The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club. Volume 2 of 2

“That accounts for my not having received the ‘page from the romance of real life’ which he promised me one morning when he appeared to be contemplating suicide on Rochester Bridge, I suppose,” said Mr. Pickwick, smiling. “I need not inquire whether his dismal behaviour was natural or assumed.”

“He could assume anything, sir,” said Job. “You may consider yourself very fortunate in having escaped him so easily. On intimate terms he would have been even more dangerous acquaintance than – ” Job looked at Jingle, hesitated, and finally added, “than – than – myself even.”

“A hopeful family yours, Mr. Trotter,” said Perker, sealing a letter which he had just finished writing.

“Yes, sir,” replied Job. “Very much so.”

“Well,” said the little man, laughing; “I hope you are going to disgrace it. Deliver this letter to the agent when you reach Liverpool, and let me advise you, gentlemen, not to be too knowing in the West Indies. If you throw away this chance, you will both richly deserve to be hanged, as I sincerely trust you will be. And now you had better leave Mr. Pickwick and me alone, for we have other matters to talk over, and time is precious.” As Perker said this, he looked towards the door, with an evident desire to render the leave-taking as brief as possible.

It was brief enough on Mr. Jingle’s part. He thanked the little attorney in a few hurried words for the kindness and promptitude with which he had rendered his assistance, and, turning to his benefactor, stood for a few seconds as if irresolute what to say or how to act. Job Trotter relieved his perplexity; for, with a humble and grateful bow to Mr. Pickwick, he took his friend gently by the arm, and led him away.

“A worthy couple!” said Perker, as the door closed behind them.

“I hope they may become so,” said Mr. Pickwick. “What do you think? Is there any chance of their permanent reformation?”

Perker shrugged his shoulders doubtfully, but observing Mr. Pickwick’s anxious and disappointed look, rejoined:

“Of course there is a chance. I hope it may prove a good one. They are unquestionably penitent now; but then, you know, they have the recollection of very recent suffering fresh upon them. What they may become, when that fades away, is a problem that neither you nor I can solve. However, my dear sir,” added Perker, laying his hand on Mr. Pickwick’s shoulder, “your object is equally honourable, whatever the result is. Whether that species of benevolence which is so very cautious and long-sighted that it is seldom exercised at all, lest its owner should be imposed upon, and so wounded in his self-love, be real charity or a worldly counterfeit, I leave to wiser heads than mine to determine. But if those two fellows were to commit a burglary to-morrow, my opinion of this action would be equally high.”

With these remarks, which were delivered in a much more animated and earnest manner than is usual in legal gentlemen, Perker drew his chair to his desk, and listened to Mr. Pickwick’s recital of old Mr. Winkle’s obstinacy.

“Give him a week,” said Perker, nodding his head prophetically.

“Do you think he will come round?” inquired Mr. Pickwick.

“I think he will,” rejoined Perker. “If not, we must try the young lady’s persuasion; and that is what anybody but you would have done first.”

Mr. Perker was taking a pinch of snuff with various grotesque contractions of countenance, eulogistic of the persuasive powers appertaining unto young ladies, when the murmur of inquiry and answer was heard in the outer office, and Lowten tapped at the door.

“Come in!” cried the little man.

The clerk came in, and shut the door after him, with great mystery.

“What’s the matter?” inquired Perker.

“You’re wanted, sir.”

“Who wants me?”

Lowten looked at Mr. Pickwick, and coughed.

“Who wants me? Can’t you speak, Mr. Lowten?”

“Why, sir,” replied Lowten, “it’s Dodson; and Fogg is with him.”

“Bless my life!” said the little man, looking at his watch. “I appointed them to be here, at half-past eleven, to settle that matter of yours, Pickwick. I gave them an undertaking on which they sent down your discharge; it’s very awkward, my dear sir; what will you do? Would you like to step into the next room?”

The next room being the identical room in which Messrs. Dodson and Fogg were, Mr. Pickwick replied that he would remain where he was: the more especially as Messrs. Dodson and Fogg ought to be ashamed to look him in the face, instead of his being ashamed to see them. Which latter circumstance he begged Mr. Perker to note, with a glowing countenance and many marks of indignation.

“Very well, my dear sir, very well,” replied Perker. “I can only say that if you expect either Dodson or Fogg to exhibit any symptom of shame or confusion at having to look you, or anybody else, in the face, you are the most sanguine man in your expectations that I ever met with. Show them in, Mr. Lowten.”

Mr. Lowten disappeared with a grin, and immediately returned ushering in the firm, in due form of precedence: Dodson first, and Fogg afterwards.

“You have seen Mr. Pickwick, I believe?” said Perker to Dodson, inclining his pen in the direction where that gentleman was seated.

“How do you do, Mr. Pickwick?” said Dodson in a loud voice.

“Dear me,” cried Fogg, “how do you do, Mr. Pickwick? I hope you are well, sir. I thought I knew the face,” said Fogg, drawing up a chair and looking round him with a smile.

Mr. Pickwick bent his head very slightly, in answer to these salutations, and, seeing Fogg pull a bundle of papers from his coat-pocket, rose and walked to the window.

“There’s no occasion for Mr. Pickwick to move, Mr. Perker,” said Fogg, untying the red tape which encircled the little bundle, and smiling again more sweetly than before. “Mr. Pickwick is pretty well acquainted with these proceedings. There are no secrets between us, I think. He! he! he!”

“Not many, I think,” said Dodson. “Ha! ha! ha!” Then both the partners laughed together – pleasantly and cheerfully, as men who are going to receive money, often do.

“We shall make Mr. Pickwick pay for peeping,” said Fogg, with considerable native humour, as he unfolded his papers. “The amount of the taxed costs is one hundred and thirty-three, six, four, Mr. Perker.”

There was a great comparing of papers, and turning over of leaves, by Fogg and Perker, after this statement of profit and loss. Meanwhile, Dodson said in an affable manner to Mr. Pickwick:

“I don’t think you are looking quite so stout as when I had the pleasure of seeing you last, Mr. Pickwick.”

“Possibly not, sir,” replied Mr. Pickwick, who had been flashing forth looks of fierce indignation, without producing the smallest effect on either of the sharp practitioners; “I believe I am not, sir. I have been persecuted and annoyed by Scoundrels of late, sir.”

Perker coughed violently, and asked Mr. Pickwick whether he wouldn’t like to look at the morning paper? To which inquiry Mr. Pickwick returned a most decided negative.

“True,” said Dodson, “I dare say you have been annoyed in the Fleet; there are some odd gentry there. Whereabouts were your apartments, Mr. Pickwick?”

“My one room,” replied that much injured gentleman, “was on the Coffee Room flight.”

“Oh, indeed!” said Dodson. “I believe that is a very pleasant part of the establishment.”

“Very,” replied Mr. Pickwick, dryly.

There was a coolness about all this, which, to a gentleman of an excitable temperament, had, under the circumstances, rather an exasperating tendency. Mr. Pickwick restrained his wrath by gigantic efforts; but when Perker wrote a cheque for the whole amount, and Fogg deposited it in a small pocket-book with a triumphant smile playing over his pimply features which communicated itself likewise to the stern countenance of Dodson, he felt the blood in his cheeks tingling with indignation.

“Now, Mr. Dodson,” said Fogg, putting up the pocket-book and drawing on his gloves, “I am at your service.”

“Very good,” said Dodson, rising, “I am quite ready.”

“I am very happy,” said Fogg, softened by the cheque, “to have had the pleasure of making Mr. Pickwick’s acquaintance. I hope you don’t think quite so ill of us, Mr. Pickwick, as when we first had the pleasure of seeing you.”

“I hope not,” said Dodson, with the high tone of calumniated virtue. “Mr. Pickwick now knows us better, I trust: whatever your opinion of gentlemen of our profession may be, I beg to assure you, sir, that I bear no ill-will or vindictive feeling towards you for the sentiments you thought proper to express in our office in Freeman’s Court, Cornhill, on the occasion to which my partner has referred.”

“Oh no, no; nor I,” said Fogg, in a most forgiving manner.

“Our conduct, sir,” said Dodson, “will speak for itself, and justify itself, I hope, upon every occasion. We have been in the profession some years, Mr. Pickwick, and have been honoured with the confidence of many excellent clients. I wish you good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, Mr. Pickwick,” said Fogg. So saying, he put his umbrella under his arm, drew off his right glove, and extended the hand of reconciliation to that most indignant gentleman: who, thereupon, thrust his hands beneath his coat tails, and eyed the attorney with looks of scornful amazement.

“Lowten!” cried Perker at this moment. “Open the door.”

“Wait one instant,” said Mr. Pickwick, “Perker, I will speak.”

“My dear sir, pray let the matter rest where it is,” said the little attorney, who had been in a state of nervous apprehension during the whole interview; “Mr. Pickwick, I beg!”

“I will not be put down, sir,” replied Mr. Pickwick, hastily. “Mr. Dodson, you have addressed some remarks to me.”

Dodson turned round, bent his head meekly, and smiled.

“Some remarks to me,” repeated Mr. Pickwick, almost breathless; “and your partner has tendered me his hand, and you have both assumed a tone of forgiveness and high-mindedness, which is an extent of impudence that I was not prepared for, even in you.”

“What, sir!” exclaimed Dodson.

“What, sir!” reiterated Fogg.

“Do you know that I have been the victim of your plots and conspiracies?” continued Mr. Pickwick. “Do you know that I am the man whom you have been imprisoning and robbing? Do you know that you were the attorneys for the plaintiff, in Bardell and Pickwick?”

“Yes, sir, we do know it,” replied Dodson.

“Of course we know it, sir,” rejoined Fogg, slapping his pocket – perhaps by accident.

“I see that you recollect it with satisfaction,” said Mr. Pickwick, attempting to call up a sneer for the first time in his life, and failing most signally in so doing. “Although I have long been anxious to tell you, in plain terms, what my opinion of you is, I should have let even this opportunity pass, in deference to my friend Perker’s wishes, but for the unwarrantable tone you have assumed, and your insolent familiarity. I say insolent familiarity, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, turning upon Fogg with a fierceness of gesture which caused that person to retreat towards the door with great expedition.

“Take care, sir,” said Dodson, who, though he was the biggest man of the party, had prudently intrenched himself behind Fogg, and was speaking over his head with a very pale face. “Let him assault you, Mr. Fogg; don’t return it on any account.”

“No, no, I won’t return it,” said Fogg, falling back a little more as he spoke; to the evident relief of his partner, who by these means was gradually getting into the outer office.

“You are,” continued Mr. Pickwick, resuming the thread of his discourse, “you are a well-matched pair of mean, rascally, pettifogging robbers.”

“Well,” interposed Perker, “is that all?”

“It is all summed up in that,” rejoined Mr. Pickwick; “they are mean, rascally, pettifogging robbers.”

“There!” said Perker in a most conciliatory tone. “My dear sirs, he has said all he has to say. Now pray go. Lowten, is that door open?”

Mr. Lowten, with a distant giggle, replied in the affirmative.

“There, there – good morning – good morning – now pray, my dear sirs, – Mr. Lowten, the door!” cried the little man, pushing Dodson and Fogg, nothing loath, out of the office; “this way, my dear sirs, – now pray don’t prolong this – dear me – Mr. Lowten – the door, sir – why don’t you attend?”

“If there’s law in England, sir,” said Dodson, looking towards Mr. Pickwick, as he put on his hat, “you shall smart for this.”

“You are a couple of mean – ”

“Remember, sir, you pay dearly for this,” said Fogg.

“ – Rascally, pettifogging robbers!” continued Mr. Pickwick, taking not the least notice of the threats that were addressed to him.

“Robbers!” cried Mr. Pickwick, running to the stair-head, as the two attorneys descended.

“Robbers!” shouted Mr. Pickwick, breaking from Lowten and Perker and thrusting his head out of the staircase window.

When Mr. Pickwick drew in his head again, his countenance was smiling and placid; and, walking quietly back into the office, he declared that he had now removed a great weight from his mind, and that he felt perfectly comfortable and happy.

Perker said nothing at all until he had emptied his snuff-box, and sent Lowten out to fill it, when he was seized with a fit of laughing, which lasted five minutes; at the expiration of which time he said that he supposed he ought to be very angry, but he couldn’t think of the business seriously yet – when he could, he would be.

“Well, now,” said Mr. Pickwick, “let me have a settlement with you.”

“Of the same kind as the last?” inquired Perker, with another laugh.

“Not exactly,” rejoined Mr. Pickwick, drawing out his pocket-book, and shaking the little man heartily by the hand, “I only mean a pecuniary settlement. You have done me many acts of kindness that I can never repay, and have no wish to repay, for I prefer continuing the obligation.”

With this preface, the two friends dived into some very complicated accounts and vouchers, which, having been duly displayed and gone through by Perker, were at once discharged by Mr. Pickwick with many professions of esteem and friendship.

They had no sooner arrived at this point, than a most violent and startling knocking was heard at the door; it was not an ordinary double knock, but a constant and uninterrupted succession of the loudest single raps, as if the knocker were endowed with the perpetual motion, or the person outside had forgotten to leave off.

“Dear me, what’s that?” exclaimed Perker, starting.

“I think it is a knock at the door,” said Mr. Pickwick, as if there could be the smallest doubt of the fact!

The knocker made a more energetic reply than words could have yielded, for it continued to hammer with surprising force and noise, without a moment’s cessation.

“Dear me!” said Perker, ringing the bell, “we shall alarm the Inn. Mr. Lowten, don’t you hear a knock?”

“I’ll answer the door in one moment, sir,” replied the clerk.

The knocker appeared to hear the response, and to assert that it was quite impossible he could wait so long. It made a stupendous uproar.

“It’s quite dreadful,” said Mr. Pickwick, stopping his ears.

“Make haste, Mr. Lowten,” Perker called out, “we shall have the panels beaten in.”

Mr. Lowten, who was washing his hands in a dark closet, hurried to the door, and turning the handle, beheld the appearance which is described in the next chapter.

CHAPTER XXVI

Containing some Particulars relative to the Double Knock, and other Matters: among which certain Interesting Disclosures relative to Mr. Snodgrass and a Young Lady are by no means irrelevant to this History

The object that presented itself to the eyes of the astonished clerk was a boy – a wonderfully fat boy – habited as a serving lad, standing upright on the mat, with his eyes closed as if in sleep. He had never seen such a fat boy, in or out of a travelling caravan; and this, coupled with the calmness and repose of his appearance, so very different from what was reasonably to have been expected of the inflictor of the knocks, smote him with wonder.

“What’s the matter?” inquired the clerk.

The extraordinary boy replied not a word; but he nodded once, and seemed, to the clerk’s imagination, to snore feebly.

“Where do you come from?” inquired the clerk.

The boy made no sign. He breathed heavily, but in all other respects was motionless.

The clerk repeated the question thrice, and receiving no answer, prepared to shut the door, when the boy suddenly opened his eyes, winked several times, sneezed once, and raised his hand as if to repeat the knocking. Finding the door open, he stared about him with astonishment, and at length fixed his eyes on Mr. Lowten’s face.

“What the devil do you knock in that way for?” inquired the clerk, angrily.

“Which way?” said the boy, in a slow and sleepy voice.

“Why, like forty hackney-coachmen,” replied the clerk.

“Because master said I wasn’t to leave off knocking till they opened the door, for fear I should go to sleep,” said the boy.

“Well,” said the clerk, “what message have you brought?”

“He’s down-stairs,” rejoined the boy.

“Who?”

“Master. He wants to know whether you’re at home.”

Mr. Lowten bethought himself, at this juncture, of looking out of the window. Seeing an open carriage with a hearty old gentleman in it, looking up very anxiously, he ventured to beckon him; on which, the old gentleman jumped out directly.

“That’s your master in the carriage, I suppose?” said Lowten.

The boy nodded.

All further inquiries were superseded by the appearance of old Wardle, who, running up-stairs and just recognising Lowten, passed at once into Mr. Perker’s room.

“Pickwick!” said the old gentleman. “Your hand, my boy! Why have I never heard until the day before yesterday of your suffering yourself to be cooped up in jail? And why did you let him do it, Perker?”

“I couldn’t help it, my dear sir,” replied Perker, with a smile and a pinch of snuff: “you know how obstinate he is.”

“Of course I do, of course I do,” replied the old gentleman. “I am heartily glad to see him, notwithstanding. I will not lose sight of him again, in a hurry.”

With these words, Wardle shook Mr. Pickwick’s hand once more, and having done the same by Perker, threw himself into an arm-chair, his jolly red face shining again with smiles and health.

“Well!” said Wardle. “Here are pretty goings on – a pinch of your snuff, Perker, my boy – never were such times, eh?”

“What do you mean?” inquired Mr. Pickwick.

“Mean!” replied Wardle. “Why, I think the girls are all running mad; that’s no news, you’ll say? Perhaps it’s not; but it’s true, for all that.”

“You have not come up to London, of all places in the world, to tell us that, my dear sir, have you?” inquired Perker.

“No, not altogether,” replied Wardle; “though it was the main cause of my coming. How’s Arabella?”

“Very well,” replied Mr. Pickwick, “and will be delighted to see you, I am sure.”

“Black-eyed little jilt!” replied Wardle, “I had a great idea of marrying her myself, one of these odd days. But I am glad of it too, very glad.”

“How did the intelligence reach you?” asked Mr. Pickwick.

“Oh, it came to my girls, of course,” replied Wardle. “Arabella wrote, the day before yesterday, to say she had made a stolen match without her husband’s father’s consent, and so you had gone down to get it when his refusing it couldn’t prevent the match, and all the rest of it. I thought it a very good time to say something serious to my girls; so I said what a dreadful thing it was that children should marry without their parents’ consent, and so forth; but, bless your hearts, I couldn’t make the least impression upon them. They thought it such a much more dreadful thing that there should have been a wedding without bridesmaids, that I might as well have preached to Joe himself.”

Here the old gentleman stopped to laugh; and having done so, to his heart’s content, presently resumed.

“But this is not the best of it, it seems. This is only half the love-making and plotting that have been going forward. We have been walking on mines for the last six months, and they’re sprung at last.”

“What do you mean?” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, turning pale; “no other secret marriage, I hope?”

“No, no,” replied old Wardle; “not so bad as that; no.”

“What then?” inquired Mr. Pickwick; “am I interested in it?”

“Shall I answer that question, Perker?” said Wardle.

“If you don’t commit yourself by doing so, my dear sir.”

“Well then, you are,” said Wardle.

“How?” asked Mr. Pickwick, anxiously. “In what way?”

“Really,” replied Wardle, “you’re such a fiery sort of young fellow that I am almost afraid to tell you; but, however, if Perker will sit between us to prevent mischief, I’ll venture.”

Having closed the room-door, and fortified himself with another application to Perker’s snuff-box, the old gentleman proceeded with his great disclosure in these words.

“The fact is, that my daughter Bella – Bella, who married young Trundle, you know.”

“Yes, yes, we know,” said Mr. Pickwick, impatiently.

“Don’t alarm me at the very beginning. My daughter Bella, Emily having gone to bed with a headache after she had read Arabella’s letter to me, sat herself down by my side, the other evening, and began to talk over this marriage affair. ‘Well, pa,’ she says, ‘what do you think of it?’ ‘Why, my dear,’ I said, ‘I suppose it’s all very well; I hope it’s for the best.’ I answered in this way because I was sitting before the fire at the time drinking my grog rather thoughtfully, and I knew my throwing in an undecided word now and then, would induce her to continue talking. Both my girls are pictures of their dear mother, and as I grow old I like to sit with only them by me; for their voices and looks carry me back to the happiest period of my life, and make me, for the moment, as young as I used to be then, though not quite so light-hearted. ‘It’s quite a marriage of affection, pa,’ said Bella, after a short silence. ‘Yes, my dear,’ said I, ‘but such marriages do not always turn out the happiest.’”

“I question that, mind!” interposed Mr. Pickwick, warmly.

“Very good,” responded Wardle, “question anything you like when it’s your turn to speak, but don’t interrupt me.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Pickwick.

“Granted,” replied Wardle. “‘I am sorry to hear you express your opinion against marriages of affection, pa,’ said Bella, colouring a little. ‘I was wrong; I ought not to have said so, my dear, either,’ said I, patting her cheek as kindly as a rough old fellow like me could pat it, ‘for your mother’s was one, and so was yours.’ ‘It’s not that I meant, pa,’ said Bella. ‘The fact is, pa, I wanted to speak to you about Emily.’”

Mr. Pickwick started.

“What’s the matter now?” inquired Wardle, stopping in his narrative.

“Nothing,” replied Mr. Pickwick. “Pray go on.”

“I never could spin out a story,” said Wardle, abruptly. “It must come out sooner or later, and it’ll save us all a great deal of time if it comes at once. The long and the short of it is, then, that Bella at last mustered up courage to tell me that Emily was very unhappy; that she and your young friend Snodgrass had been in constant correspondence and communication ever since last Christmas; that she had very dutifully made up her mind to run away with him in laudable imitation of her old friend and schoolfellow; but that having some compunctions of conscience on the subject, inasmuch as I had always been rather kindly disposed to both of them, they had thought it better in the first instance to pay me the compliment of asking whether I would have any objection to their being married in the usual matter-of-fact manner. There now, Mr. Pickwick, if you can make it convenient to reduce your eyes to their usual size again, and to let me hear what you think we ought to do, I shall feel rather obliged to you!”

The testy manner in which the hearty old gentleman uttered this last sentence was not wholly unwarranted; for Mr. Pickwick’s face had settled down into an expression of blank amazement and perplexity, quite curious to behold.

“Snodgrass! Since last Christmas!” were the first broken words that issued from the lips of the confounded gentleman.

“Since last Christmas,” replied Wardle; “that’s plain enough, and very bad spectacles we must have worn, not to have discovered it before.”