The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club, v. 2 (of 2)

by Charles Dickens

  CHAPTER XXIV

  _Involving a serious Change in the Weller Family, and the untimely Downfall of the Red-nosed Mr. Stiggins_

  Considering it a matter of delicacy to abstain from introducing eitherBob Sawyer or Ben Allen to the young couple, until they were fullyprepared to expect them, and wishing to spare Arabella's feelings asmuch as possible, Mr. Pickwick proposed that he and Sam should alightin the neighbourhood of the George and Vulture, and that the twoyoung men should for the present take up their quarters elsewhere. Tothis, they very readily agreed, and the proposition was accordinglyacted upon; Mr. Ben Allen and Mr. Bob Sawyer betaking themselvesto a sequestered pot-shop on the remotest confines of the Borough,behind the bar-door of which their names had in other days very oftenappeared, at the head of long and complex calculations worked in whitechalk.

  "Dear me, Mr. Weller," said the pretty housemaid, meeting Sam at thedoor.

  "Dear _me_, I vish it vos, my dear," replied Sam, dropping behind tolet his master get out of hearing. "Wot a sweet-looking creetur youare, Mary!"

  "Lor, Mr. Weller, what nonsense you do talk!" said Mary. "Oh! _don't_,Mr. Weller."

  "Don't what, my dear?" said Sam.

  "Why, that," replied the pretty housemaid. "Lor, do get along withyou." Thus admonishing him, the pretty housemaid pushed Sam against thewall, declaring that he had tumbled her cap, and put her hair quite outof curl.

  "And prevented what I was going to say, besides," added Mary. "There'sa letter been waiting for you four days; you hadn't been gone half anhour when it came; and more than that, it's got 'Immediate' on theoutside."

  "Vere is it, my love?" inquired Sam.

  "I took care of it for you, or I dare say it would have been lostlong before this," replied Mary. "There, take it; it's more than youdeserve."

  With these words, after many pretty little coquettish doubts and fears,and wishes that she might not have lost it, Mary produced the letterfrom behind the nicest little muslin tucker possible, and handed itover to Sam, who thereupon kissed it with much gallantry and devotion.

  "My goodness me!" said Mary, adjusting the tucker and feigningunconsciousness, "you seem to have grown very fond of it all at once."

  To this Mr. Weller only replied by a wink, the intense meaning of whichno description could convey the faintest idea of; and, sitting himselfdown beside Mary on a window seat, opened the letter and glanced at thecontents.

  "Hallo!" exclaimed Sam, "wot's all this?"

  "Nothing the matter, I hope?" said Mary, peeping over his shoulder.

  "Bless them eyes o' yourn!" said Sam, looking up.

  "Never mind my eyes; you had much better read your letter," said thepretty housemaid; and as she said so, she made the eyes twinkle withsuch slyness and beauty that they were perfectly irresistible.

  Sam refreshed himself with a kiss, and read as follows:

  "_Markis Gran By dorken Wensdy_

  "My dear Sammle,

  "I am wery sorry to have the pleasure of bein a Bear of ill news your Mother in law cort cold consekens of imprudently settin too long on the damp grass in the rain a hearin of a shepherd who warnt able to leave off till late at night owen to his havin vound his-self up vith brandy and vater and not bein able to stop his-self till he got a little sober which took a many hours to do the doctor says that if she'd svallo'd varm brandy and vater artervards insted of afore she mightn't have been no vus her veels wos immedetly greased and everythink done to set her agoin as could be inwented your farther had hopes as she vould have vorked round as usual but just as she wos a turnen the corner my boy she took the wrong road and vent down hill vith a welocity you never see and notvithstandin that the drag wos put on drectly by the medikel man it wornt of no use at all for she paid the last pike at twenty minutes afore six o'clock yesterday evenin havin done the jouney wery much under the reglar time vich praps was partly owen to her haven taken in wery little luggage by the vay your father says that if you vill come and see me Sammy he vill take it as a wery great favor for I am wery lonely Samivel n b he _vill_ have it spelt that vay vich I say ant right as there is sich a many things to settle he is sure your guvner wont object of course he vill not Sammy for I knows him better so he sends his dooty in which I join and am Samivel infernally yours

  +Tony Veller+."

  "Wot a incomprehensible letter," said Sam; "who's to know wot it means,vith all this he-ing and I-ing! It ain't my father's writin' cept thishere signater in print letters; that's his."

  "Perhaps he got somebody to write it for him, and signed it himselfafterwards," said the pretty housemaid.

  "Stop a minit," replied Sam, running over the letter again, and pausinghere and there, to reflect, as he did so. "You've hit it. The gen'l'm'nas wrote it wos a tellin' all about the misfortun' in a proper vay,and then my father comes a lookin' over him, and complicates the wholeconcern by puttin' his oar in. That's just the wery sort o' thing he'ddo. You're right, Mary, my dear."

  Having satisfied himself on this point, Sam read the letter all overonce more, and, appearing to form a clear notion of its contents forthe first time, ejaculated thoughtfully, as he folded it up:

  "And so the poor creetur's dead! I'm sorry for it. She warn't a baddisposed 'ooman, if them shepherds had let her alone. I'm wery sorryfor it."

  Mr. Weller uttered these words in so serious a manner, that the prettyhousemaid cast down her eyes and looked very grave.

  "Hows'ever," said Sam, putting the letter in his pocket with a gentlesigh, "it wos to be--and wos, as the old lady said arter she'd marriedthe footman. Can't be helped now, can it, Mary?"

  Mary shook her head, and sighed too.

  "I must apply to the hemperor for leave of absence," said Sam.

  Mary sighed again. The letter was so very affecting.

  "Good-bye!" said Sam.

  "Good-bye," rejoined the pretty housemaid, turning her head away.

  "Well, shake hands, won't you?" said Sam.

  The pretty housemaid put out a hand which, although it was ahousemaid's, was a very small one, and rose to go.

  "I shan't be wery long avay," said Sam.

  "You're always away," said Mary, giving her head the slightest possibletoss in the air. "You no sooner come, Mr. Weller, than you go again."

  Mr. Weller drew the household beauty closer to him, and entered upona whispering conversation, which had not proceeded far, when sheturned her face round and condescended to look at him again. When theyparted, it was somehow or other indispensably necessary for her to goto her room, and arrange the cap and curls before she could think ofpresenting herself to her mistress; which preparatory ceremony shewent off to perform, bestowing many nods and smiles on Sam over thebanisters as she tripped upstairs.

  "I shan't be avay more than a day, or two, sir, at the farthest," saidSam, when he had communicated to Mr. Pickwick the intelligence of hisfather's loss.

  "As long as may be necessary, Sam," replied Mr. Pickwick, "you have myfull permission to remain."

  Sam bowed.

  "You will tell your father, Sam, that if I can be of any assistance tohim in his present situation, I shall be most willing and ready to lendhim any aid in my power," said Mr. Pickwick.

  "Thankee, sir," rejoined Sam. "I'll mention it, sir."

  And with some expressions of mutual good-will and interest, master andman separated.

  It was just seven o'clock when Samuel Weller, alighting from the box ofa stage-coach which passed through Dorking, stood within a few hundredyards of the Marquis of Granby. It was a cold, dull, evening; thelittle street looked dreary and dismal; and the mahogany countenance ofthe noble and gallant Marquis seemed to wear a more sad and melancholyexpression than it was wont to do, as it swung to and fro, creakingmournfully in the wind. The blinds were pulled down, and the shutterspartly closed; of the knot of loungers that usually collected about thedoor, not one was to be seen; the place was silent and desolate.

  Seeing nobod
y of whom he could ask any preliminary questions, Samwalked softly in. Glancing round, he quickly recognised his parent inthe distance.

  The widower was seated at a small round table in the little room behindthe bar, smoking a pipe, with his eyes intently fixed upon the fire.The funeral had evidently taken place that day; for attached to hishat, which he still retained on his head, was a hatband measuring abouta yard and a half in length, which hung over the top-rail of the chairand streamed negligently down. Mr. Weller was in a very abstracted andcontemplative mood. Notwithstanding that Sam called him by name severaltimes, he still continued to smoke with the same fixed and quietcountenance, and was only roused ultimately by his son's placing thepalm of his hand on his shoulder.

  "Sammy," said Mr. Weller, "you're velcome."

  "I've been a callin' to you half a dozen times," said Sam, hanging hishat on a peg, "but you didn't hear me."

  "No, Sammy," replied Mr. Weller, again looking thoughtfully at thefire. "I wos in a referee, Sammy."

  "Wot about?" inquired Sam, drawing his chair up to the fire.

  "In a referee, Sammy," replied the elder Mr. Weller, "regarding _her_,Samivel." Here Mr. Weller jerked his head in the direction of Dorkingchurchyard, in mute explanation that his words referred to the lateMrs. Weller.

  "I wos a thinkin', Sammy," said Mr. Weller, eyeing his son, withgreat earnestness, over his pipe; as if to assure him that, howeverextraordinary and incredible the declaration might appear, it wasnevertheless calmly and deliberately uttered. "I wos a thinkin', Sammy,that upon the whole I wos wery sorry she wos gone."

  "Vell, and so you ought to be," replied Sam.

  Mr. Weller nodded his acquiescence in the sentiment, and againfastening his eyes on the fire, shrouded himself in a cloud, and museddeeply.

  "Those wos wery sensible observations as she made, Sammy," said Mr.Weller, driving the smoke away with his hand, after a long silence.

  "Wot observations?" inquired Sam.

  "Them as she made, arter she was took ill," replied the old gentleman.

  "Wot wos they?"

  "Somethin' to this here effect. 'Veller,' she says, 'I'm afeardI've not done by you quite wot I ought to have done; you're a werykind-hearted man, and I might ha' made your home more comfortabler.I begin to see now,' she says, 'ven it's too late, that if a married'ooman vishes to be religious, she should begin vith dischargin' herdooties at home, and makin' them as is about her cheerful and happy,and that vile she goes to church or chapel, or wot not, at all propertimes, she should be wery careful not to conwert this sort o' thinginto a excuse for idleness or self-indulgence. I _have_ done this,' shesays, 'and I've wasted time and substance on them as has done it morethan me; but I hope ven I'm gone, Veller, that you'll think on me as Iwos afore I know'd them people, and as I raly wos by natur'.' 'Susan,'says I--I wos took up wery short by this, Samivel; I von't deny it, myboy--'Susan,' I says, 'you've been a wery good vife to me, altogether;don't say nothin' at all about it: keep a good heart, my dear; andyou'll live to see me punch that 'ere Stiggins's head yet.' She smiledat this, Samivel," said the old gentleman, stifling a sigh with hispipe, "but she died arter all!"

  "Vell," said Sam, venturing to offer a little homely consolation, afterthe lapse of three or four minutes, consumed by the old gentleman inslowly shaking his head from side to side and solemnly smoking; "vell,gov'ner, ve must all come to it, one day or another."

  "So we must, Sammy," said Mr. Weller the elder.

  "There's a Providence in it all," said Sam.

  "O' course there is," replied his father, with a nod of grave approval."Wot 'ud become of the undertakers without it, Sammy?"

  Lost in the immense field of conjecture opened by this reflection, theelder Mr. Weller laid his pipe on the table, and stirred the fire witha meditative visage.

  While the old gentleman was thus engaged, a very buxom-looking cook,dressed in mourning, who had been bustling about in the bar, glidedinto the room, and bestowing many smirks of recognition upon Sam,silently stationed herself at the back of his father's chair, andannounced her presence by a slight cough; the which, being disregarded,was followed by a louder one.

  "Hallo!" said the elder Mr. Weller, dropping the poker as he lookedround, and hastily drew his chair away. "Wot's the matter now?"

  "Have a cup of tea, there's a good soul," replied the buxom female,coaxingly.

  "I von't," replied Mr. Weller, in a somewhat boisterous manner, "I'llsee you"--Mr. Weller hastily checked himself, and added in a low tone,"furder fust."

  "Oh, dear, dear! How adversity does change people!" said the lady,looking upwards.

  "It's the only think 'twixt this and the doctor as shall change _my_condition," muttered Mr. Weller.

  "I really never saw a man so cross," said the buxom female.

  "Never mind. It's all for my own good; vich is the reflection vith wichthe penitent schoolboy comforted his feelin's ven they flogged him,"rejoined the old gentleman.

  The buxom female shook her head with a compassionate and sympathisingair; and, appealing to Sam, inquired whether his father really oughtnot to make an effort to keep up, and not give way to that lowness ofspirits.

  "You see, Mr. Samuel," said the buxom female, "as I was telling himyesterday, he _will_ feel lonely, he can't expect but what he should,sir, but he should keep up a good heart, because, dear me, I'm sure weall pity his loss, and are ready to do anything for him; and there's nosituation in life so bad, Mr. Samuel, that it can't be mended. Which iswhat a very worthy person said to me when my husband died." Here thespeaker, putting her hand before her mouth, coughed again, and lookedaffectionately at the elder Mr. Weller.

  "As I don't rekvire any o' your conversation just now, mum, vill youhave the goodness to re-tire?" inquired Mr. Weller in grave and steadyvoice.

  "Well, Mr. Weller," said the buxom female, "I'm sure I only spoke toyou out of kindness."

  "Wery likely, mum," replied Mr. Weller. "Samivel, show the lady out,and shut the door arter her."

  This hint was not lost upon the buxom female; for she at once left theroom, and slammed the door behind her, upon which Mr. Weller senior,falling back in his chair in a violent perspiration, said:

  "Sammy, if I was to stop here alone vun veek--only vun veek, myboy--that 'ere 'ooman 'ud marry me by force and wiolence afore it wasover."

  "Wot! Is she so wery fond on you?" inquired Sam.

  "Fond!" replied his father, "I can't keep her avay from me. If I waslocked up in a fire-proof chest vith a patent Brahmin, she'd find meansto get at me, Sammy."

  "Wot a thing it is to be so sought arter!" observed Sam, smiling.

  "I don't take no pride out on it, Sammy," replied Mr. Weller, pokingthe fire vehemently, "it's a horrid sitiwation. I'm actiwally droveout o' house and home by it. The breath was scarcely out o' yourpoor mother-in-law's body, ven vun old 'ooman sends me a pot o' jam,and another a pot o' jelly, and another brews a blessed large jugo' camomile-tea, vich she brings in vith her own hands." Mr. Wellerpaused with an aspect of intense disgust, and, looking round, addedin a whisper: "They wos all widders, Sammy, all on 'em, 'cept thecamomile-tea vun, as wos a single young lady o' fifty-three."

  Sam gave a comical look in reply, and the old gentleman having brokenan obstinate lump of coal, with a countenance expressive of as muchearnestness and malice as if it had been the head of one of the widowslast mentioned, said:

  "In short, Sammy, I feel that I ain't safe anyveres but on the box."

  "How are you safer there than anyveres else?" interrupted Sam.

  "'Cos a coachman's a privileged indiwidual," replied Mr. Weller,looking fixedly at his son. "'Cos a coachman may do vithout suspicionwot other men may not; 'cos a coachman may be on the wery amicablestterms with eighty mile o' females, and yet nobody think that he evermeans to marry any vun among 'em. And wot other man can say the same,Sammy?"

  "Vell, there's somethin' in that," said Sam.

  "If your gov'ner had been a coachman," reasoned Mr. Weller, "do yousuppose as
that 'ere jury 'ud ever ha' conwicted him, s'posin' itpossible as the matter could ha' gone to that extremity? They dustn'tha' done it."

  "Vy not?" said Sam, rather disparagingly.

  "Vy not!" rejoined Mr. Weller; "'cos it 'ud ha' gone agin theirconsciences. A reg'lar coachman's a sort o' con-nectin' link betwixtsingleness and matrimony, and every practicable man knows it."

  "Wot! You mean, they're gen'ral fav'rites, and nobody takes adwantageon 'em, p'raps?" said Sam.

  His father nodded.

  "How it ever come to that 'ere pass," resumed the parent Weller,"I can't say. Vy it is that long-stage coachmen possess suchinsiniwations, and is alvays looked up to--a-dored I may say--by ev'ryyoung 'ooman in ev'ry town he vurks through, I don't know. I only knowthat it is so. It's a reg'lation of natur--a dispensary, as your poormother-in-law used to say."

  "A dispensation," said Sam, correcting the old gentleman.

  "Wery good, Samivel, a dispensation if you like it better," returnedMr. Weller; "_I_ call it a dispensary, and it's alvays writ up so, atthe places vere they gives you physic for nothin' in your own bottles;that's all."

  With these words Mr. Weller re-filled and re-lighted his pipe, and oncemore summing up a meditative expression of countenance, continued asfollows:

  "Therefore, my boy, as I do not see the adwisability o' stoppin' hereto be married vether I vant to or not, and as at the same time I donot wish to separate myself from them interestin' members o' societyaltogether, I have come to the determination o' drivin the Safety,and puttin' up vunce more at the Bell Savage, vich is my nat'ral-bornelement, Sammy."

  "And wot's to become o' the bis'ness?" inquired Sam.

  "The bis'ness, Samivel," replied the old gentleman, "good-vill, stock,and fixters, vill be sold by private contract; and out o' the money,two hundred pound, agreeable to rekvest o' your mother-in-law's to mea little afore she died, vill be inwested in your name in--wot do youcall them things agin?"

  "Wot things?" inquired Sam.

  "Them things as is alvays a goin' up and down, in the City."

  "Omnibuses?" suggested Sam.

  "Nonsense," replied Mr. Weller. "Them things as is alvays afluctooatin', and gettin' theirselves inwolved somehow or another viththe national debt, and the checquers bills, and all that."

  "Oh! the funds," said Sam.

  "Ah!" rejoined Mr. Weller, "the funs; two hundred pounds o' the moneyis to be inwested for you, Samivel, in the funs; four and a half percent. reduced counsels, Sammy."

  "Wery kind o' the old lady to think o' me," said Sam, "and I'm werymuch obliged to her."

  "The rest vill be inwested in my name," continued the elder Mr. Weller;"and ven I'm took off the road, it'll come to you, so take care youdon't spend it all at vunst, my boy, and mind that no widder gets ainklin' o' your fortun', or you're done."

  Having delivered this warning, Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with a moreserene countenance; the disclosure of these matters appearing to haveeased his mind considerably.

  "Somebody's a tappin' at the door," said Sam.

  "Let 'em tap," replied his father, with dignity.

  Sam acted upon the direction. There was another tap, and another, andthen a long row of taps; upon which Sam inquired why the tapper was notadmitted.

  "Hush," whispered Mr. Weller, with apprehensive looks, "don't take nonotice on 'em, Sammy, it's vun o' the widders, p'raps."

  No notice being taken of the taps, the unseen visitor, after a shortlapse, ventured to open the door and peep in. It was no female headthat was thrust in at the partially opened door, but the long blacklocks and red face of Mr. Stiggins. Mr. Weller's pipe fell from hishands.

  The reverend gentleman gradually opened the door by almost imperceptibledegrees, until the aperture was just wide enough to admit of thepassage of his lank body, when he glided into the room and closed itafter him with great care and gentleness. Turning towards Sam, andraising his hands and eyes in token of the unspeakable sorrow withwhich he regarded the calamity that had befallen the family, he carriedthe high-backed chair to his old corner by the fire, and, seatinghimself on the very edge, drew forth a brown pocket-handkerchief, andapplied the same to his optics.

  While this was going forward, the elder Mr. Weller sat back in hischair, with his eyes wide open, his hands planted on his knees,and his whole countenance expressive of absorbing and overwhelmingastonishment. Sam sat opposite him in perfect silence, waiting, witheager curiosity, for the termination of the scene.

  Mr. Stiggins kept the brown pocket-handkerchief before his eyes forsome minutes, moaning decently meanwhile, and then, mastering hisfeelings by a strong effort, put it in his pocket and buttoned it up.After this he stirred the fire; after that, he rubbed his hands andlooked at Sam.

  "Oh, my young friend," said Mr. Stiggins, breaking the silence in avery low voice, "here's a sorrowful affliction!"

  Sam nodded very slightly.

  "For the man of wrath, too!" added Mr. Stiggins; "it makes a vessel'sheart bleed!"

  Mr. Weller was overheard by his son to murmur something relative tomaking a vessel's nose bleed; but Mr. Stiggins heard him not.

  "Do you know, young man," whispered Mr. Stiggins, drawing his chaircloser to Sam, "whether she has left Emanuel anything?"

  "Who's he?" inquired Sam.

  "The chapel," replied Mr. Stiggins; "our chapel; our fold, Mr. Samuel."

  "She hasn't left the fold nothin', nor the shepherd nothin', nor theanimals nothin'," said Sam, decisively; "nor the dogs neither."

  Mr. Stiggins looked slyly at Sam; glanced at the old gentleman, who wassitting with his eyes closed, as if asleep; and drawing his chair stillnearer, said:

  "Nothing for _me_, Mr. Samuel?"

  Sam shook his head.

  "I think there's something," said Stiggins, turning as pale as he couldturn. "Consider, Mr. Samuel; no little token?"

  "Not so much as the vorth o' that 'ere old umberella o' yourn," repliedSam.

  "Perhaps," said Mr. Stiggins, hesitatingly, after a few moments' deepthought, "perhaps she recommended me to the care of the man of wrath,Mr. Samuel?"

  "I think that's wery likely, from what he said," rejoined Sam; "he wosspeakin' about you, jist now."

  "Was he, though?" exclaimed Stiggins, brightening up. "Ah! He'schanged, I dare say. We might live very comfortably together now, Mr.Samuel, eh? I could take care of his property when you are away--goodcare, you see."

  Heaving a long-drawn sigh, Mr. Stiggins paused for a response. Samnodded, and Mr. Weller the elder gave vent to an extraordinary sound,which being neither a groan, nor a grunt, nor a gasp, nor a growl,seemed to partake in some degree of the character of all four.

  Mr. Stiggins, encouraged by this sound, which he understood to betokenremorse or repentance, looked about him, rubbed his hands, wept,smiled, wept again, and then, walking softly across the room to awell-remembered shelf in one corner, took down a tumbler, and withgreat deliberation put four lumps of sugar in it. Having got thus far,he looked about him again, and sighed grievously; with that, he walkedsoftly into the bar, and presently returning with the tumbler half fullof pine-apple rum, advanced to the kettle which was singing gaily onthe hob, mixed his grog, stirred it, sipped it, sat down, and taking along and hearty pull at the rum and water, stopped for breath.

  The elder Mr. Weller, who still continued to make various strange anduncouth attempts to appear asleep, offered not a single word duringthese proceedings; but when Stiggins stopped for breath, he darted uponhim, and snatching the tumbler from his hand, threw the remainder ofthe rum and water in his face, and the glass itself into the grate.Then, seizing the reverend gentleman firmly by the collar, he suddenlyfell to kicking him most furiously: accompanying every applicationof his top-boots to Mr. Stiggins's person, with sundry violent andincoherent anathemas upon his limbs, eyes, and body.

  "Sammy," said Mr. Weller, "put my hat on tight for me."

  Sam dutifully adjusted the hat with the long hatband more firmly on hisfather's head, and t
he old gentleman, resuming his kicking with greateragility than before, tumbled with Mr. Stiggins through the bar, andthrough the passage, out at the front door, and so into the street; thekicking continuing the whole way, and increasing in vehemence, ratherthan diminishing, every time the top-boot was lifted.

  It was a beautiful and exhilarating sight to see the red-nosed manwrithing in Mr. Weller's grasp, and his whole frame quivering withanguish as kick followed kick in rapid succession; it was a still moreexciting spectacle to behold Mr. Weller, after a powerful struggle,immersing Mr. Stiggins's head in a horse-trough full of water, andholding it there, until he was half suffocated.

  "There!" said Mr. Weller, throwing all his energy into one mostcomplicated kick, as he at length permitted Mr. Stiggins to withdrawhis head from the trough, "send any vun o' them lazy shepherds here,and I'll pound him to a jelly first, and drownd him artervards! Sammy,help me in, and fill me a small glass of brandy. I'm out o' breath, myboy."

  _It was a beautiful and exhilarating sight to see thered-nosed man writhing in Mr. Weller's grasp._]