Works of Charles Dickens (200+ Works) The Adventures of Oliver Twist, Great Expectations, A Christmas Carol, A Tale of Two Cities, Bleak House, David Copperfield & more (mobi)

by Charles Dickens

  'Your master--your brutal master,' murmured the patient.

  Pott was evidently giving way.

  'It's a shame,' said the bodyguard reproachfully. 'I know he'll be the death on you, ma'am. Poor dear thing!'

  He gave way more. The opposite party followed up the attack.

  'Oh, don't leave me--don't leave me, Goodwin,' murmured Mrs. Pott, clutching at the wrist of the said Goodwin with an hysteric jerk. 'You're the only person that's kind to me, Goodwin.'

  At this affecting appeal, Goodwin got up a little domestic tragedy of her own, and shed tears copiously.

  'Never, ma'am--never,' said Goodwin.'Oh, sir, you should be careful--you should indeed; you don't know what harm you may do missis; you'll be sorry for it one day, I know--I've always said so.'

  The unlucky Pott looked timidly on, but said nothing.

  'Goodwin,' said Mrs. Pott, in a soft voice.

  'Ma'am,' said Goodwin.

  'If you only knew how I have loved that man--' 'Don't distress yourself by recollecting it, ma'am,' said the bodyguard.

  Pott looked very frightened. It was time to finish him.

  'And now,' sobbed Mrs. Pott, 'now, after all, to be treated in this way; to be reproached and insulted in the presence of a third party, and that party almost a stranger. But I will not submit to it! Goodwin,' continued Mrs. Pott, raising herself in the arms of her attendant, 'my brother, the lieutenant, shall interfere. I'll be separated, Goodwin!'

  'It would certainly serve him right, ma'am,' said Goodwin.

  Whatever thoughts the threat of a separation might have awakened in Mr. Pott's mind, he forbore to give utterance to them, and contented himself by saying, with great humility:--

  'My dear, will you hear me?'

  A fresh train of sobs was the only reply, as Mrs. Pott grew more hysterical, requested to be informed why she was ever born, and required sundry other pieces of information of a similar description.

  'My dear,' remonstrated Mr. Pott, 'do not give way to these sensitive feelings. I never believed that the paragraph had any foundation, my dear--impossible. I was only angry, my dear--I may say outrageous--with the INDEPENDENT people for daring to insert it; that's all.' Mr. Pott cast an imploring look at the innocent cause of the mischief, as if to entreat him to say nothing about the serpent.

  'And what steps, sir, do you mean to take to obtain redress?' inquired Mr. Winkle, gaining courage as he saw Pott losing it.

  'Oh, Goodwin,' observed Mrs. Pott, 'does he mean to horsewhip the editor of the INDEPENDENT--does he, Goodwin?'

  'Hush, hush, ma'am; pray keep yourself quiet,' replied the bodyguard. 'I dare say he will, if you wish it, ma'am.'

  'Certainly,' said Pott, as his wife evinced decided symptoms of going off again. 'Of course I shall.'

  'When, Goodwin--when?' said Mrs. Pott, still undecided about the going off.

  'Immediately, of course,' said Mr. Pott; 'before the day is out.'

  'Oh, Goodwin,' resumed Mrs. Pott, 'it's the only way of meeting the slander, and setting me right with the world.'

  'Certainly, ma'am,' replied Goodwin. 'No man as is a man, ma'am, could refuse to do it.'

  So, as the hysterics were still hovering about, Mr. Pott said once more that he would do it; but Mrs. Pott was so overcome at the bare idea of having ever been suspected, that she was half a dozen times on the very verge of a relapse, and most unquestionably would have gone off, had it not been for the indefatigable efforts of the assiduous Goodwin, and repeated entreaties for pardon from the conquered Pott; and finally, when that unhappy individual had been frightened and snubbed down to his proper level, Mrs. Pott recovered, and they went to breakfast.

  'You will not allow this base newspaper slander to shorten your stay here, Mr. Winkle?' said Mrs. Pott, smiling through the traces of her tears.

  'I hope not,' said Mr. Pott, actuated, as he spoke, by a wish that his visitor would choke himself with the morsel of dry toast which he was raising to his lips at the moment, and so terminate his stay effectually.

  'I hope not.'

  'You are very good,' said Mr. Winkle; 'but a letter has been received from Mr. Pickwick--so I learn by a note from Mr. Tupman, which was brought up to my bedroom door, this morning--in which he requests us to join him at Bury to-day; and we are to leave by the coach at noon.'

  'But you will come back?' said Mrs. Pott.

  'Oh, certainly,' replied Mr. Winkle.

  'You are quite sure?' said Mrs. Pott, stealing a tender look at her visitor.

  'Quite,' responded Mr. Winkle.

  The breakfast passed off in silence, for each of the party was brooding over his, or her, own personal grievances. Mrs. Pott was regretting the loss of a beau; Mr. Pott his rash pledge to horsewhip the INDEPENDENT; Mr. Winkle his having innocently placed himself in so awkward a situation. Noon approached, and after many adieux and promises to return, he tore himself away.

  'If he ever comes back, I'll poison him,' thought Mr. Pott, as he turned into the little back office where he prepared his thunderbolts.

  'If I ever do come back, and mix myself up with these people again,'thought Mr. Winkle, as he wended his way to the Peacock, 'I shall deserve to be horsewhipped myself--that's all.'

  His friends were ready, the coach was nearly so, and in half an hour they were proceeding on their journey, along the road over which Mr. Pickwick and Sam had so recently travelled, and of which, as we have already said something, we do not feel called upon to extract Mr. Snodgrass's poetical and beautiful description.

  Mr. Weller was standing at the door of the Angel, ready to receive them, and by that gentleman they were ushered to the apartment of Mr. Pickwick, where, to the no small surprise of Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass, and the no small embarrassment of Mr. Tupman, they found old Wardle and Trundle.

  'How are you?' said the old man, grasping Mr. Tupman's hand. 'Don't hang back, or look sentimental about it; it can't be helped, old fellow. For her sake, I wish you'd had her; for your own, I'm very glad you have not. A young fellow like you will do better one of these days, eh?' With this conclusion, Wardle slapped Mr. Tupman on the back, and laughed heartily.

  'Well, and how are you, my fine fellows?' said the old gentleman, shaking hands with Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass at the same time. 'I have just been telling Pickwick that we must have you all down at Christmas. We're going to have a wedding--a real wedding this time.'

  'A wedding!' exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass, turning very pale.

  'Yes, a wedding. But don't be frightened,' said the good- humoured old man; 'it's only Trundle there, and Bella.'

  'Oh, is that all?' said Mr. Snodgrass, relieved from a painful doubt which had fallen heavily on his breast. 'Give you joy, Sir. How is Joe?'

  'Very well,' replied the old gentleman. 'Sleepy as ever.'

  'And your mother, and the clergyman, and all of 'em?'

  'Quite well.'

  'Where,' said Mr. Tupman, with an effort--'where is--SHE, Sir?' and he turned away his head, and covered his eyes with his hand. 'SHE!' said the old gentleman, with a knowing shake of the head. 'Do you mean my single relative--eh?'

  Mr. Tupman, by a nod, intimated that his question applied to the disappointed Rachael.

  'Oh, she's gone away,' said the old gentleman. 'She's living at a relation's, far enough off. She couldn't bear to see the girls, so I let her go. But come! Here's the dinner. You must be hungry after your ride. I am, without any ride at all; so let us fall to.'

  Ample justice was done to the meal; and when they were seated round the table, after it had been disposed of, Mr. Pickwick, to the intense horror and indignation of his followers, related the adventure he had undergone, and the success which had attended the base artifices of the diabolical Jingle. 'And the attack of rheumatism which I caught in that garden,' said Mr. Pickwick, in conclusion, 'renders me lame at this moment.'

  'I, too, have had something of an adventure,' said Mr. Winkle, with a smile; and, at the request of Mr. Pickwick, he detailed the malicious li
bel of the Eatanswill INDEPENDENT, and the consequent excitement of their friend, the editor.

  Mr. Pickwick's brow darkened during the recital. His friends observed it, and, when Mr. Winkle had concluded, maintained a profound silence. Mr. Pickwick struck the table emphatically with his clenched fist, and spoke as follows:--

  'Is it not a wonderful circumstance,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'that we seem destined to enter no man's house without involving him in some degree of trouble? Does it not, I ask, bespeak the indiscretion, or, worse than that, the blackness of heart--that I should say so!--of my followers, that, beneath whatever roof they locate, they disturb the peace of mind and happiness of some confiding female? Is it not, I say--'

  Mr. Pickwick would in all probability have gone on for some time, had not the entrance of Sam, with a letter, caused him to break off in his eloquent discourse. He passed his handkerchief across his forehead, took off his spectacles, wiped them, and put them on again; and his voice had recovered its wonted softness of tone when he said--

  'What have you there, Sam?'

  'Called at the post-office just now, and found this here letter, as has laid there for two days,' replied Mr. Weller. 'It's sealed vith a vafer, and directed in round hand.'

  'I don't know this hand,' said Mr. Pickwick, opening the letter. 'Mercy on us! what's this? It must be a jest; it--it--can't be true.'

  'What's the matter?' was the general inquiry.

  'Nobody dead, is there?' said Wardle, alarmed at the horror in Mr. Pickwick's countenance.

  Mr. Pickwick made no reply, but, pushing the letter across the table, and desiring Mr. Tupman to read it aloud, fell back in his chair with a look of vacant astonishment quite alarming to behold.

  Mr. Tupman, with a trembling voice, read the letter, of which the following is a copy:--

  Freeman's Court, Cornhill, August 28th, 1827.

  Bardell against Pickwick.

  Sir,

  Having been instructed by Mrs. Martha Bardell to commence an action against you for a breach of promise of marriage, for which the plaintiff lays her damages at fifteen hundred pounds, we beg to inform you that a writ has been issued against you in this suit in the Court of Common Pleas; and request to know, by return of post, the name of your attorney in London, who will accept service thereof.

  We are, Sir, Your obedient servants, Dodson & Fogg.

  Mr. Samuel Pickwick.

  There was something so impressive in the mute astonishment with which each man regarded his neighbour, and every man regarded Mr. Pickwick, that all seemed afraid to speak. The silence was at length broken by Mr. Tupman.

  'Dodson and Fogg,' he repeated mechanically.

  'Bardell and Pickwick,' said Mr. Snodgrass, musing.

  'Peace of mind and happiness of confiding females,' murmured Mr. Winkle, with an air of abstraction.

  'It's a conspiracy,' said Mr. Pickwick, at length recovering the power of speech; 'a base conspiracy between these two grasping attorneys, Dodson and Fogg. Mrs. Bardell would never do it;-- she hasn't the heart to do it;--she hasn't the case to do it. Ridiculous--ridiculous.' 'Of her heart,' said Wardle, with a smile, 'you should certainly be the best judge. I don't wish to discourage you, but I should certainly say that, of her case, Dodson and Fogg are far better judges than any of us can be.'

  'It's a vile attempt to extort money,' said Mr. Pickwick.

  'I hope it is,' said Wardle, with a short, dry cough.

  'Who ever heard me address her in any way but that in which a lodger would address his landlady?' continued Mr. Pickwick, with great vehemence. 'Who ever saw me with her? Not even my friends here--'

  'Except on one occasion,' said Mr. Tupman.

  Mr. Pickwick changed colour. 'Ah,' said Mr. Wardle. 'Well, that's important. There was nothing suspicious then, I suppose?'

  Mr. Tupman glanced timidly at his leader. 'Why,' said he, 'there was nothing suspicious; but--I don't know how it happened, mind--she certainly was reclining in his arms.'

  'Gracious powers!' ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, as the recollection of the scene in question struck forcibly upon him; 'what a dreadful instance of the force of circumstances! So she was--so she was.'

  'And our friend was soothing her anguish,' said Mr. Winkle, rather maliciously.

  'So I was,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'I don't deny it. So I was.'

  'Hollo!' said Wardle; 'for a case in which there's nothing suspicious, this looks rather queer--eh, Pickwick? Ah, sly dog--sly dog!' and he laughed till the glasses on the sideboard rang again.

  'What a dreadful conjunction of appearances!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, resting his chin upon his hands. 'Winkle-- Tupman--I beg your pardon for the observations I made just now. We are all the victims of circumstances, and I the greatest.' With this apology Mr. Pickwick buried his head in his hands, and ruminated; while Wardle measured out a regular circle of nods and winks, addressed to the other members of the company.

  'I'll have it explained, though,' said Mr. Pickwick, raising his head and hammering the table. 'I'll see this Dodson and Fogg! I'll go to London to-morrow.'

  'Not to-morrow,' said Wardle; 'you're too lame.'

  'Well, then, next day.'

  'Next day is the first of September, and you're pledged to ride out with us, as far as Sir Geoffrey Manning's grounds at all events, and to meet us at lunch, if you don't take the field.'

  'Well, then, the day after,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'Thursday.--Sam!'

  'Sir,' replied Mr. Weller.

  'Take two places outside to London, on Thursday morning, for yourself and me.'

  'Wery well, Sir.'

  Mr. Weller left the room, and departed slowly on his errand, with his hands in his pocket and his eyes fixed on the ground.

  'Rum feller, the hemperor,' said Mr. Weller, as he walked slowly up the street. 'Think o' his makin' up to that 'ere Mrs. Bardell--vith a little boy, too! Always the vay vith these here old 'uns howsoever, as is such steady goers to look at. I didn't think he'd ha' done it, though--I didn't think he'd ha' done it!' Moralising in this strain, Mr. Samuel Weller bent his steps towards the booking-office.

  CHAPTER XIX A PLEASANT DAY WITH AN UNPLEASANT TERMINATION

  The birds, who, happily for their own peace of mind and personal comfort, were in blissful ignorance of the preparations which had been making to astonish them, on the first of September, hailed it, no doubt, as one of the pleasantest mornings they had seen that season. Many a young partridge who strutted complacently among the stubble, with all the finicking coxcombry of youth, and many an older one who watched his levity out of his little round eye, with the contemptuous air of a bird of wisdom and experience, alike unconscious of their approaching doom, basked in the fresh morning air with lively and blithesome feelings, and a few hours afterwards were laid low upon the earth. But we grow affecting: let us proceed.

  In plain commonplace matter-of-fact, then, it was a fine morning--so fine that you would scarcely have believed that the few months of an English summer had yet flown by. Hedges, fields, and trees, hill and moorland, presented to the eye their ever-varying shades of deep rich green; scarce a leaf had fallen, scarce a sprinkle of yellow mingled with the hues of summer, warned you that autumn had begun. The sky was cloudless; the sun shone out bright and warm; the songs of birds, the hum of myriads of summer insects, filled the air; and the cottage gardens, crowded with flowers of every rich and beautiful tint, sparkled, in the heavy dew, like beds of glittering jewels. Everything bore the stamp of summer, and none of its beautiful colour had yet faded from the die.

  Such was the morning, when an open carriage, in which were three Pickwickians (Mr. Snodgrass having preferred to remain at home), Mr. Wardle, and Mr. Trundle, with Sam Weller on the box beside the driver, pulled up by a gate at the roadside, before which stood a tall, raw-boned gamekeeper, and a half-booted, leather-legginged boy, each bearing a bag of capacious dimensions, and accompanied by a brace of pointers.

  'I say,' whispered Mr. Winkle to Wardle, as the man let down the steps, 'they
don't suppose we're going to kill game enough to fill those bags, do they?'

  'Fill them!' exclaimed old Wardle. 'Bless you, yes! You shall fill one, and I the other; and when we've done with them, the pockets of our shooting-jackets will hold as much more.'

  Mr. Winkle dismounted without saying anything in reply to this observation; but he thought within himself, that if the party remained in the open air, till he had filled one of the bags, they stood a considerable chance of catching colds in their heads.

  'Hi, Juno, lass-hi, old girl; down, Daph, down,' said Wardle, caressing the dogs. 'Sir Geoffrey still in Scotland, of course, Martin?'

  The tall gamekeeper replied in the affirmative, and looked with some surprise from Mr. Winkle, who was holding his gun as if he wished his coat pocket to save him the trouble of pulling the trigger, to Mr. Tupman, who was holding his as if he was afraid of it--as there is no earthly reason to doubt he really was.

  'My friends are not much in the way of this sort of thing yet, Martin,' said Wardle, noticing the look. 'Live and learn, you know. They'll be good shots one of these days. I beg my friend Winkle's pardon, though; he has had some practice.'

  Mr. Winkle smiled feebly over his blue neckerchief in acknowledgment of the compliment, and got himself so mysteriously entangled with his gun, in his modest confusion, that if the piece had been loaded, he must inevitably have shot himself dead upon the spot.

  'You mustn't handle your piece in that 'ere way, when you come to have the charge in it, Sir,' said the tall gamekeeper gruffly; 'or I'm damned if you won't make cold meat of some

  on us.'

  Mr. Winkle, thus admonished, abruptly altered his position, and in so doing, contrived to bring the barrel into pretty smart contact with Mr. Weller's head.

  'Hollo!' said Sam, picking up his hat, which had been knocked off, and rubbing his temple. 'Hollo, sir! if you comes it this vay, you'll fill one o' them bags, and something to spare, at one fire.'

  Here the leather-legginged boy laughed very heartily, and then tried to look as if it was somebody else, whereat Mr. Winkle frowned majestically.

  'Where did you tell the boy to meet us with the snack, Martin?' inquired Wardle.