The Old Curiosity Shop
Whenever Kit came alone, and without the chaise, it always happened
that Sampson Brass was reminded of some mission, calling Mr Swiveller,
if not to Peckham Rye again, at all events to some pretty distant place
from which he could not be expected to return for two or three hours,
or in all probability a much longer period, as that gentleman was not,
to say the truth, renowned for using great expedition on such
occasions, but rather for protracting and spinning out the time to the
very utmost limit of possibility. Mr Swiveller out of sight, Miss
Sally immediately withdrew. Mr Brass would then set the office-door
wide open, hum his old tune with great gaiety of heart, and smile
seraphically as before. Kit coming down-stairs would be called in;
entertained with some moral and agreeable conversation; perhaps
entreated to mind the office for an instant while Mr Brass stepped over
the way; and afterwards presented with one or two half-crowns as the
case might be. This occurred so often, that Kit, nothing doubting but
that they came from the single gentleman who had already rewarded his
mother with great liberality, could not enough admire his generosity;
and bought so many cheap presents for her, and for little Jacob, and
for the baby, and for Barbara to boot, that one or other of them was
having some new trifle every day of their lives.
While these acts and deeds were in progress in and out of the office of
Sampson Brass, Richard Swiveller, being often left alone therein, began
to find the time hang heavy on his hands. For the better preservation
of his cheerfulness therefore, and to prevent his faculties from
rusting, he provided himself with a cribbage-board and pack of cards,
and accustomed himself to play at cribbage with a dummy, for twenty,
thirty, or sometimes even fifty thousand pounds aside, besides many
hazardous bets to a considerable amount.
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