The Pickwick Papers, Charles Dickens [good fiction books to read .txt] 📗

great interest in her, Mr. Weller,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

Mr. Weller coughed.

‘I mean an interest in her doing well,’ resumed Mr. Pickwick; ‘a desire that she may be comfortable and prosperous. You understand?’

‘Wery clearly,’ replied Mr. Weller, who understood nothing yet.

‘That young person,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘is attached to your son.’

‘To Samivel Veller!’ exclaimed the parent.

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘It’s nat’ral,’ said Mr. Weller, after some consideration, ‘nat’ral, but rayther alarmin’. Sammy must be careful.’

‘How do you mean?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Wery careful that he don’t say nothin’ to her,’ responded Mr. Weller. ‘Wery careful that he ain’t led avay, in a innocent moment, to say anythin’ as may lead to a conwiction for breach. You’re never safe vith ‘em, Mr. Pickwick, ven they vunce has designs on you; there’s no knowin’ vere to have ‘em; and vile you’re a-considering of it, they have you. I wos married fust, that vay myself, Sir, and Sammy wos the consekens o’ the manoover.’

‘You give me no great encouragement to conclude what I have to say,’ observed Mr. Pickwick, ‘but I had better do so at once. This young person is not only attached to your son, Mr. Weller, but your son is attached to her.’

‘Vell,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘this here’s a pretty sort o’ thing to come to a father’s ears, this is!’

‘I have observed them on several occasions,’ said Mr. Pickwick, making no comment on Mr. Weller’s last remark; ‘and entertain no doubt at all about it. Supposing I were desirous of establishing them comfortably as man and wife in some little business or situation, where they might hope to obtain a decent living, what should you think of it, Mr. Weller?’

At first, Mr. Weller received with wry faces a proposition involving the marriage of anybody in whom he took an interest; but, as Mr. Pickwick argued the point with him, and laid great stress on the fact that Mary was not a widow, he gradually became more tractable. Mr. Pickwick had great influence over him, and he had been much struck with Mary’s appearance; having, in fact, bestowed several very unfatherly winks upon her, already. At length he said that it was not for him to oppose Mr. Pickwick’s inclination, and that he would be very happy to yield to his advice; upon which, Mr. Pickwick joyfully took him at his word, and called Sam back into the room.

‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, clearing his throat, ‘your father and I have been having some conversation about you.’

‘About you, Samivel,’ said Mr. Weller, in a patronising and impressive voice.

‘I am not so blind, Sam, as not to have seen, a long time since, that you entertain something more than a friendly feeling towards Mrs. Winkle’s maid,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘You hear this, Samivel?’ said Mr. Weller, in the same judicial form of speech as before.

‘I hope, Sir,’ said Sam, addressing his master, ‘I hope there’s no harm in a young man takin’ notice of a young ‘ooman as is undeniably good-looking and well-conducted.’

‘Certainly not,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Not by no means,’ acquiesced Mr. Weller, affably but magisterially.

‘So far from thinking there is anything wrong in conduct so natural,’ resumed Mr. Pickwick, ‘it is my wish to assist and promote your wishes in this respect. With this view, I have had a little conversation with your father; and finding that he is of my opinion—’

‘The lady not bein’ a widder,’ interposed Mr. Weller in explanation.

‘The lady not being a widow,’ said Mr. Pickwick, smiling. ‘I wish to free you from the restraint which your present position imposes upon you, and to mark my sense of your fidelity and many excellent qualities, by enabling you to marry this girl at once, and to earn an independent livelihood for yourself and family. I shall be proud, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, whose voice had faltered a little hitherto, but now resumed its customary tone, ‘proud and happy to make your future prospects in life my grateful and peculiar care.’

There was a profound silence for a short time, and then Sam said, in a low, husky sort of voice, but firmly withal—

‘I’m very much obliged to you for your goodness, Sir, as is only like yourself; but it can’t be done.’

‘Can’t be done!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick in astonishment.

‘Samivel!’ said Mr. Weller, with dignity.

‘I say it can’t be done,’ repeated Sam in a louder key. ‘Wot’s to become of you, Sir?’

‘My good fellow,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘the recent changes among my friends will alter my mode of life in future, entirely; besides, I am growing older, and want repose and quiet. My rambles, Sam, are over.’

‘How do I know that ‘ere, sir?’ argued Sam. ‘You think so now! S’pose you wos to change your mind, vich is not unlikely, for you’ve the spirit o’ five-and-twenty in you still, what ‘ud become on you vithout me? It can’t be done, Sir, it can’t be done.’

‘Wery good, Samivel, there’s a good deal in that,’ said Mr. Weller encouragingly.

‘I speak after long deliberation, Sam, and with the certainty that I shall keep my word,’ said Mr. Pickwick, shaking his head. ‘New scenes have closed upon me; my rambles are at an end.’

‘Wery good,’ rejoined Sam. ‘Then, that’s the wery best reason wy you should alvays have somebody by you as understands you, to keep you up and make you comfortable. If you vant a more polished sort o’ feller, vell and good, have him; but vages or no vages, notice or no notice, board or no board, lodgin’ or no lodgin’, Sam Veller, as you took from the old inn in the Borough, sticks by you, come what may; and let ev’rythin’ and ev’rybody do their wery fiercest, nothin’ shall ever perwent it!’

At the close of this declaration, which Sam made with great emotion, the elder Mr. Weller rose from his chair, and, forgetting all considerations of time, place, or propriety, waved his hat above his head, and gave three vehement cheers.

‘My good fellow,’ said Mr. Pickwick, when Mr. Weller had sat down again, rather abashed at his own enthusiasm, ‘you are bound to consider the young woman also.’

‘I do consider the young ‘ooman, Sir,’ said Sam. ‘I have considered the young ‘ooman. I’ve spoke to her. I’ve told her how I’m sitivated; she’s ready to vait till I’m ready, and I believe she vill. If she don’t, she’s not the young ‘ooman I take her for, and I give her up vith readiness. You’ve know’d me afore, Sir. My mind’s made up, and nothin’ can ever alter it.’

Who could combat this resolution? Not Mr. Pickwick. He derived, at that moment, more pride and luxury of feeling from the disinterested attachment of his humble friends, than ten thousand protestations from the greatest men living could have awakened in his heart.

While this conversation was passing in Mr. Pickwick’s room, a little old gentleman in a suit of snuff-coloured clothes, followed by a porter carrying a small portmanteau, presented himself below; and, after securing a bed for the night, inquired of the waiter whether one Mrs. Winkle was staying there, to which question the waiter of course responded in the affirmative.

‘Is she alone?’ inquired the old gentleman.

‘I believe she is, Sir,’ replied the waiter; ‘I can call her own maid, Sir, if you—’

‘No, I don’t want her,’ said the old gentleman quickly. ‘Show me to her room without announcing me.’

‘Eh, Sir?’ said the waiter.

‘Are you deaf?’ inquired the little old gentleman.

‘No, sir.’

‘Then listen, if you please. Can you hear me now?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘That’s well. Show me to Mrs. Winkle’s room, without announcing me.’

As the little old gentleman uttered this command, he slipped five shillings into the waiter’s hand, and looked steadily at him.

‘Really, sir,’ said the waiter, ‘I don’t know, sir, whether—’

‘Ah! you’ll do it, I see,’ said the little old gentleman. ‘You had better do it at once. It will save time.’

There was something so very cool and collected in the gentleman’s manner, that the waiter put the five shillings in his pocket, and led him upstairs without another word.

‘This is the room, is it?’ said the gentleman. ‘You may go.’ The waiter complied, wondering much who the gentleman could be, and what he wanted; the little old gentleman, waiting till he was out of sight, tapped at the door.

‘Come in,’ said Arabella.

‘Um, a pretty voice, at any rate,’ murmured the little old gentleman; ‘but that’s nothing.’ As he said this, he opened the door and walked in. Arabella, who was sitting at work, rose on beholding a stranger—a little confused—but by no means ungracefully so.

‘Pray don’t rise, ma’am,’ said the unknown, walking in, and closing the door after him. ‘Mrs. Winkle, I believe?’

Arabella inclined her head.

‘Mrs. Nathaniel Winkle, who married the son of the old man at Birmingham?’ said the stranger, eyeing Arabella with visible curiosity.

Again Arabella inclined her head, and looked uneasily round, as if uncertain whether to call for assistance.

‘I surprise you, I see, ma’am,’ said the old gentleman.

‘Rather, I confess,’ replied Arabella, wondering more and more.

‘I’ll take a chair, if you’ll allow me, ma’am,’ said the stranger.

He took one; and drawing a spectacle-case from his pocket, leisurely pulled out a pair of spectacles, which he adjusted on his nose.

‘You don’t know me, ma’am?’ he said, looking so intently at Arabella that she began to feel alarmed.

‘No, sir,’ she replied timidly.

‘No,’ said the gentleman, nursing his left leg; ‘I don’t know how you should. You know my name, though, ma’am.’

‘Do I?’ said Arabella, trembling, though she scarcely knew why. ‘May I ask what it is?’

‘Presently, ma’am, presently,’ said the stranger, not having yet removed his eyes from her countenance. ‘You have been recently married, ma’am?’

‘I have,’ replied Arabella, in a scarcely audible tone, laying aside her work, and becoming greatly agitated as a thought, that had occurred to her before, struck more forcibly upon her mind.

‘Without having represented to your husband the propriety of first consulting his father, on whom he is dependent, I think?’ said the stranger.

Arabella applied her handkerchief to her eyes.

‘Without an endeavour, even, to ascertain, by some indirect appeal, what were the old man’s sentiments on a point in which he would naturally feel much interested?’ said the stranger.

‘I cannot deny it, Sir,’ said Arabella.

‘And without having sufficient property of your own to afford your husband any permanent assistance in exchange for the worldly advantages which you knew he would have gained if he had married agreeably to his father’s wishes?’ said the old gentleman. ‘This is what boys and girls call disinterested affection, till they have boys and girls of their own, and then they see it in a rougher and very different light!’

Arabella’s tears flowed fast, as she pleaded in extenuation that she was young and inexperienced; that her attachment had alone induced her to take the step to which she had resorted; and that she had been deprived of the counsel and guidance of her parents almost from infancy.

‘It was wrong,’ said the old gentleman in a milder tone, ‘very wrong. It was romantic, unbusinesslike, foolish.’

‘It was my fault; all my fault, Sir,’ replied poor Arabella, weeping.

‘Nonsense,’ said the old gentleman; ‘it was not your fault that he fell in love with you, I suppose? Yes it was, though,’ said the old gentleman, looking rather slily at Arabella. ‘It was your fault. He couldn’t help it.’

This little compliment, or the little gentleman’s odd way of paying it, or his altered manner—so much kinder than it was, at first—or all three together, forced a smile from Arabella in the midst of her tears.

‘Where’s your husband?’ inquired the old gentleman, abruptly;