第 70 页

As these games were very silently conducted, notwithstanding the

magnitude of the interests involved, Mr Swiveller began to think that

on those evenings when Mr and Miss Brass were out (and they often went

out now) he heard a kind of snorting or hard-breathing sound in the

direction of the door, which it occurred to him, after some reflection,

must proceed from the small servant, who always had a cold from damp

living. Looking intently that way one night, he plainly distinguished

an eye gleaming and glistening at the keyhole; and having now no doubt

that his suspicions were correct, he stole softly to the door, and

pounced upon her before she was aware of his approach.

'Oh! I didn't mean any harm indeed, upon my word I didn't,' cried the

small servant, struggling like a much larger one. 'It's so very dull,

down-stairs, Please don't you tell upon me, please don't.'

'Tell upon you!' said Dick. 'Do you mean to say you were looking

through the keyhole for company?'

'Yes, upon my word I was,' replied the small servant.

'How long have you been cooling your eye there?' said Dick.

'Oh ever since you first began to play them cards, and long before.'

Vague recollections of several fantastic exercises with which he had

refreshed himself after the fatigues of business, and to all of which,

no doubt, the small servant was a party, rather disconcerted Mr

Swiveller; but he was not very sensitive on such points, and recovered

himself speedily.

'Well--come in'--he said, after a little consideration. 'Here--sit

down, and I'll teach you how to play.'

'Oh! I durstn't do it,' rejoined the small servant; 'Miss Sally 'ud

kill me, if she know'd I come up here.'

'Have you got a fire down-stairs?' said Dick.

'A very little one,' replied the small servant.

'Miss Sally couldn't kill me if she know'd I went down there, so I'll

come,' said Richard, putting the cards into his pocket. 'Why, how thin

you are! What do you mean by it?'

'It ain't my fault.'

'Could you eat any bread and meat?' said Dick, taking down his hat.

'Yes? Ah! I thought so. Did you ever taste beer?'

'I had a sip of it once,' said the small servant.

'Here's a state of things!' cried Mr Swiveller, raising his eyes to the

ceiling. 'She never tasted it--it can't be tasted in a sip! Why, how

old are you?'

'I don't know.'

Mr Swiveller opened his eyes very wide, and appeared thoughtful for a

moment; then, bidding the child mind the door until he came back,

vanished straightway.

Presently, he returned, followed by the boy from the public-house, who

bore in one hand a plate of bread and beef, and in the other a great

pot, filled with some very fragrant compound, which sent forth a

grateful steam, and was indeed choice purl, made after a particular

recipe which Mr Swiveller had imparted to the landlord, at a period

when he was deep in his books and desirous to conciliate his

friendship. Relieving the boy of his burden at the door, and charging

his little companion to fasten it to prevent surprise, Mr Swiveller

followed her into the kitchen.

'There!' said Richard, putting the plate before her. 'First of all

clear that off, and then you'll see what's next.'

The small servant needed no second bidding, and the plate was soon

empty.

'Next,' said Dick, handing the purl, 'take a pull at that; but moderate

your transports, you know, for you're not used to it. Well, is it

good?'

'Oh! isn't it?' said the small servant.

Mr Swiveller appeared gratified beyond all expression by this reply,

and took a long draught himself, steadfastly regarding his companion

while he did so. These preliminaries disposed of, he applied himself

to teaching her the game, which she soon learnt tolerably well, being

both sharp-witted and cunning.

'Now,' said Mr Swiveller, putting two sixpences into a saucer, and

trimming the wretched candle, when the cards had been cut and dealt,

'those are the stakes. If you win, you get 'em all. If I win, I get

'em. To make it seem more real and pleasant, I shall call you the

Marchioness, do you hear?'

The small servant nodded.

'Then, Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, 'fire away!'

The Marchioness, holding her cards very tight in both hands, considered

which to play, and Mr Swiveller, assuming the gay and fashionable air

which such society required, took another pull at the tankard, and

waited for her lead.

CHAPTER 58

Mr Swiveller and his partner played several rubbers with varying

success, until the loss of three sixpences, the gradual sinking of the

purl, and the striking of ten o'clock, combined to render that

gentleman mindful of the flight of Time, and the expediency of

withdrawing before Mr Sampson and Miss Sally Brass returned.

'With which object in view, Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller gravely, 'I

shall ask your ladyship's permission to put the board in my pocket, and

to retire from the presence when I have finished this tankard; merely

observing, Marchioness, that since life like a river is flowing, I care

not how fast it rolls on, ma'am, on, while such purl on the bank still

is growing, and such eyes light the waves as they run. Marchioness,

your health. You will excuse my wearing my hat, but the palace is

damp, and the marble floor is--if I may be allowed the

expression--sloppy.'

As a precaution against this latter inconvenience, Mr Swiveller had

been sitting for some time with his feet on the hob, in which attitude

he now gave utterance to these apologetic observations, and slowly

sipped the last choice drops of nectar.

'The Baron Sampsono Brasso and his fair sister are (you tell me) at the

Play?' said Mr Swiveller, leaning his left arm heavily upon the table,

and raising his voice and his right leg after the manner of a

theatrical bandit.

The Marchioness nodded.

'Ha!' said Mr Swiveller, with a portentous frown. ''Tis well.

Marchioness!--but no matter. Some wine there. Ho!' He illustrated

these melodramatic morsels by handing the tankard to himself with great

humility, receiving it haughtily, drinking from it thirstily, and

smacking his lips fiercely.

The small servant, who was not so well acquainted with theatrical

conventionalities as Mr Swiveller (having indeed never seen a play, or

heard one spoken of, except by chance through chinks of doors and in

other forbidden places), was rather alarmed by demonstrations so novel

in their nature, and showed her concern so plainly in her looks, that

Mr Swiveller felt it necessary to discharge his brigand manner for one

more suitable to private life, as he asked,

'Do they often go where glory waits 'em, and leave you here?'

'Oh, yes; I believe you they do,' returned the small servant. 'Miss

Sally's such a one-er for that, she is.'

'Such a what?' said Dick.

'Such a one-er,' returned the Marchioness.

After a moment's reflection, Mr Swiveller determined to forego his

responsible duty of setting her right, and to suffer her to talk on; as

it was evident that her tongue was loosened by the purl, and her

opportunities for conversation were not so frequent as to render a

momentary check of little consequence.

'They sometimes go to see Mr Quilp,' said the small servant with a

shrewd look; 'they go to a many places, bless you!'

'Is Mr Brass a wunner?' said Dick.

'Not half what Miss Sally is, he isn't,' replied the small servant,

shaking her head. 'Bless you, he'd never do anything without her.'

'Oh! He wouldn't, wouldn't he?' said Dick.

'Miss Sally keeps him in such order,' said the small servant; 'he

always asks her advice, he does; and he catches it sometimes. Bless

you, you wouldn't believe how much he catches it.'

'I suppose,' said Dick, 'that they consult together, a good deal, and

talk about a great many people--about me for instance, sometimes, eh,

Marchioness?'

The Marchioness nodded amazingly.

'Complimentary?' said Mr Swiveller.

The Marchioness changed the motion of her head, which had not yet left

off nodding, and suddenly began to shake it from side to side, with a

vehemence which threatened to dislocate her neck.

'Humph!' Dick muttered. 'Would it be any breach of confidence,

Marchioness, to relate what they say of the humble individual who has

now the honour to--?'

'Miss Sally says you're a funny chap,' replied his friend.

'Well, Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, 'that's not uncomplimentary.

Merriment, Marchioness, is not a bad or a degrading quality. Old King

Cole was himself a merry old soul, if we may put any faith in the pages

of history.'

'But she says,' pursued his companion, 'that you an't to be trusted.'

'Why, really Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, thoughtfully; 'several

ladies and gentlemen--not exactly professional persons, but

tradespeople, ma'am, tradespeople--have made the same remark. The

obscure citizen who keeps the hotel over the way, inclined strongly to

that opinion to-night when I ordered him to prepare the banquet. It's

a popular prejudice, Marchioness; and yet I am sure I don't know why,

for I have been trusted in my time to a considerable amount, and I can

safely say that I never forsook my trust until it deserted me--never.

Mr Brass is of the same opinion, I suppose?'

His friend nodded again, with a cunning look which seemed to hint that

Mr Brass held stronger opinions on the subject than his sister; and

seeming to recollect herself, added imploringly, 'But don't you ever

tell upon me, or I shall be beat to death.'

'Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, rising, 'the word of a gentleman is

as good as his bond--sometimes better, as in the present case, where

his bond might prove but a doubtful sort of security. I am your

friend, and I hope we shall play many more rubbers together in this

same saloon. But, Marchioness,' added Richard, stopping in his way to

the door, and wheeling slowly round upon the small servant, who was

following with the candle; 'it occurs to me that you must be in the

constant habit of airing your eye at keyholes, to know all this.'

'I only wanted,' replied the trembling Marchioness, 'to know where the

key of the safe was hid; that was all; and I wouldn't have taken much,

if I had found it--only enough to squench my hunger.'

'You didn't find it then?' said Dick. 'But of course you didn't, or

you'd be plumper. Good night, Marchioness. Fare thee well, and if for

ever, then for ever fare thee well--and put up the chain, Marchioness,

in case of accidents.'

With this parting injunction, Mr Swiveller emerged from the house; and

feeling that he had by this time taken quite as much to drink as

promised to be good for his constitution (purl being a rather strong

and heady compound), wisely resolved to betake himself to his lodgings,

and to bed at once. Homeward he went therefore; and his apartments

(for he still retained the plural fiction) being at no great distance

from the office, he was soon seated in his own bed-chamber, where,

having pulled off one boot and forgotten the other, he fell into deep

cogitation.

'This Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, folding his arms, 'is a very

extraordinary person--surrounded by mysteries, ignorant of the taste of

beer, unacquainted with her own name (which is less remarkable), and

taking a limited view of society through the keyholes of doors--can

these things be her destiny, or has some unknown person started an

opposition to the decrees of fate? It is a most inscrutable and

unmitigated staggerer!'

When his meditations had attained this satisfactory point, he became

aware of his remaining boot, of which, with unimpaired solemnity he

proceeded to divest himself; shaking his head with exceeding gravity

all the time, and sighing deeply.

'These rubbers,' said Mr Swiveller, putting on his nightcap in exactly

the same style as he wore his hat, 'remind me of the matrimonial

fireside. Cheggs's wife plays cribbage; all-fours likewise. She rings

the changes on 'em now. From sport to sport they hurry her to banish

her regrets, and when they win a smile from her, they think that she

forgets--but she don't. By this time, I should say,' added Richard,

getting his left cheek into profile, and looking complacently at the

reflection of a very little scrap of whisker in the looking-glass; 'by

this time, I should say, the iron has entered into her soul. It serves

her right!'

Melting from this stern and obdurate, into the tender and pathetic

mood, Mr Swiveller groaned a little, walked wildly up and down, and

even made a show of tearing his hair, which, however, he thought better

of, and wrenched the tassel from his nightcap instead. At last,

undressing himself with a gloomy resolution, he got into bed.

Some men in his blighted position would have taken to drinking; but as

Mr Swiveller had taken to that before, he only took, on receiving the

news that Sophy Wackles was lost to him for ever, to playing the flute;

thinking after mature consideration that it was a good, sound, dismal

occupation, not only in unison with his own sad thoughts, but

calculated to awaken a fellow-feeling in the bosoms of his neighbours.

In pursuance of this resolution, he now drew a little table to his

bedside, and arranging the light and a small oblong music-book to the