MR. TWISSEL’S MISFORTUNES, AND HIS RESOLUTION NEVER TO GIVE IN.
The next day after that on which the conversation respecting the choice
of a bridesmaid took place, was the day on which the colonel was to
visit the South Sea House.
Early that morning he ordered a coach to be in attendance, and left the
house, saying that he would be back in time for tea; that he had to
make several purchases, and transact some necessary business that would
occupy him until that time. He kissed Margaret, and whispered in her
ear that he should call and see about the jewels, and urge the jeweller
to get them ready.
“These people are so dilatory,” he said, “that, unless I worry them,
they will disappoint me of them; and I would not be without them on
the occasion of our marriage for a trifle.”
“We must not set our happiness upon such things,” said Margaret.
“Ah, what self-denial you can exert!” said the colonel, playfully.
“No; my happiness is not fixed upon such objects as those, and,
therefore, it is no trouble to renounce them when it is necessary to do
so.”
“I hope there will be no need. I believe there will be none; but good
bye till tea-time, and then we shall pass a pleasant evening together.”
The colonel left the house, and no sooner had he done so, than Mrs.
Meredith wrote a short note to Mr. Twissel, informing him of the
colonel’s departure at a much earlier hour than she had anticipated.
“Here, Mary,” she said to the drudge.
“Yes, ma’am,” replied the domestic.
“Just run as fast as you can to Mr. Twissel with this note, and don’t
let the grass grow under your feet. Do you hear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Away went the drudge as fast as she could to the man of law, and
arrived there out of breath; and having gone there fast, according to
orders, she thought herself at liberty to take her own time in going
back, which she performed to perfection.
Mr. Twissel cursed himself for this unexpected departure; but there
was no time for deliberation. He crushed on his hat, took a coach, and
drove as hard as the mysteriously-kept-up cattle could carry it, and
was fortunate enough to see the colonel go by in another. He jumped
out, paid the jarvey, and then made a rush after the colonel, whom he
saw going up the steps.
Determined that he would not be outdone this time, he rushed through
a crowd of men who were near at hand, and jostled them so, that they
gave him more oaths than was consistent with courtesy, and one of them
desired to know if he were running after himself or anybody else.
Heedless of this, he pushed on, and trod upon a bricklayer’s foot so
hard, that the man gave a great shout, and, by way of retaliation,
brought his heavy hand down so hard upon the attorney’s hat, that the
article of wearing apparel was forced below his chin, much to the
detriment of his vision, which was totally eclipsed.
In an instant he was struggling with his hat, and yet was unable to
release himself from the durance in which his head was held; but he
found this was not all he had to contend with, for he felt himself
pushed and hustled about in a strange manner, till he was thrown on a
door step, and then he was suddenly left to himself, with no soul near
him.
“Upon my word, this must be done on purpose, I do verily believe,” said
Mr. Twissel, as he at length succeeded in wrenching his hat off his
head, after many violent efforts; but even then it was at the expense
of the lining and skin off his nose, which was a very disagreeable
affair, after all.
Mr. Twissel, for a moment or two, stared round him, and wondered where
he was, until, at length, upon some examination, he found himself round
the corner.
“Oh, I must have got hustled round the corner—yes, yes, I see how it
is; it’s a downright conspiracy of theirs—there can’t be two minds.”
But then, again, he thought what conspiracy could there be necessary to
marry a girl without money? If she had money, he could have understood
it, but not as the matter stood—that was quite impossible. It was an
impenetrable mystery.
As these thoughts passed through his mind, he was sitting on the step
of a door, and, seeing the blood trickle off his nose in vermilion
drops upon the pavement, he felt for his handkerchief to wipe the
injured feature, and stop the bleeding.
But, alas! it was not in this pocket, nor in that; it was not in his
hat—he never carried it there; if he had, his head would never have
reached the crown of his hat—that was quite certain; it would have been
better had he done so.
But, as it was not about him, where could it be? He knew that he had
had it before he left home on this errand; the truth, however, was not
long before it came across his mind like a flash of light. He had got
among a gang of London thieves, who had hustled and robbed him of his
handkerchief.
[Illustration: Mr. Twissel robbed by a gang of London thieves]
This was suggestive of other matters, and he, in consequence, put his
hand to his watch-fob, but also that was gone, too. He gasped—felt his
breeches pocket, and then he sank back, for he found his garments had
been slit open by some sharp instrument, and his purse had fled.
“D——n!” said the attorney, in a fury; but this subsided in a moment.
The loss he had felt, and the pushing about he had experienced, was too
much; he felt weakened and disheartened, and paused to think upon what
he should do, and which way he should go.
“It’s no use giving in,” he muttered; “no use at all. I must go on. And
yet, I had better go and see if the coach is gone, for if it is still
there—and it can’t have gone away yet—I’ll yet go in and see if I can
find him.”
He walked round the corner, much shaken with what he had received in
the way of knocks and kicks, but when he did get round, he saw the
coach was gone. There was, however, a ticket-porter at hand, and he
determined to go and ask him a few questions.
“My friend,” he said, feeling in his pocket; “do you know a Colonel
Deverill?”
“No,” said the man; “never heard of him—where does he live?”
“He came in here just now.”
“Ah, did he?” replied the man, kicking a piece of orange peel off the
pavement; “I don’t know him.”
“Do you recollect a hackney-coach coming up to the door just now, with
a lame gentleman, who got out?”
“Yes; with a green shade over his eye.”
“Yes—that was the man.”
“Oh, well, I never seed him afore—I don’t know him—he didn’t stop a
minute.”
“Oh!” said Mr. Twissel, and then he turned away, and walked towards his
own house. However, he felt in his pocket for some money; a small sum
in silver was loose in his pockets, and this he had saved, perhaps,
because it it had not been looked for; and he determined to treat
himself to some brandy-and-water, for he was really much knocked about,
and terrified and nervous, so he went into the first public-house he
came to.
This was a low house, the parlour of which was situated a long way
back, and he walked in and threw himself into a seat.
“Well, well; here I am. This is disaster the second. Well, who would
have believed I should have met with such misadventures as those I have
just gone through? There’s a fate in it. I am sure this is an unlucky
business altogether—of that I am certain. I got into the watchhouse on
the first occasion, but now I am worse than that; I have been knocked
about and robbed of money and goods—fifteen pounds in my purse—confound
Colonel Deverill, I say.”
“What will you take, sir?”
“Eh?” inquired the bewildered attorney, who forgot that he had entered
a public-house, and the waiter was desiring to know what he wished to
have.
“What will you like to take, sir?” inquired the waiter, again.
“A glass of brandy-and-water, and a biscuit.”
The man left the room, and Twissel retired within himself to
contemplate the evils he had suffered, and those he was likely to
endure.
“Well, I never thought I was in such a thing as this. Who would ever
have believed it? None, I am sure—no one could. Confound them! I’ll
give it up as a bad job, and a bad job it has been for me, I am quite
confident of that.”
“Brandy-and-water, and a biscuit,” said the waiter, laying down the
articles enumerated, and Twissel gave the necessary cash, accompanied
by the customary gratuity, which ranges from ten to twenty-five per
cent upon the money paid for the articles purchased.
We have often thought this a most exorbitant tax upon those who require
accommodation. If people cannot pay their own servants, they ought not
to keep them; to be sure, you are told you need not pay anything—it is
entirely voluntary, and that they do not wish it; but you only obtain
a flippant answer, so as to attract every one’s eyes in the place,
and the end of it is, if there is much business, you don’t get any
attention at all.
“Well, I won’t give in,” said Mr. Twissel, with a thump on the table;
but he had drank nearly two-thirds of the brandy-and-water.
“No, I won’t give in.”
He swallowed down the remainder, finished the biscuit, and leaned back
in his seat, and then he began to talk to himself.
“I will not give in; after all that has passed, it would be a shame to
be done, robbed, beaten, and kicked; and then give in—nonsense! I will
go through the whole affair, and that shall repay me in the end. I’ll
lay it on the thicker for this.”
This was a comfortable resolution on the part of Mr. Twissel, and which
appeared to please him well, for he smiled quietly, and then rose much
refreshed and left the house.
This last allusion of Twissel’s was consolatory, and had an intimate
connection with certain imaginary charges he would make to the Deverill
family when he got the business; but as that was a matter buried in the
womb of futurity, we will not follow him in his speculations.
“I won’t give in,” he said, as he walked on, and thrust his hand into
the slit that had been cut in his trousers to extract his purse; but
this only confirmed him in his resolution, and he uttered again and
again, “I won’t give in.”
“I won’t give in,” he murmured, as he sought the knocker of Mrs.
Meredith’s door. “I won’t give in—I’m not a man whose resolution is
easily shaken. Oh, dear, no; I’ll tell my good friend, Mrs. Meredith,
all my troubles, and then ask her what she thinks of me—if I ain’t an
indefatigable friend, one who will never sink under difficulties.”