Chapter LVI

AN IMPORTANT CONFERENCE TAKES PLACE

BETWEEN Mr. PICKWICK AND SAMUEL

WELLER, AT WHICH HIS PARENT ASSISTS―

AN OLD GENTLEMAN IN A SNUFF-COLOURED

SUIT ARRIVES UNEXPECTEDLY

r. Pickwick was sitting alone, musing over many

things, and thinking among other considerations

how he could best provide for the young couple

whose present unsettled condition was matter of constant regret

and anxiety to him, when Mary stepped lightly into the room, and,

advancing to the table, said, rather hastily―

‘Oh, if you please, sir, Samuel is downstairs, and he says may

his father see you?’

‘Surely,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Mary, tripping towards the door again.

‘Sam has not been here long, has he?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Oh, no, sir,’ replied Mary eagerly. ‘He has only just come home.

He is not going to ask you for any more leave, sir, he says.’

Mary might have been conscious that she had communicated

this last intelligence with more warmth than seemed actually

necessary, or she might have observed the good-humoured smile

with which Mr. Pickwick regarded her, when she had finished

speaking. She certainly held down her head, and examined the

corner of a very smart little apron, with more closeness than there

appeared any absolute occasion for.

‘Tell them they can come up at once, by all means,’ said Mr.

Pickwick.

Mary, apparently much relieved, hurried away with her

message.

Mr. Pickwick took two or three turns up and down the room;

and, rubbing his chin with his left hand as he did so, appeared lost

in thought.

‘Well, well,’ said Mr. Pickwick, at length in a kind but somewhat

melancholy tone, ‘it is the best way in which I could reward him

for his attachment and fidelity; let it be so, in Heaven’s name. It is

the fate of a lonely old man, that those about him should form new

and different attachments and leave him. I have no right to expect

that it should be otherwise with me. No, no,’ added Mr. Pickwick

more cheerfully, ‘it would be selfish and ungrateful. I ought to be

happy to have an opportunity of providing for him so well. I am. Of

course I am.’

Mr. Pickwick had been so absorbed in these reflections, that a

knock at the door was three or four times repeated before he

heard it. Hastily seating himself, and calling up his accustomed

pleasant looks, he gave the required permission, and Sam Weller

entered, followed by his father.

‘Glad to see you back again, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘How do

you do, Mr. Weller?’

‘Wery hearty, thank’ee, sir,’ replied the widower; ‘hope I see you

well, sir.’

‘Quite, I thank you,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘I wanted to have a little bit o’ conwersation with you, sir,’ said

Mr. Weller, ‘if you could spare me five minits or so, sir.’

‘Certainly,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘Sam, give your father a

chair.’

‘Thank’ee, Samivel, I’ve got a cheer here,’ said Mr. Weller,

bringing one forward as he spoke; ‘uncommon fine day it’s been,

sir,’ added the old gentleman, laying his hat on the floor as he sat

himself down.

‘Remarkably so, indeed,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘Very

seasonable.’

‘Seasonablest veather I ever see, sir,’ rejoined Mr. Weller. Here,

the old gentleman was seized with a violent fit of coughing, which,

being terminated, he nodded his head and winked and made

several supplicatory and threatening gestures to his son, all of

which Sam Weller steadily abstained from seeing.

Mr. Pickwick, perceiving that there was some embarrassment

on the old gentleman’s part, affected to be engaged in cutting the

leaves of a book that lay beside him, and waited patiently until Mr.

Weller should arrive at the object of his visit.

‘I never see sich a aggrawatin’ boy as you are, Samivel,’ said Mr.

Weller, looking indignantly at his son; ‘never in all my born days.’

‘What is he doing, Mr. Weller?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘He von’t begin, sir,’ rejoined Mr. Weller; ‘he knows I ain’t ekal

to ex-pressin’ myself ven there’s anythin’ partickler to be done,

and yet he’ll stand and see me a-settin’ here taking up your

walable time, and makin’ a reg’lar spectacle o’ myself, rayther

than help me out vith a syllable. It ain’t filial conduct, Samivel,’

said Mr. Weller, wiping his forehead; ‘wery far from it.’

‘You said you’d speak,’ replied Sam; ‘how should I know you

wos done up at the wery beginnin’?’

‘You might ha’ seen I warn’t able to start,’ rejoined his father; ‘I’m on the wrong side of the road, and backin’ into the palin’s, and

all manner of unpleasantness, and yet you von’t put out a hand to

help me. I’m ashamed on you, Samivel.’

‘The fact is, sir,’ said Sam, with a slight bow, ‘the gov’nor’s been

a-drawin’ his money.’

‘Wery good, Samivel, wery good,’ said Mr. Weller, nodding his

head with a satisfied air, ‘I didn’t mean to speak harsh to you,

Sammy. Wery good. That’s the vay to begin. Come to the pint at

once. Wery good indeed, Samivel.’

Mr. Weller nodded his head an extraordinary number of times,

in the excess of his gratification, and waited in a listening attitude

for Sam to resume his statement.

‘You may sit down, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, apprehending that

the inter view was likely to prove rather longer than he had

expected.

Sam bowed again and sat down; his father looking round, he

continued―

‘The gov’nor, sir, has drawn out five hundred and thirty pound.’

‘Reduced counsels,’ interposed Mr. Weller, senior, in an

undertone.

‘It don’t much matter vether it’s reduced counsels, or wot not,’

said Sam; ‘five hundred and thirty pounds is the sum, ain’t it?’

‘All right, Samivel,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘To vich sum, he has added for the house and bisness―’

‘Lease, good-vill, stock, and fixters,’ interposed Mr. Weller.

‘As much as makes it,’ continued Sam, ‘altogether, eleven

hundred and eighty pound.’

‘Indeed!’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘I am delighted to hear it. I

congratulate you, Mr. Weller, on having done so well.’

‘Vait a minit, sir,’ said Mr. Weller, raising his hand in a

deprecatory manner. ‘Get on, Samivel.’

‘This here money,’ said Sam, with a little hesitation, ‘he’s

anxious to put someveres, vere he knows it’ll be safe, and I’m wery

anxious too, for if he keeps it, he’ll go a-lendin’ it to somebody, or

inwestin’ property in horses, or droppin’ his pocket-book down an

airy, or makin’ a Egyptian mummy of his-self in some vay or

another.’

‘Wery good, Samivel,’ observed Mr. Weller, in as complacent a

manner as if Sam had been passing the highest eulogiums on his

prudence and foresight. ‘Wery good.’

‘For vich reasons,’ continued Sam, plucking nervously at the

brim of his hat―‘for vich reasons, he’s drawn it out to-day, and

come here vith me to say, leastvays to offer, or in other vords―’

‘To say this here,’ said the elder Mr. Weller impatiently, ‘that it

ain’t o’ no use to me. I’m a-goin’ to vork a coach reg’lar, and ha’n’t

got noveres to keep it in, unless I vos to pay the guard for takin’

care on it, or to put it in vun o’ the coach pockets, vich ‘ud be a

temptation to the insides. If you’ll take care on it for me, sir, I shall

be wery much obliged to you. P’raps,’ said Mr. Weller, walking up

to Mr. Pickwick and whispering in his ear―‘p’raps it’ll go a little

vay towards the expenses o’ that ’ere conwiction. All I say is, just

you keep it till I ask you for it again.’ With these words, Mr. Weller

placed the pocket-book in Mr. Pickwick’s hands, caught up his hat,

and ran out of the room with a celerity scarcely to be expected

from so corpulent a subject.

‘Stop him, Sam!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick earnestly. ‘Overtake

him; bring him back instantly! Mr. Weller―here―come back!’

Sam saw that his master’s injunctions were not to be disobeyed;

and, catching his father by the arm as he was descending the

stairs, dragged him back by main force.

‘My good friend,’ said Mr. Pickwick, taking the old man by the

hand, ‘your honest confidence overpowers me.’

‘I don’t see no occasion for nothin’ o’ the kind, sir,’ replied Mr.

Weller obstinately.

‘I assure you, my good friend, I have more money than I can

ever need; far more than a man at my age can ever live to spend,’

said Mr. Pickwick.

‘No man knows how much he can spend, till he tries,’ observed

Mr. Weller.

‘Perhaps not,’ replied Mr. Pickwick; ‘but as I have no intention

of trying any such experiments, I am not likely to come to want. I

must beg you to take this back, Mr. Weller.’

‘Wery well,’ said Mr. Weller, with a discontented look. ‘Mark my

vords, Sammy, I’ll do somethin’ desperate vith this here property;

somethin’ desperate!’

‘You’d better not,’ replied Sam.

Mr. Weller reflected for a short time, and then, buttoning up his

coat with great determination, said―

‘I’ll keep a pike.’

‘Wot!’ exclaimed Sam.

‘A pike!’ rejoined Mr. Weller, through his set teeth; ‘I’ll keep a

pike. Say good-bye to your father, Samivel. I dewote the

remainder of my days to a pike.’

This threat was such an awful one, and Mr. Weller, besides

appearing fully resolved to carry it into execution, seemed so

deeply mortified by Mr. Pickwick’s refusal, that that gentleman,

after a short reflection, said―

‘Well, well, Mr. Weller, I will keep your money. I can do more

good with it, perhaps, than you can.’

‘Just the wery thing, to be sure,’ said Mr. Weller, brightening

up; ‘o’ course you can, sir.’

‘Say no more about it,’ said Mr. Pickwick, locking the pocket-

book in his desk; ‘I am heartily obliged to you, my good friend.

Now sit down again. I want to ask your advice.’

The internal laughter occasioned by the triumphant success of

his visit, which had convulsed not only Mr. Weller’s face, but his

arms, legs, and body also, during the locking up of the pocket-

book, suddenly gave place to the most dignified gravity as he

heard these words.

‘Wait outside a few minutes, Sam, will you?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

Sam immediately withdrew.

Mr. Weller looked uncommonly wise and very much amazed,

when Mr. Pickwick opened the discourse by saying―

‘You are not an advocate for matrimony, I think, Mr. Weller?’

Mr. Weller shook his head. He was wholly unable to speak;

vague thoughts of some wicked widow having been successful in

her designs on Mr. Pickwick, choked his utterance.

‘Did you happen to see a young girl downstairs when you came

in just now with your son?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes. I see a young gal,’ replied Mr. Weller shortly.

‘What did you think of her, now? Candidly, Mr. Weller, what

did you think of her?’

‘I thought she wos wery plump, and vell made,’ said Mr. Weller,

with a critical air.

‘So she is,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘so she is. What did you think of

her manners, from what you saw of her?’

‘Wery pleasant,’ rejoined Mr. Weller. ‘Wery pleasant and

comformable.’

The precise meaning which Mr. Weller attached to this last-

mentioned adjective, did not appear; but, as it was evident from

the tone in which he used it that it was a favourable expression,

Mr. Pickwick was as well satisfied as if he had been thoroughly

enlightened on the subject.

‘I take a 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, address ing 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;

stopping a smile which was just coming over his own face.

‘I expect him every instant, sir,’ said Arabella. ‘I persuaded him

to take a walk this morning. He is very low and wretched at not

having heard from his father.’

‘Low, is he?’ said the old gentlemen. ‘Serve him right!’

‘He feels it on my account, I am afraid,’ said Arabella; ‘and

indeed, sir, I feel it deeply on his. I have been the sole means of

bringing him to his present condition.’

‘Don’t mind it on his account, my dear,’ said the old gentleman.

‘It serves him right. I am glad of it―actually glad of it, as far as he

is concerned.’

The words were scarcely out of the old gentleman’s lips, when

footsteps were heard ascending the stairs, which he and Arabella

seemed both to recognise at the same moment. The little

gentleman turned pale; and, making a strong effort to appear

composed, stood up, as Mr. Winkle entered the room.

‘Father!’ cried Mr. Winkle, recoiling in amazement.

‘Yes, sir,’ replied the little old gentleman. ‘Well, sir, what have

you got to say to me?’

Mr. Winkle remained silent.

‘You are ashamed of yourself, I hope, sir?’ said the old

gentleman.

Still Mr. Winkle said nothing.

‘Are you ashamed of yourself, sir, or are you not?’ inquired the

old gentleman.

‘No, sir,’ replied Mr. Winkle, drawing Arabella’s arm through

his. ‘I am not ashamed of myself, or of my wife either.’

‘Upon my word!’ cried the old gentleman ironically.

‘I am very sorry to have done anything which has lessened your

affection for me, sir,’ said Mr. Winkle; ‘but I will say, at the same

time, that I have no reason to be ashamed of having this lady for

my wife, nor you of having her for a daughter.’

‘Give me your hand, Nat,’ said the old gentleman, in an altered

voice. ‘Kiss me, my love. You are a very charming little daughter-

in-law after all!’

In a few minutes’ time Mr. Winkle went in search of Mr.

Pickwick, and returning with that gentleman, presented him to his

father, whereupon they shook hands for five minutes incessantly.

‘Mr. Pickwick, I thank you most heartily for all your kindness to

my son,’ said old Mr. Winkle, in a bluff, straightforward way. ‘I am

a hasty fellow, and when I saw you last, I was vexed and taken by

surprise. I have judged for myself now, and am more than

satisfied. Shall I make any more apologies, Mr. Pickwick?’

‘Not one,’ replied that gentleman. ‘You have done the only thing

wanting to complete my happiness.’

Hereupon there was another shaking of hands for five minutes

longer, accompanied by a great number of complimentary

speeches, which, besides being complimentary, had the additional

and very novel recommendation of being sincere.

Sam had dutifully seen his father to the Belle Sauvage, when,

on returning, he encountered the fat boy in the court, who had

been charged with the delivery of a note from Emily Wardle.

‘I say,’ said Joe, who was unusually loquacious, ‘what a pretty

girl Mary is, isn’t she? I am so fond of her, I am!’

Mr. Weller made no verbal remark in reply; but eyeing the fat

boy for a moment, quite transfixed at his presumption, led him by

the collar to the corner, and dismissed him with a harmless but

ceremonious kick. After which, he walked home, whistling.

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