as before.
'Most extraordinary female this,' thought Mr. Pickwick, popping in
again. 'Ha-hum!'
These last sounds, so like those in which, as legends inform us, the
ferocious giant Blunderbore was in the habit of expressing his opinion
that it was time to lay the cloth, were too distinctly audible to be
again mistaken for the workings of fancy.
'Gracious Heaven!' said the middle-aged lady, 'what's that?'
'It's--it's--only a gentleman, ma'am,' said Mr. Pickwick, from behind
the curtains.
'A gentleman!' said the lady, with a terrific scream.
'It's all over!' thought Mr. Pickwick.
'A strange man!' shrieked the lady. Another instant and the house would
be alarmed. Her garments rustled as she rushed towards the door.
'Ma'am,' said Mr. Pickwick, thrusting out his head in the extremity of
his desperation, 'ma'am!'
Now, although Mr. Pickwick was not actuated by any definite object
in putting out his head, it was instantaneously productive of a good
effect. The lady, as we have already stated, was near the door. She must
pass it, to reach the staircase, and she would most undoubtedly have
done so by this time, had not the sudden apparition of Mr. Pickwick's
nightcap driven her back into the remotest corner of the apartment,
where she stood staring wildly at Mr. Pickwick, while Mr. Pickwick in
his turn stared wildly at her.
'Wretch,' said the lady, covering her eyes with her hands, 'what do you
want here?'
'Nothing, ma'am; nothing whatever, ma'am,' said Mr. Pickwick earnestly.
'Nothing!' said the lady, looking up.
'Nothing, ma'am, upon my honour,' said Mr. Pickwick, nodding his head
so energetically, that the tassel of his nightcap danced again. 'I am
almost ready to sink, ma'am, beneath the confusion of addressing a lady
in my nightcap (here the lady hastily snatched off hers), but I can't
get it off, ma'am (here Mr. Pickwick gave it a tremendous tug, in proof
of the statement). It is evident to me, ma'am, now, that I have mistaken
this bedroom for my own. I had not been here five minutes, ma'am, when
you suddenly entered it.'
'If this improbable story be really true, Sir,' said the lady, sobbing
violently, 'you will leave it instantly.'
'I will, ma'am, with the greatest pleasure,' replied Mr. Pickwick.
'Instantly, sir,' said the lady.
'Certainly, ma'am,' interposed Mr. Pickwick, very quickly. 'Certainly,
ma'am. I--I--am very sorry, ma'am,' said Mr. Pickwick, making his
appearance at the bottom of the bed, 'to have been the innocent occasion
of this alarm and emotion; deeply sorry, ma'am.'
The lady pointed to the door. One excellent quality of Mr. Pickwick's
character was beautifully displayed at this moment, under the most
trying circumstances. Although he had hastily Put on his hat over his
nightcap, after the manner of the old patrol; although he carried his
shoes and gaiters in his hand, and his coat and waistcoat over his arm;
nothing could subdue his native politeness.
'I am exceedingly sorry, ma'am,' said Mr. Pickwick, bowing very low.
'If you are, Sir, you will at once leave the room,' said the lady.
'Immediately, ma'am; this instant, ma'am,' said Mr. Pickwick, opening
the door, and dropping both his shoes with a crash in so doing.
'I trust, ma'am,' resumed Mr. Pickwick, gathering up his shoes, and
turning round to bow again--'I trust, ma'am, that my unblemished
character, and the devoted respect I entertain for your sex, will plead
as some slight excuse for this--' But before Mr. Pickwick could conclude
the sentence, the lady had thrust him into the passage, and locked and
bolted the door behind him.
Whatever grounds of self-congratulation Mr. Pickwick might have for
having escaped so quietly from his late awkward situation, his present
position was by no means enviable. He was alone, in an open passage, in
a strange house in the middle of the night, half dressed; it was not
to be supposed that he could find his way in perfect darkness to a room
which he had been wholly unable to discover with a light, and if he made
the slightest noise in his fruitless attempts to do so, he stood every
chance of being shot at, and perhaps killed, by some wakeful traveller.
He had no resource but to remain where he was until daylight appeared.
So after groping his way a few paces down the passage, and, to his
infinite alarm, stumbling over several pairs of boots in so doing, Mr.
Pickwick crouched into a little recess in the wall, to wait for morning,
as philosophically as he might.
He was not destined, however, to undergo this additional trial of
patience; for he had not been long ensconced in his present concealment
when, to his unspeakable horror, a man, bearing a light, appeared at the
end of the passage. His horror was suddenly converted into joy, however,
when he recognised the form of his faithful attendant. It was indeed Mr.
Samuel Weller, who after sitting up thus late, in conversation with the
boots, who was sitting up for the mail, was now about to retire to rest.
'Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, suddenly appearing before him, 'where's my
bedroom?'
Mr. Weller stared at his master with the most emphatic surprise; and it
was not until the question had been repeated three several times, that
he turned round, and led the way to the long-sought apartment.
'Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, as he got into bed, 'I have made one of the
most extraordinary mistakes to-night, that ever were heard of.'
'Wery likely, Sir,' replied Mr. Weller drily.
'But of this I am determined, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'that if I were
to stop in this house for six months, I would never trust myself about
it, alone, again.'
'That's the wery prudentest resolution as you could come to, Sir,'
replied Mr. Weller. 'You rayther want somebody to look arter you, Sir,
when your judgment goes out a wisitin'.'
'What do you mean by that, Sam?' said Mr. Pickwick. He raised himself in
bed, and extended his hand, as if he were about to say something
more; but suddenly checking himself, turned round, and bade his valet
'Good-night.'
'Good-night, Sir,' replied Mr. Weller. He paused when he got outside the
door--shook his head--walked on--stopped--snuffed the candle--shook
his head again--and finally proceeded slowly to his chamber, apparently
buried in the profoundest meditation.
CHAPTER XXIII. IN WHICH Mr. SAMUEL WELLER BEGINS TO DEVOTE HIS ENERGIES
TO THE RETURN MATCH BETWEEN HIMSELF AND Mr. TROTTER
In a small room in the vicinity of the stableyard, betimes in the
morning, which was ushered in by Mr. Pickwick's adventure with the
middle--aged lady in the yellow curl-papers, sat Mr. Weller, senior,
preparing himself for his journey to London. He was sitting in an
excellent attitude for having his portrait taken; and here it is.
It is very possible that at some earlier period of his career, Mr.
Weller's profile might have presented a bold and determined outline. His
face, however, had expanded under the influence of good living, and a
disposition remarkable for resignation; and its bold, fleshy curves had
so far extended beyond the limits originally assigned them, that unless
you took a full view of his countenance in front, it was difficult to
distinguish more than the extreme tip of a very rubicund nose. His chin,
from the same cause, had acquired the grave and imposing form which is
generally described by prefixing the word 'double' to that expressive
feature; and his complexion exhibited that peculiarly mottled
combination of colours which is only to be seen in gentlemen of his
profession, and in underdone roast beef. Round his neck he wore
a crimson travelling-shawl, which merged into his chin by such
imperceptible gradations, that it was difficult to distinguish the folds
of the one, from the folds of the other. Over this, he mounted a long
waistcoat of a broad pink-striped pattern, and over that again, a
wide-skirted green coat, ornamented with large brass buttons, whereof
the two which garnished the waist, were so far apart, that no man had
ever beheld them both at the same time. His hair, which was short,
sleek, and black, was just visible beneath the capacious brim of a
low-crowned brown hat. His legs were encased in knee-cord breeches, and
painted top-boots; and a copper watch-chain, terminating in one seal,
and a key of the same material, dangled loosely from his capacious
waistband.
We have said that Mr. Weller was engaged in preparing for his journey
to London--he was taking sustenance, in fact. On the table before him,
stood a pot of ale, a cold round of beef, and a very respectable-looking
loaf, to each of which he distributed his favours in turn, with the most
rigid impartiality. He had just cut a mighty slice from the latter, when
the footsteps of somebody entering the room, caused him to raise his
head; and he beheld his son.
'Mornin', Sammy!' said the father.
The son walked up to the pot of ale, and nodding significantly to his
parent, took a long draught by way of reply.
'Wery good power o' suction, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller the elder, looking
into the pot, when his first-born had set it down half empty. 'You'd ha'
made an uncommon fine oyster, Sammy, if you'd been born in that station
o' life.'
'Yes, I des-say, I should ha' managed to pick up a respectable livin','
replied Sam applying himself to the cold beef, with considerable vigour.
'I'm wery sorry, Sammy,' said the elder Mr. Weller, shaking up the ale,
by describing small circles with the pot, preparatory to drinking.
'I'm wery sorry, Sammy, to hear from your lips, as you let yourself be
gammoned by that 'ere mulberry man. I always thought, up to three days
ago, that the names of Veller and gammon could never come into contract,
Sammy, never.'
'Always exceptin' the case of a widder, of course,' said Sam.
'Widders, Sammy,' replied Mr. Weller, slightly changing colour. 'Widders
are 'ceptions to ev'ry rule. I have heerd how many ordinary women
one widder's equal to in pint o' comin' over you. I think it's
five-and-twenty, but I don't rightly know vether it ain't more.'
'Well; that's pretty well,' said Sam.
'Besides,' continued Mr. Weller, not noticing the interruption, 'that's
a wery different thing. You know what the counsel said, Sammy, as
defended the gen'l'm'n as beat his wife with the poker, venever he got
jolly. "And arter all, my Lord," says he, "it's a amiable weakness." So
I says respectin' widders, Sammy, and so you'll say, ven you gets as old
as me.'
'I ought to ha' know'd better, I know,' said Sam.
'Ought to ha' know'd better!' repeated Mr. Weller, striking the table
with his fist. 'Ought to ha' know'd better! why, I know a young 'un as
hasn't had half nor quarter your eddication--as hasn't slept about the
markets, no, not six months--who'd ha' scorned to be let in, in such a
vay; scorned it, Sammy.' In the excitement of feeling produced by
this agonising reflection, Mr. Weller rang the bell, and ordered an
additional pint of ale.
'Well, it's no use talking about it now,' said Sam. 'It's over, and
can't be helped, and that's one consolation, as they always says in
Turkey, ven they cuts the wrong man's head off. It's my innings now,
gov'nor, and as soon as I catches hold o' this 'ere Trotter, I'll have a
good 'un.'
'I hope you will, Sammy. I hope you will,' returned Mr. Weller. 'Here's
your health, Sammy, and may you speedily vipe off the disgrace as
you've inflicted on the family name.' In honour of this toast Mr. Weller
imbibed at a draught, at least two-thirds of a newly-arrived pint,
and handed it over to his son, to dispose of the remainder, which he
instantaneously did.
'And now, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller, consulting a large double-faced
silver watch that hung at the end of the copper chain. 'Now it's time
I was up at the office to get my vay-bill and see the coach loaded; for
coaches, Sammy, is like guns--they requires to be loaded with wery great
care, afore they go off.'
At this parental and professional joke, Mr. Weller, junior, smiled a
filial smile. His revered parent continued in a solemn tone--
'I'm a-goin' to leave you, Samivel, my boy, and there's no telling ven I
shall see you again. Your mother-in-law may ha' been too much for me, or
a thousand things may have happened by the time you next hears any news
o' the celebrated Mr. Veller o' the Bell Savage. The family name depends
wery much upon you, Samivel, and I hope you'll do wot's right by it.
Upon all little pints o' breedin', I know I may trust you as vell as if
it was my own self. So I've only this here one little bit of adwice to
give you. If ever you gets to up'ards o' fifty, and feels disposed to go
a-marryin' anybody--no matter who--jist you shut yourself up in your own
room, if you've got one, and pison yourself off hand. Hangin's wulgar,
so don't you have nothin' to say to that. Pison yourself, Samivel, my
boy, pison yourself, and you'll be glad on it arterwards.' With these
affecting words, Mr. Weller looked steadfastly on his son, and turning
slowly upon his heel, disappeared from his sight.
In the contemplative mood which these words had awakened, Mr. Samuel
