The Pickwick Papers
Here the cook began to cry, and the housemaid said it was ‘a shame!’ for
which partisanship she received a month’s warning on the spot.
‘Do you hear, cook?’ said the lady abbess, stamping her foot
impatiently.
‘Don’t you hear your missis, cook?’ said the three teachers.
‘What an impudent thing that cook is!’ said the thirty boarders.
The unfortunate cook, thus strongly urged, advanced a step or two, and
holding her candle just where it prevented her from seeing at all,
declared there was nothing there, and it must have been the wind. The
door was just going to be closed in consequence, when an inquisitive
boarder, who had been peeping between the hinges, set up a fearful
screaming, which called back the cook and housemaid, and all the more
adventurous, in no time.
‘What is the matter with Miss Smithers?’ said the lady abbess, as the
aforesaid Miss Smithers proceeded to go into hysterics of four young
lady power.
‘Lor, Miss Smithers, dear,’ said the other nine-and-twenty boarders.
‘Oh, the man--the man--behind the door!’ screamed Miss Smithers.
The lady abbess no sooner heard this appalling cry, than she retreated
to her own bedroom, double-locked the door, and fainted away
comfortably. The boarders, and the teachers, and the servants, fell back
upon the stairs, and upon each other; and never was such a screaming,
and fainting, and struggling beheld. In the midst of the tumult, Mr.
Pickwick emerged from his concealment, and presented himself amongst
them.
‘Ladies--dear ladies,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Oh. he says we’re dear,’ cried the oldest and ugliest teacher. ‘Oh, the
wretch!’
‘Ladies,’ roared Mr. Pickwick, rendered desperate by the danger of his
situation. ‘Hear me. I am no robber. I want the lady of the house.’
‘Oh, what a ferocious monster!’ screamed another teacher. ‘He wants Miss
Tomkins.’
Here there was a general scream.
‘Ring the alarm bell, somebody!’ cried a dozen voices.
‘Don’t--don’t,’ shouted Mr. Pickwick. ‘Look at me. Do I look like a
robber! My dear ladies--you may bind me hand and leg, or lock me up in a
closet, if you like. Only hear what I have got to say--only hear me.’
‘How did you come in our garden?’ faltered the housemaid.
‘Call the lady of the house, and I’ll tell her everything,’ said Mr.
Pickwick, exerting his lungs to the utmost pitch. ‘Call her--only be
quiet, and call her, and you shall hear everything.’
It might have been Mr. Pickwick’s appearance, or it might have been his
manner, or it might have been the temptation--irresistible to a female
mind--of hearing something at present enveloped in mystery, that reduced
the more reasonable portion of the establishment (some four individuals)
to a state of comparative quiet. By them it was proposed, as a test of
Mr. Pickwick’s sincerity, that he should immediately submit to personal
restraint; and that gentleman having consented to hold a conference with
Miss Tomkins, from the interior of a closet in which the day boarders
hung their bonnets and sandwich-bags, he at once stepped into it, of his
own accord, and was securely locked in. This revived the others; and
Miss Tomkins having been brought to, and brought down, the conference
began.
‘What did you do in my garden, man?’ said Miss Tomkins, in a faint
voice.
‘I came to warn you that one of your young ladies was going to elope to-
night,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, from the interior of the closet.
‘Elope!’ exclaimed Miss Tomkins, the three teachers, the thirty
boarders, and the five servants. ‘Who with?’
Your friend, Mr. Charles Fitz-Marshall.’
‘_My_ friend! I don’t know any such person.’
‘Well, Mr. Jingle, then.’
‘I never heard the name in my life.’
‘Then, I have been deceived, and deluded,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘I have
been the victim of a conspiracy--a foul and base conspiracy. Send to the
Angel, my dear ma’am, if you don’t believe me. Send to the Angel for Mr.
Pickwick’s manservant, I implore you, ma’am.’
‘He must be respectable--he keeps a manservant,’ said Miss Tomkins to
the writing and ciphering governess.
‘It’s my opinion, Miss Tomkins,’ said the writing and ciphering
governess, ‘that his manservant keeps him, I think he’s a madman, Miss
Tomkins, and the other’s his keeper.’
‘I think you are very right, Miss Gwynn,’ responded Miss Tomkins. ‘Let
two of the servants repair to the Angel, and let the others remain here,
to protect us.’
So two of the servants were despatched to the Angel in search of Mr.
Samuel Weller; and the remaining three stopped behind to protect Miss
Tomkins, and the three teachers, and the thirty boarders. And Mr.
Pickwick sat down in the closet, beneath a grove of sandwich-bags, and
awaited the return of the messengers, with all the philosophy and
fortitude he could summon to his aid.
An hour and a half elapsed before they came back, and when they did
come, Mr. Pickwick recognised, in addition to the voice of Mr. Samuel
Weller, two other voices, the tones of which struck familiarly on his
ear; but whose they were, he could not for the life of him call to mind.
A very brief conversation ensued. The door was unlocked. Mr. Pickwick
stepped out of the closet, and found himself in the presence of the
whole establishment of Westgate House, Mr Samuel Weller, and--old
Wardle, and his destined son-in-law, Mr. Trundle!
‘My dear friend,’ said Mr. Pickwick, running forward and grasping
Wardle’s hand, ‘my dear friend, pray, for Heaven’s sake, explain to this
lady the unfortunate and dreadful situation in which I am placed. You
must have heard it from my servant; say, at all events, my dear fellow,
that I am neither a robber nor a madman.’
‘I have said so, my dear friend. I have said so already,’ replied Mr.
Wardle, shaking the right hand of his friend, while Mr. Trundle shook
the left.
‘And whoever says, or has said, he is,’ interposed Mr. Weller, stepping
forward, ‘says that which is not the truth, but so far from it, on the
contrary, quite the rewerse. And if there’s any number o’ men on these
here premises as has said so, I shall be wery happy to give ‘em all a
wery convincing proof o’ their being mistaken, in this here wery room,
if these wery respectable ladies ‘ll have the goodness to retire, and
order ‘em up, one at a time.’ Having delivered this defiance with great
volubility, Mr. Weller struck his open palm emphatically with his
clenched fist, and winked pleasantly on Miss Tomkins, the intensity of
whose horror at his supposing it within the bounds of possibility that
there could be any men on the premises of Westgate House Establishment
for Young Ladies, it is impossible to describe.
Mr. Pickwick’s explanation having already been partially made, was soon
concluded. But neither in the course of his walk home with his friends,
nor afterwards when seated before a blazing fire at the supper he so
much needed, could a single observation be drawn from him. He seemed
bewildered and amazed. Once, and only once, he turned round to Mr.
Wardle, and said--
‘How did you come here?’
‘Trundle and I came down here, for some good shooting on the first,’
replied Wardle. ‘We arrived to-night, and were astonished to hear from
your servant that you were here too. But I am glad you are,’ said the
old fellow, slapping him on the back--‘I am glad you are. We shall have
a jovial party on the first, and we’ll give Winkle another chance--eh,
old boy?’
Mr. Pickwick made no reply, he did not even ask after his friends at
Dingley Dell, and shortly afterwards retired for the night, desiring Sam
to fetch his candle when he rung.
The bell did ring in due course, and Mr. Weller presented himself.
‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking out from under the bed-clothes.
‘Sir,’ said Mr. Weller.
Mr. Pickwick paused, and Mr. Weller snuffed the candle.
‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick again, as if with a desperate effort.
‘Sir,’ said Mr. Weller, once more.
‘Where is that Trotter?’
‘Job, sir?’
‘Yes.
‘Gone, sir.’
‘With his master, I suppose?’
‘Friend or master, or whatever he is, he’s gone with him,’ replied Mr.
Weller. ‘There’s a pair on ‘em, sir.’
‘Jingle suspected my design, and set that fellow on you, with this
story, I suppose?’ said Mr. Pickwick, half choking.
‘Just that, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.
‘It was all false, of course?’
‘All, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘Reg’lar do, sir; artful dodge.’
‘I don’t think he’ll escape us quite so easily the next time, Sam!’ said
Mr. Pickwick.
‘I don’t think he will, Sir.’
‘Whenever I meet that Jingle again, wherever it is,’ said Mr. Pickwick,
raising himself in bed, and indenting his pillow with a tremendous blow,
‘I’ll inflict personal chastisement on him, in addition to the exposure
he so richly merits. I will, or my name is not Pickwick.’
‘And venever I catches hold o’ that there melan-cholly chap with the
black hair,’ said Sam, ‘if I don’t bring some real water into his eyes,
for once in a way, my name ain’t Weller. Good-night, Sir!’
CHAPTER XVII. SHOWING THAT AN ATTACK OF RHEUMATISM, IN SOME CASES, ACTS
AS A QUICKENER TO INVENTIVE GENIUS
The constitution of Mr. Pickwick, though able to sustain a very
considerable amount of exertion and fatigue, was not proof against such
a combination of attacks as he had undergone on the memorable night,
recorded in the last chapter. The process of being washed in the night
air, and rough-dried in a closet, is as dangerous as it is peculiar. Mr.
Pickwick was laid up with an attack of rheumatism.
But although the bodily powers of the great man were thus impaired, his
mental energies retained their pristine vigour. His spirits were
elastic; his good-humour was restored. Even the vexation consequent upon
his recent adventure had vanished from his mind; and he could join in
the hearty laughter, which any allusion to it excited in Mr. Wardle,
without anger and without embarrassment. Nay, more. During the two days
Mr. Pickwick was confined to bed, Sam was his constant attendant. On the
first, he endeavoured to amuse his master by anecdote and conversation;
on the second, Mr. Pickwick demanded his writing-desk, and pen and ink,
and was deeply engaged during the whole day. On the third, being able to
sit up in his bedchamber, he despatched his valet with a message to Mr.
Wardle and Mr. Trundle, intimating that if they would take their wine
there, that evening, they would greatly oblige him. The invitation was
most willingly accepted; and when they were seated over their wine, Mr.
Pickwick, with sundry blushes, produced the following little tale, as
having been ‘edited’ by himself, during his recent indisposition, from
his notes of Mr. Weller’s unsophisticated recital.
THE PARISH CLERK A TALE OF TRUE LOVE
‘Once upon a time, in a very small country town, at a considerable
distance from London, there lived a little man named Nathaniel Pipkin,
who was the parish clerk of the little town, and lived in a little house
in the little High Street, within ten minutes’ walk from the little
church; and who was to be found every day, from nine till four, teaching
a little learning to the little boys. Nathaniel Pipkin was a harmless,
inoffensive, good-natured being, with a turned-up nose, and rather
turned-in legs, a cast in his eye, and a halt in his gait; and he
divided his time between the church and his school, verily believing
that there existed not, on the face of the earth, so clever a man as the
curate, so imposing an apartment as the vestry-room, or so well-ordered
a seminary as his own. Once, and only once, in his life, Nathaniel
Pipkin had seen a bishop--a real bishop, with his arms in lawn sleeves,
and his head in a wig. He had seen him walk, and heard him talk, at a
confirmation, on which momentous occasion Nathaniel Pipkin was so