The Pickwick Papers
the young lady said when she remonstrated with the pastry-cook, arter
he’d sold her a pork pie as had got nothin’ but fat inside. What do I
mean! Well, that ain’t a bad ‘un, that ain’t.’
‘Unlock that door, and leave this room immediately, Sir,’ said Mr.
Winkle.
‘I shall leave this here room, sir, just precisely at the wery same
moment as you leaves it,’ responded Sam, speaking in a forcible manner,
and seating himself with perfect gravity. ‘If I find it necessary to
carry you away, pick-a-back, o’ course I shall leave it the least bit o’
time possible afore you; but allow me to express a hope as you won’t
reduce me to extremities; in saying wich, I merely quote wot the
nobleman said to the fractious pennywinkle, ven he vouldn’t come out of
his shell by means of a pin, and he conseqvently began to be afeered
that he should be obliged to crack him in the parlour door.’ At the end
of this address, which was unusually lengthy for him, Mr. Weller planted
his hands on his knees, and looked full in Mr. Winkle’s face, with an
expression of countenance which showed that he had not the remotest
intention of being trifled with.
‘You’re a amiably-disposed young man, Sir, I don’t think,’ resumed Mr.
Weller, in a tone of moral reproof, ‘to go inwolving our precious
governor in all sorts o’ fanteegs, wen he’s made up his mind to go
through everythink for principle. You’re far worse nor Dodson, Sir; and
as for Fogg, I consider him a born angel to you!’ Mr. Weller having
accompanied this last sentiment with an emphatic slap on each knee,
folded his arms with a look of great disgust, and threw himself back in
his chair, as if awaiting the criminal’s defence.
‘My good fellow,’ said Mr. Winkle, extending his hand--his teeth
chattering all the time he spoke, for he had been standing, during the
whole of Mr. Weller’s lecture, in his night-gear--‘my good fellow, I
respect your attachment to my excellent friend, and I am very sorry
indeed to have added to his causes for disquiet. There, Sam, there!’
‘Well,’ said Sam, rather sulkily, but giving the proffered hand a
respectful shake at the same time--‘well, so you ought to be, and I am
very glad to find you air; for, if I can help it, I won’t have him put
upon by nobody, and that’s all about it.’
‘Certainly not, Sam,’ said Mr. Winkle. ‘There! Now go to bed, Sam, and
we’ll talk further about this in the morning.’
‘I’m wery sorry,’ said Sam, ‘but I can’t go to bed.’
‘Not go to bed!’ repeated Mr. Winkle.
‘No,’ said Sam, shaking his head. ‘Can’t be done.’
‘You don’t mean to say you’re going back to-night, Sam?’ urged Mr.
Winkle, greatly surprised.
‘Not unless you particklerly wish it,’ replied Sam; ‘but I mustn’t leave
this here room. The governor’s orders wos peremptory.’
‘Nonsense, Sam,’ said Mr. Winkle, ‘I must stop here two or three days;
and more than that, Sam, you must stop here too, to assist me in gaining
an interview with a young lady--Miss Allen, Sam; you remember her--whom
I must and will see before I leave Bristol.’
But in reply to each of these positions, Sam shook his head with great
firmness, and energetically replied, ‘It can’t be done.’
After a great deal of argument and representation on the part of Mr.
Winkle, however, and a full disclosure of what had passed in the
interview with Dowler, Sam began to waver; and at length a compromise
was effected, of which the following were the main and principal
conditions:--
That Sam should retire, and leave Mr. Winkle in the undisturbed
possession of his apartment, on the condition that he had permission to
lock the door on the outside, and carry off the key; provided always,
that in the event of an alarm of fire, or other dangerous contingency,
the door should be instantly unlocked. That a letter should be written
to Mr. Pickwick early next morning, and forwarded per Dowler, requesting
his consent to Sam and Mr. Winkle’s remaining at Bristol, for the
purpose and with the object already assigned, and begging an answer by
the next coach--, if favourable, the aforesaid parties to remain
accordingly, and if not, to return to Bath immediately on the receipt
thereof. And, lastly, that Mr. Winkle should be understood as distinctly
pledging himself not to resort to the window, fireplace, or other
surreptitious mode of escape in the meanwhile. These stipulations having
been concluded, Sam locked the door and departed.
He had nearly got downstairs, when he stopped, and drew the key from his
pocket.
‘I quite forgot about the knockin’ down,’ said Sam, half turning back.
‘The governor distinctly said it was to be done. Amazin’ stupid o’ me,
that ‘ere! Never mind,’ said Sam, brightening up, ‘it’s easily done to-
morrow, anyvays.’
Apparently much consoled by this reflection, Mr. Weller once more
deposited the key in his pocket, and descending the remainder of the
stairs without any fresh visitations of conscience, was soon, in common
with the other inmates of the house, buried in profound repose.
CHAPTER XXXIX. MR. SAMUEL WELLER, BEING INTRUSTED WITH A MISSION OF
LOVE, PROCEEDS TO EXECUTE IT; WITH WHAT SUCCESS WILL HEREINAFTER APPEAR
During the whole of next day, Sam kept Mr. Winkle steadily in sight,
fully determined not to take his eyes off him for one instant, until he
should receive express instructions from the fountain-head. However
disagreeable Sam’s very close watch and great vigilance were to Mr.
Winkle, he thought it better to bear with them, than, by any act of
violent opposition, to hazard being carried away by force, which Mr.
Weller more than once strongly hinted was the line of conduct that a
strict sense of duty prompted him to pursue. There is little reason to
doubt that Sam would very speedily have quieted his scruples, by bearing
Mr. Winkle back to Bath, bound hand and foot, had not Mr. Pickwick’s
prompt attention to the note, which Dowler had undertaken to deliver,
forestalled any such proceeding. In short, at eight o’clock in the
evening, Mr. Pickwick himself walked into the coffee-room of the Bush
Tavern, and told Sam with a smile, to his very great relief, that he had
done quite right, and it was unnecessary for him to mount guard any
longer.
‘I thought it better to come myself,’ said Mr. Pickwick, addressing Mr.
Winkle, as Sam disencumbered him of his great-coat and travelling-shawl,
‘to ascertain, before I gave my consent to Sam’s employment in this
matter, that you are quite in earnest and serious, with respect to this
young lady.’
‘Serious, from my heart--from my soul!’ returned Mr. Winkle, with great
energy.
‘Remember,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with beaming eyes, ‘we met her at our
excellent and hospitable friend’s, Winkle. It would be an ill return to
tamper lightly, and without due consideration, with this young lady’s
affections. I’ll not allow that, sir. I’ll not allow it.’
‘I have no such intention, indeed,’ exclaimed Mr. Winkle warmly. ‘I have
considered the matter well, for a long time, and I feel that my
happiness is bound up in her.’
‘That’s wot we call tying it up in a small parcel, sir,’ interposed Mr.
Weller, with an agreeable smile.
Mr. Winkle looked somewhat stern at this interruption, and Mr. Pickwick
angrily requested his attendant not to jest with one of the best
feelings of our nature; to which Sam replied, ‘That he wouldn’t, if he
was aware on it; but there were so many on ‘em, that he hardly know’d
which was the best ones wen he heerd ‘em mentioned.’
Mr. Winkle then recounted what had passed between himself and Mr. Ben
Allen, relative to Arabella; stated that his object was to gain an
interview with the young lady, and make a formal disclosure of his
passion; and declared his conviction, founded on certain dark hints and
mutterings of the aforesaid Ben, that, wherever she was at present
immured, it was somewhere near the Downs. And this was his whole stock
of knowledge or suspicion on the subject.
With this very slight clue to guide him, it was determined that Mr.
Weller should start next morning on an expedition of discovery; it was
also arranged that Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Winkle, who were less confident
of their powers, should parade the town meanwhile, and accidentally drop
in upon Mr. Bob Sawyer in the course of the day, in the hope of seeing
or hearing something of the young lady’s whereabouts.
Accordingly, next morning, Sam Weller issued forth upon his quest, in no
way daunted by the very discouraging prospect before him; and away he
walked, up one street and down another--we were going to say, up one
hill and down another, only it’s all uphill at Clifton--without meeting
with anything or anybody that tended to throw the faintest light on the
matter in hand. Many were the colloquies into which Sam entered with
grooms who were airing horses on roads, and nursemaids who were airing
children in lanes; but nothing could Sam elicit from either the first-
mentioned or the last, which bore the slightest reference to the object
of his artfully-prosecuted inquiries. There were a great many young
ladies in a great many houses, the greater part whereof were shrewdly
suspected by the male and female domestics to be deeply attached to
somebody, or perfectly ready to become so, if opportunity afforded. But
as none among these young ladies was Miss Arabella Allen, the
information left Sam at exactly the old point of wisdom at which he had
stood before.
Sam struggled across the Downs against a good high wind, wondering
whether it was always necessary to hold your hat on with both hands in
that part of the country, and came to a shady by-place, about which were
sprinkled several little villas of quiet and secluded appearance.
Outside a stable door at the bottom of a long back lane without a
thoroughfare, a groom in undress was idling about, apparently persuading
himself that he was doing something with a spade and a wheel-barrow. We
may remark, in this place, that we have scarcely ever seen a groom near
a stable, in his lazy moments, who has not been, to a greater or less
extent, the victim of this singular delusion.
Sam thought he might as well talk to this groom as to any one else,
especially as he was very tired with walking, and there was a good large
stone just opposite the wheel-barrow; so he strolled down the lane, and,
seating himself on the stone, opened a conversation with the ease and
freedom for which he was remarkable.
‘Mornin’, old friend,’ said Sam.
‘Arternoon, you mean,’ replied the groom, casting a surly look at Sam.
‘You’re wery right, old friend,’ said Sam; ‘I _do_ mean arternoon. How
are you?’
‘Why, I don’t find myself much the better for seeing of you,’ replied
the ill-tempered groom.
‘That’s wery odd--that is,’ said Sam, ‘for you look so uncommon
cheerful, and seem altogether so lively, that it does vun’s heart good
to see you.’
The surly groom looked surlier still at this, but not sufficiently so to
produce any effect upon Sam, who immediately inquired, with a
countenance of great anxiety, whether his master’s name was not Walker.
‘No, it ain’t,’ said the groom.
‘Nor Brown, I s’pose?’ said Sam.
‘No, it ain’t.’
‘Nor Vilson?’
‘No; nor that either,’ said the groom.
‘Vell,’ replied Sam, ‘then I’m mistaken, and he hasn’t got the honour o’
my acquaintance, which I thought he had. Don’t wait here out o’
compliment to me,’ said Sam, as the groom wheeled in the barrow, and
prepared to shut the gate. ‘Ease afore ceremony, old boy; I’ll excuse
you.’
‘I’d knock your head off for half-a-crown,’ said the surly groom,
bolting one half of the gate.
‘Couldn’t afford to have it done on those terms,’ rejoined Sam. ‘It ‘ud
be worth a life’s board wages at least, to you, and ‘ud be cheap at
that. Make my compliments indoors. Tell ‘em not to vait dinner for me,