‘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 writ has been issued against you in this suit in the Court of Common Pleas; and request to know, by return of post, the name of your attorney in London, who will accept service thereof.
We are, Sir, Your obedient servants, Dodson & Fogg.
Mr. Samuel Pickwick.
There was something so impressive in the mute astonishment with which each man regarded his neighbour, and every man regarded Mr. Pickwick, that all seemed afraid to speak. The silence was at length broken by Mr. Tupman.
‘Dodson and Fogg,’ he repeated mechanically.
‘Bardell and Pickwick,’ said Mr. Snodgrass, musing.
‘Peace of mind and happiness of confiding females,’ murmured Mr. Winkle, with an air of abstraction.
‘It’s a conspiracy,’ said Mr. Pickwick, at length recovering the power of speech; ‘a base conspiracy between these two grasping attorneys, Dodson and Fogg. Mrs. Bardell would never do it;--she hasn’t the heart to do it;--she hasn’t the case to do it. Ridiculous--ridiculous.’
Of her heart,’ said Wardle, with a smile, ‘you should certainly be the best judge. I don’t wish to discourage you, but I should certainly say that, of her case, Dodson and Fogg are far better judges than any of us can be.’
‘It’s a vile attempt to extort money,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘I hope it is,’ said Wardle, with a short, dry cough.
‘Who ever heard me address her in any way but that in which a lodger would address his landlady?’ continued Mr. Pickwick, with great vehemence. ‘Who ever saw me with her? Not even my friends here--’
‘Except on one occasion,’ said Mr. Tupman.
Mr. Pickwick changed colour.
‘Ah,’ said Mr. Wardle. ‘Well, that’s important. There was nothing suspicious then, I suppose?’
Mr. Tupman glanced timidly at his leader. ‘Why,’ said he, ‘there was nothing suspicious; but--I don’t know how it happened, mind--she certainly was reclining in his arms.’
‘Gracious powers!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, as the recollection of the scene in question struck forcibly upon him; ‘what a dreadful instance of the force of circumstances! So she was--so she was.’
‘And our friend was soothing her anguish,’ said Mr. Winkle, rather maliciously.
‘So I was,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘I don’t deny it. So I was.’
‘Hollo!’ said Wardle; ‘for a case in which there’s nothing suspicious, this looks rather queer--eh, Pickwick? Ah, sly dog--sly dog!’ and he laughed till the glasses on the sideboard rang again.
‘What a dreadful conjunction of appearances!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, resting his chin upon his hands. ‘Winkle--Tupman--I beg your pardon for the observations I made just now. We are all the victims of circumstances, and I the greatest.’ With this apology Mr. Pickwick buried his head in his hands, and ruminated; while Wardle measured out a regular circle of nods and winks, addressed to the other members of the company.
‘I’ll have it explained, though,’ said Mr. Pickwick, raising his head and hammering the table. ‘I’ll see this Dodson and Fogg! I’ll go to London to-morrow.’
‘Not to-morrow,’ said Wardle; ‘you’re too lame.’
‘Well, then, next day.’
‘Next day is the first of September, and you’re pledged to ride out with us, as far as Sir Geoffrey Manning’s grounds at all events, and to meet us at lunch, if you don’t take the field.’
‘Well, then, the day after,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘Thursday.--Sam!’