The Pickwick Papers
at full length on the hearth-rug, screaming, and tapping it with the
heels of her shoes, in a manner which could leave no doubt of the
propriety of her feelings on the occasion.
‘My dear,’ said the terrified Pott, ‘I didn’t say I believed it;--I--’
but the unfortunate man’s voice was drowned in the screaming of his
partner.
‘Mrs. Pott, let me entreat you, my dear ma’am, to compose yourself,’
said Mr. Winkle; but the shrieks and tappings were louder, and more
frequent than ever.
‘My dear,’ said Mr. Pott, ‘I’m very sorry. If you won’t consider your
own health, consider me, my dear. We shall have a crowd round the
house.’ But the more strenuously Mr. Pott entreated, the more vehemently
the screams poured forth.
Very fortunately, however, attached to Mrs. Pott’s person was a
bodyguard of one, a young lady whose ostensible employment was to
preside over her toilet, but who rendered herself useful in a variety of
ways, and in none more so than in the particular department of
constantly aiding and abetting her mistress in every wish and
inclination opposed to the desires of the unhappy Pott. The screams
reached this young lady’s ears in due course, and brought her into the
room with a speed which threatened to derange, materially, the very
exquisite arrangement of her cap and ringlets.
‘Oh, my dear, dear mistress!’ exclaimed the bodyguard, kneeling
frantically by the side of the prostrate Mrs. Pott. ‘Oh, my dear
mistress, what is the matter?’
‘Your master--your brutal master,’ murmured the patient.
Pott was evidently giving way.
‘It’s a shame,’ said the bodyguard reproachfully. ‘I know he’ll be the
death on you, ma’am. Poor dear thing!’
He gave way more. The opposite party followed up the attack.
‘Oh, don’t leave me--don’t leave me, Goodwin,’ murmured Mrs. Pott,
clutching at the wrist of the said Goodwin with an hysteric jerk.
‘You’re the only person that’s kind to me, Goodwin.’
At this affecting appeal, Goodwin got up a little domestic tragedy of
her own, and shed tears copiously.
‘Never, ma’am--never,’ said Goodwin. ‘Oh, sir, you should be careful--
you should indeed; you don’t know what harm you may do missis; you’ll be
sorry for it one day, I know--I’ve always said so.’
The unlucky Pott looked timidly on, but said nothing.
‘Goodwin,’ said Mrs. Pott, in a soft voice.
‘Ma’am,’ said Goodwin.
‘If you only knew how I have loved that man--’
Don’t distress yourself by recollecting it, ma’am,’ said the bodyguard.
Pott looked very frightened. It was time to finish him.
‘And now,’ sobbed Mrs. Pott, ‘now, after all, to be treated in this way;
to be reproached and insulted in the presence of a third party, and that
party almost a stranger. But I will not submit to it! Goodwin,’
continued Mrs. Pott, raising herself in the arms of her attendant, ‘my
brother, the lieutenant, shall interfere. I’ll be separated, Goodwin!’
‘It would certainly serve him right, ma’am,’ said Goodwin.
Whatever thoughts the threat of a separation might have awakened in Mr.
Pott’s mind, he forbore to give utterance to them, and contented himself
by saying, with great humility:--
‘My dear, will you hear me?’
A fresh train of sobs was the only reply, as Mrs. Pott grew more
hysterical, requested to be informed why she was ever born, and required
sundry other pieces of information of a similar description.
‘My dear,’ remonstrated Mr. Pott, ‘do not give way to these sensitive
feelings. I never believed that the paragraph had any foundation, my
dear--impossible. I was only angry, my dear--I may say outrageous--with
the _Independent_ people for daring to insert it; that’s all.’ Mr. Pott
cast an imploring look at the innocent cause of the mischief, as if to
entreat him to say nothing about the serpent.
‘And what steps, sir, do you mean to take to obtain redress?’ inquired
Mr. Winkle, gaining courage as he saw Pott losing it.
‘Oh, Goodwin,’ observed Mrs. Pott, ‘does he mean to horsewhip the editor
of the _Independent_--does he, Goodwin?’
‘Hush, hush, ma’am; pray keep yourself quiet,’ replied the bodyguard. ‘I
dare say he will, if you wish it, ma’am.’
‘Certainly,’ said Pott, as his wife evinced decided symptoms of going
off again. ‘Of course I shall.’
‘When, Goodwin--when?’ said Mrs. Pott, still undecided about the going
off.
‘Immediately, of course,’ said Mr. Pott; ‘before the day is out.’
‘Oh, Goodwin,’ resumed Mrs. Pott, ‘it’s the only way of meeting the
slander, and setting me right with the world.’
‘Certainly, ma’am,’ replied Goodwin. ‘No man as is a man, ma’am, could
refuse to do it.’
So, as the hysterics were still hovering about, Mr. Pott said once more
that he would do it; but Mrs. Pott was so overcome at the bare idea of
having ever been suspected, that she was half a dozen times on the very
verge of a relapse, and most unquestionably would have gone off, had it
not been for the indefatigable efforts of the assiduous Goodwin, and
repeated entreaties for pardon from the conquered Pott; and finally,
when that unhappy individual had been frightened and snubbed down to his
proper level, Mrs. Pott recovered, and they went to breakfast.
‘You will not allow this base newspaper slander to shorten your stay
here, Mr. Winkle?’ said Mrs. Pott, smiling through the traces of her
tears.
‘I hope not,’ said Mr. Pott, actuated, as he spoke, by a wish that his
visitor would choke himself with the morsel of dry toast which he was
raising to his lips at the moment, and so terminate his stay
effectually.
‘I hope not.’
‘You are very good,’ said Mr. Winkle; ‘but a letter has been received
from Mr. Pickwick--so I learn by a note from Mr. Tupman, which was
brought up to my bedroom door, this morning--in which he requests us to
join him at Bury to-day; and we are to leave by the coach at noon.’
‘But you will come back?’ said Mrs. Pott.
‘Oh, certainly,’ replied Mr. Winkle.
‘You are quite sure?’ said Mrs. Pott, stealing a tender look at her
visitor.
‘Quite,’ responded Mr. Winkle.
The breakfast passed off in silence, for each of the party was brooding
over his, or her, own personal grievances. Mrs. Pott was regretting the
loss of a beau; Mr. Pott his rash pledge to horsewhip the _Independent_;
Mr. Winkle his having innocently placed himself in so awkward a
situation. Noon approached, and after many adieux and promises to
return, he tore himself away.
‘If he ever comes back, I’ll poison him,’ thought Mr. Pott, as he turned
into the little back office where he prepared his thunderbolts.
‘If I ever do come back, and mix myself up with these people again,’
thought Mr. Winkle, as he wended his way to the Peacock, ‘I shall
deserve to be horsewhipped myself--that’s all.’
His friends were ready, the coach was nearly so, and in half an hour
they were proceeding on their journey, along the road over which Mr.
Pickwick and Sam had so recently travelled, and of which, as we have
already said something, we do not feel called upon to extract Mr.
Snodgrass’s poetical and beautiful description.
Mr. Weller was standing at the door of the Angel, ready to receive them,
and by that gentleman they were ushered to the apartment of Mr.
Pickwick, where, to the no small surprise of Mr. Winkle and Mr.
Snodgrass, and the no small embarrassment of Mr. Tupman, they found old
Wardle and Trundle.
‘How are you?’ said the old man, grasping Mr. Tupman’s hand. ‘Don’t hang
back, or look sentimental about it; it can’t be helped, old fellow. For
her sake, I wish you’d had her; for your own, I’m very glad you have
not. A young fellow like you will do better one of these days, eh?’ With
this conclusion, Wardle slapped Mr. Tupman on the back, and laughed
heartily.
‘Well, and how are you, my fine fellows?’ said the old gentleman,
shaking hands with Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass at the same time. ‘I
have just been telling Pickwick that we must have you all down at
Christmas. We’re going to have a wedding--a real wedding this time.’
‘A wedding!’ exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass, turning very pale.
‘Yes, a wedding. But don’t be frightened,’ said the good-humoured old
man; ‘it’s only Trundle there, and Bella.’
‘Oh, is that all?’ said Mr. Snodgrass, relieved from a painful doubt
which had fallen heavily on his breast. ‘Give you joy, Sir. How is Joe?’
‘Very well,’ replied the old gentleman. ‘Sleepy as ever.’
‘And your mother, and the clergyman, and all of ‘em?’
‘Quite well.’
‘Where,’ said Mr. Tupman, with an effort--‘where is--_she_, Sir?’ and he
turned away his head, and covered his eyes with his hand.
‘_She_!’ said the old gentleman, with a knowing shake of the head. ‘Do
you mean my single relative--eh?’
Mr. Tupman, by a nod, intimated that his question applied to the
disappointed Rachael.
‘Oh, she’s gone away,’ said the old gentleman. ‘She’s living at a
relation’s, far enough off. She couldn’t bear to see the girls, so I let
her go. But come! Here’s the dinner. You must be hungry after your ride.
I am, without any ride at all; so let us fall to.’
Ample justice was done to the meal; and when they were seated round the
table, after it had been disposed of, Mr. Pickwick, to the intense
horror and indignation of his followers, related the adventure he had
undergone, and the success which had attended the base artifices of the
diabolical Jingle.
‘And the attack of rheumatism which I caught in that garden,’ said Mr.
Pickwick, in conclusion, ‘renders me lame at this moment.’
‘I, too, have had something of an adventure,’ said Mr. Winkle, with a
smile; and, at the request of Mr. Pickwick, he detailed the malicious
libel of the Eatanswill _Independent_, and the consequent excitement of
their friend, the editor.
Mr. Pickwick’s brow darkened during the recital. His friends observed
it, and, when Mr. Winkle had concluded, maintained a profound silence.
Mr. Pickwick struck the table emphatically with his clenched fist, and
spoke as follows:--
‘Is it not a wonderful circumstance,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘that we seem
destined to enter no man’s house without involving him in some degree of
trouble? Does it not, I ask, bespeak the indiscretion, or, worse than
that, the blackness of heart--that I should say so!--of my followers,
that, beneath whatever roof they locate, they disturb the peace of mind
and happiness of some confiding female? Is it not, I say--’
Mr. Pickwick would in all probability have gone on for some time, had
not the entrance of Sam, with a letter, caused him to break off in his
eloquent discourse. He passed his handkerchief across his forehead, took
off his spectacles, wiped them, and put them on again; and his voice had
recovered its wonted softness of tone when he said--
‘What have you there, Sam?’
‘Called at the post-office just now, and found this here letter, as has
laid there for two days,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘It’s sealed vith a vafer,
and directed in round hand.’
‘I don’t know this hand,’ said Mr. Pickwick, opening the letter. ‘Mercy
on us! what’s this? It must be a jest; it--it--can’t be true.’
‘What’s the matter?’ was the general inquiry.
‘Nobody dead, is there?’ said Wardle, alarmed at the horror in Mr.
Pickwick’s countenance.
Mr. Pickwick made no reply, but, pushing the letter across the table,
and desiring Mr. Tupman to read it aloud, fell back in his chair with a
look of vacant astonishment quite alarming to behold.
Mr. Tupman, with a trembling voice, read the letter, of which the
following is a copy:--
Freeman’s Court, Cornhill, August 28th, 1827.
Bardell against Pickwick.
Sir,
Having been instructed by Mrs. Martha Bardell to commence an action
against you for a breach of promise of marriage, for which the plaintiff
lays her damages at fifteen hundred pounds, we beg to inform you that a