiling in amazement.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied the little old gentleman. ‘Well, Sir, what have you
got to say to me?’
Mr. Winkle remained silent.
‘You are ashamed of yourself, I hope, Sir?’ said the old gentleman.
Still Mr. Winkle said nothing.
‘Are you ashamed of yourself, Sir, or are you not?’ inquired the old
gentleman.
‘No, Sir,’ replied Mr. Winkle, drawing Arabella’s arm through his. ‘I am
not ashamed of myself, or of my wife either.’
‘Upon my word!’ cried the old gentleman ironically.
‘I am very sorry to have done anything which has lessened your affection
for me, Sir,’ said Mr. Winkle; ‘but I will say, at the same time, that I
have no reason to be ashamed of having this lady for my wife, nor you of
having her for a daughter.’
‘Give me your hand, Nat,’ said the old gentleman, in an altered voice.
‘Kiss me, my love. You are a very charming little daughter-in-law after
all!’
In a few minutes’ time Mr. Winkle went in search of Mr. Pickwick, and
returning with that gentleman, presented him to his father, whereupon
they shook hands for five minutes incessantly.
‘Mr. Pickwick, I thank you most heartily for all your kindness to my
son,’ said old Mr. Winkle, in a bluff, straightforward way. ‘I am a
hasty fellow, and when I saw you last, I was vexed and taken by
surprise. I have judged for myself now, and am more than satisfied.
Shall I make any more apologies, Mr. Pickwick?’
‘Not one,’ replied that gentleman. ‘You have done the only thing wanting
to complete my happiness.’
Hereupon there was another shaking of hands for five minutes longer,
accompanied by a great number of complimentary speeches, which, besides
being complimentary, had the additional and very novel recommendation of
being sincere.
Sam had dutifully seen his father to the Belle Sauvage, when, on
returning, he encountered the fat boy in the court, who had been charged
with the delivery of a note from Emily Wardle.
‘I say,’ said Joe, who was unusually loquacious, ‘what a pretty girl
Mary is, isn’t she? I am _so_ fond of her, I am!’
Mr. Weller made no verbal remark in reply; but eyeing the fat boy for a
moment, quite transfixed at his presumption, led him by the collar to
the corner, and dismissed him with a harmless but ceremonious kick.
After which, he walked home, whistling.
CHAPTER LVII. IN WHICH THE PICKWICK CLUB IS FINALLY DISSOLVED, AND
EVERYTHING CONCLUDED TO THE SATISFACTION OF EVERYBODY
For a whole week after the happy arrival of Mr. Winkle from Birmingham,
Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller were from home all day long, only returning
just in time for dinner, and then wearing an air of mystery and
importance quite foreign to their natures. It was evident that very
grave and eventful proceedings were on foot; but various surmises were
afloat, respecting their precise character. Some (among whom was Mr.
Tupman) were disposed to think that Mr. Pickwick contemplated a
matrimonial alliance; but this idea the ladies most strenuously
repudiated. Others rather inclined to the belief that he had projected
some distant tour, and was at present occupied in effecting the
preliminary arrangements; but this again was stoutly denied by Sam
himself, who had unequivocally stated, when cross-examined by Mary, that
no new journeys were to be undertaken. At length, when the brains of the
whole party had been racked for six long days, by unavailing
speculation, it was unanimously resolved that Mr. Pickwick should be
called upon to explain his conduct, and to state distinctly why he had
thus absented himself from the society of his admiring friends.
With this view, Mr. Wardle invited the full circle to dinner at the
Adelphi; and the decanters having been thrice sent round, opened the
business.
‘We are all anxious to know,’ said the old gentleman, ‘what we have done
to offend you, and to induce you to desert us and devote yourself to
these solitary walks.’
‘Are you?’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘It is singular enough that I had intended
to volunteer a full explanation this very day; so, if you will give me
another glass of wine, I will satisfy your curiosity.’
The decanters passed from hand to hand with unwonted briskness, and Mr.
Pickwick, looking round on the faces of his friends with a cheerful
smile, proceeded--
‘All the changes that have taken place among us,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I
mean the marriage that _has _taken place, and the marriage that WILL
take place, with the changes they involve, rendered it necessary for me
to think, soberly and at once, upon my future plans. I determined on
retiring to some quiet, pretty neighbourhood in the vicinity of London;
I saw a house which exactly suited my fancy; I have taken it and
furnished it. It is fully prepared for my reception, and I intend
entering upon it at once, trusting that I may yet live to spend many
quiet years in peaceful retirement, cheered through life by the society
of my friends, and followed in death by their affectionate remembrance.’
Here Mr. Pickwick paused, and a low murmur ran round the table.
‘The house I have taken,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘is at Dulwich. It has a
large garden, and is situated in one of the most pleasant spots near
London. It has been fitted up with every attention to substantial
comfort; perhaps to a little elegance besides; but of that you shall
judge for yourselves. Sam accompanies me there. I have engaged, on
Perker’s representation, a housekeeper--a very old one--and such other
servants as she thinks I shall require. I propose to consecrate this
little retreat, by having a ceremony in which I take a great interest,
performed there. I wish, if my friend Wardle entertains no objection,
that his daughter should be married from my new house, on the day I take
possession of it. The happiness of young people,’ said Mr. Pickwick, a
little moved, ‘has ever been the chief pleasure of my life. It will warm
my heart to witness the happiness of those friends who are dearest to
me, beneath my own roof.’
Mr. Pickwick paused again: Emily and Arabella sobbed audibly.
‘I have communicated, both personally and by letter, with the club,’
resumed Mr. Pickwick, ‘acquainting them with my intention. During our
long absence, it has suffered much from internal dissentions; and the
withdrawal of my name, coupled with this and other circumstances, has
occasioned its dissolution. The Pickwick Club exists no longer.
‘I shall never regret,’ said Mr. Pickwick in a low voice, ‘I shall never
regret having devoted the greater part of two years to mixing with
different varieties and shades of human character, frivolous as my
pursuit of novelty may have appeared to many. Nearly the whole of my
previous life having been devoted to business and the pursuit of wealth,
numerous scenes of which I had no previous conception have dawned upon
me--I hope to the enlargement of my mind, and the improvement of my
understanding. If I have done but little good, I trust I have done less
harm, and that none of my adventures will be other than a source of
amusing and pleasant recollection to me in the decline of life. God
bless you all!’
With these words, Mr. Pickwick filled and drained a bumper with a
trembling hand; and his eyes moistened as his friends rose with one
accord, and pledged him from their hearts.
There were few preparatory arrangements to be made for the marriage of
Mr. Snodgrass. As he had neither father nor mother, and had been in his
minority a ward of Mr. Pickwick’s, that gentleman was perfectly well
acquainted with his possessions and prospects. His account of both was
quite satisfactory to Wardle--as almost any other account would have
been, for the good old gentleman was overflowing with hilarity and
kindness--and a handsome portion having been bestowed upon Emily, the
marriage was fixed to take place on the fourth day from that time--the
suddenness of which preparations reduced three dressmakers and a tailor
to the extreme verge of insanity.
Getting post-horses to the carriage, old Wardle started off, next day,
to bring his mother back to town. Communicating his intelligence to the
old lady with characteristic impetuosity, she instantly fainted away;
but being promptly revived, ordered the brocaded silk gown to be packed
up forthwith, and proceeded to relate some circumstances of a similar
nature attending the marriage of the eldest daughter of Lady
Tollimglower, deceased, which occupied three hours in the recital, and
were not half finished at last.
Mrs. Trundle had to be informed of all the mighty preparations that were
making in London; and, being in a delicate state of health, was informed
thereof through Mr. Trundle, lest the news should be too much for her;
but it was not too much for her, inasmuch as she at once wrote off to
Muggleton, to order a new cap and a black satin gown, and moreover
avowed her determination of being present at the ceremony. Hereupon, Mr.
Trundle called in the doctor, and the doctor said Mrs. Trundle ought to
know best how she felt herself, to which Mrs. Trundle replied that she
felt herself quite equal to it, and that she had made up her mind to go;
upon which the doctor, who was a wise and discreet doctor, and knew what
was good for himself, as well as for other people, said that perhaps if
Mrs. Trundle stopped at home, she might hurt herself more by fretting,
than by going, so perhaps she had better go. And she did go; the doctor
with great attention sending in half a dozen of medicine, to be drunk
upon the road.
In addition to these points of distraction, Wardle was intrusted with
two small letters to two small young ladies who were to act as
bridesmaids; upon the receipt of which, the two young ladies were driven
to despair by having no ‘things’ ready for so important an occasion, and
no time to make them in--a circumstance which appeared to afford the two
worthy papas of the two small young ladies rather a feeling of
satisfaction than otherwise. However, old frocks were trimmed, and new
bonnets made, and the young ladies looked as well as could possibly have
been expected of them. And as they cried at the subsequent ceremony in
the proper places, and trembled at the right times, they acquitted
themselves to the admiration of all beholders.
How the two poor relations ever reached London--whether they walked, or
got behind coaches, or procured lifts in wagons, or carried each other
by turns--is uncertain; but there they were, before Wardle; and the very
first people that knocked at the door of Mr. Pickwick’s house, on the
bridal morning, were the two poor relations, all smiles and shirt
collar.
They were welcomed heartily though, for riches or poverty had no
influence on Mr. Pickwick; the new servants were all alacrity and
readiness; Sam was in a most unrivalled state of high spirits and
excitement; Mary was glowing with beauty and smart ribands.
The bridegroom, who had been staying at the house for two or three days
previous, sallied forth gallantly to Dulwich Church to meet the bride,
attended by Mr. Pickwick, Ben Allen, Bob Sawyer, and Mr. Tupman; with
Sam Weller outside, having at his button-hole a white favour, the gift
of his lady-love, and clad in a new and gorgeous suit of livery invented
for the occasion. They were met by the Wardles, and the Winkles, and the
bride and bridesmaids, and the Trundles; and the ceremony having been
performed, the coaches rattled back to Mr. Pickwick’s to breakfast,
where little Mr. Perker already awaited them.
Here, all the light clouds of the more solemn part of the proceedings
passed away; every face shone forth joyously; and nothing was to be
heard but congratulations and commendations. Everything was so
beautiful! The lawn in front, the garden behind, the miniature
conservatory, the dining-room, the drawing-room, the bedrooms, the
smoking-room, and, above all, the study, with its pictures and easy-
chairs, and odd cabinets, and queer tables, and books out of number,
with a large cheerful window opening upon a pleasant lawn and commanding
a pretty landscape, dotted here and there with little houses almost
hidden by the trees; and then the curtains, and the carpets, and the
chairs, and the sofas! Everything was so beautiful, so compact, so neat,
and in such exquisite taste, said everybody, that there really was no
deciding what to admire most.
And in the midst of all this, stood Mr. Pickwick, his countenance
lighted up with smiles, which the heart of no man, woman, or child,
could resist: himself the happiest of the group: shaking hands, over and
over again, with the same people, and when his own hands were not so
employed, rubbing them with pleasure: turning round in a different
direction at every fresh expression of gratification or curiosity, and
inspiring everybody with his looks of gladness and delight.
Breakfast is announced. Mr. Pickwick leads the old lady (who has been
very eloquent on the subject of Lady Tollimglower) to the top of a long
table; Wardle takes the bottom; the friends arrange themselves on either
side; Sam takes his station behind his master’s chair; the laughter and
talking cease; Mr. Pickwick, having said grace, pauses for an instant
and looks round him. As he does so, the tears roll down his cheeks, in
the fullness of his joy.
Let us leave our old friend in one of those moments of unmixed
happiness, of which, if we seek them, there are ever some, to cheer our
transitory existence here. There are dark shadows on the earth, but its
lights are stronger in the contrast. Some men, like bats or owls, have
better eyes for the darkness than for the light. We, who have no such
optical powers, are better pleased to take our last parting look at the
visionary companions of many solitary hours, when the brief sunshine of
the world is blazing full upon them.
It is the fate of most men who mingle with the world, and attain even
the prime of life, to make many real friends, and lose them in the
course of nature. It is the fate of all authors or chroniclers to create
imaginary friends, and lose them in the course of art. Nor is this the
full extent of their misfortunes; for they are required to furnish an
account of them besides.
In compliance with this custom--unquestionably a bad one--we subjoin a
few biographical words, in relation to the party at Mr. Pickwick’s
assembled.
Mr. and Mrs. Winkle, being fully received into favour by the old
gentleman, were shortly afterwards installed in a newly-built house, not
half a mile from Mr. Pickwick’s. Mr. Winkle, being engaged in the city
as agent or town correspondent of his father, exchanged his old costume
for the ordinary dress of Englishmen, and presented all the external
appearance of a civilised Christian ever afterwards.
Mr. and Mrs. Snodgrass settled at Dingley Dell, where they purchased and
cultivated a small farm, more for occupation than profit. Mr. Snodgrass,
being occasionally abstracted and melancholy, is to this day reputed a
great poet among his friends and acquaintance, although we do not find
that he has ever written anything to encourage the belief. There are
many celebrated characters, literary, philosophical, and otherwise, who
hold a high reputation on a similar tenure.
Mr. Tupman, when his friends married, and Mr. Pickwick settled, took
lodgings at Richmond, where he has ever since resided. He walks
constantly on the terrace during the summer months, with a youthful and
jaunty air, which has rendered him the admiration of the numerous
elderly ladies of single condition, who reside in the vicinity. He has
never proposed again.
Mr. Bob Sawyer, having previously passed through the _Gazette_, passed
over to Bengal, accompanied by Mr. Benjamin Allen; both gentlemen having
received surgical appointments from the East India Company. They each
had the yellow fever fourteen times, and then resolved to try a little
abstinence; since which period, they have been doing well. Mrs. Bardell
let lodgings to many conversable single gentlemen, with great profit,
but never brought any more actions for breach of promise of marriage.
Her attorneys, Messrs. Dodson & Fogg, continue in business, from which
they realise a large income, and in which they are universally
considered among the sharpest of the sharp.
Sam Weller kept his word, and remained unmarried, for two years. The old
housekeeper dying at the end of that time, Mr. Pickwick promoted Mary to
the situation, on condition of her marrying Mr. Weller at once, which
she did without a murmur. From the circumstance of two sturdy little
boys having been repeatedly seen at the gate of the back garden, there
is reason to suppose that Sam has some family.
The elder Mr. Weller drove a coach for twelve months, but being
afflicted with the gout, was compelled to retire. The contents of the
pocket-book had been so well invested for him, however, by Mr. Pickwick,
that he had a handsome independence to retire on, upon which he still
lives at an excellent public-house near Shooter’s Hill, where he is
quite reverenced as an oracle, boasting very much of his intimacy with
Mr. Pickwick, and retaining a most unconquerable aversion to widows.
Mr. Pickwick himself continued to reside in his new house, employing his
leisure hours in arranging the memoranda which he afterwards presented
to the secretary of the once famous club, or in hearing Sam Weller read
aloud, with such remarks as suggested themselves to his mind, which
never failed to afford Mr. Pickwick great amusement. He was much
troubled at first, by the numerous applications made to him by Mr.
Snodgrass, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Trundle, to act as godfather to their
offspring; but he has become used to it now, and officiates as a matter
of course. He never had occasion to regret his bounty to Mr. Jingle; for
both that person and Job Trotter became, in time, worthy members of
society, although they have always steadily objected to return to the
scenes of their old haunts and temptations. Mr. Pickwick is somewhat
infirm now; but he retains all his former juvenility of spirit, and may
still be frequently seen, contemplating the pictures in the Dulwich
Gallery, or enjoying a walk about the pleasant neighbourhood on a fine
day. He is known by all the poor people about, who never fail to take
their hats off, as he passes, with great respect. The children idolise
him, and so indeed does the whole neighbourhood. Every year he repairs
to a large family merry-making at Mr. Wardle’s; on this, as on all other
occasions, he is invariably attended by the faithful Sam, between whom
and his master there exists a steady and reciprocal attachment which
nothing but death will terminate.