‘How sweet the country is, to be sure!’ sighed Mrs. Rogers; ‘I almost wish I lived in it always.’
‘Oh, you wouldn’t like that, ma’am,’ replied Mrs. Bardell, rather hastily; for it was not at all advisable, with reference to the lodgings, to encourage such notions; ‘you wouldn’t like it, ma’am.’
‘Oh! I should think you was a deal too lively and sought after, to be content with the country, ma’am,’ said little Mrs. Cluppins.
‘Perhaps I am, ma’am. Perhaps I am,’ sighed the first-floor lodger.
‘For lone people as have got nobody to care for them, or take care of them, or as have been hurt in their mind, or that kind of thing,’ observed Mr. Raddle, plucking up a little cheerfulness, and looking round, ‘the country is all very well. The country for a wounded spirit, they say.’
Now, of all things in the world that the unfortunate man could have said, any would have been preferable to this. Of course Mrs. Bardell burst into tears, and requested to be led from the table instantly; upon which the affectionate child began to cry too, most dismally.
‘Would anybody believe, ma’am,’ exclaimed Mrs. Raddle, turning fiercely to the first-floor lodger, ‘that a woman could be married to such a unmanly creetur, which can tamper with a woman’s feelings as he does, every hour in the day, ma’am?’
‘My dear,’ remonstrated Mr. Raddle, ‘I didn’t mean anything, my dear.’
‘You didn’t mean!’ repeated Mrs. Raddle, with great scorn and contempt. ‘Go away. I can’t bear the sight on you, you brute.’
‘You must not flurry yourself, Mary Ann,’ interposed Mrs. Cluppins. ‘You really must consider yourself, my dear, which you never do. Now go away, Raddle, there’s a good soul, or you’ll only aggravate her.’
‘You had better take your tea by yourself, Sir, indeed,’ said Mrs. Rogers, again applying the smelling-bottle.
Mrs. Sanders, who, according to custom, was very busy with the bread-and-butter, expressed the same opinion, and Mr. Raddle quietly retired.
After this, there was a great hoisting up of Master Bardell, who was rather a large size for hugging, into his mother’s arms, in which operation he got his boots in the tea-board, and occasioned some confusion among the cups and saucers. But that description of fainting fits, which is contagious among ladies, seldom lasts long; so when he had been well kissed, and a little cried over, Mrs. Bardell recovered, set him down again, wondering how she could have been so foolish, and poured out some more tea.
It was at this moment, that the sound of approaching wheels was heard, and that the ladies, looking up, saw a hackney-coach stop at the garden gate.
‘More company!’ said Mrs. Sanders.
‘It’s a gentleman,’ said Mrs. Raddle.
‘Well, if it ain’t Mr. Jackson, the young man from Dodson and Fogg’s!’ cried Mrs. Bardell. ‘Why, gracious! Surely Mr. Pickwick can’t have paid the damages.’
‘Or hoffered marriage!’ said Mrs. Cluppins.
‘Dear me, how slow the gentleman is,’ exclaimed Mrs. Rogers. ‘Why doesn’t he make haste!’
As the lady spoke these words, Mr. Jackson turned from the coach where he had been addressing some observations to a shabby man in black leggings, who had just emerged from the vehicle with a thick ash stick in his hand, and made his way to the place where the ladies were seated; winding his hair round the brim of his hat, as he came along.
‘Is anything the matter? Has anything taken place, Mr. Jackson?’ said Mrs. Bardell eagerly.
‘Nothing whatever, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Jackson. ‘How de do, ladies? I have to ask pardon, ladies, for intruding – but the law, ladies – the law.’ With this apology Mr. Jackson smiled, made a comprehensive bow, and gave his hair another wind. Mrs. Rogers whispered Mrs. Raddle that he was really an elegant young man.
‘I called in Goswell Street,’ resumed Mr. Jackson, ‘and hearing that you were here, from the slavey, took a coach and came on. Our people want you down in the city directly, Mrs. Bardell.’
‘Lor!’ ejaculated that lady, starting at the sudden nature of the communication.
‘Yes,’ said Mr. Jackson, biting his lip. ‘It’s very important and pressing business, which can’t be postponed on any account. Indeed, Dodson expressly said so to me, and so did Fogg. I’ve kept the coach on purpose for you to go back in.’
‘How very strange!’ exclaimed Mrs. Bardell.
The ladies agreed that it was very strange, but were unanimously of opinion that it must be very important, or Dodson & Fogg would never have sent; and further, that the business being urgent, she ought to repair to Dodson & Fogg’s without any delay.
There was a certain degree of pride and importance about being wanted by one’s lawyers in such a monstrous hurry, that was by no means displeasing to Mrs. Bardell, especially as it might be reasonably supposed to enhance her consequence in the eyes of the first-floor lodger. She simpered a little, affected extreme vexation and hesitation, and at last arrived at the conclusion that she supposed she must go.
‘But won’t you refresh yourself after your walk, Mr. Jackson?’ said Mrs. Bardell persuasively.
‘Why, really there ain’t much time to lose,’ replied Jackson; ‘and I’ve got a friend here,’ he continued, looking towards the man with the ash stick.
‘Oh, ask your friend to come here, Sir,’ said Mrs. Bardell. ‘Pray ask your friend here, Sir.’
‘Why, thank’ee, I’d rather not,’ said Mr. Jackson, with some embarrassment of manner. ‘He’s not much used to ladies’ society, and it makes him bashful. If you’ll order the waiter to deliver him anything short, he won’t drink it off at once, won’t he! – only try him!’ Mr. Jackson’s fingers wandered playfully round his nose at this portion of his discourse, to warn his hearers that he was speaking ironically.
The waiter was at once despatched to the bashful gentleman, and the bashful gentleman took something; Mr. Jackson also took something, and the ladies took something, for hospitality’s sake. Mr. Jackson then said he was afraid it was time to go; upon which, Mrs. Sanders, Mrs. Cluppins, and Tommy (who it was arranged should accompany Mrs. Bardell, leaving the others to Mr. Raddle’s protection), got into the coach.
‘Isaac,’ said Jackson, as Mrs. Bardell prepared to get in, looking up at the man with the ash stick, who was seated on the box, smoking a cigar.
‘Well?’
‘This is Mrs. Bardell.’
‘Oh, I know’d that long ago,’ said the man.
Mrs. Bardell got in, Mr. Jackson got in after her, and away they drove. Mrs. Bardell could not help ruminating on what Mr. Jackson’s friend had said. Shrewd creatures, those lawyers. Lord bless us, how they find people out!
‘Sad thing about these costs of our people’s, ain’t it,’ said Jackson, when Mrs. Cluppins and Mrs. Sanders had fallen asleep; ‘your bill of costs, I mean.’
‘I’m very sorry they can’t get them,’ replied Mrs. Bardell. ‘But if you law gentlemen do these things on speculation, why you must get a loss now and then, you know.’
‘You gave them a cognovit for the amount of your costs, after the trial, I’m told!’ said Jackson.
‘Yes. Just as a matter of form,’ replied Mrs. Bardell.
‘Certainly,’ replied Jackson drily. ‘Quite a matter of form. Quite.’
On they drove, and Mrs. Bardell fell asleep. She was awakened, after some time, by the stopping of the coach.
‘Bless us!’ said the lady. ‘Are we at Freeman’s Court?’
‘We’re not going quite so far,’ replied Jackson. ‘Have the goodness to step out.’
Mrs. Bardell, not yet thoroughly awake, complied. It was a curious place: a large wall, with a gate in the middle, and a gas-light burning inside.
‘Now, ladies,’ cried the man with the ash stick, looking into the coach, and shaking Mrs. Sanders to wake her, ‘Come!’ Rousing her friend, Mrs. Sanders alighted. Mrs. Bardell, leaning on Jackson’s arm, and leading Tommy by the hand, had already entered the porch. They followed.
The room they turned into was even more odd-looking than the porch. Such a number of men standing about! And they stared so!
‘What place is this?’ inquired Mrs. Bardell, pausing.
‘Only one of our public offices,’ replied Jackson, hurrying her through a door, and looking round to see that the other women were following. ‘Look sharp, Isaac!’
‘Safe and sound,’ replied the man with the ash stick. The door swung heavily after them, and they descended a small flight of steps.
‘Here we are at last. All right and tight, Mrs. Bardell!’ said Jackson, looking exultingly round.
‘What do you mean?’ said Mrs. Bardell, with a palpitating heart.
‘Just this,’ replied Jackson, drawing her a little on one side; ‘don’t be frightened, Mrs. Bardell. There never was a more delicate man than Dodson, ma’am, or a more humane man than Fogg. It was their duty in the way of business, to take you in execution for them costs; but they were anxious to spare your feelings as much as they could. What a comfort it must be, to you, to think how it’s been done! This is the Fleet, ma’am. Wish you good-night, Mrs. Bardell. Good-night, Tommy!’
As Jackson hurried away in company with the man with the ash stick another man, with a key in his hand, who had been looking on, led the bewildered female to a second short flight of steps leading to a doorway. Mrs. Bardell screamed violently; Tommy roared; Mrs. Cluppins shrunk within herself; and Mrs. Sanders made off, without more ado. For there stood the injured Mr. Pickwick, taking his nightly allowance of air; and beside him leant Samuel Weller, who, seeing Mrs. Bardell, took his hat off with mock reverence, while his master turned indignantly on his heel.
‘Don’t bother the woman,’ said the turnkey to Weller; ‘she’s just come in.’
‘A prisoner!’ said Sam, quickly replacing his hat. ‘Who’s the plaintives? What for? Speak up, old feller.’
‘Dodson and Fogg,’ replied the man; ‘execution on cognovit for costs.’
‘Here, Job, Job!’ shouted Sam, dashing into the passage. ‘Run to Mr. Perker’s, Job. I want him directly. I see some good in this. Here’s a game. Hooray! vere’s the gov’nor?’
But there was no reply to these inquiries, for Job had started furiously off, the instant he received his commission, and Mrs. Bardell had fainted in real downright earnest.
CHAPTER XLVII. IS CHIEFLY DEVOTED TO MATTERS OF BUSINESS, AND THE TEMPORAL ADVANTAGE OF DODSON AND FOGG – MR. WINKLE REAPPEARS UNDER EXTRAORDINARY CIRCUMSTANCES – MR. PICKWICK’S BENEVOLENCE PROVES STRONGER THAN HIS OBSTINACY
Job Trotter, abating nothing of his speed, ran up Holborn, sometimes in the middle of the road, sometimes on the pavement, sometimes in the gutter, as the chances of getting along varied with the press of men, women, children, and coaches, in each division of the thoroughfare, and, regardless of all obstacles stopped not for an instant until he reached the gate of Gray’s Inn. Notwithstanding all the expedition he had used, however, the gate had been closed a good half-hour when he reached it, and by the time he had discovered Mr. Perker’s laundress, who lived with a married daughter, who had bestowed her hand upon a non-resident waiter, who occupied the one-pair of some number in some street closely adjoining to some brewery somewhere behind Gray’s Inn Lane, it was within fifteen minutes of closing the prison for the night. Mr. Lowten had still to be ferreted out from the back parlour of the Magpie and Stump; and Job had scarcely accomplished this object, and communicated Sam Weller’s message, when the clock struck ten.
‘There,’ said Lowten, ‘it’s too late now. You can’t get in to-night; you’ve got the key of the street, my friend.’
‘Never mind me,’ replied Job. ‘I can sleep anywhere. But won’t it be better to see Mr. Perker to-night, so that we may be there, the first thing in the morning?’
‘Why,’ responded Lowten, after a little consideration, ‘if it was in anybody else’s case, Perker wouldn’t be best pleased at my going up to his house; but as it’s Mr. Pickwick’s, I think I may venture to take a cab and charge it to the office.’ Deciding on this line of conduct, Mr. Lowten took up his hat, and begging the assembled company to appoint a deputy-chairman during his temporary absence, led the way to the nearest coach-stand. Summoning the cab of most promising appearance, he directed the driver to repair to Montague Place, Russell Square.
Mr. Perker had had a dinner-party that day, as was testified by the appearance of lights in the drawing-room windows, the sound of an improved grand piano, and an improvable cabinet voice issuing therefrom, and a rather overpowering smell of meat which pervaded the steps and entry. In fact, a couple of very good country agencies happening to come up to town, at the same time, an agreeable little party had been got together to meet them, comprising Mr. Snicks, the Life Office Secretary, Mr. Prosee, the eminent counsel, three solicitors, one commissioner of bankrupts, a special pleader from the Temple, a small-eyed peremptory young gentleman, his pupil, who had written a lively book about the law of demises, with a vast quantity of marginal notes and references; and several other eminent and distinguished personages. From this society, little Mr. Perker detached himself, on his clerk being announced in a whisper; and repairing to the dining-room, there found Mr. Lowten and Job Trotter looking very dim and shadowy by the light of a kitchen candle, which the gentleman who condescended to appear in plush shorts and cottons for a quarterly stipend, had, with a becoming contempt for the clerk and all things appertaining to ‘the office,’ placed upon the table.
‘Now, Lowten,’ said little Mr. Perker, shutting the door, ‘what’s the matter? No important letter come in a parcel, is there?’
‘No, Sir,’ replied Lowten. ‘This is a messenger from Mr. Pickwick, Sir.’
‘From Pickwick, eh?’ said the little man, turning quickly to Job. ‘Well, what is it?’
‘Dodson and Fogg have taken Mrs. Bardell in execution for her costs, Sir,’ said Job.
‘No!’ exclaimed Perker, putting his hands in his pockets, and reclining against the sideboard.
‘Yes,’ said Job. ‘It seems they got a cognovit out of her, for the amount of ‘em, directly after the trial.’
‘By Jove!’ said Perker, taking both hands out of his pockets, and striking the knuckles of his right against the palm of his left, emphatically, ‘those are the cleverest scamps I ever had anything to do with!’
‘The sharpest practitioners I ever knew, Sir,’ observed Lowten.
‘Sharp!’ echoed Perker. ‘There’s no knowing where to have them.’
‘Very true, Sir, there is not,’ replied Lowten; and then, both master and man pondered for a few seconds, with animated countenances, as if they were reflecting upon one of the most beautiful and ingenious discoveries that the intellect of man had ever made. When they had in some measure recovered from their trance of admiration, Job Trotter discharged himself of the rest of his commission. Perker nodded his head thoughtfully, and pulled out his watch.
‘At ten precisely, I will be there,’ said the little man. ‘Sam is quite right. Tell him so. Will you take a glass of wine, Lowten?’
No, thank you, Sir.’
‘You mean yes, I think,’ said the little man, turning to the sideboard for a decanter and glasses.
As Lowten did mean yes, he said no more on the subject, but inquired of Job, in an audible whisper, whether the portrait of Perker, which hung opposite the fireplace, wasn’t a wonderful likeness, to which Job of course replied that it was. The wine being by this time poured out, Lowten drank to Mrs. Perker and the children, and Job to Perker. The gentleman in the plush shorts and cottons considering it no part of his duty to show the people from the office out, consistently declined to answer the bell, and they showed themselves out. The attorney betook himself to his drawing-room, the clerk to the Magpie and Stump, and Job to Covent Garden Market to spend the night in a vegetable basket.
Punctually at the appointed hour next morning, the good-humoured little attorney tapped at Mr. Pickwick’s door, which was opened with great alacrity by Sam Weller.
‘Mr. Perker, sir,’ said Sam, announcing the visitor to Mr. Pickwick, who was sitting at the window in a thoughtful attitude. ‘Wery glad you’ve looked in accidentally, Sir. I rather think the gov’nor wants to have a word and a half with you, Sir.’
Perker bestowed a look of intelligence on Sam, intimating that he understood he was not to say he had been sent for; and beckoning him to approach, whispered briefly in his ear.
‘You don’t mean that ‘ere, Sir?’ said Sam, starting back in excessive surprise.
Perker nodded and smiled.
Mr. Samuel Weller looked at the little lawyer, then at Mr. Pickwick, then at the ceiling, then at Perker again; grinned, laughed outright, and finally, catching up his hat from the carpet, without further explanation, disappeared.
‘What does this mean?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, looking at Perker with astonishment. ‘What has put Sam into this extraordinary state?’
‘Oh, nothing, nothing,’ replied Perker. ‘Come, my dear Sir, draw up your chair to the table. I have a good deal to say to you.’
‘What papers are those?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, as the little man deposited on the table a small bundle of documents tied with red tape.
‘The papers in Bardell and Pickwick,’ replied Perker, undoing the knot with his teeth.
Mr. Pickwick grated the legs of his chair against the ground; and throwing himself into it, folded his hands and looked sternly – if Mr. Pickwick ever could look sternly – at his legal friend.
‘You don’t like to hear the name of the cause?’ said the little man, still busying himself with the knot.
‘No, I do not indeed,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.
‘Sorry for that,’ resumed Perker, ‘because it will form the subject of our conversation.’
‘I would rather that the subject should be never mentioned between us, Perker,’ interposed Mr. Pickwick hastily.
‘Pooh, pooh, my dear Sir,’ said the little man, untying the bundle, and glancing eagerly at Mr. Pickwick out of the corners of his eyes. ‘It must be mentioned. I have come here on purpose. Now, are you ready to hear what I have to say, my dear Sir? No hurry; if you are not, I can wait. I have this morning’s paper here. Your time shall be mine. There!’ Hereupon, the little man threw one leg over the other, and made a show of beginning to read with great composure and application.
‘Well, well,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with a sigh, but softening into a smile at the same time. ‘Say what you have to say; it’s the old story, I suppose?’
‘With a difference, my dear Sir; with a difference,’ rejoined Perker, deliberately folding up the paper and putting it into his pocket again. ‘Mrs. Bardell, the plaintiff in the action, is within these walls, Sir.’
‘I know it,’ was Mr. Pickwick’s reply.
‘Very good,’ retorted Perker. ‘And you know how she comes here, I suppose; I mean on what grounds, and at whose suit?’
‘Yes; at least I have heard Sam’s account of the matter,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with affected carelessness.
‘Sam’s account of the matter,’ replied Perker, ‘is, I will venture to say, a perfectly correct one. Well now, my dear Sir, the first question I have to ask, is, whether this woman is to remain here?’
‘To remain here!’ echoed Mr. Pickwick.
‘To remain here, my dear Sir,’ rejoined Perker, leaning back in his chair and looking steadily at his client.
‘How can you ask me?’ said that gentleman. ‘It rests with Dodson and Fogg; you know that very well.’
‘I know nothing of the kind,’ retorted Perker firmly. ‘It does not rest with Dodson and Fogg; you know the men, my dear Sir, as well as I do. It rests solely, wholly, and entirely with you.’
‘With me!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, rising nervously from his chair, and reseating himself directly afterwards.
The little man gave a double-knock on the lid of his snuff-box, opened it, took a great pinch, shut it up again, and repeated the words, ‘With you.’
‘I say, my dear Sir,’ resumed the little man, who seemed to gather confidence from the snuff – ‘I say, that her speedy liberation or perpetual imprisonment rests with you, and with you alone. Hear me out, my dear Sir, if you please, and do not be so very energetic, for it will only put you into a perspiration and do no good whatever. I say,’ continued Perker, checking off each position on a different finger, as he laid it down – ‘I say that nobody but you can rescue her from this den of wretchedness; and that you can only do that, by paying the costs of this suit – both of plaintive and defendant – into the hands of these Freeman Court sharks. Now pray be quiet, my dear sir.’
Mr. Pickwick, whose face had been undergoing most surprising changes during this speech, and was evidently on the verge of a strong burst of indignation, calmed his wrath as well as he could. Perker, strengthening his argumentative powers with another pinch of snuff, proceeded —
‘I have seen the woman, this morning. By paying the costs, you can obtain a full release and discharge from the damages; and further – this I know is a far greater object of consideration with you, my dear sir – a voluntary statement, under her hand, in the form of a letter to me, that this business was, from the very first, fomented, and encouraged, and brought about, by these men, Dodson and Fogg; that she deeply regrets ever having been the instrument of annoyance or injury to you; and that she entreats me to intercede with you, and implore your pardon.’
‘If I pay her costs for her,’ said Mr. Pickwick indignantly. ‘A valuable document, indeed!’
‘No “if” in the case, my dear Sir,’ said Perker triumphantly. ‘There is the very letter I speak of. Brought to my office by another woman at nine o’clock this morning, before I had set foot in this place, or held any communication with Mrs. Bardell, upon my honour.’ Selecting the letter from the bundle, the little lawyer laid it at Mr. Pickwick’s elbow, and took snuff for two consecutive minutes, without winking.
‘Is this all you have to say to me?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick mildly.
‘Not quite,’ replied Perker. ‘I cannot undertake to say, at this moment, whether the wording of the cognovit, the nature of the ostensible consideration, and the proof we can get together about the whole conduct of the suit, will be sufficient to justify an indictment for conspiracy. I fear not, my dear Sir; they are too clever for that, I doubt. I do mean to say, however, that the whole facts, taken together, will be sufficient to justify you, in the minds of all reasonable men. And now, my dear Sir, I put it to you. This one hundred and fifty pounds, or whatever it may be – take it in round numbers – is nothing to you. A jury had decided against you; well, their verdict is wrong, but still they decided as they thought right, and it is against you. You have now an opportunity, on easy terms, of placing yourself in a much higher position than you ever could, by remaining here; which would only be imputed, by people who didn’t know you, to sheer dogged, wrongheaded, brutal obstinacy; nothing else, my dear Sir, believe me. Can you hesitate to avail yourself of it, when it restores you to your friends, your old pursuits, your health and amusements; when it liberates your faithful and attached servant, whom you otherwise doom to imprisonment for the whole of your life; and above all, when it enables you to take the very magnanimous revenge – which I know, my dear sir, is one after your own heart – of releasing this woman from a scene of misery and debauchery, to which no man should ever be consigned, if I had my will, but the infliction of which on any woman, is even more frightful and barbarous. Now I ask you, my dear sir, not only as your legal adviser, but as your very true friend, will you let slip the occasion of attaining all these objects, and doing all this good, for the paltry consideration of a few pounds finding their way into the pockets of a couple of rascals, to whom it makes no manner of difference, except that the more they gain, the more they’ll seek, and so the sooner be led into some piece of knavery that must end in a crash? I have put these considerations to you, my dear Sir, very feebly and imperfectly, but I ask you to think of them. Turn them over in your mind as long as you please. I wait here most patiently for your answer.’
Before Mr. Pickwick could reply, before Mr. Perker had taken one twentieth part of the snuff with which so unusually long an address imperatively required to be followed up, there was a low murmuring of voices outside, and then a hesitating knock at the door.
‘Dear, dear,’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, who had been evidently roused by his friend’s appeal; ‘what an annoyance that door is! Who is that?’
‘Me, Sir,’ replied Sam Weller, putting in his head.
‘I can’t speak to you just now, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘I am engaged at this moment, Sam.’
‘Beg your pardon, Sir,’ rejoined Mr. Weller. ‘But here’s a lady here, Sir, as says she’s somethin’ wery partickler to disclose.’
‘I can’t see any lady,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, whose mind was filled with visions of Mrs. Bardell.
‘I wouldn’t make too sure o’ that, Sir,’ urged Mr. Weller, shaking his head. ‘If you know’d who was near, sir, I rayther think you’d change your note; as the hawk remarked to himself vith a cheerful laugh, ven he heerd the robin-redbreast a-singin’ round the corner.’
‘Who is it?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘Will you see her, Sir?’ asked Mr. Weller, holding the door in his hand as if he had some curious live animal on the other side.
‘I suppose I must,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking at Perker.
‘Well then, all in to begin!’ cried Sam. ‘Sound the gong, draw up the curtain, and enter the two conspiraytors.’
As Sam Weller spoke, he threw the door open, and there rushed tumultuously into the room, Mr. Nathaniel Winkle, leading after him by the hand, the identical young lady who at Dingley Dell had worn the boots with the fur round the tops, and who, now a very pleasing compound of blushes and confusion, and lilac silk, and a smart bonnet, and a rich lace veil, looked prettier than ever.
‘Miss Arabella Allen!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, rising from his chair.
‘No,’ replied Mr. Winkle, dropping on his knees. ‘Mrs. Winkle. Pardon, my dear friend, pardon!’
Mr. Pickwick could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses, and perhaps would not have done so, but for the corroborative testimony afforded by the smiling countenance of Perker, and the bodily presence, in the background, of Sam and the pretty housemaid; who appeared to contemplate the proceedings with the liveliest satisfaction.
‘Oh, Mr. Pickwick!’ said Arabella, in a low voice, as if alarmed at the silence. ‘Can you forgive my imprudence?’
Mr. Pickwick returned no verbal response to this appeal; but he took off his spectacles in great haste, and seizing both the young lady’s hands in his, kissed her a great number of times – perhaps a greater number than was absolutely necessary – and then, still retaining one of her hands, told Mr. Winkle he was an audacious young dog, and bade him get up. This, Mr. Winkle, who had been for some seconds scratching his nose with the brim of his hat, in a penitent manner, did; whereupon Mr. Pickwick slapped him on the back several times, and then shook hands heartily with Perker, who, not to be behind-hand in the compliments of the occasion, saluted both the bride and the pretty housemaid with right good-will, and, having wrung Mr. Winkle’s hand most cordially, wound up his demonstrations of joy by taking snuff enough to set any half-dozen men with ordinarily-constructed noses, a-sneezing for life.
‘Why, my dear girl,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘how has all this come about? Come! Sit down, and let me hear it all. How well she looks, doesn’t she, Perker?’ added Mr. Pickwick, surveying Arabella’s face with a look of as much pride and exultation, as if she had been his daughter.
‘Delightful, my dear Sir,’ replied the little man. ‘If I were not a married man myself, I should be disposed to envy you, you dog.’ Thus expressing himself, the little lawyer gave Mr. Winkle a poke in the chest, which that gentleman reciprocated; after which they both laughed very loudly, but not so loudly as Mr. Samuel Weller, who had just relieved his feelings by kissing the pretty housemaid under cover of the cupboard door.
‘I can never be grateful enough to you, Sam, I am sure,’ said Arabella, with the sweetest smile imaginable. ‘I shall not forget your exertions in the garden at Clifton.’
‘Don’t say nothin’ wotever about it, ma’am,’ replied Sam. ‘I only assisted natur, ma’am; as the doctor said to the boy’s mother, after he’d bled him to death.’
‘Mary, my dear, sit down,’ said Mr. Pickwick, cutting short these compliments. ‘Now then; how long have you been married, eh?’
Arabella looked bashfully at her lord and master, who replied, ‘Only three days.’
‘Only three days, eh?’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Why, what have you been doing these three months?’
‘Ah, to be sure!’ interposed Perker; ‘come, account for this idleness. You see Mr. Pickwick’s only astonishment is, that it wasn’t all over, months ago.’
‘Why the fact is,’ replied Mr. Winkle, looking at his blushing young wife, ‘that I could not persuade Bella to run away, for a long time. And when I had persuaded her, it was a long time more before we could find an opportunity. Mary had to give a month’s warning, too, before she could leave her place next door, and we couldn’t possibly have done it without her assistance.’
Upon my word,’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, who by this time had resumed his spectacles, and was looking from Arabella to Winkle, and from Winkle to Arabella, with as much delight depicted in his countenance as warmheartedness and kindly feeling can communicate to the human face – ‘upon my word! you seem to have been very systematic in your proceedings. And is your brother acquainted with all this, my dear?’
‘Oh, no, no,’ replied Arabella, changing colour. ‘Dear Mr. Pickwick, he must only know it from you – from your lips alone. He is so violent, so prejudiced, and has been so – so anxious in behalf of his friend, Mr. Sawyer,’ added Arabella, looking down, ‘that I fear the consequences dreadfully.’
‘Ah, to be sure,’ said Perker gravely. ‘You must take this matter in hand for them, my dear sir. These young men will respect you, when they would listen to nobody else. You must prevent mischief, my dear Sir. Hot blood, hot blood.’ And the little man took a warning pinch, and shook his head doubtfully.