The Pickwick Papers
‘“How are you, old boy?” said Tom. He was bolder in the daylight--most
men are.
‘The chair remained motionless, and spoke not a word.
‘“Miserable morning,” said Tom. No. The chair would not be drawn into
conversation.
‘“Which press did you point to?--you can tell me that,” said Tom. Devil
a word, gentlemen, the chair would say.
‘“It’s not much trouble to open it, anyhow,” said Tom, getting out of
bed very deliberately. He walked up to one of the presses. The key was
in the lock; he turned it, and opened the door. There was a pair of
trousers there. He put his hand into the pocket, and drew forth the
identical letter the old gentleman had described!
‘“Queer sort of thing, this,” said Tom Smart, looking first at the chair
and then at the press, and then at the letter, and then at the chair
again. “Very queer,” said Tom. But, as there was nothing in either, to
lessen the queerness, he thought he might as well dress himself, and
settle the tall man’s business at once--just to put him out of his
misery.
‘Tom surveyed the rooms he passed through, on his way downstairs, with
the scrutinising eye of a landlord; thinking it not impossible, that
before long, they and their contents would be his property. The tall man
was standing in the snug little bar, with his hands behind him, quite at
home. He grinned vacantly at Tom. A casual observer might have supposed
he did it, only to show his white teeth; but Tom Smart thought that a
consciousness of triumph was passing through the place where the tall
man’s mind would have been, if he had had any. Tom laughed in his face;
and summoned the landlady.
‘“Good-morning ma’am,” said Tom Smart, closing the door of the little
parlour as the widow entered.
‘“Good-morning, Sir,” said the widow. “What will you take for breakfast,
sir?”
‘Tom was thinking how he should open the case, so he made no answer.
‘“There’s a very nice ham,” said the widow, “and a beautiful cold larded
fowl. Shall I send ‘em in, Sir?”
‘These words roused Tom from his reflections. His admiration of the
widow increased as she spoke. Thoughtful creature! Comfortable provider!
‘“Who is that gentleman in the bar, ma’am?” inquired Tom.
‘“His name is Jinkins, Sir,” said the widow, slightly blushing.
‘“He’s a tall man,” said Tom.
‘“He is a very fine man, Sir,” replied the widow, “and a very nice
gentleman.”
‘“Ah!” said Tom.
‘“Is there anything more you want, Sir?” inquired the widow, rather
puzzled by Tom’s manner.
‘“Why, yes,” said Tom. “My dear ma’am, will you have the kindness to sit
down for one moment?”
‘The widow looked much amazed, but she sat down, and Tom sat down too,
close beside her. I don’t know how it happened, gentlemen--indeed my
uncle used to tell me that Tom Smart said he didn’t know how it happened
either--but somehow or other the palm of Tom’s hand fell upon the back
of the widow’s hand, and remained there while he spoke.
‘“My dear ma’am,” said Tom Smart--he had always a great notion of
committing the amiable--“my dear ma’am, you deserve a very excellent
husband--you do indeed.”
‘“Lor, Sir!” said the widow--as well she might; Tom’s mode of commencing
the conversation being rather unusual, not to say startling; the fact of
his never having set eyes upon her before the previous night being taken
into consideration. “Lor, Sir!”
‘“I scorn to flatter, my dear ma’am,” said Tom Smart. “You deserve a
very admirable husband, and whoever he is, he’ll be a very lucky man.”
As Tom said this, his eye involuntarily wandered from the widow’s face
to the comfort around him.
‘The widow looked more puzzled than ever, and made an effort to rise.
Tom gently pressed her hand, as if to detain her, and she kept her seat.
Widows, gentlemen, are not usually timorous, as my uncle used to say.
‘“I am sure I am very much obliged to you, Sir, for your good opinion,”
said the buxom landlady, half laughing; “and if ever I marry again--”
’”_If_,” said Tom Smart, looking very shrewdly out of the right-hand
corner of his left eye. “_If_--”
“Well,” said the widow, laughing outright this time, “_when _I do, I
hope I shall have as good a husband as you describe.”
‘“Jinkins, to wit,” said Tom.
‘“Lor, sir!” exclaimed the widow.
‘“Oh, don’t tell me,” said Tom, “I know him.”
‘“I am sure nobody who knows him, knows anything bad of him,” said the
widow, bridling up at the mysterious air with which Tom had spoken.
‘“Hem!” said Tom Smart.
‘The widow began to think it was high time to cry, so she took out her
handkerchief, and inquired whether Tom wished to insult her, whether he
thought it like a gentleman to take away the character of another
gentleman behind his back, why, if he had got anything to say, he didn’t
say it to the man, like a man, instead of terrifying a poor weak woman
in that way; and so forth.
‘“I’ll say it to him fast enough,” said Tom, “only I want you to hear it
first.”
‘“What is it?” inquired the widow, looking intently in Tom’s
countenance.
‘“I’ll astonish you,” said Tom, putting his hand in his pocket.
‘“If it is, that he wants money,” said the widow, “I know that already,
and you needn’t trouble yourself.” ‘“Pooh, nonsense, that’s nothing,”
said Tom Smart, “I want money. ‘Tain’t that.”
‘“Oh, dear, what can it be?” exclaimed the poor widow.
‘“Don’t be frightened,” said Tom Smart. He slowly drew forth the letter,
and unfolded it. “You won’t scream?” said Tom doubtfully.
‘“No, no,” replied the widow; “let me see it.”
‘“You won’t go fainting away, or any of that nonsense?” said Tom.
‘“No, no,” returned the widow hastily.
‘“And don’t run out, and blow him up,” said Tom; “because I’ll do all
that for you. You had better not exert yourself.”
‘“Well, well,” said the widow, “let me see it.”
‘“I will,” replied Tom Smart; and, with these words, he placed the
letter in the widow’s hand.
‘Gentlemen, I have heard my uncle say, that Tom Smart said the widow’s
lamentations when she heard the disclosure would have pierced a heart of
stone. Tom was certainly very tender-hearted, but they pierced his, to
the very core. The widow rocked herself to and fro, and wrung her hands.
‘“Oh, the deception and villainy of the man!” said the widow.
‘“Frightful, my dear ma’am; but compose yourself,” said Tom Smart.
‘“Oh, I can’t compose myself,” shrieked the widow. “I shall never find
anyone else I can love so much!”
‘“Oh, yes you will, my dear soul,” said Tom Smart, letting fall a shower
of the largest-sized tears, in pity for the widow’s misfortunes. Tom
Smart, in the energy of his compassion, had put his arm round the
widow’s waist; and the widow, in a passion of grief, had clasped Tom’s
hand. She looked up in Tom’s face, and smiled through her tears. Tom
looked down in hers, and smiled through his.
‘I never could find out, gentlemen, whether Tom did or did not kiss the
widow at that particular moment. He used to tell my uncle he didn’t, but
I have my doubts about it. Between ourselves, gentlemen, I rather think
he did.
‘At all events, Tom kicked the very tall man out at the front door half
an hour later, and married the widow a month after. And he used to drive
about the country, with the clay-coloured gig with the red wheels, and
the vixenish mare with the fast pace, till he gave up business many
years afterwards, and went to France with his wife; and then the old
house was pulled down.’
‘Will you allow me to ask you,’ said the inquisitive old gentleman,
‘what became of the chair?’
‘Why,’ replied the one-eyed bagman, ‘it was observed to creak very much
on the day of the wedding; but Tom Smart couldn’t say for certain
whether it was with pleasure or bodily infirmity. He rather thought it
was the latter, though, for it never spoke afterwards.’
‘Everybody believed the story, didn’t they?’ said the dirty-faced man,
refilling his pipe.
‘Except Tom’s enemies,’ replied the bagman. ‘Some of ‘em said Tom
invented it altogether; and others said he was drunk and fancied it, and
got hold of the wrong trousers by mistake before he went to bed. But
nobody ever minded what _they _said.’
‘Tom Smart said it was all true?’
‘Every word.’
‘And your uncle?’
‘Every letter.’
‘They must have been very nice men, both of ‘em,’ said the dirty-faced
man.
‘Yes, they were,’ replied the bagman; ‘very nice men indeed!’
CHAPTER XV. IN WHICH IS GIVEN A FAITHFUL PORTRAITURE OF TWO
DISTINGUISHED PERSONS; AND AN ACCURATE DESCRIPTION OF A PUBLIC BREAKFAST
IN THEIR HOUSE AND GROUNDS: WHICH PUBLIC BREAKFAST LEADS TO THE
RECOGNITION OF AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE, AND THE COMMENCEMENT OF ANOTHER
CHAPTER
Mr. Pickwick’s conscience had been somewhat reproaching him for his
recent neglect of his friends at the Peacock; and he was just on the
point of walking forth in quest of them, on the third morning after the
election had terminated, when his faithful valet put into his hand a
card, on which was engraved the following inscription:--
Mrs. Leo Hunter THE DEN. EATANSWILL.
‘Person’s a-waitin’,’ said Sam, epigrammatically.
‘Does the person want me, Sam?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘He wants you partickler; and no one else ‘ll do, as the devil’s private
secretary said ven he fetched avay Doctor Faustus,’ replied Mr. Weller.
‘_He_. Is it a gentleman?’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘A wery good imitation o’ one, if it ain’t,’ replied Mr. Weller.
‘But this is a lady’s card,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Given me by a gen’l’m’n, howsoever,’ replied Sam, ‘and he’s a-waitin’
in the drawing-room--said he’d rather wait all day, than not see you.’
Mr. Pickwick, on hearing this determination, descended to the drawing-
room, where sat a grave man, who started up on his entrance, and said,
with an air of profound respect:--
‘Mr. Pickwick, I presume?’
‘The same.’
‘Allow me, Sir, the honour of grasping your hand. Permit me, Sir, to
shake it,’ said the grave man.
‘Certainly,’ said Mr. Pickwick. The stranger shook the extended hand,
and then continued--
‘We have heard of your fame, sir. The noise of your antiquarian
discussion has reached the ears of Mrs. Leo Hunter--my wife, sir; I am
Mr. Leo Hunter’--the stranger paused, as if he expected that Mr.
Pickwick would be overcome by the disclosure; but seeing that he
remained perfectly calm, proceeded--
‘My wife, sir--Mrs. Leo Hunter--is proud to number among her
acquaintance all those who have rendered themselves celebrated by their
works and talents. Permit me, sir, to place in a conspicuous part of the
list the name of Mr. Pickwick, and his brother-members of the club that
derives its name from him.’
‘I shall be extremely happy to make the acquaintance of such a lady,
sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.
‘You _shall _make it, sir,’ said the grave man. ‘To-morrow morning, sir,
we give a public breakfast--a _fete champetre_--to a great number of
those who have rendered themselves celebrated by their works and
talents. Permit Mrs. Leo Hunter, Sir, to have the gratification of
seeing you at the Den.’
‘With great pleasure,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.
‘Mrs. Leo Hunter has many of these breakfasts, Sir,’ resumed the new
acquaintance--‘“feasts of reason,” sir, “and flows of soul,” as somebody
who wrote a sonnet to Mrs. Leo Hunter on her breakfasts, feelingly and
originally observed.’
‘Was _he_ celebrated for his works and talents?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘He was Sir,’ replied the grave man, ‘all Mrs. Leo Hunter’s
acquaintances are; it is her ambition, sir, to have no other
acquaintance.’
‘It is a very noble ambition,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘When I inform Mrs. Leo Hunter, that that remark fell from your lips,
sir, she will indeed be proud,’ said the grave man. ‘You have a
gentleman in your train, who has produced some beautiful little poems, I
think, sir.’