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

It was just seven o'clock when Samuel Weller, alighting fromthe box of a stage-coach which passed through Dorking, stoodwithin a few hundred yards of the Marquis of Granby. It was acold, dull evening; the little street looked dreary and dismal;and the mahogany countenance of the noble and gallant marquisseemed to wear a more sad and melancholy expression than itwas wont to do, as it swung to and fro, creaking mournfully inthe wind. The blinds were pulled down, and the shutters partlyclosed; of the knot of loungers that usually collected about thedoor, not one was to be seen; the place was silent and desolate.

Seeing nobody of whom he could ask any preliminaryquestions, Sam walked softly in, and glancing round, he quicklyrecognised his parent in the distance.

The widower was seated at a small round table in the littleroom behind the bar, smoking a pipe, with his eyes intentlyfixed upon the fire. The funeral had evidently taken place thatday, for attached to his hat, which he still retained on his head,was a hatband measuring about a yard and a half in length,which hung over the top rail of the chair and streamed negligentlydown. Mr. Weller was in a very abstracted and contemplativemood. 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 placingthe palm of his hand on his shoulder.

'Sammy,' said Mr. Weller, 'you're welcome.'

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

'No, Sammy,' replied Mr. Weller, again looking thoughtfullyat the fire. 'I was in a referee, Sammy.'

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

'In a referee, Sammy,' replied the elder Mr. Weller, 'regardingHER, Samivel.' Here Mr. Weller jerked his head in the directionof Dorking churchyard, in mute explanation that his wordsreferred to the late Mrs. Weller.

'I wos a-thinkin', Sammy,' said Mr. Weller, eyeing his son,with great earnestness, over his pipe, as if to assure him thathowever extraordinary and incredible the declaration mightappear, it was nevertheless calmly and deliberately uttered. 'Iwos a-thinkin', Sammy, that upon the whole I wos wery sorryshe wos gone.'

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

Mr. Weller nodded his acquiescence in the sentiment, andagain fastening his eyes on the fire, shrouded himself in a cloud,and mused deeply.

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

'Wot observations?' inquired Sam.

'Them as she made, arter she was took ill,' replied the oldgentleman.'Wot was they?'

'Somethin' to this here effect. "Veller," she says, "I'm afeeredI've not done by you quite wot I ought to have done; you're awery kind-hearted man, and I might ha' made your home morecomfortabler. I begin to see now," she says, "ven it's too late,that if a married 'ooman vishes to be religious, she should beginvith dischargin' her dooties at home, and makin' them as isabout her cheerful and happy, and that vile she goes to church,or chapel, or wot not, at all proper times, she should be werycareful not to con-wert this sort o' thing into a excuse for idlenessor self-indulgence. I have done this," she says, "and I've vastedtime and substance on them as has done it more than me; but Ihope ven I'm gone, Veller, that you'll think on me as I wosafore I know'd them people, and as I raly wos by natur."

'"Susan," says I--I wos took up wery short by this, Samivel; Ivon't deny it, my boy--"Susan," I says, "you've been a werygood vife to me, altogether; don't say nothin' at all aboutit; keep a good heart, my dear; and you'll live to see me punchthat 'ere Stiggins's head yet." She smiled at this, Samivel,' saidthe old gentleman, stifling a sigh with his pipe, 'but she diedarter all!'

'Vell,' said Sam, venturing to offer a little homely consolation,after the lapse of three or four minutes, consumed by the oldgentleman in slowly shaking his head from side to side, andsolemnly smoking, 'vell, gov'nor, ve must all come to it, one dayor 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 graveapproval. 'Wot 'ud become of the undertakers vithout it, Sammy?'

Lost in the immense field of conjecture opened by this reflection,the elder Mr. Weller laid his pipe on the table, and stirredthe fire with a meditative visage.

While the old gentleman was thus engaged, a very buxom-looking cook, dressed in mourning, who had been bustlingabout, in the bar, glided into the room, and bestowing manysmirks of recognition upon Sam, silently stationed herself at theback of his father's chair, and announced her presence by a slightcough, the which, being disregarded, was followed by a louder one.

'Hollo!' said the elder Mr. Weller, dropping the poker as helooked round, and hastily drew his chair away. 'Wot's thematter now?'

'Have a cup of tea, there's a good soul,' replied the buxomfemale coaxingly.'I von't,' replied Mr. Weller, in a somewhat boisterousmanner. 'I'll see you--' Mr. Weller hastily checked himself,and added in a low tone, 'furder fust.'

'Oh, dear, dear! How adwersity does change people!' said thelady, looking upwards.

'It's the only thing 'twixt this and the doctor as shall changemy 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 reflectionvith vich the penitent school-boy comforted his feelin's ven theyflogged him,' rejoined the old gentleman.

The buxom female shook her head with a compassionate andsympathising air; and, appealing to Sam, inquired whether hisfather really ought not to make an effort to keep up, and notgive way to that lowness of spirits.

'You see, Mr. Samuel,' said the buxom female, 'as I wastelling him yesterday, he will feel lonely, he can't expect butwhat he should, sir, but he should keep up a good heart, because,dear me, I'm sure we all pity his loss, and are ready to do anythingfor him; and there's no situation in life so bad, Mr.Samuel, that it can't be mended. Which is what a very worthyperson said to me when my husband died.' Here the speaker,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 you have the goodness to re-tire?' inquired Mr. Weller, in agrave and steady voice.

'Well, Mr. Weller,' said the buxom female, 'I'm sure I onlyspoke to you out of kindness.'

'Wery likely, mum,' replied Mr. Weller. 'Samivel, show thelady out, and shut the door after her.'

This hint was not lost upon the buxom female; for she at onceleft the room, and slammed the door behind her, upon whichMr. Weller, senior, falling back in his chair in a violentperspiration, said--

'Sammy, if I wos to stop here alone vun week--only vun week,my boy--that 'ere 'ooman 'ud marry me by force and wiolenceafore it was over.'

'Wot! is she so wery fond on you?' inquired Sam.

'Fond!' replied his father. 'I can't keep her avay from me. IfI was locked up in a fireproof chest vith a patent Brahmin, she'dfind means to 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,poking the fire vehemently, 'it's a horrid sitiwation. I'm actiwallydrove out o' house and home by it. The breath was scarcely outo' your poor mother-in-law's body, ven vun old 'ooman sends mea pot o' jam, and another a pot o' jelly, and another brews ablessed large jug o' camomile-tea, vich she brings in vith her ownhands.' Mr. Weller paused with an aspect of intense disgust,and looking round, added in a whisper, 'They wos all widders,Sammy, all on 'em, 'cept the camomile-tea vun, as wos a singleyoung lady o' fifty-three.'

Sam gave a comical look in reply, and the old gentlemanhaving broken an obstinate lump of coal, with a countenanceexpressive of as much earnestness and malice as if it had beenthe head of one of the widows last-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 dovithout suspicion wot other men may not; 'cos a coachman maybe on the wery amicablest terms with eighty mile o' females, andyet nobody think that he ever means 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'nor had been a coachman,' reasoned Mr. Weller,'do you s'pose as that 'ere jury 'ud ever ha' conwicted him,s'posin' it possible as the matter could ha' gone to that extremity?They dustn't ha' done it.'

'Wy not?' said Sam, rather disparagingly.

'Wy not!' rejoined Mr. Weller; ''cos it 'ud ha' gone agin theirconsciences. A reg'lar coachman's a sort o' con-nectin' linkbetwixt singleness and matrimony, and every practicable manknows it.'

'Wot! You mean, they're gen'ral favorites, and nobody takesadwantage on 'em, p'raps?' said Sam.

His father nodded.

'How it ever come to that 'ere pass,' resumed the parentWeller, 'I can't say. Wy it is that long-stage coachmen possesssuch insiniwations, and is alvays looked up to--a-dored I maysay--by ev'ry young 'ooman in ev'ry town he vurks through, Idon't know. I only know that so it is. It's a regulation of natur--a dispensary, as your poor mother-in-law used to say.'

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

'Wery good, Samivel, a dispensation if you like it better,'returned Mr. Weller; 'I call it a dispensary, and it's always writup so, at the places vere they gives you physic for nothin' inyour own bottles; that's all.'

With these words, Mr. Weller refilled and relighted his pipe,and once more summoning up a meditative expression ofcountenance, continued as follows--

'Therefore, my boy, as I do not see the adwisability o' stoppinhere to be married vether I vant to or not, and as at the sametime I do not vish to separate myself from them interestin'members o' society altogether, I have come to the determinationo' driving the Safety, and puttin' up vunce more at the BellSavage, vich is my nat'ral born element, 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' themoney, two hundred pound, agreeable to a rekvest o' yourmother-in-law's to me, a little afore she died, vill be invested inyour name in--What do you call them things agin?'

'Wot things?' inquired Sam.

'Them things as is always a-goin' up and down, in the city.'

'Omnibuses?' suggested Sam.

'Nonsense,' replied Mr. Weller. 'Them things as is alvaysa-fluctooatin', and gettin' theirselves inwolved somehow oranother vith the national debt, and the chequers bill; and all that.'

'Oh! the funds,' said Sam.

'Ah!' rejoined Mr. Weller, 'the funs; two hundred pounds o'the money is to be inwested for you, Samivel, in the funs; fourand a half per cent. reduced counsels, Sammy.'

'Wery kind o' the old lady to think o' me,' said Sam, 'andI'm wery much obliged to her.'

'The rest will be inwested in my name,' continued the elderMr. Weller; 'and wen I'm took off the road, it'll come to you, sotake care you don't spend it all at vunst, my boy, and mind thatno widder gets a inklin' o' your fortun', or you're done.'

Having delivered this warning, Mr. Weller resumed his pipewith a more serene countenance; the disclosure of these mattersappearing to have eased 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, andanother, and then a long row of taps; upon which Sam inquiredwhy the tapper was not admitted.

'Hush,' whispered Mr. Weller, with apprehensive looks, 'don'ttake no notice on 'em, Sammy, it's vun o' the widders, p'raps.'

No notice being taken of the taps, the unseen visitor, after ashort lapse, ventured to open the door and peep in. It was nofemale head that was thrust in at the partially-opened door, butthe long black locks and red face of Mr. Stiggins. Mr. Weller'spipe fell from his hands.

The reverend gentleman gradually opened the door by almostimperceptible degrees, until the aperture was just wide enoughto admit of the passage of his lank body, when he glided into theroom and closed it after him, with great care and gentleness.Turning towards Sam, and raising his hands and eyes in token ofthe unspeakable sorrow with which he regarded the calamitythat had befallen the family, he carried the high-backed chair tohis old corner by the fire, and, seating himself on the very edge,drew forth a brown pocket-handkerchief, and applied the sameto his optics.

Title: The Pickwick Papers
Author: Charles Dickens
Viewed 231123 times

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