The Pickwick Papers
like such an unpleasant discovery to be made before more persons than
can possibly be helped. The young lady, too, sir--consider her
feelings.’
‘You are very right,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘The consideration evinces your
delicacy of feeling. Go on; you are very right.’
‘Well, sir, I have been thinking that if you were waiting in the back
garden alone, and I was to let you in, at the door which opens into it,
from the end of the passage, at exactly half-past eleven o’clock, you
would be just in the very moment of time to assist me in frustrating the
designs of this bad man, by whom I have been unfortunately ensnared.’
Here Mr. Trotter sighed deeply.
‘Don’t distress yourself on that account,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘if he had
one grain of the delicacy of feeling which distinguishes you, humble as
your station is, I should have some hopes of him.’
Job Trotter bowed low; and in spite of Mr. Weller’s previous
remonstrance, the tears again rose to his eyes.
‘I never see such a feller,’ said Sam, ‘Blessed if I don’t think he’s
got a main in his head as is always turned on.’
‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with great severity, ‘hold your tongue.’
‘Wery well, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.
‘I don’t like this plan,’ said Mr. Pickwick, after deep meditation. ‘Why
cannot I communicate with the young lady’s friends?’
‘Because they live one hundred miles from here, sir,’ responded Job
Trotter.
‘That’s a clincher,’ said Mr. Weller, aside.
‘Then this garden,’ resumed Mr. Pickwick. ‘How am I to get into it?’
‘The wall is very low, sir, and your servant will give you a leg up.’
My servant will give me a leg up,’ repeated Mr. Pickwick mechanically.
‘You will be sure to be near this door that you speak of?’
‘You cannot mistake it, Sir; it’s the only one that opens into the
garden. Tap at it when you hear the clock strike, and I will open it
instantly.’
‘I don’t like the plan,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘but as I see no other, and
as the happiness of this young lady’s whole life is at stake, I adopt
it. I shall be sure to be there.’
Thus, for the second time, did Mr. Pickwick’s innate good-feeling
involve him in an enterprise from which he would most willingly have
stood aloof.
‘What is the name of the house?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘Westgate House, Sir. You turn a little to the right when you get to the
end of the town; it stands by itself, some little distance off the high
road, with the name on a brass plate on the gate.’
‘I know it,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘I observed it once before, when I was
in this town. You may depend upon me.’
Mr. Trotter made another bow, and turned to depart, when Mr. Pickwick
thrust a guinea into his hand.
‘You’re a fine fellow,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘and I admire your goodness
of heart. No thanks. Remember--eleven o’clock.’
‘There is no fear of my forgetting it, sir,’ replied Job Trotter. With
these words he left the room, followed by Sam.
‘I say,’ said the latter, ‘not a bad notion that ‘ere crying. I’d cry
like a rain-water spout in a shower on such good terms. How do you do
it?’
‘It comes from the heart, Mr. Walker,’ replied Job solemnly. ‘Good-
morning, sir.’
‘You’re a soft customer, you are; we’ve got it all out o’ you, anyhow,’
thought Mr. Weller, as Job walked away.
We cannot state the precise nature of the thoughts which passed through
Mr. Trotter’s mind, because we don’t know what they were.
The day wore on, evening came, and at a little before ten o’clock Sam
Weller reported that Mr. Jingle and Job had gone out together, that
their luggage was packed up, and that they had ordered a chaise. The
plot was evidently in execution, as Mr. Trotter had foretold.
Half-past ten o’clock arrived, and it was time for Mr. Pickwick to issue
forth on his delicate errand. Resisting Sam’s tender of his greatcoat,
in order that he might have no encumbrance in scaling the wall, he set
forth, followed by his attendant.
There was a bright moon, but it was behind the clouds. It was a fine dry
night, but it was most uncommonly dark. Paths, hedges, fields, houses,
and trees, were enveloped in one deep shade. The atmosphere was hot and
sultry, the summer lightning quivered faintly on the verge of the
horizon, and was the only sight that varied the dull gloom in which
everything was wrapped--sound there was none, except the distant barking
of some restless house-dog.
They found the house, read the brass plate, walked round the wall, and
stopped at that portion of it which divided them from the bottom of the
garden.
‘You will return to the inn, Sam, when you have assisted me over,’ said
Mr. Pickwick.
‘Wery well, Sir.’
‘And you will sit up, till I return.’
‘Cert’nly, Sir.’
‘Take hold of my leg; and, when I say “Over,” raise me gently.’
‘All right, sir.’
Having settled these preliminaries, Mr. Pickwick grasped the top of the
wall, and gave the word ‘Over,’ which was literally obeyed. Whether his
body partook in some degree of the elasticity of his mind, or whether
Mr. Weller’s notions of a gentle push were of a somewhat rougher
description than Mr. Pickwick’s, the immediate effect of his assistance
was to jerk that immortal gentleman completely over the wall on to the
bed beneath, where, after crushing three gooseberry-bushes and a rose-
tree, he finally alighted at full length.
‘You ha’n’t hurt yourself, I hope, Sir?’ said Sam, in a loud whisper, as
soon as he had recovered from the surprise consequent upon the
mysterious disappearance of his master.
‘I have not hurt _myself_, Sam, certainly,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, from
the other side of the wall, ‘but I rather think that _you _have hurt
me.’
‘I hope not, Sir,’ said Sam.
‘Never mind,’ said Mr. Pickwick, rising, ‘it’s nothing but a few
scratches. Go away, or we shall be overheard.’
‘Good-bye, Sir.’
‘Good-bye.’
With stealthy steps Sam Weller departed, leaving Mr. Pickwick alone in
the garden.
Lights occasionally appeared in the different windows of the house, or
glanced from the staircases, as if the inmates were retiring to rest.
Not caring to go too near the door, until the appointed time, Mr.
Pickwick crouched into an angle of the wall, and awaited its arrival.
It was a situation which might well have depressed the spirits of many a
man. Mr. Pickwick, however, felt neither depression nor misgiving. He
knew that his purpose was in the main a good one, and he placed implicit
reliance on the high-minded Job. It was dull, certainly; not to say
dreary; but a contemplative man can always employ himself in meditation.
Mr. Pickwick had meditated himself into a doze, when he was roused by
the chimes of the neighbouring church ringing out the hour--half-past
eleven.
‘That’s the time,’ thought Mr. Pickwick, getting cautiously on his feet.
He looked up at the house. The lights had disappeared, and the shutters
were closed--all in bed, no doubt. He walked on tiptoe to the door, and
gave a gentle tap. Two or three minutes passing without any reply, he
gave another tap rather louder, and then another rather louder than
that.
At length the sound of feet was audible upon the stairs, and then the
light of a candle shone through the keyhole of the door. There was a
good deal of unchaining and unbolting, and the door was slowly opened.
Now the door opened outwards; and as the door opened wider and wider,
Mr. Pickwick receded behind it, more and more. What was his astonishment
when he just peeped out, by way of caution, to see that the person who
had opened it was--not Job Trotter, but a servant-girl with a candle in
her hand! Mr. Pickwick drew in his head again, with the swiftness
displayed by that admirable melodramatic performer, Punch, when he lies
in wait for the flat-headed comedian with the tin box of music.
‘It must have been the cat, Sarah,’ said the girl, addressing herself to
some one in the house. ‘Puss, puss, puss,--tit, tit, tit.’
But no animal being decoyed by these blandishments, the girl slowly
closed the door, and re-fastened it; leaving Mr. Pickwick drawn up
straight against the wall.
‘This is very curious,’ thought Mr. Pickwick. ‘They are sitting up
beyond their usual hour, I suppose. Extremely unfortunate, that they
should have chosen this night, of all others, for such a purpose--
exceedingly.’ And with these thoughts, Mr. Pickwick cautiously retired
to the angle of the wall in which he had been before ensconced; waiting
until such time as he might deem it safe to repeat the signal.
He had not been here five minutes, when a vivid flash of lightning was
followed by a loud peal of thunder that crashed and rolled away in the
distance with a terrific noise--then came another flash of lightning,
brighter than the other, and a second peal of thunder louder than the
first; and then down came the rain, with a force and fury that swept
everything before it.
Mr. Pickwick was perfectly aware that a tree is a very dangerous
neighbour in a thunderstorm. He had a tree on his right, a tree on his
left, a third before him, and a fourth behind. If he remained where he
was, he might fall the victim of an accident; if he showed himself in
the centre of the garden, he might be consigned to a constable. Once or
twice he tried to scale the wall, but having no other legs this time,
than those with which Nature had furnished him, the only effect of his
struggles was to inflict a variety of very unpleasant gratings on his
knees and shins, and to throw him into a state of the most profuse
perspiration.
‘What a dreadful situation,’ said Mr. Pickwick, pausing to wipe his brow
after this exercise. He looked up at the house--all was dark. They must
be gone to bed now. He would try the signal again.
He walked on tiptoe across the moist gravel, and tapped at the door. He
held his breath, and listened at the key-hole. No reply: very odd.
Another knock. He listened again. There was a low whispering inside, and
then a voice cried--
‘Who’s there?’
‘That’s not Job,’ thought Mr. Pickwick, hastily drawing himself straight
up against the wall again. ‘It’s a woman.’
He had scarcely had time to form this conclusion, when a window above
stairs was thrown up, and three or four female voices repeated the
query--‘Who’s there?’
Mr. Pickwick dared not move hand or foot. It was clear that the whole
establishment was roused. He made up his mind to remain where he was,
until the alarm had subsided; and then by a supernatural effort, to get
over the wall, or perish in the attempt.
Like all Mr. Pickwick’s determinations, this was the best that could be
made under the circumstances; but, unfortunately, it was founded upon
the assumption that they would not venture to open the door again. What
was his discomfiture, when he heard the chain and bolts withdrawn, and
saw the door slowly opening, wider and wider! He retreated into the
corner, step by step; but do what he would, the interposition of his own
person, prevented its being opened to its utmost width.
‘Who’s there?’ screamed a numerous chorus of treble voices from the
staircase inside, consisting of the spinster lady of the establishment,
three teachers, five female servants, and thirty boarders, all half-
dressed and in a forest of curl-papers.
Of course Mr. Pickwick didn’t say who was there: and then the burden of
the chorus changed into--‘Lor! I am so frightened.’
‘Cook,’ said the lady abbess, who took care to be on the top stair, the
very last of the group--‘cook, why don’t you go a little way into the
garden?’
Please, ma’am, I don’t like,’ responded the cook.
‘Lor, what a stupid thing that cook is!’ said the thirty boarders.
‘Cook,’ said the lady abbess, with great dignity; ‘don’t answer me, if
you please. I insist upon your looking into the garden immediately.’