Deprived of the young lady's society, Mr. Bob Sawyer proceeded to divert
himself by peeping into the desk, looking into all the table drawers,
feigning to pick the lock of the iron safe, turning the almanac with its
face to the wall, trying on the boots of Mr. Winkle, senior, over his
own, and making several other humorous experiments upon the furniture,
all of which afforded Mr. Pickwick unspeakable horror and agony, and
yielded Mr. Bob Sawyer proportionate delight.
At length the door opened, and a little old gentleman in a
snuff-coloured suit, with a head and face the precise counterpart of
those belonging to Mr. Winkle, junior, excepting that he was rather
bald, trotted into the room with Mr. Pickwick's card in one hand, and a
silver candlestick in the other.
'Mr. Pickwick, sir, how do you do?' said Winkle the elder, putting down
the candlestick and proffering his hand. 'Hope I see you well, sir. Glad
to see you. Be seated, Mr. Pickwick, I beg, Sir. This gentleman is--'
'My friend, Mr. Sawyer,' interposed Mr. Pickwick, 'your son's friend.'
'Oh,' said Mr. Winkle the elder, looking rather grimly at Bob. 'I hope
you are well, sir.'
'Right as a trivet, sir,' replied Bob Sawyer.
'This other gentleman,' cried Mr. Pickwick, 'is, as you will see
when you have read the letter with which I am intrusted, a very near
relative, or I should rather say a very particular friend of your son's.
His name is Allen.'
'THAT gentleman?' inquired Mr. Winkle, pointing with the card towards
Ben Allen, who had fallen asleep in an attitude which left nothing of
him visible but his spine and his coat collar.
Mr. Pickwick was on the point of replying to the question, and reciting
Mr. Benjamin Allen's name and honourable distinctions at full length,
when the sprightly Mr. Bob Sawyer, with a view of rousing his friend to
a sense of his situation, inflicted a startling pinch upon the fleshly
part of his arm, which caused him to jump up with a shriek. Suddenly
aware that he was in the presence of a stranger, Mr. Ben Allen advanced
and, shaking Mr. Winkle most affectionately by both hands for about five
minutes, murmured, in some half-intelligible fragments of sentences, the
great delight he felt in seeing him, and a hospitable inquiry whether he
felt disposed to take anything after his walk, or would prefer waiting
'till dinner-time;' which done, he sat down and gazed about him with a
petrified stare, as if he had not the remotest idea where he was, which
indeed he had not.
All this was most embarrassing to Mr. Pickwick, the more especially as
Mr. Winkle, senior, evinced palpable astonishment at the eccentric--not
to say extraordinary--behaviour of his two companions. To bring the
matter to an issue at once, he drew a letter from his pocket, and
presenting it to Mr. Winkle, senior, said--
'This letter, Sir, is from your son. You will see, by its contents, that
on your favourable and fatherly consideration of it, depend his future
happiness and welfare. Will you oblige me by giving it the calmest and
coolest perusal, and by discussing the subject afterwards with me, in
the tone and spirit in which alone it ought to be discussed? You may
judge of the importance of your decision to your son, and his intense
anxiety upon the subject, by my waiting upon you, without any previous
warning, at so late an hour; and,' added Mr. Pickwick, glancing slightly
at his two companions--'and under such unfavourable circumstances.'
With this prelude, Mr. Pickwick placed four closely-written sides of
extra superfine wire-wove penitence in the hands of the astounded Mr.
Winkle, senior. Then reseating himself in his chair, he watched his
looks and manner: anxiously, it is true, but with the open front of
a gentleman who feels he has taken no part which he need excuse or
palliate. The old wharfinger turned the letter over, looked at the
front, back, and sides, made a microscopic examination of the fat little
boy on the seal, raised his eyes to Mr. Pickwick's face, and then,
seating himself on the high stool, and drawing the lamp closer to
him, broke the wax, unfolded the epistle, and lifting it to the light,
prepared to read. Just at this moment, Mr. Bob Sawyer, whose wit had
lain dormant for some minutes, placed his hands on his knees, and made
a face after the portraits of the late Mr. Grimaldi, as clown. It so
happened that Mr. Winkle, senior, instead of being deeply engaged in
reading the letter, as Mr. Bob Sawyer thought, chanced to be looking
over the top of it at no less a person than Mr. Bob Sawyer himself;
rightly conjecturing that the face aforesaid was made in ridicule
and derision of his own person, he fixed his eyes on Bob with such
expressive sternness, that the late Mr. Grimaldi's lineaments gradually
resolved themselves into a very fine expression of humility and
confusion.
'Did you speak, Sir?' inquired Mr. Winkle, senior, after an awful
silence.
'No, sir,' replied Bob, With no remains of the clown about him, save and
except the extreme redness of his cheeks.
'You are sure you did not, sir?' said Mr. Winkle, senior.
'Oh dear, yes, sir, quite,' replied Bob.
'I thought you did, Sir,' replied the old gentleman, with indignant
emphasis. 'Perhaps you LOOKED at me, sir?'
'Oh, no! sir, not at all,' replied Bob, with extreme civility.
'I am very glad to hear it, sir,' said Mr. Winkle, senior. Having
frowned upon the abashed Bob with great magnificence, the old gentleman
again brought the letter to the light, and began to read it seriously.
Mr. Pickwick eyed him intently as he turned from the bottom line of the
first page to the top line of the second, and from the bottom of the
second to the top of the third, and from the bottom of the third to
the top of the fourth; but not the slightest alteration of countenance
afforded a clue to the feelings with which he received the announcement
of his son's marriage, which Mr. Pickwick knew was in the very first
half-dozen lines.
He read the letter to the last word, folded it again with all the
carefulness and precision of a man of business, and, just when Mr.
Pickwick expected some great outbreak of feeling, dipped a pen in the
ink-stand, and said, as quietly as if he were speaking on the most
ordinary counting-house topic--
'What is Nathaniel's address, Mr. Pickwick?'
'The George and Vulture, at present,' replied that gentleman.
'George and Vulture. Where is that?'
'George Yard, Lombard Street.'
'In the city?'
'Yes.'
The old gentleman methodically indorsed the address on the back of the
letter; and then, placing it in the desk, which he locked, said, as he
got off the stool and put the bunch of keys in his pocket--
'I suppose there is nothing else which need detain us, Mr. Pickwick?'
'Nothing else, my dear Sir!' observed that warm-hearted person in
indignant amazement. 'Nothing else! Have you no opinion to express on
this momentous event in our young friend's life? No assurance to convey
to him, through me, of the continuance of your affection and protection?
Nothing to say which will cheer and sustain him, and the anxious girl
who looks to him for comfort and support? My dear Sir, consider.'
'I will consider,' replied the old gentleman. 'I have nothing to say
just now. I am a man of business, Mr. Pickwick. I never commit myself
hastily in any affair, and from what I see of this, I by no means like
the appearance of it. A thousand pounds is not much, Mr. Pickwick.'
'You're very right, Sir,' interposed Ben Allen, just awake enough
to know that he had spent his thousand pounds without the smallest
difficulty. 'You're an intelligent man. Bob, he's a very knowing fellow
this.'
'I am very happy to find that you do me the justice to make the
admission, sir,' said Mr. Winkle, senior, looking contemptuously at Ben
Allen, who was shaking his head profoundly. 'The fact is, Mr. Pickwick,
that when I gave my son a roving license for a year or so, to see
something of men and manners (which he has done under your auspices),
so that he might not enter life a mere boarding-school milk-sop to be
gulled by everybody, I never bargained for this. He knows that very
well, so if I withdraw my countenance from him on this account, he
has no call to be surprised. He shall hear from me, Mr. Pickwick.
Good-night, sir.--Margaret, open the door.'
All this time, Bob Sawyer had been nudging Mr. Ben Allen to say
something on the right side; Ben accordingly now burst, without the
slightest preliminary notice, into a brief but impassioned piece of
eloquence.
'Sir,' said Mr. Ben Allen, staring at the old gentleman, out of a pair
of very dim and languid eyes, and working his right arm vehemently up
and down, 'you--you ought to be ashamed of yourself.'
'As the lady's brother, of course you are an excellent judge of the
question,' retorted Mr. Winkle, senior. 'There; that's enough. Pray say
no more, Mr. Pickwick. Good-night, gentlemen!'
With these words the old gentleman took up the candle-stick and opening
the room door, politely motioned towards the passage.
'You will regret this, Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, setting his teeth close
together to keep down his choler; for he felt how important the effect
might prove to his young friend.
'I am at present of a different opinion,' calmly replied Mr. Winkle,
senior. 'Once again, gentlemen, I wish you a good-night.'
Mr. Pickwick walked with angry strides into the street. Mr. Bob Sawyer,
completely quelled by the decision of the old gentleman's manner, took
the same course. Mr. Ben Allen's hat rolled down the steps immediately
afterwards, and Mr. Ben Allen's body followed it directly. The whole
party went silent and supperless to bed; and Mr. Pickwick thought, just
before he fell asleep, that if he had known Mr. Winkle, senior, had been
quite so much of a man of business, it was extremely probable he might
never have waited upon him, on such an errand.
CHAPTER LI. IN WHICH Mr. PICKWICK ENCOUNTERS AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE--TO
WHICH FORTUNATE CIRCUMSTANCE THE READER IS MAINLY INDEBTED FOR MATTER OF
THRILLING INTEREST HEREIN SET DOWN, CONCERNING TWO GREAT PUBLIC MEN OF
MIGHT AND POWER
The morning which broke upon Mr. Pickwick's sight at eight o'clock,
was not at all calculated to elevate his spirits, or to lessen the
depression which the unlooked-for result of his embassy inspired. The
sky was dark and gloomy, the air was damp and raw, the streets were wet
and sloppy. The smoke hung sluggishly above the chimney-tops as if it
lacked the courage to rise, and the rain came slowly and doggedly down,
as if it had not even the spirit to pour. A game-cock in the stableyard,
deprived of every spark of his accustomed animation, balanced himself
dismally on one leg in a corner; a donkey, moping with drooping head
under the narrow roof of an outhouse, appeared from his meditative
and miserable countenance to be contemplating suicide. In the street,
umbrellas were the only things to be seen, and the clicking of pattens
and splashing of rain-drops were the only sounds to be heard.
The breakfast was interrupted by very little conversation; even Mr.
Bob Sawyer felt the influence of the weather, and the previous day's
excitement. In his own expressive language he was 'floored.' So was Mr.
Ben Allen. So was Mr. Pickwick.
In protracted expectation of the weather clearing up, the last evening
paper from London was read and re-read with an intensity of interest
only known in cases of extreme destitution; every inch of the carpet was
walked over with similar perseverance; the windows were looked out of,
often enough to justify the imposition of an additional duty upon them;
all kinds of topics of conversation were started, and failed; and at
length Mr. Pickwick, when noon had arrived, without a change for the
better, rang the bell resolutely, and ordered out the chaise.
Although the roads were miry, and the drizzling rain came down harder
than it had done yet, and although the mud and wet splashed in at the
open windows of the carriage to such an extent that the discomfort was
almost as great to the pair of insides as to the pair of outsides, still
there was something in the motion, and the sense of being up and doing,
which was so infinitely superior to being pent in a dull room, looking
at the dull rain dripping into a dull street, that they all agreed, on
starting, that the change was a great improvement, and wondered how they
could possibly have delayed making it as long as they had done.
When they stopped to change at Coventry, the steam ascended from the
horses in such clouds as wholly to obscure the hostler, whose voice was
however heard to declare from the mist, that he expected the first gold
medal from the Humane Society on their next distribution of rewards,
for taking the postboy's hat off; the water descending from the brim
of which, the invisible gentleman declared, must have drowned him (the
postboy), but for his great presence of mind in tearing it promptly from
his head, and drying the gasping man's countenance with a wisp of straw.
'This is pleasant,' said Bob Sawyer, turning up his coat collar, and
pulling the shawl over his mouth to concentrate the fumes of a glass of
brandy just swallowed.
'Wery,' replied Sam composedly.
'You don't seem to mind it,' observed Bob.
'Vy, I don't exactly see no good my mindin' on it 'ud do, sir,' replied
Sam.
'That's an unanswerable reason, anyhow,' said Bob.
'Yes, sir,' rejoined Mr. Weller. 'Wotever is, is right, as the young
nobleman sweetly remarked wen they put him down in the pension list 'cos
