The Pickwick Papers
continuing to be cruel, that it wanted only half an hour of dinner when
Mr. Snodgrass took his final adieu. The ladies ran to Emily’s bedroom to
dress, and the lover, taking up his hat, walked out of the room. He had
scarcely got outside the door, when he heard Wardle’s voice talking
loudly, and looking over the banisters beheld him, followed by some
other gentlemen, coming straight upstairs. Knowing nothing of the house,
Mr. Snodgrass in his confusion stepped hastily back into the room he had
just quitted, and passing thence into an inner apartment (Mr. Wardle’s
bedchamber), closed the door softly, just as the persons he had caught a
glimpse of entered the sitting-room. These were Mr. Wardle, Mr.
Pickwick, Mr. Nathaniel Winkle, and Mr. Benjamin Allen, whom he had no
difficulty in recognising by their voices.
‘Very lucky I had the presence of mind to avoid them,’ thought Mr.
Snodgrass with a smile, and walking on tiptoe to another door near the
bedside; ‘this opens into the same passage, and I can walk quietly and
comfortably away.’
There was only one obstacle to his walking quietly and comfortably away,
which was that the door was locked and the key gone.
‘Let us have some of your best wine to-day, waiter,’ said old Wardle,
rubbing his hands.
‘You shall have some of the very best, sir,’ replied the waiter.
‘Let the ladies know we have come in.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Devoutly and ardently did Mr. Snodgrass wish that the ladies could know
he had come in. He ventured once to whisper, ‘Waiter!’ through the
keyhole, but the probability of the wrong waiter coming to his relief,
flashed upon his mind, together with a sense of the strong resemblance
between his own situation and that in which another gentleman had been
recently found in a neighbouring hotel (an account of whose misfortunes
had appeared under the head of ‘Police’ in that morning’s paper), he sat
himself on a portmanteau, and trembled violently.
‘We won’t wait a minute for Perker,’ said Wardle, looking at his watch;
‘he is always exact. He will be here, in time, if he means to come; and
if he does not, it’s of no use waiting. Ha! Arabella!’
‘My sister!’ exclaimed Mr. Benjamin Allen, folding her in a most
romantic embrace.
‘Oh, Ben, dear, how you do smell of tobacco,’ said Arabella, rather
overcome by this mark of affection.
‘Do I?’ said Mr. Benjamin Allen. ‘Do I, Bella? Well, perhaps I do.’
Perhaps he did, having just left a pleasant little smoking-party of
twelve medical students, in a small back parlour with a large fire.
‘But I am delighted to see you,’ said Mr. Ben Allen. ‘Bless you, Bella!’
‘There,’ said Arabella, bending forward to kiss her brother; ‘don’t take
hold of me again, Ben, dear, because you tumble me so.’
At this point of the reconciliation, Mr. Ben Allen allowed his feelings
and the cigars and porter to overcome him, and looked round upon the
beholders with damp spectacles.
‘Is nothing to be said to me?’ cried Wardle, with open arms.
‘A great deal,’ whispered Arabella, as she received the old gentleman’s
hearty caress and congratulation. ‘You are a hard-hearted, unfeeling,
cruel monster.’
‘You are a little rebel,’ replied Wardle, in the same tone, ‘and I am
afraid I shall be obliged to forbid you the house. People like you, who
get married in spite of everybody, ought not to be let loose on society.
But come!’ added the old gentleman aloud, ‘here’s the dinner; you shall
sit by me. Joe; why, damn the boy, he’s awake!’
To the great distress of his master, the fat boy was indeed in a state
of remarkable vigilance, his eyes being wide open, and looking as if
they intended to remain so. There was an alacrity in his manner, too,
which was equally unaccountable; every time his eyes met those of Emily
or Arabella, he smirked and grinned; once, Wardle could have sworn, he
saw him wink.
This alteration in the fat boy’s demeanour originated in his increased
sense of his own importance, and the dignity he acquired from having
been taken into the confidence of the young ladies; and the smirks, and
grins, and winks were so many condescending assurances that they might
depend upon his fidelity. As these tokens were rather calculated to
awaken suspicion than allay it, and were somewhat embarrassing besides,
they were occasionally answered by a frown or shake of the head from
Arabella, which the fat boy, considering as hints to be on his guard,
expressed his perfect understanding of, by smirking, grinning, and
winking, with redoubled assiduity.
‘Joe,’ said Mr. Wardle, after an unsuccessful search in all his pockets,
‘is my snuff-box on the sofa?’
‘No, sir,’ replied the fat boy.
‘Oh, I recollect; I left it on my dressing-table this morning,’ said
Wardle. ‘Run into the next room and fetch it.’
The fat boy went into the next room; and, having been absent about a
minute, returned with the snuff-box, and the palest face that ever a fat
boy wore.
‘What’s the matter with the boy?’ exclaimed Wardle.
‘Nothen’s the matter with me,’ replied Joe nervously.
‘Have you been seeing any spirits?’ inquired the old gentleman.
‘Or taking any?’ added Ben Allen.
‘I think you’re right,’ whispered Wardle across the table. ‘He is
intoxicated, I’m sure.’
Ben Allen replied that he thought he was; and, as that gentleman had
seen a vast deal of the disease in question, Wardle was confirmed in an
impression which had been hovering about his mind for half an hour, and
at once arrived at the conclusion that the fat boy was drunk.
‘Just keep your eye upon him for a few minutes,’ murmured Wardle. ‘We
shall soon find out whether he is or not.’
The unfortunate youth had only interchanged a dozen words with Mr.
Snodgrass, that gentleman having implored him to make a private appeal
to some friend to release him, and then pushed him out with the snuff-
box, lest his prolonged absence should lead to a discovery. He ruminated
a little with a most disturbed expression of face, and left the room in
search of Mary.
But Mary had gone home after dressing her mistress, and the fat boy came
back again more disturbed than before.
Wardle and Mr. Ben Allen exchanged glances.
‘Joe!’ said Wardle.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What did you go away for?’
The fat boy looked hopelessly in the face of everybody at table, and
stammered out that he didn’t know.
‘Oh,’ said Wardle, ‘you don’t know, eh? Take this cheese to Mr.
Pickwick.’
Now, Mr. Pickwick being in the very best health and spirits, had been
making himself perfectly delightful all dinner-time, and was at this
moment engaged in an energetic conversation with Emily and Mr. Winkle;
bowing his head, courteously, in the emphasis of his discourse, gently
waving his left hand to lend force to his observations, and all glowing
with placid smiles. He took a piece of cheese from the plate, and was on
the point of turning round to renew the conversation, when the fat boy,
stooping so as to bring his head on a level with that of Mr. Pickwick,
pointed with his thumb over his shoulder, and made the most horrible and
hideous face that was ever seen out of a Christmas pantomime.
‘Dear me!’ said Mr. Pickwick, starting, ‘what a very--Eh?’ He stopped,
for the fat boy had drawn himself up, and was, or pretended to be, fast
asleep.
‘What’s the matter?’ inquired Wardle.
‘This is such an extremely singular lad!’ replied Mr. Pickwick, looking
uneasily at the boy. ‘It seems an odd thing to say, but upon my word I
am afraid that, at times, he is a little deranged.’
‘Oh! Mr. Pickwick, pray don’t say so,’ cried Emily and Arabella, both at
once.
‘I am not certain, of course,’ said Mr. Pickwick, amidst profound
silence and looks of general dismay; ‘but his manner to me this moment
really was very alarming. Oh!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, suddenly jumping
up with a short scream. ‘I beg your pardon, ladies, but at that moment
he ran some sharp instrument into my leg. Really, he is not safe.’
‘He’s drunk,’ roared old Wardle passionately. ‘Ring the bell! Call the
waiters! He’s drunk.’
‘I ain’t,’ said the fat boy, falling on his knees as his master seized
him by the collar. ‘I ain’t drunk.’
‘Then you’re mad; that’s worse. Call the waiters,’ said the old
gentleman.
‘I ain’t mad; I’m sensible,’ rejoined the fat boy, beginning to cry.
‘Then, what the devil did you run sharp instruments into Mr. Pickwick’s
legs for?’ inquired Wardle angrily.
‘He wouldn’t look at me,’ replied the boy. ‘I wanted to speak to him.’
‘What did you want to say?’ asked half a dozen voices at once.
The fat boy gasped, looked at the bedroom door, gasped again, and wiped
two tears away with the knuckle of each of his forefingers.
‘What did you want to say?’ demanded Wardle, shaking him.
‘Stop!’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘allow me. What did you wish to communicate
to me, my poor boy?’
‘I want to whisper to you,’ replied the fat boy.
‘You want to bite his ear off, I suppose,’ said Wardle. ‘Don’t come near
him; he’s vicious; ring the bell, and let him be taken downstairs.’
Just as Mr. Winkle caught the bell-rope in his hand, it was arrested by
a general expression of astonishment; the captive lover, his face
burning with confusion, suddenly walked in from the bedroom, and made a
comprehensive bow to the company.
‘Hollo!’ cried Wardle, releasing the fat boy’s collar, and staggering
back. ‘What’s this?’
‘I have been concealed in the next room, sir, since you returned,’
explained Mr. Snodgrass.
‘Emily, my girl,’ said Wardle reproachfully, ‘I detest meanness and
deceit; this is unjustifiable and indelicate in the highest degree. I
don’t deserve this at your hands, Emily, indeed!’
‘Dear papa,’ said Emily, ‘Arabella knows--everybody here knows--Joe
knows--that I was no party to this concealment. Augustus, for Heaven’s
sake, explain it!’
Mr. Snodgrass, who had only waited for a hearing, at once recounted how
he had been placed in his then distressing predicament; how the fear of
giving rise to domestic dissensions had alone prompted him to avoid Mr.
Wardle on his entrance; how he merely meant to depart by another door,
but, finding it locked, had been compelled to stay against his will. It
was a painful situation to be placed in; but he now regretted it the
less, inasmuch as it afforded him an opportunity of acknowledging,
before their mutual friends, that he loved Mr. Wardle’s daughter deeply
and sincerely; that he was proud to avow that the feeling was mutual;
and that if thousands of miles were placed between them, or oceans
rolled their waters, he could never for an instant forget those happy
days, when first--et cetera, et cetera.
Having delivered himself to this effect, Mr. Snodgrass bowed again,
looked into the crown of his hat, and stepped towards the door.
‘Stop!’ shouted Wardle. ‘Why, in the name of all that’s--’
‘Inflammable,’ mildly suggested Mr. Pickwick, who thought something
worse was coming.
‘Well--that’s inflammable,’ said Wardle, adopting the substitute;
‘couldn’t you say all this to me in the first instance?’
‘Or confide in me?’ added Mr. Pickwick.
‘Dear, dear,’ said Arabella, taking up the defence, ‘what is the use of
asking all that now, especially when you know you had set your covetous
old heart on a richer son-in-law, and are so wild and fierce besides,
that everybody is afraid of you, except me? Shake hands with him, and
order him some dinner, for goodness gracious’ sake, for he looks half
starved; and pray have your wine up at once, for you’ll not be tolerable
until you have taken two bottles at least.’
The worthy old gentleman pulled Arabella’s ear, kissed her without the
smallest scruple, kissed his daughter also with great affection, and
shook Mr. Snodgrass warmly by the hand.
‘She is right on one point at all events,’ said the old gentleman