The Pickwick Papers
in the matter, my dear sir; there’s only five years’ difference between
‘em, and both their birthdays are in August.’
Mr. Winkle was too anxious to hear what was to follow to express much
wonderment at this extraordinary coincidence, marvellous as it was; so
Mr. Ben Allen, after a tear or two, went on to say that, notwithstanding
all his esteem and respect and veneration for his friend, Arabella had
unaccountably and undutifully evinced the most determined antipathy to
his person.
‘And I think,’ said Mr. Ben Allen, in conclusion. ‘I think there’s a
prior attachment.’
‘Have you any idea who the object of it might be?’ asked Mr. Winkle,
with great trepidation.
Mr. Ben Allen seized the poker, flourished it in a warlike manner above
his head, inflicted a savage blow on an imaginary skull, and wound up by
saying, in a very expressive manner, that he only wished he could guess;
that was all.
‘I’d show him what I thought of him,’ said Mr. Ben Allen. And round went
the poker again, more fiercely than before.
All this was, of course, very soothing to the feelings of Mr. Winkle,
who remained silent for a few minutes; but at length mustered up
resolution to inquire whether Miss Allen was in Kent.
‘No, no,’ said Mr. Ben Allen, laying aside the poker, and looking very
cunning; ‘I didn’t think Wardle’s exactly the place for a headstrong
girl; so, as I am her natural protector and guardian, our parents being
dead, I have brought her down into this part of the country to spend a
few months at an old aunt’s, in a nice, dull, close place. I think that
will cure her, my boy. If it doesn’t, I’ll take her abroad for a little
while, and see what that’ll do.’
‘Oh, the aunt’s is in Bristol, is it?’ faltered Mr. Winkle.
‘No, no, not in Bristol,’ replied Mr. Ben Allen, jerking his thumb over
his right shoulder; ‘over that way--down there. But, hush, here’s Bob.
Not a word, my dear friend, not a word.’
Short as this conversation was, it roused in Mr. Winkle the highest
degree of excitement and anxiety. The suspected prior attachment rankled
in his heart. Could he be the object of it? Could it be for him that the
fair Arabella had looked scornfully on the sprightly Bob Sawyer, or had
he a successful rival? He determined to see her, cost what it might; but
here an insurmountable objection presented itself, for whether the
explanatory ‘over that way,’ and ‘down there,’ of Mr. Ben Allen, meant
three miles off, or thirty, or three hundred, he could in no wise guess.
But he had no opportunity of pondering over his love just then, for Bob
Sawyer’s return was the immediate precursor of the arrival of a meat-pie
from the baker’s, of which that gentleman insisted on his staying to
partake. The cloth was laid by an occasional charwoman, who officiated
in the capacity of Mr. Bob Sawyer’s housekeeper; and a third knife and
fork having been borrowed from the mother of the boy in the gray livery
(for Mr. Sawyer’s domestic arrangements were as yet conducted on a
limited scale), they sat down to dinner; the beer being served up, as
Mr. Sawyer remarked, ‘in its native pewter.’
After dinner, Mr. Bob Sawyer ordered in the largest mortar in the shop,
and proceeded to brew a reeking jorum of rum-punch therein, stirring up
and amalgamating the materials with a pestle in a very creditable and
apothecary-like manner. Mr. Sawyer, being a bachelor, had only one
tumbler in the house, which was assigned to Mr. Winkle as a compliment
to the visitor, Mr. Ben Allen being accommodated with a funnel with a
cork in the narrow end, and Bob Sawyer contented himself with one of
those wide-lipped crystal vessels inscribed with a variety of cabalistic
characters, in which chemists are wont to measure out their liquid drugs
in compounding prescriptions. These preliminaries adjusted, the punch
was tasted, and pronounced excellent; and it having been arranged that
Bob Sawyer and Ben Allen should be considered at liberty to fill twice
to Mr. Winkle’s once, they started fair, with great satisfaction and
good-fellowship.
There was no singing, because Mr. Bob Sawyer said it wouldn’t look
professional; but to make amends for this deprivation there was so much
talking and laughing that it might have been heard, and very likely was,
at the end of the street. Which conversation materially lightened the
hours and improved the mind of Mr. Bob Sawyer’s boy, who, instead of
devoting the evening to his ordinary occupation of writing his name on
the counter, and rubbing it out again, peeped through the glass door,
and thus listened and looked on at the same time.
The mirth of Mr. Bob Sawyer was rapidly ripening into the furious, Mr.
Ben Allen was fast relapsing into the sentimental, and the punch had
well-nigh disappeared altogether, when the boy hastily running in,
announced that a young woman had just come over, to say that Sawyer late
Nockemorf was wanted directly, a couple of streets off. This broke up
the party. Mr. Bob Sawyer, understanding the message, after some twenty
repetitions, tied a wet cloth round his head to sober himself, and,
having partially succeeded, put on his green spectacles and issued
forth. Resisting all entreaties to stay till he came back, and finding
it quite impossible to engage Mr. Ben Allen in any intelligible
conversation on the subject nearest his heart, or indeed on any other,
Mr. Winkle took his departure, and returned to the Bush.
The anxiety of his mind, and the numerous meditations which Arabella had
awakened, prevented his share of the mortar of punch producing that
effect upon him which it would have had under other circumstances. So,
after taking a glass of soda-water and brandy at the bar, he turned into
the coffee-room, dispirited rather than elevated by the occurrences of
the evening.
Sitting in front of the fire, with his back towards him, was a tallish
gentleman in a greatcoat: the only other occupant of the room. It was
rather a cool evening for the season of the year, and the gentleman drew
his chair aside to afford the new-comer a sight of the fire. What were
Mr. Winkle’s feelings when, in doing so, he disclosed to view the face
and figure of the vindictive and sanguinary Dowler!
Mr. Winkle’s first impulse was to give a violent pull at the nearest
bell-handle, but that unfortunately happened to be immediately behind
Mr. Dowler’s head. He had made one step towards it, before he checked
himself. As he did so, Mr. Dowler very hastily drew back.
‘Mr. Winkle, Sir. Be calm. Don’t strike me. I won’t bear it. A blow!
Never!’ said Mr. Dowler, looking meeker than Mr. Winkle had expected in
a gentleman of his ferocity.
‘A blow, Sir?’ stammered Mr. Winkle.
‘A blow, Sir,’ replied Dowler. ‘Compose your feelings. Sit down. Hear
me.’
‘Sir,’ said Mr. Winkle, trembling from head to foot, ‘before I consent
to sit down beside, or opposite you, without the presence of a waiter, I
must be secured by some further understanding. You used a threat against
me last night, Sir, a dreadful threat, Sir.’ Here Mr. Winkle turned very
pale indeed, and stopped short.
‘I did,’ said Dowler, with a countenance almost as white as Mr.
Winkle’s. ‘Circumstances were suspicious. They have been explained. I
respect your bravery. Your feeling is upright. Conscious innocence.
There’s my hand. Grasp it.’
‘Really, Sir,’ said Mr. Winkle, hesitating whether to give his hand or
not, and almost fearing that it was demanded in order that he might be
taken at an advantage, ‘really, Sir, I--’
‘I know what you mean,’ interposed Dowler. ‘You feel aggrieved. Very
natural. So should I. I was wrong. I beg your pardon. Be friendly.
Forgive me.’ With this, Dowler fairly forced his hand upon Mr. Winkle,
and shaking it with the utmost vehemence, declared he was a fellow of
extreme spirit, and he had a higher opinion of him than ever.
‘Now,’ said Dowler, ‘sit down. Relate it all. How did you find me? When
did you follow? Be frank. Tell me.’
‘It’s quite accidental,’ replied Mr. Winkle, greatly perplexed by the
curious and unexpected nature of the interview. ‘Quite.’
‘Glad of it,’ said Dowler. ‘I woke this morning. I had forgotten my
threat. I laughed at the accident. I felt friendly. I said so.’
‘To whom?’ inquired Mr. Winkle.
‘To Mrs. Dowler. “You made a vow,” said she. “I did,” said I. “It was a
rash one,” said she. “It was,” said I. “I’ll apologise. Where is he?”’
‘Who?’ inquired Mr. Winkle.
‘You,’ replied Dowler. ‘I went downstairs. You were not to be found.
Pickwick looked gloomy. Shook his head. Hoped no violence would be
committed. I saw it all. You felt yourself insulted. You had gone, for a
friend perhaps. Possibly for pistols. “High spirit,” said I. “I admire
him.”’
Mr. Winkle coughed, and beginning to see how the land lay, assumed a
look of importance.
‘I left a note for you,’ resumed Dowler. ‘I said I was sorry. So I was.
Pressing business called me here. You were not satisfied. You followed.
You required a verbal explanation. You were right. It’s all over now. My
business is finished. I go back to-morrow. Join me.’
As Dowler progressed in his explanation, Mr. Winkle’s countenance grew
more and more dignified. The mysterious nature of the commencement of
their conversation was explained; Mr. Dowler had as great an objection
to duelling as himself; in short, this blustering and awful personage
was one of the most egregious cowards in existence, and interpreting Mr.
Winkle’s absence through the medium of his own fears, had taken the same
step as himself, and prudently retired until all excitement of feeling
should have subsided.
As the real state of the case dawned upon Mr. Winkle’s mind, he looked
very terrible, and said he was perfectly satisfied; but at the same
time, said so with an air that left Mr. Dowler no alternative but to
infer that if he had not been, something most horrible and destructive
must inevitably have occurred. Mr. Dowler appeared to be impressed with
a becoming sense of Mr. Winkle’s magnanimity and condescension; and the
two belligerents parted for the night, with many protestations of
eternal friendship.
About half-past twelve o’clock, when Mr. Winkle had been revelling some
twenty minutes in the full luxury of his first sleep, he was suddenly
awakened by a loud knocking at his chamber door, which, being repeated
with increased vehemence, caused him to start up in bed, and inquire who
was there, and what the matter was.
‘Please, Sir, here’s a young man which says he must see you directly,’
responded the voice of the chambermaid.
‘A young man!’ exclaimed Mr. Winkle.
‘No mistake about that ‘ere, Sir,’ replied another voice through the
keyhole; ‘and if that wery same interestin’ young creetur ain’t let in
vithout delay, it’s wery possible as his legs vill enter afore his
countenance.’ The young man gave a gentle kick at one of the lower
panels of the door, after he had given utterance to this hint, as if to
add force and point to the remark.
‘Is that you, Sam?’ inquired Mr. Winkle, springing out of bed.
‘Quite unpossible to identify any gen’l’m’n vith any degree o’ mental
satisfaction, vithout lookin’ at him, Sir,’ replied the voice
dogmatically.
Mr. Winkle, not much doubting who the young man was, unlocked the door;
which he had no sooner done than Mr. Samuel Weller entered with great
precipitation, and carefully relocking it on the inside, deliberately
put the key in his waistcoat pocket; and, after surveying Mr. Winkle
from head to foot, said--
‘You’re a wery humorous young gen’l’m’n, you air, Sir!’
‘What do you mean by this conduct, Sam?’ inquired Mr. Winkle
indignantly. ‘Get out, sir, this instant. What do you mean, Sir?’
‘What do I mean,’ retorted Sam; ‘come, Sir, this is rayther too rich, as