The Pickwick Papers
notvithstandin that the drag wos put on drectly by the medikel man it
wornt of no use at all for she paid the last pike at twenty minutes
afore six o’clock yesterday evenin havin done the jouney wery much under
the reglar time vich praps was partly owen to her haven taken in wery
little luggage by the vay your father says that if you vill come and see
me Sammy he vill take it as a wery great favor for I am wery lonely
Samivel N. B. he _vill _have it spelt that vay vich I say ant right and
as there is sich a many things to settle he is sure your guvner wont
object of course he vill not Sammy for I knows him better so he sends
his dooty in which I join and am Samivel infernally yours
‘TONY VELLER.’
‘Wot a incomprehensible letter,’ said Sam; ‘who’s to know wot it means,
vith all this he-ing and I-ing! It ain’t my father’s writin’, ‘cept this
here signater in print letters; that’s his.’
‘Perhaps he got somebody to write it for him, and signed it himself
afterwards,’ said the pretty housemaid.
‘Stop a minit,’ replied Sam, running over the letter again, and pausing
here and there, to reflect, as he did so. ‘You’ve hit it. The gen’l’m’n
as wrote it wos a-tellin’ all about the misfortun’ in a proper vay, and
then my father comes a-lookin’ over him, and complicates the whole
concern by puttin’ his oar in. That’s just the wery sort o’ thing he’d
do. You’re right, Mary, my dear.’
Having satisfied himself on this point, Sam read the letter all over,
once more, and, appearing to form a clear notion of its contents for the
first time, ejaculated thoughtfully, as he folded it up--
‘And so the poor creetur’s dead! I’m sorry for it. She warn’t a bad-
disposed ‘ooman, if them shepherds had let her alone. I’m wery sorry for
it.’
Mr. Weller uttered these words in so serious a manner, that the pretty
housemaid cast down her eyes and looked very grave.
‘Hows’ever,’ said Sam, putting the letter in his pocket with a gentle
sigh, ‘it wos to be--and wos, as the old lady said arter she’d married
the footman. Can’t be helped now, can it, Mary?’
Mary shook her head, and sighed too.
‘I must apply to the hemperor for leave of absence,’ said Sam.
Mary sighed again--the letter was so very affecting.
‘Good-bye!’ said Sam.
‘Good-bye,’ rejoined the pretty housemaid, turning her head away.
‘Well, shake hands, won’t you?’ said Sam.
The pretty housemaid put out a hand which, although it was a
housemaid’s, was a very small one, and rose to go.
‘I shan’t be wery long avay,’ said Sam.
‘You’re always away,’ said Mary, giving her head the slightest possible
toss in the air. ‘You no sooner come, Mr. Weller, than you go again.’
Mr. Weller drew the household beauty closer to him, and entered upon a
whispering conversation, which had not proceeded far, when she turned
her face round and condescended to look at him again. When they parted,
it was somehow or other indispensably necessary for her to go to her
room, and arrange the cap and curls before she could think of presenting
herself to her mistress; which preparatory ceremony she went off to
perform, bestowing many nods and smiles on Sam over the banisters as she
tripped upstairs.
‘I shan’t be avay more than a day, or two, Sir, at the furthest,’ said
Sam, when he had communicated to Mr. Pickwick the intelligence of his
father’s loss.
‘As long as may be necessary, Sam,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘you have my
full permission to remain.’
Sam bowed.
‘You will tell your father, Sam, that if I can be of any assistance to
him in his present situation, I shall be most willing and ready to lend
him any aid in my power,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Thank’ee, sir,’ rejoined Sam. ‘I’ll mention it, sir.’
And with some expressions of mutual good-will and interest, master and
man separated.
It was just seven o’clock when Samuel Weller, alighting from the box of
a stage-coach which passed through Dorking, stood within a few hundred
yards of the Marquis of Granby. It was a cold, dull evening; the little
street looked dreary and dismal; and the mahogany countenance of the
noble and gallant marquis seemed to wear a more sad and melancholy
expression than it was wont to do, as it swung to and fro, creaking
mournfully in the wind. The blinds were pulled down, and the shutters
partly closed; of the knot of loungers that usually collected about the
door, not one was to be seen; the place was silent and desolate.
Seeing nobody of whom he could ask any preliminary questions, Sam walked
softly in, and glancing round, he quickly recognised his parent in the
distance.
The widower was seated at a small round table in the little room behind
the bar, smoking a pipe, with his eyes intently fixed upon the fire. The
funeral had evidently taken place that day, for attached to his hat,
which he still retained on his head, was a hatband measuring about a
yard and a half in length, which hung over the top rail of the chair and
streamed negligently down. Mr. Weller was in a very abstracted and
contemplative mood. Notwithstanding that Sam called him by name several
times, he still continued to smoke with the same fixed and quiet
countenance, and was only roused ultimately by his son’s placing the
palm of his hand on his shoulder.
‘Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘you’re welcome.’
‘I’ve been a-callin’ to you half a dozen times,’ said Sam, hanging his
hat on a peg, ‘but you didn’t hear me.’
‘No, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller, again looking thoughtfully at the fire.
‘I was in a referee, Sammy.’
‘Wot about?’ inquired Sam, drawing his chair up to the fire.
‘In a referee, Sammy,’ replied the elder Mr. Weller, ‘regarding _her_,
Samivel.’ Here Mr. Weller jerked his head in the direction of Dorking
churchyard, in mute explanation that his words referred to the late Mrs.
Weller.
‘I wos a-thinkin’, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, eyeing his son, with great
earnestness, over his pipe, as if to assure him that however
extraordinary and incredible the declaration might appear, it was
nevertheless calmly and deliberately uttered. ‘I wos a-thinkin’, Sammy,
that upon the whole I wos wery sorry she wos gone.’
‘Vell, and so you ought to be,’ replied Sam.
Mr. Weller nodded his acquiescence in the sentiment, and again fastening
his eyes on the fire, shrouded himself in a cloud, and mused deeply.
‘Those wos wery sensible observations as she made, Sammy,’ said Mr.
Weller, driving the smoke away with his hand, after a long silence.
‘Wot observations?’ inquired Sam.
‘Them as she made, arter she was took ill,’ replied the old gentleman.
‘Wot was they?’
‘Somethin’ to this here effect. “Veller,” she says, “I’m afeered I’ve
not done by you quite wot I ought to have done; you’re a wery kind-
hearted man, and I might ha’ made your home more comfortabler. I begin
to see now,” she says, “ven it’s too late, that if a married ‘ooman
vishes to be religious, she should begin vith dischargin’ her dooties at
home, and makin’ them as is about her cheerful and happy, and that vile
she goes to church, or chapel, or wot not, at all proper times, she
should be wery careful not to con-wert this sort o’ thing into a excuse
for idleness or self-indulgence. I have done this,” she says, “and I’ve
vasted time and substance on them as has done it more than me; but I
hope ven I’m gone, Veller, that you’ll think on me as I wos afore I
know’d them people, and as I raly wos by natur.” ‘“Susan,” says I--I wos
took up wery short by this, Samivel; I von’t deny it, my boy--“Susan,” I
says, “you’ve been a wery good vife to me, altogether; don’t say nothin’
at all about it; keep a good heart, my dear; and you’ll live to see me
punch that ‘ere Stiggins’s head yet.” She smiled at this, Samivel,’ said
the old gentleman, stifling a sigh with his pipe, ‘but she died arter
all!’
‘Vell,’ said Sam, venturing to offer a little homely consolation, after
the lapse of three or four minutes, consumed by the old gentleman in
slowly shaking his head from side to side, and solemnly smoking, ‘vell,
gov’nor, ve must all come to it, one day or another.’
‘So we must, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller the elder.
‘There’s a Providence in it all,’ said Sam.
‘O’ course there is,’ replied his father, with a nod of grave approval.
‘Wot ‘ud become of the undertakers vithout it, Sammy?’
Lost in the immense field of conjecture opened by this reflection, the
elder Mr. Weller laid his pipe on the table, and stirred the fire with a
meditative visage.
While the old gentleman was thus engaged, a very buxom-looking cook,
dressed in mourning, who had been bustling about, in the bar, glided
into the room, and bestowing many smirks of recognition upon Sam,
silently stationed herself at the back of his father’s chair, and
announced her presence by a slight cough, the which, being disregarded,
was followed by a louder one.
‘Hollo!’ said the elder Mr. Weller, dropping the poker as he looked
round, and hastily drew his chair away. ‘Wot’s the matter now?’
‘Have a cup of tea, there’s a good soul,’ replied the buxom female
coaxingly.
‘I von’t,’ replied Mr. Weller, in a somewhat boisterous manner. ‘I’ll
see you--’ Mr. Weller hastily checked himself, and added in a low tone,
‘furder fust.’
‘Oh, dear, dear! How adwersity does change people!’ said the lady,
looking upwards.
‘It’s the only thing ‘twixt this and the doctor as shall change my
condition,’ muttered Mr. Weller.
‘I really never saw a man so cross,’ said the buxom female.
‘Never mind. It’s all for my own good; vich is the reflection vith vich
the penitent school-boy comforted his feelin’s ven they flogged him,’
rejoined the old gentleman.
The buxom female shook her head with a compassionate and sympathising
air; and, appealing to Sam, inquired whether his father really ought not
to make an effort to keep up, and not give way to that lowness of
spirits.
‘You see, Mr. Samuel,’ said the buxom female, ‘as I was telling him
yesterday, he will feel lonely, he can’t expect but what he should, sir,
but he should keep up a good heart, because, dear me, I’m sure we all
pity his loss, and are ready to do anything for him; and there’s no
situation in life so bad, Mr. Samuel, that it can’t be mended. Which is
what a very worthy person said to me when my husband died.’ Here the
speaker, putting her hand before her mouth, coughed again, and looked
affectionately at the elder Mr. Weller.
‘As I don’t rekvire any o’ your conversation just now, mum, vill you
have the goodness to re-tire?’ inquired Mr. Weller, in a grave and
steady voice.
‘Well, Mr. Weller,’ said the buxom female, ‘I’m sure I only spoke to you
out of kindness.’
‘Wery likely, mum,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘Samivel, show the lady out, and
shut the door after her.’
This hint was not lost upon the buxom female; for she at once left the
room, and slammed the door behind her, upon which Mr. Weller, senior,
falling back in his chair in a violent perspiration, said--
‘Sammy, if I wos to stop here alone vun week--only vun week, my boy--
that ‘ere ‘ooman ‘ud marry me by force and wiolence afore it was over.’
‘Wot! is she so wery fond on you?’ inquired Sam.
‘Fond!’ replied his father. ‘I can’t keep her avay from me. If I was
locked up in a fireproof chest vith a patent Brahmin, she’d find means
to get at me, Sammy.’
‘Wot a thing it is to be so sought arter!’ observed Sam, smiling.
‘I don’t take no pride out on it, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller, poking the
fire vehemently, ‘it’s a horrid sitiwation. I’m actiwally drove out o’
house and home by it. The breath was scarcely out o’ your poor mother-
in-law’s body, ven vun old ‘ooman sends me a pot o’ jam, and another a
pot o’ jelly, and another brews a blessed large jug o’ camomile-tea,
vich she brings in vith her own hands.’ Mr. Weller paused with an aspect