CHAPTER XVI
_Too full of Adventure to be Briefly Described_
There is no month in the whole year, in which nature wears a morebeautiful appearance than in the month of August. Spring has manybeauties, and May is a fresh and blooming month, but the charms ofthis time of the year are enhanced by their contrast with the winterseason. August has no such advantage. It comes when we remember nothingbut clear skies, green fields, and sweet-smelling flowers--when therecollection of snow, and ice, and bleak winds, has faded from ourminds as completely as they have disappeared from the earth,--and yetwhat a pleasant time it is! Orchards and corn-fields ring with the humof labour; trees bend beneath the thick clusters of rich fruit whichbow their branches to the ground; and the corn, piled in gracefulsheaves, or waving in every light breath that sweeps above it, as ifit wooed the sickle, tinges the landscape with a golden hue. A mellowsoftness appears to hang over the whole earth; the influence of theseason seems to extend itself to the very waggon, whose slow motionacross the well-reaped field, is perceptible only to the eye, butstrikes with no harsh sound upon the ear.
As the coach rolls swiftly past the fields and orchards which skirtthe road, groups of women and children, piling the fruit in sieves, orgathering the scattered ears of corn, pause for an instant from theirlabour, and shading the sun-burnt face with a still browner hand, gazeupon the passengers with curious eyes, while some stout urchin, toosmall to work, but too mischievous to be left at home, scrambles overthe side of the basket in which he has been deposited for security,and kicks and screams with delight. The reaper stops in his work, andstands with folded arms, looking at the vehicle as it whirls past; andthe rough cart-horses bestow a sleepy glance upon the smart coach team,which says, as plainly as a horse's glance can, "It's all very fine tolook at, but slow going, over a heavy field, is better than warm worklike that, upon a dusty road, after all." You cast a look behind you,as you turn a corner of the road. The women and children have resumedtheir labour: the reaper once more stoops to his work: the cart-horseshave moved on: and all are again in motion.
The influence of a scene like this, was not lost upon thewell-regulated mind of Mr. Pickwick. Intent upon the resolution he hadformed, of exposing the real character of the nefarious Jingle, in anyquarter in which he might be pursuing his fraudulent designs, he satat first taciturn and contemplative, brooding over the means by whichhis purpose could be best attained. By degrees his attention grew moreand more attracted by the objects around him; and at last he derivedas much enjoyment from the ride, as if it had been undertaken for thepleasantest reason in the world.
"Delightful prospect, Sam," said Mr. Pickwick.
"Beats the chimbley pots, sir," replied Mr. Weller, touching his hat.
"I suppose you have hardly seen anything but chimney-pots and bricksand mortar all your life, Sam?" said Mr. Pickwick, smiling.
"I worn't always a boots, sir," said Mr. Weller, with a shake of thehead. "I wos a vagginer's boy, once."
"When was that?" inquired Mr. Pickwick.
"When I wos first pitched neck and crop into the world, to play atleap-frog with its troubles," replied Sam. "I wos a carrier's boy atstartin': then a vagginer's, then a helper, then a boots. Now I'm agen'l'm'n's servant. I shall be a gen'l'm'n myself one of these days,perhaps, with a pipe in my mouth, and a summer-house in the backgarden. Who knows? _I_ shouldn't be surprised, for one."
"You are quite a philosopher, Sam," said Mr. Pickwick.
"It runs in the family, I b'lieve, sir," replied Mr. Weller. "Myfather's wery much in that line now. If my mother-in-law blows him up,he whistles. She flies in a passion, and breaks his pipe; he steps out,and gets another. Then she screams wery loud, and falls into 'sterics;and he smokes very comfortably 'till she comes to agin. That'sphilosophy, sir, an't it?"
"A very good substitute for it, at all events," replied Mr. Pickwick,laughing. "It must have been of great service to you, in the course ofyour rambling life, Sam."
"Service, sir," exclaimed Sam. "You may say that. Arter I run away fromthe carrier, and afore I took up with the vagginer, I had unfurnishedlodgings for a fortnight."
"Unfurnished lodgings?" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Yes--the dry arches of Waterloo Bridge. Fine sleeping-place--withinten minutes' walk of all the public offices--only if there is anyobjection to it, it is that the sitivation's _rayther_ too airy. I seesome queer sights there."
"Ah, I suppose you did," said Mr. Pickwick, with an air of considerableinterest.
"Sights, sir," resumed Mr. Weller, "as 'ud penetrate your benevolentheart, and come out on the other side. You don't see the reg'larwagrants there; trust 'em, they knows better than that. Young beggars,male and female, as hasn't made a rise in their profession, takesup their quarters there sometimes; but it's generally the worn-out,starving, houseless creeturs as rolls themselves in the dark corners o'them lonesome places--poor creeturs as ain't up to the twopenny rope."
"And pray, Sam, what is the twopenny rope?" inquired Mr. Pickwick.
"The twopenny rope, sir," replied Mr. Weller, "is just a cheap lodgin'house, where the beds is twopence a night."
"What do they call a bed a rope for?" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Bless your innocence, sir, that an't it," replied Sam. "Wen the ladyand gen'l'm'n as keeps the Hot-el first begun business they used tomake the beds on the floor; but this wouldn't do at no price, 'cosinstead o' taking a moderate two-penn'orth o' sleep, the lodgers usedto lie there half the day. So now they has two ropes, 'bout six footapart, and three from the floor, which goes right down the room; andthe beds are made of slips of coarse sacking, stretched across 'em."
"Well?" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Well," said Mr. Weller, "the adwantage o' the plan's hobvious. At sixo'clock every mornin' they lets go the ropes at one end, and down fallsall the lodgers. 'Consequence is, that being thoroughly waked, theyget up wery quietly, and walk away! Beg your pardon, sir," said Sam,suddenly breaking off in his loquacious discourse. "Is this Bury St.Edmunds?"
"It is," replied Mr. Pickwick.
The coach rattled through the well-paved streets of a handsome littletown, of thriving and cleanly appearance, and stopped before a largeinn situated in a wide open street, nearly facing the old abbey.
"And this," said Mr. Pickwick, looking up, "is the Angel! We alighthere, Sam. But some caution is necessary. Order a private room, and donot mention my name. You understand?"
"Right as a trivet, sir," replied Mr. Weller, with a wink ofintelligence; and having dragged Mr. Pickwick's portmanteau from thehind boot, into which it had been hastily thrown when they joined thecoach at Eatanswill, Mr. Weller disappeared on his errand. A privateroom was speedily engaged; and into it Mr. Pickwick was ushered withoutdelay.
"Now, Sam," said Mr. Pickwick, "the first thing to be done is to----"
"Order dinner, sir," interposed Mr. Weller. "It's very late, sir."
"Ah, so it is," said Mr. Pickwick, looking at his watch. "You areright, Sam."
"And if I might adwise, sir," added Mr. Weller, "I'd just have a goodnight's rest arterwards, and not begin inquiring arter this here deep'un 'till the mornin'. There's nothin' so refreshin' as sleep, sir, asthe servant-girl said afore she drank the egg-cupful o' laudanum."
"I think you are right, Sam," said Mr. Pickwick. "But I must firstascertain that he is in the house, and not likely to go away."
"Leave that to me, sir," said Sam. "Let me order you a snug littledinner, and make my inquiries below while it's a getting ready; I couldworm ev'ry secret out o' the boots's heart, in five minutes, sir."
"Do so," said Mr. Pickwick: and Mr. Weller at once retired.
In half an hour, Mr. Pickwick was seated at a very satisfactory dinner;and in three-quarters Mr. Weller returned with the intelligence thatMr. Charles Fitz-Marshall had ordered his private room to be retainedfor him, until further notice. He was going to spend the evening atsome private house in the neighbourhood, had ordered the boots to situp until his return, and ha
d taken his servant with him.
"Now, sir," argued Mr. Weller, when he had concluded his report, "if Ican get a talk with this here servant in the mornin', he'll tell me allhis master's concerns."
"How do you know that?" interposed Mr. Pickwick.
"Bless your heart, sir, servants always do," replied Mr. Weller.
"Oh, ah, I forgot that," said Mr. Pickwick. "Well?"
"Then you can arrange what's best to be done, sir, and we can actaccording."
As it appeared that this was the best arrangement that could be made,it was finally agreed upon. Mr. Weller, by his master's permission,retired to spend the evening in his own way; and was shortly afterwardselected, by the unanimous voice of the assembled company, into thetap-room chair, in which honourable post he acquitted himself so muchto the satisfaction of the gentlemen-frequenters, that their roars oflaughter and approbation penetrated to Mr. Pickwick's bed-room, andshortened the term of his natural rest by at least three hours.
Early on the ensuing morning, Mr. Weller was dispelling all thefeverish remains of the previous evening's conviviality, throughthe instrumentality of a halfpenny shower-bath (having induced ayoung gentleman attached to the stable-department, by the offer ofthat coin, to pump over his head and face, until he was perfectlyrestored), when he was attracted by the appearance of a young fellowin mulberry-coloured livery, who was sitting on a bench in theyard, reading what appeared to be a hymn-book, with an air of deepabstraction, but who occasionally stole a glance at the individualunder the pump, as if he took some interest in his proceedings,nevertheless.
"You're a rum 'un to look at, you are!" thought Mr. Weller, the firsttime his eyes encountered the glance of the stranger in the mulberrysuit: who had a large, sallow, ugly face, very sunken eyes, and agigantic head, from which depended a quantity of lank black hair."You're a rum 'un!" thought Mr. Weller; and thinking this, he went onwashing himself, and thought no more about him.
Still the man kept glancing from his hymn-book to Sam, and from Sam tohis hymn-book, as if he wanted to open a conversation. So at last, Sam,by way of giving him an opportunity, said with a familiar nod--
"How are you, governor?"
"I am happy to say I am pretty well, sir," said the man, speaking withgreat deliberation, and closing the book. "I hope you are the same,sir?"
"Why, if I felt less like a walking brandy-bottle, I shouldn't be quiteso staggery this mornin'," replied Sam. "Are you stoppin' in thishouse, old 'un?"
The mulberry man replied in the affirmative.
"How was it you worn't one of us, last night?" inquired Sam, scrubbinghis face with the towel. "You seem one of the jolly sort--looks asconwivial as a live trout in a lime-basket," added Mr. Weller, in anunder-tone.
"I was out last night, with my master," replied the stranger.
"What's his name?" inquired Mr. Weller, colouring up very red withsudden excitement, and the friction of the towel combined.
"Fitz-Marshall," said the mulberry man.
"Give us your hand," said Mr. Weller, advancing; "I should like to knowyou. I like your appearance, old fellow."
"Well, that is very strange," said the mulberry man, with greatsimplicity of manner. "I like yours so much, that I wanted to speak toyou, from the very first moment I saw you under the pump."
"Did you though?"
"Upon my word. Now, isn't that curious?"
"_Looks as conwivial as a live trout in a lime-basket_"]
"Wery sing'ler," said Sam, inwardly congratulating himself upon thesoftness of the stranger. "What's your name, my patriarch?"
"Job."
"And a wery good name it is--only one I know, that an't got a nicknameto it. What's the other name?"
"Trotter," said the stranger. "What is yours?"
Sam bore in mind his master's caution, and replied--
"My name's Walker: my master's name's Wilkins. Will you take a drop o'somethin' this mornin', Mr. Trotter?"
Mr. Trotter acquiesced in this agreeable proposal; and having depositedhis book in his coat-pocket, accompanied Mr. Weller to the tap, wherethey were soon occupied in discussing an exhilarating compound, formedby mixing together, in a pewter vessel, certain quantities of BritishHollands, and the fragrant essence of the clove.
"And what sort of a place have you got?" inquired Sam, as he filled hiscompanion's glass, for the second time.
"Bad," said Job, smacking his lips, "very bad."
"You don't mean that?" said Sam.
"I do, indeed. Worse than that, my master's going to be married."
"No."
"Yes; and worse than that, too, he's going to run away with an immenserich heiress, from boarding-school."
"What a dragon!" said Sam, refilling his companion's glass. "It's someboarding-school in this town, I suppose, an't it?"
Now, although this question was put in the most careless toneimaginable, Mr. Job Trotter plainly showed by gestures, that heperceived his new friend's anxiety to draw forth an answer to it. Heemptied his glass, looked mysteriously at his companion, winked both ofhis small eyes, one after the other, and finally made a motion with hisarm, as if he were working an imaginary pump-handle: thereby intimatingthat he (Mr. Trotter) considered himself as undergoing the process ofbeing pumped by Mr. Samuel Weller.
"No, no," said Mr. Trotter, in conclusion, "that's not to be told toeverybody. That is a secret--a great secret, Mr. Walker."
As the mulberry man said this, he turned his glass upside down, as ameans of reminding his companion that he had nothing left wherewithto slake his thirst. Sam observed the hint; and feeling the delicatemanner in which it was conveyed, ordered the pewter vessel to berefilled, whereat the small eyes of the mulberry man glistened.
"And so it's a secret?" said Sam.
"I should rather suspect it was," said the mulberry man, sipping hisliquor, with a complacent face.
"I suppose your mas'r's wery rich?" said Sam.
Mr. Trotter smiled, and holding his glass in his left hand, gave fourdistinct slaps on the pocket of his mulberry indescribables with hisright, as if to intimate that his master might have done the samewithout alarming anybody much by the chinking of coin.
"Ah," said Sam, "that's the game, is it?"
The mulberry man nodded significantly.
"Well, and don't you think, old feller," remonstrated Mr. Weller, "thatif you let your master take in this here young lady, you're a preciousrascal?"
"I know that," said Job Trotter, turning upon his companion acountenance of deep contrition, and groaning slightly. "I know that,and that's what it is that preys upon my mind. But what am I to do?"
"Do!" said Sam; "di-wulge to the missis, and give up your master."
"Who'd believe me?" replied Job Trotter. "The young lady's consideredthe very picture of innocence and discretion. She'd deny it, and sowould my master. Who'd believe me? I should lose my place, and getindicted for a conspiracy, or some such thing; that's all I should takeby my motion."
"There's somethin' in that," said Sam, ruminating; "there's somethin'in that."
"If I knew any respectable gentleman who would take the matter up,"continued Mr. Trotter, "I might have some hope of preventing theelopement; but there's the same difficulty, Mr. Walker, just the same.I know no gentleman in this strange place, and ten to one if I did,whether he would believe my story."
"Come this way," said Sam, suddenly jumping up, and grasping themulberry man by the arm. "My mas'r's the man you want, I see." Andafter a slight resistance on the part of Job Trotter, Sam led hisnewly-found friend to the apartment of Mr. Pickwick, to whom hepresented him, together with a brief summary of the dialogue we havejust repeated.
"I am very sorry to betray my master, sir," said Job Trotter, applyingto his eyes a pink checked pocket-handkerchief about six inches square.
"The feeling does you a great deal of honour," replied Mr. Pickwick;"but it is your duty, nevertheless."
"I know it is my duty, sir," replied Job, with great emotion. "Weshould a
ll try to discharge our duty, sir, and I humbly endeavour todischarge mine, sir; but it is a hard trial to betray a master, sir,whose clothes you wear, and whose bread you eat, even though he is ascoundrel, sir."
"You are a very good fellow," said Mr. Pickwick, much affected, "anhonest fellow."
"Come, come," interposed Sam, who had witnessed Mr. Trotter's tearswith considerable impatience, "blow this here water-cart bis'ness. Itwon't do no good, this won't."
"Sam," said Mr. Pickwick, reproachfully, "I am sorry to find that youhave so little respect for this young man's feelings."
"His feelin's is all wery well, sir," replied Mr. Weller; "and asthey're so wery fine, and it's a pity he should lose 'em, I think he'dbetter keep 'em in his own buzzum, than let 'em ewaporate in hot water,'specially as they do no good. Tears never yet wound up a clock, orworked a steam ingen'. The next time you go out to a smoking party,young fellow, fill your pipe with that 'ere reflection; and for thepresent just put that bit of pink gingham into your pocket. 'Tain't sohandsome that you need keep waving it about, as if you was a tight-ropedancer."
"My man is in the right," said Mr. Pickwick, accosting Job, "althoughhis mode of expressing his opinion is somewhat homely, and occasionallyincomprehensible."
"He is, sir, very right," said Mr. Trotter, "and I will give way nolonger."
"Very well," said Mr. Pickwick. "Now, where is this boarding-school?"
"It is a large, old, red-brick house, just outside the town, sir,"replied Job Trotter.
"And when," said Mr. Pickwick, "when is this villainous design to becarried into execution--when is this elopement to take place?"
"To-night, sir," replied Job.
"To-night!" exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
"This very night, sir," replied Job Trotter. "That is what alarms me somuch."
"Instant measures must be taken," said Mr. Pickwick. "I will see thelady who keeps the establishment immediately."
"I beg your pardon, sir," said Job, "but that course of proceeding willnever do."
"Why not?" inquired Mr. Pickwick.
"My master, sir, is a very artful man."
"I know he is," said Mr. Pickwick.
"And he has so wound himself round the old lady's heart, sir," resumedJob, "that she would believe nothing to his prejudice, if you went downon your bare knees, and swore it; especially as you have no proof butthe word of a servant, who, for anything she knows (and my master wouldbe sure to say so), was discharged for some fault, and does this inrevenge."
"What had better be done, then?" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Nothing but taking him in the very fact of eloping, will convince theold lady, sir," replied Job.
"All them old cats _will_ run their heads agin mile-stones," observedMr. Weller in a parenthesis.
"But this taking him in the very act of elopement, would be a verydifficult thing to accomplish, I fear," said Mr. Pickwick.
"I don't know, sir," said Mr. Trotter, after a few moments' reflection."I think it might be very easily done."
"How?" was Mr. Pickwick's inquiry.
"Why," replied Mr. Trotter, "my master and I, being in the confidenceof the two servants, will be secreted in the kitchen at ten o'clock.When the family have retired to rest, we shall come out of the kitchen,and the young lady out of her bedroom. A post-chaise will be waiting,and away we go."
"Well?" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Well, sir, I have been thinking that if you were in waiting in thegarden behind, alone----"
"Alone," said Mr. Pickwick. "Why alone?"
"I thought it very natural," replied Job, "that the old lady wouldn'tlike such an unpleasant discovery to be made before more personsthan can possibly be helped. The young lady, too, sir--consider herfeelings."
"You are very right," said Mr. Pickwick. "The consideration evincesyour delicacy of feeling. Go on; you are very right."
"Well, sir, I have been thinking that if you were waiting in the backgarden alone, and I was to let you in, at the door which opens into it,from the end of the passage, at exactly half-past eleven o'clock, youwould be just in the very moment of time to assist me in frustratingthe designs of this bad man, by whom I have been unfortunatelyensnared." Here Mr. Trotter sighed deeply.
"Don't distress yourself on that account," said Mr. Pickwick; "if hehad one grain of the delicacy of feeling, which distinguishes you,humble as your station is, I should have some hopes of him."
Job Trotter bowed low; and in spite of Mr. Weller's previousremonstrance, the tears again rose to his eyes.
"I never see such a feller," said Sam. "Blessed if I don't think he'sgot a main in his head as is always turned on."
"Sam," said Mr. Pickwick, with great severity. "Hold your tongue."
"Wery well, sir," replied Mr. Weller.
"I don't like this plan," said Mr. Pickwick, after deep meditation."Why cannot I communicate with the young lady's friends?"
"Because they live one hundred miles from here, sir," responded JobTrotter.
"That's a clincher," said Mr. Weller, aside.
"Then this garden," resumed Mr. Pickwick. "How am I to get into it?"
"The wall is very low, sir, and your servant will give you a leg up."
"My servant will give me a leg up," repeated Mr. Pickwick,mechanically. "You will be sure to be near this door that you speak of?"
"You cannot mistake it, sir; it's the only one that opens into thegarden. Tap at it when you hear the clock strike, and I will open itinstantly."
"I don't like the plan," said Mr. Pickwick; "but as I see no other,and as the happiness of this young lady's whole life is at stake, Iadopt it. I shall be sure to be there."
Thus, for the second time, did Mr. Pickwick's innate good-feelinginvolve him in an enterprise from which he would most willingly havestood aloof.
"What is the name of the house?" inquired Mr. Pickwick.
"Westgate House, sir. You turn a little to the right when you get tothe end of the town; it stands by itself, some little distance off thehigh road, with the name on a brass plate on the gate."
"I know it," said Mr. Pickwick. "I observed it once before, when I wasin this town. You may depend upon me."
Mr. Trotter made another bow, and turned to depart, when Mr. Pickwickthrust a guinea into his hand.
"You're a fine fellow," said Mr. Pickwick, "and I admire your goodnessof heart. No thanks. Remember--eleven o'clock."
"There is no fear of my forgetting it, sir," replied Job Trotter. Withthese words he left the room, followed by Sam.
"I say," said the latter, "not a bad notion that 'ere crying. I'd crylike a rainwater spout in a shower on such good terms. How do you doit?"
"It comes from the heart, Mr. Walker," replied Job, solemnly. "Goodmorning, sir."
"You're a soft customer, you are;--we've got it all out o' you,anyhow," thought Mr. Weller, as Job walked away.
We cannot state the precise nature of the thoughts which passed throughMr. Trotter's mind, because we don't know what they were.
The day wore on, evening came, and a little before ten o'clock SamWeller reported that Mr. Jingle and Job had gone out together, thattheir luggage was packed up, and that they had ordered a chaise. Theplot was evidently in execution, as Mr. Trotter had foretold.
Half-past ten o'clock arrived, and it was time for Mr. Pickwick toissue forth on his delicate errand. Resisting Sam's tender of hisgreat-coat, in order that he might have no incumbrance in scaling thewall, he set forth, followed by his attendant.
There was a bright moon, but it was behind the clouds. It was a finedry night, but it was most uncommonly dark. Paths, hedges, fields,houses and trees, were enveloped in one deep shade. The atmosphere washot and sultry, the summer lightning quivered faintly on the vergeof the horizon, and was the only sight that varied the dull gloom inwhich everything was wrapped--sound there was none, except the distantbarking of some restless house-dog.
They found the house, read the brass plate, walked round the wall, andstopped at that portion o
f it which divided them from the bottom of thegarden.
"You will return to the inn, Sam, when you have assisted me over," saidMr. Pickwick.
"Wery well, sir."
"And you will sit up, till I return."
"Cert'nly, sir."
"Take hold of my leg; and when I say 'Over,' raise me gently."
"All right, sir."
Having settled these preliminaries, Mr. Pickwick grasped the top ofthe wall, and gave the word "Over," which was very literally obeyed.Whether his body partook in some degree of the elasticity of his mind,or whether Mr. Weller's notions of a gentle push were of a somewhatrougher description than Mr. Pickwick's, the immediate effect of hisassistance was to jerk that immortal gentleman completely over the wallon to the bed beneath, where, after crushing three gooseberry-bushesand a rose-tree, he finally alighted at full length.
"You ha'n't hurt yourself, I hope, sir?" said Sam, in a loud whisper,as soon as he recovered from the surprise consequent upon themysterious disappearance of his master.
"I have not hurt _myself_, Sam, certainly," replied Mr. Pickwick, fromthe other side of the wall, "but I rather think that _you_ have hurtme."
"I hope not, sir," said Sam.
"Never mind," said Mr. Pickwick, rising, "it's nothing but a fewscratches. Go away, or we shall be overheard."
"Good-bye, sir."
"Good-bye."
With stealthy step, Sam Weller departed, leaving Mr. Pickwick alone inthe garden.
Lights occasionally appeared in the different windows of the house, orglanced from the staircases, as if the inmates were retiring to rest.Not caring to go too near the door, until the appointed time, Mr.Pickwick crouched into an angle of the wall, and awaited its arrival.
It was a situation which might well have depressed the spirits of manya man. Mr. Pickwick, however, felt neither depression nor misgiving.He knew that his purpose was in the main a good one, and he placedimplicit reliance on the high-minded Job. It was dull, certainly; notto say dreary; but a contemplative man can always employ himself inmeditation. Mr. Pickwick had meditated himself into a doze, when hewas roused by the chimes of the neighbouring church ringing out thehour--half-past eleven.
"That is the time," thought Mr. Pickwick, getting cautiously on hisfeet. He looked up at the house. The lights had disappeared, and theshutters were closed--all in bed, no doubt. He walked on tip-toe tothe door, and gave a gentle tap. Two or three minutes passing withoutany reply, he gave another tap rather louder, and then another ratherlouder than that.
At length the sound of feet was audible upon the stairs, and then thelight of a candle shone through the key-hole of the door. There was agood deal of unchaining and unbolting, and the door was slowly opened.
Now the door opened outwards: and as the door opened wider andwider, Mr. Pickwick receded behind it, more and more. What was hisastonishment when he just peeped out, by way of caution, to see thatthe person who had opened it was--not Job Trotter, but a servant-girlwith a candle in her hand! Mr. Pickwick drew in his head again, withthe swiftness displayed by that admirable melodramatic performer,Punch, when he lies in wait for the flat-headed comedian with the tinbox of music.
"It must have been the cat, Sarah," said the girl, addressing herselfto some one in the house. "Puss, puss, puss,--tit, tit, tit."
But no animal being decoyed by these blandishments, the girl slowlyclosed the door, and re-fastened it; leaving Mr. Pickwick drawn upstraight against the wall.
"This is very curious," thought Mr. Pickwick. "They are sitting upbeyond their usual hour, I suppose. Extremely unfortunate, thatthey should have chosen this night, of all others, for such apurpose--exceedingly." And with these thoughts, Mr. Pickwick cautiouslyretired to the angle of the wall in which he had been before ensconced;waiting until such time as he might deem it safe to repeat the signal.
He had not been here five minutes, when a vivid flash of lightning wasfollowed by a loud peal of thunder that crashed and rolled away in thedistance with a terrific noise--then came another flash of lightning,brighter than the other, and a second peal of thunder, louder than thefirst; and then down came the rain, with a force and fury that swepteverything before it.
Mr. Pickwick was perfectly aware that a tree is a very dangerousneighbour in a thunderstorm. He had a tree on his right, a tree on hisleft, a third before him, and a fourth behind. If he remained where hewas, he might fall the victim of an accident; if he showed himself inthe centre of the garden, he might be consigned to a constable;--onceor twice he tried to scale the wall, but having no other legs thistime, than those with which Nature had furnished him, the only effectof his struggles was to inflict a variety of very unpleasant gratingson his knees and shins, and to throw him into a state of the mostprofuse perspiration.
"What a dreadful situation!" said Mr. Pickwick, pausing to wipe hisbrow after this exercise. He looked up at the house--all was dark. Theymust be gone to bed now. He would try the signal again.
He walked on tip-toe across the moist gravel, and tapped at the door.He held his breath, and listened at the key-hole. No reply: very odd.Another knock. He listened again. There was a low whispering inside,and then a voice cried--
"Who's there?"
"That's not Job," thought Mr. Pickwick, hastily drawing himselfstraight up against the wall again. "It's a woman."
He had scarcely had time to form this conclusion when a window abovestairs was thrown up, and three or four female voices repeated thequery--"Who's there?"
"_Who's there?_" _screamed a numerous chorus of treblevoices_]
Mr. Pickwick dared not move hand or foot. It was clear that the wholeestablishment was roused. He made up his mind to remain where he was,until the alarm had subsided: and then by a supernatural effort, to getover the wall, or perish in the attempt.
Like all Mr. Pickwick's determinations, this was the best that could bemade under the circumstances; but, unfortunately, it was founded uponthe assumption that they would not venture to open the door again. Whatwas his discomfiture, when he heard the chain and bolts withdrawn, andsaw the door slowly opening, wider and wider! He retreated into thecorner, step by step; but do what he would, the interposition of hisown person prevented its being opened to its utmost width.
"Who's there?" screamed a numerous chorus of treble voices from thestaircase inside, consisting of the spinster lady of the establishment,three teachers, five female servants, and thirty boarders, allhalf-dressed, and in a forest of curl-papers.
Of course Mr. Pickwick didn't say who _was_ there: and then the burdenof the chorus changed into--"Lor'! I am so frightened."
"Cook," said the lady abbess, who took care to be on the top stair, thevery last of the group--"Cook, why don't you go a little way into thegarden?"
"Please, ma'am, I don't like," responded the cook.
"Lor', what a stupid thing that cook is!" said the thirty boarders.
"Cook," said the lady abbess, with great dignity; "don't answer me, ifyou please. I insist upon your looking into the garden immediately."
Here the cook began to cry, and the housemaid said it was "a shame!"for which partisanship she received a month's warning on the spot.
"Do you hear, cook?" said the lady abbess, stamping her footimpatiently.
"Don't you hear your missis, cook?" said the three teachers.
"What an impudent thing that cook is!" said the thirty boarders.
The unfortunate cook, thus strongly urged, advanced a step or two, andholding her candle just where it prevented her from seeing anything atall, declared there was nothing there, and it must have been the wind.The door was just going to be closed in consequence when an inquisitiveboarder, who had been peeping between the hinges, set up a fearfulscreaming, which called back the cook and the housemaid, and all themore adventurous, in no time.
"What is the matter with Miss Smithers?" said the lady abbess, as theaforesaid Miss Smithers proceeded to go into hysterics of four younglady power.
"Lor', Miss Smithers dear," said
the other nine-and-twenty boarders.
"Oh, the man--the man--behind the door!" screamed Miss Smithers.
The lady abbess no sooner heard this appalling cry, than sheretreated to her own bed-room, double-locked the door, and faintedaway comfortably. The boarders, and the teachers, and the servants,fell back upon the stairs, and upon each other; and never was sucha screaming, and fainting, and struggling beheld. In the midst ofthe tumult, Mr. Pickwick emerged from his concealment, and presentedhimself amongst them.
"Ladies--dear ladies," said Mr. Pickwick.
"Oh, he says we're dear," cried the oldest and ugliest teacher. "Oh thewretch!"
"Ladies!" roared Mr. Pickwick, rendered desperate by the danger of hissituation. "Hear me. I am no robber. I want the lady of the house."
"Oh, what a ferocious monster," screamed another teacher. "He wantsMiss Tomkins."
Here there was a general scream.
"Ring the alarm bell, somebody!" cried a dozen voices.
"Don't--don't!" shouted Mr. Pickwick. "Look at me. Do I look like arobber? My dear ladies--you may bind me hand and leg, or lock me up ina closet, if you like. Only hear what I have got to say--only hear me."
"How did you come in our garden?" faltered the housemaid.
"Call the lady of the house, and I'll tell her everything--everything:"said Mr. Pickwick, exerting his lungs to the utmost pitch. "Callher--only be quiet, and call her, and you shall hear everything."
It might have been Mr. Pickwick's appearance, or it might have beenhis manner, or it might have been the temptation--irresistible to afemale mind--of hearing something at present enveloped in mystery, thatreduced the more reasonable portion of the establishment (some fourindividuals) to a state of comparative quiet. By them it was proposed,as a test of Mr. Pickwick's sincerity, that he should immediatelysubmit to personal restraint; and that gentleman having consented tohold a conference with Miss Tomkins, from the interior of a closetin which the day boarders hung their bonnets and sandwich-bags, he atonce stepped into it, of his own accord, and was securely locked in.This revived the others; and Miss Tomkins having been brought to, andbrought down, the conference began.
"What did you do in my garden, Man?" said Miss Tomkins, in a faintvoice.
"I came to warn you, that one of your young ladies was going to elopeto-night," replied Mr. Pickwick, from the interior of the closet.
"Elope!" exclaimed Miss Tomkins, the three teachers, the thirtyboarders, and the five servants. "Who with?"
"Your friend, Mr. Charles Fitz-Marshall."
"_My_ friend! I don't know any such person."
"Well! Mr. Jingle, then."
"I never heard the name in my life."
"Then, I have been deceived, and deluded," said Mr. Pickwick. "I havebeen the victim of a conspiracy--a foul and base conspiracy. Send tothe Angel, my dear ma'am, if you don't believe me. Send to the Angelfor Mr. Pickwick's man-servant, I implore you, ma'am."
"He must be respectable--he keeps a man-servant," said Miss Tomkins tothe writing and ciphering governess.
"It is my opinion, Miss Tomkins," said the writing and cipheringgoverness, "that his man-servant keeps him. _I_ think he's a madman,Miss Tomkins, and the other's his keeper."
"I think you are very right, Miss Gwynn," responded Miss Tomkins. "Lettwo of the servants repair to the Angel, and let the others remain hereto protect us."
So two of the servants were despatched to the Angel in search of Mr.Samuel Weller: and the remaining three stopped behind to protect MissTomkins, and the three teachers, and the thirty boarders. And Mr.Pickwick sat down in the closet, beneath a grove of sandwich bags,and awaited the return of the messengers, with all the philosophy andfortitude he could summon to his aid.
An hour and a half elapsed before they came back, and when they didcome, Mr. Pickwick recognised, in addition to the voice of Mr. SamuelWeller, two other voices, the tones of which struck familiarly on hisear; but whose they were, he could not for the life of him call to mind.
A very brief conversation ensued. The door was unlocked. Mr. Pickwickstepped out of the closet, and found himself in the presence of thewhole establishment of Westgate House, Mr. Samuel Weller, and--oldWardle, and his destined son-in-law, Mr. Trundle!
"My dear friend," said Mr. Pickwick, running forward and graspingWardle's hand, "my dear friend, pray, for Heaven's sake, explain tothis lady the unfortunate and dreadful situation in which I am placed.You must have heard it from my servant; say at all events, my dearfellow, that I am neither a robber nor a madman."
"I have said so, my dear friend. I have said so already," replied Mr.Wardle, shaking the right hand of his friend, while Mr. Trundle shookthe left.
"And whoever says, or has said, he is," interposed Mr. Weller, steppingforward, "says that which is not the truth, but so far from it, onthe contrary, quite the rewerse. And if there's any number o' men onthese here premises as has said so, I shall be wery happy to give 'emall a wery convincing proof o' their being mistaken, in this here weryroom, if these wery respectable ladies 'll have the goodness to retire,and order 'em up, one at a time." Having delivered this defiance withgreat volubility, Mr. Weller struck his open palm emphatically with hisclenched fist, and winked pleasantly on Miss Tomkins: the intensity ofwhose horror at his supposing it within the bounds of possibility thatthere could be any men on the premises of Westgate House Establishmentfor Young Ladies, it is impossible to describe.
Mr. Pickwick's explanation having already been partially made, was soonconcluded. But neither in the course of his walk home with his friends,nor afterwards when seated before a blazing fire at the supper he somuch needed, could a single observation be drawn from him. He seemedbewildered and amazed. Once, and only once, he turned round to Mr.Wardle and said--
"How did you come here?"
"Trundle and I came down here, for some good shooting on the first,"replied Wardle. "We arrived to-night, and were astonished to hear fromyour servant that you were here too. But I am glad you are," said theold fellow, slapping him on the back. "I am glad you are. We shall havea jovial party on the first, and we'll give Winkle another chance--eh,old boy?"
Mr. Pickwick made no reply; he did not even ask after his friends atDingley Dell, and shortly afterwards retired for the night, desiringSam to fetch his candle when he rung.
The bell did ring in due course, and Mr. Weller presented himself.
"Sam," said Mr. Pickwick, looking out from under the bed-clothes.
"Sir?" said Mr. Weller.
Mr. Pickwick paused, and Mr. Weller snuffed the candle.
"Sam," said Mr. Pickwick again, as with a desperate effort.
"Sir?" said Mr. Weller, once more.
"Where is that Trotter?"
"Job, sir?"
"Yes."
"Gone, sir."
"With his master, I suppose?"
"Friend or master, or whatever he is, he's gone with him," replied Mr.Weller. "There's a pair on 'em, sir."
"Jingle suspected my design, and set that fellow on you, with thisstory, I suppose?" said Mr. Pickwick, half choking.
"Just that, sir," replied Mr. Weller.
"It was all false, of course?"
"All, sir," replied Mr. Weller. "Reg'lar do, sir; artful dodge."
"I don't think he'll escape us quite so easily the next time, Sam?"said Mr. Pickwick.
"I don't think he will, sir."
"Whenever I meet that Jingle again, wherever it is," said Mr. Pickwick,raising himself in bed, and indenting his pillow with a tremendousblow, "I'll inflict personal chastisement on him, in addition to theexposure he so richly merits. I will, or my name is not Pickwick."
"And venever I catches hold o' that there melan-cholly chap with theblack hair," said Sam, "if I don't bring some real water into his eyes,for once in a way, my name an't Veller. Good night, sir!"
The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club, v. 1 (of 2) Page 18
