The Pickwick Papers
by the button. ‘Good round sum--a man like you could treble it in no
time--great deal to be done with fifty pounds, my dear Sir.’
‘More to be done with a hundred and fifty,’ replied Mr. Jingle coolly.
‘Well, my dear Sir, we won’t waste time in splitting straws,’ resumed
the little man, ‘say--say--seventy.’
Won’t do,’ said Mr. Jingle.
‘Don’t go away, my dear sir--pray don’t hurry,’ said the little man.
‘Eighty; come: I’ll write you a cheque at once.’
‘Won’t do,’ said Mr. Jingle.
‘Well, my dear Sir, well,’ said the little man, still detaining him;
‘just tell me what _will_ do.’
‘Expensive affair,’ said Mr. Jingle. ‘Money out of pocket--posting, nine
pounds; licence, three--that’s twelve--compensation, a hundred--hundred
and twelve--breach of honour--and loss of the lady--’
‘Yes, my dear Sir, yes,’ said the little man, with a knowing look,
‘never mind the last two items. That’s a hundred and twelve--say a
hundred--come.’
‘And twenty,’ said Mr. Jingle.
‘Come, come, I’ll write you a cheque,’ said the little man; and down he
sat at the table for that purpose.
‘I’ll make it payable the day after to-morrow,’ said the little man,
with a look towards Mr. Wardle; ‘and we can get the lady away,
meanwhile.’ Mr. Wardle sullenly nodded assent.
‘A hundred,’ said the little man.
‘And twenty,’ said Mr. Jingle.
‘My dear Sir,’ remonstrated the little man.
‘Give it him,’ interposed Mr. Wardle, ‘and let him go.’
The cheque was written by the little gentleman, and pocketed by Mr.
Jingle.
‘Now, leave this house instantly!’ said Wardle, starting up.
‘My dear Sir,’ urged the little man.
‘And mind,’ said Mr. Wardle, ‘that nothing should have induced me to
make this compromise--not even a regard for my family--if I had not
known that the moment you got any money in that pocket of yours, you’d
go to the devil faster, if possible, than you would without it--’
‘My dear sir,’ urged the little man again.
‘Be quiet, Perker,’ resumed Wardle. ‘Leave the room, Sir.’
‘Off directly,’ said the unabashed Jingle. ‘Bye bye, Pickwick.’
If any dispassionate spectator could have beheld the countenance of the
illustrious man, whose name forms the leading feature of the title of
this work, during the latter part of this conversation, he would have
been almost induced to wonder that the indignant fire which flashed from
his eyes did not melt the glasses of his spectacles--so majestic was his
wrath. His nostrils dilated, and his fists clenched involuntarily, as he
heard himself addressed by the villain. But he restrained himself again-
-he did not pulverise him.
‘Here,’ continued the hardened traitor, tossing the licence at Mr.
Pickwick’s feet; ‘get the name altered--take home the lady--do for
Tuppy.’
Mr. Pickwick was a philosopher, but philosophers are only men in armour,
after all. The shaft had reached him, penetrated through his
philosophical harness, to his very heart. In the frenzy of his rage, he
hurled the inkstand madly forward, and followed it up himself. But Mr.
Jingle had disappeared, and he found himself caught in the arms of Sam.
‘Hollo,’ said that eccentric functionary, ‘furniter’s cheap where you
come from, Sir. Self-acting ink, that ‘ere; it’s wrote your mark upon
the wall, old gen’l’m’n. Hold still, Sir; wot’s the use o’ runnin’ arter
a man as has made his lucky, and got to t’other end of the Borough by
this time?’
Mr. Pickwick’s mind, like those of all truly great men, was open to
conviction. He was a quick and powerful reasoner; and a moment’s
reflection sufficed to remind him of the impotency of his rage. It
subsided as quickly as it had been roused. He panted for breath, and
looked benignantly round upon his friends.
Shall we tell the lamentations that ensued when Miss Wardle found
herself deserted by the faithless Jingle? Shall we extract Mr.
Pickwick’s masterly description of that heartrending scene? His note-
book, blotted with the tears of sympathising humanity, lies open before
us; one word, and it is in the printer’s hands. But, no! we will be
resolute! We will not wring the public bosom, with the delineation of
such suffering!
Slowly and sadly did the two friends and the deserted lady return next
day in the Muggleton heavy coach. Dimly and darkly had the sombre
shadows of a summer’s night fallen upon all around, when they again
reached Dingley Dell, and stood within the entrance to Manor Farm.
CHAPTER XI. INVOLVING ANOTHER JOURNEY, AND AN ANTIQUARIAN DISCOVERY;
RECORDING MR. PICKWICK’S DETERMINATION TO BE PRESENT AT AN ELECTION; AND
CONTAINING A MANUSCRIPT OF THE OLD CLERGYMAN’S
A night of quiet and repose in the profound silence of Dingley Dell, and
an hour’s breathing of its fresh and fragrant air on the ensuing
morning, completely recovered Mr. Pickwick from the effects of his late
fatigue of body and anxiety of mind. That illustrious man had been
separated from his friends and followers for two whole days; and it was
with a degree of pleasure and delight, which no common imagination can
adequately conceive, that he stepped forward to greet Mr. Winkle and Mr.
Snodgrass, as he encountered those gentlemen on his return from his
early walk. The pleasure was mutual; for who could ever gaze on Mr.
Pickwick’s beaming face without experiencing the sensation? But still a
cloud seemed to hang over his companions which that great man could not
but be sensible of, and was wholly at a loss to account for. There was a
mysterious air about them both, as unusual as it was alarming.
‘And how,’ said Mr. Pickwick, when he had grasped his followers by the
hand, and exchanged warm salutations of welcome--‘how is Tupman?’
Mr. Winkle, to whom the question was more peculiarly addressed, made no
reply. He turned away his head, and appeared absorbed in melancholy
reflection.
‘Snodgrass,’ said Mr. Pickwick earnestly, ‘how is our friend--he is not
ill?’
‘No,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass; and a tear trembled on his sentimental
eyelid, like a rain-drop on a window-frame--‘no; he is not ill.’
Mr. Pickwick stopped, and gazed on each of his friends in turn.
‘Winkle--Snodgrass,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘what does this mean? Where is
our friend? What has happened? Speak--I conjure, I entreat--nay, I
command you, speak.’
There was a solemnity--a dignity--in Mr. Pickwick’s manner, not to be
withstood.
‘He is gone,’ said Mr. Snodgrass.
‘Gone!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. ‘Gone!’
‘Gone,’ repeated Mr. Snodgrass.
‘Where!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick.
‘We can only guess, from that communication,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass,
taking a letter from his pocket, and placing it in his friend’s hand.
‘Yesterday morning, when a letter was received from Mr. Wardle, stating
that you would be home with his sister at night, the melancholy which
had hung over our friend during the whole of the previous day, was
observed to increase. He shortly afterwards disappeared: he was missing
during the whole day, and in the evening this letter was brought by the
hostler from the Crown, at Muggleton. It had been left in his charge in
the morning, with a strict injunction that it should not be delivered
until night.’
Mr. Pickwick opened the epistle. It was in his friend’s hand-writing,
and these were its contents:--
‘MY DEAR PICKWICK,--_You_, my dear friend, are placed far beyond the
reach of many mortal frailties and weaknesses which ordinary people
cannot overcome. You do not know what it is, at one blow, to be deserted
by a lovely and fascinating creature, and to fall a victim to the
artifices of a villain, who had the grin of cunning beneath the mask of
friendship. I hope you never may.
‘Any letter addressed to me at the Leather Bottle, Cobham, Kent, will be
forwarded--supposing I still exist. I hasten from the sight of that
world, which has become odious to me. Should I hasten from it
altogether, pity--forgive me. Life, my dear Pickwick, has become
insupportable to me. The spirit which burns within us, is a porter’s
knot, on which to rest the heavy load of worldly cares and troubles; and
when that spirit fails us, the burden is too heavy to be borne. We sink
beneath it. You may tell Rachael--Ah, that name!--
‘TRACY TUPMAN.’
‘We must leave this place directly,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as he refolded
the note. ‘It would not have been decent for us to remain here, under
any circumstances, after what has happened; and now we are bound to
follow in search of our friend.’ And so saying, he led the way to the
house.
His intention was rapidly communicated. The entreaties to remain were
pressing, but Mr. Pickwick was inflexible. Business, he said, required
his immediate attendance.
The old clergyman was present.
‘You are not really going?’ said he, taking Mr. Pickwick aside.
Mr. Pickwick reiterated his former determination.
‘Then here,’ said the old gentleman, ‘is a little manuscript, which I
had hoped to have the pleasure of reading to you myself. I found it on
the death of a friend of mine--a medical man, engaged in our county
lunatic asylum--among a variety of papers, which I had the option of
destroying or preserving, as I thought proper. I can hardly believe that
the manuscript is genuine, though it certainly is not in my friend’s
hand. However, whether it be the genuine production of a maniac, or
founded upon the ravings of some unhappy being (which I think more
probable), read it, and judge for yourself.’
Mr. Pickwick received the manuscript, and parted from the benevolent old
gentleman with many expressions of good-will and esteem.
It was a more difficult task to take leave of the inmates of Manor Farm,
from whom they had received so much hospitality and kindness. Mr.
Pickwick kissed the young ladies--we were going to say, as if they were
his own daughters, only, as he might possibly have infused a little more
warmth into the salutation, the comparison would not be quite
appropriate--hugged the old lady with filial cordiality; and patted the
rosy cheeks of the female servants in a most patriarchal manner, as he
slipped into the hands of each some more substantial expression of his
approval. The exchange of cordialities with their fine old host and Mr.
Trundle was even more hearty and prolonged; and it was not until Mr.
Snodgrass had been several times called for, and at last emerged from a
dark passage followed soon after by Emily (whose bright eyes looked
unusually dim), that the three friends were enabled to tear themselves
from their friendly entertainers. Many a backward look they gave at the
farm, as they walked slowly away; and many a kiss did Mr. Snodgrass waft
in the air, in acknowledgment of something very like a lady’s
handkerchief, which was waved from one of the upper windows, until a
turn of the lane hid the old house from their sight.
At Muggleton they procured a conveyance to Rochester. By the time they
reached the last-named place, the violence of their grief had
sufficiently abated to admit of their making a very excellent early
dinner; and having procured the necessary information relative to the
road, the three friends set forward again in the afternoon to walk to
Cobham.
A delightful walk it was; for it was a pleasant afternoon in June, and
their way lay through a deep and shady wood, cooled by the light wind
which gently rustled the thick foliage, and enlivened by the songs of
the birds that perched upon the boughs. The ivy and the moss crept in
thick clusters over the old trees, and the soft green turf overspread
the ground like a silken mat. They emerged upon an open park, with an
ancient hall, displaying the quaint and picturesque architecture of
Elizabeth’s time. Long vistas of stately oaks and elm trees appeared on
every side; large herds of deer were cropping the fresh grass; and