The Pickwick Papers
‘Yo-yo-yo-yoe!’ shouted Mr. Pickwick, taking up the burden of the cry, though he had not the slightest notion of its meaning or object. And amidst the yo-yoing of the whole four, the chaise stopped.
‘What’s the matter?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘There’s a gate here,’ replied old Wardle. ‘We shall hear something of the fugitives.’
After a lapse of five minutes, consumed in incessant knocking and shouting, an old man in his shirt and trousers emerged from the turnpike-house, and opened the gate.
‘How long is it since a post-chaise went through here?’ inquired Mr. Wardle.
‘How long?’
‘Ah!’
‘Why, I don’t rightly know. It worn’t a long time ago, nor it worn’t a short time ago – just between the two, perhaps.’
‘Has any chaise been by at all?’
‘Oh, yes, there’s been a chay by.’
‘How long ago, my friend,’ interposed Mr. Pickwick; ‘an hour?’
‘Ah, I dare say it might be,’ replied the man.
‘Or two hours?’ inquired the post – boy on the wheeler.
‘Well, I shouldn’t wonder if it was,’ returned the old man doubtfully.
‘Drive on, boys,’ cried the testy old gentleman; ‘don’t waste any more time with that old idiot!’
‘Idiot!’ exclaimed the old man with a grin, as he stood in the middle of the road with the gate half-closed, watching the chaise which rapidly diminished in the increasing distance. ‘No – not much o’ that either; you’ve lost ten minutes here, and gone away as wise as you came, arter all. If every man on the line as has a guinea give him, earns it half as well, you won’t catch t’other chay this side Mich’lmas, old short-and-fat.’ And with another prolonged grin, the old man closed the gate, re-entered his house, and bolted the door after him.
Meanwhile the chaise proceeded, without any slackening of pace, towards the conclusion of the stage. The moon, as Wardle had foretold, was rapidly on the wane; large tiers of dark, heavy clouds, which had been gradually overspreading the sky for some time past, now formed one black mass overhead; and large drops of rain which pattered every now and then against the windows of the chaise, seemed to warn the travellers of the rapid approach of a stormy night. The wind, too, which was directly against them, swept in furious gusts down the narrow road, and howled dismally through the trees which skirted the pathway. Mr. Pickwick drew his coat closer about him, coiled himself more snugly up into the corner of the chaise, and fell into a sound sleep, from which he was only awakened by the stopping of the vehicle, the sound of the hostler’s bell, and a loud cry of ‘Horses on directly!’
But here another delay occurred. The boys were sleeping with such mysterious soundness, that it took five minutes a-piece to wake them. The hostler had somehow or other mislaid the key of the stable, and even when that was found, two sleepy helpers put the wrong harness on the wrong horses, and the whole process of harnessing had to be gone through afresh. Had Mr. Pickwick been alone, these multiplied obstacles would have completely put an end to the pursuit at once, but old Wardle was not to be so easily daunted; and he laid about him with such hearty good-will, cuffing this man, and pushing that; strapping a buckle here, and taking in a link there, that the chaise was ready in a much shorter time than could reasonably have been expected, under so many difficulties.
They resumed their journey; and certainly the prospect before them was by no means encouraging. The stage was fifteen miles long, the night was dark, the wind high, and the rain pouring in torrents. It was impossible to make any great way against such obstacles united; it was hard upon one o’clock already; and nearly two hours were consumed in getting to the end of the stage. Here, however, an object presented itself, which rekindled their hopes, and reanimated their drooping spirits.
‘When did this chaise come in?’ cried old Wardle, leaping out of his own vehicle, and pointing to one covered with wet mud, which was standing in the yard.
‘Not a quarter of an hour ago, sir,’ replied the hostler, to whom the question was addressed.
‘Lady and gentleman?’ inquired Wardle, almost breathless with impatience.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Tall gentleman – dress-coat – long legs – thin body?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Elderly lady – thin face – rather skinny – eh?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘By heavens, it’s the couple, Pickwick,’ exclaimed the old gentleman.
‘Would have been here before,’ said the hostler, ‘but they broke a trace.’
‘’Tis them!’ said Wardle, ‘it is, by Jove! Chaise-and-four instantly! We shall catch them yet before they reach the next stage. A guinea a-piece, boys-be alive there – bustle about – there’s good fellows.’
And with such admonitions as these, the old gentleman ran up and down the yard, and bustled to and fro, in a state of excitement which communicated itself to Mr. Pickwick also; and under the influence of which, that gentleman got himself into complicated entanglements with harness, and mixed up with horses and wheels of chaises, in the most surprising manner, firmly believing that by so doing he was materially forwarding the preparations for their resuming their journey.
‘Jump in – jump in!’ cried old Wardle, climbing into the chaise, pulling up the steps, and slamming the door after him. ‘Come along! Make haste!’ And before Mr. Pickwick knew precisely what he was about, he felt himself forced in at the other door, by one pull from the old gentleman and one push from the hostler; and off they were again.
‘Ah! we are moving now,’ said the old gentleman exultingly. They were indeed, as was sufficiently testified to Mr. Pickwick, by his constant collision either with the hard wood-work of the chaise, or the body of his companion.
‘Hold up!’ said the stout old Mr. Wardle, as Mr. Pickwick dived head foremost into his capacious waistcoat.
‘I never did feel such a jolting in my life,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Never mind,’ replied his companion, ‘it will soon be over. Steady, steady.’
Mr. Pickwick planted himself into his own corner, as firmly as he could; and on whirled the chaise faster than ever.
They had travelled in this way about three miles, when Mr. Wardle, who had been looking out of the Window for two or three minutes, suddenly drew in his face, covered with splashes, and exclaimed in breathless eagerness —
‘Here they are!’
Mr. Pickwick thrust his head out of his window. Yes: there was a chaise-and-four, a short distance before them, dashing along at full gallop.
‘Go on, go on,’ almost shrieked the old gentleman. ‘Two guineas a-piece, boys – don’t let ‘em gain on us – keep it up – keep it up.’
The horses in the first chaise started on at their utmost speed; and those in Mr. Wardle’s galloped furiously behind them.
‘I see his head,’ exclaimed the choleric old man; ‘damme, I see his head.’
‘So do I’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘that’s he.’
Mr. Pickwick was not mistaken. The countenance of Mr. Jingle, completely coated with mud thrown up by the wheels, was plainly discernible at the window of his chaise; and the motion of his arm, which was waving violently towards the postillions, denoted that he was encouraging them to increased exertion.
The interest was intense. Fields, trees, and hedges, seemed to rush past them with the velocity of a whirlwind, so rapid was the pace at which they tore along. They were close by the side of the first chaise. Jingle’s voice could be plainly heard, even above the din of the wheels, urging on the boys. Old Mr. Wardle foamed with rage and excitement. He roared out scoundrels and villains by the dozen, clenched his fist and shook it expressively at the object of his indignation; but Mr. Jingle only answered with a contemptuous smile, and replied to his menaces by a shout of triumph, as his horses, answering the increased application of whip and spur, broke into a faster gallop, and left the pursuers behind.
Mr. Pickwick had just drawn in his head, and Mr. Wardle, exhausted with shouting, had done the same, when a tremendous jolt threw them forward against the front of the vehicle. There was a sudden bump – a loud crash – away rolled a wheel, and over went the chaise.
After a very few seconds of bewilderment and confusion, in which nothing but the plunging of horses, and breaking of glass could be made out, Mr. Pickwick felt himself violently pulled out from among the ruins of the chaise; and as soon as he had gained his feet, extricated his head from the skirts of his greatcoat, which materially impeded the usefulness of his spectacles, the full disaster of the case met his view.
Old Mr. Wardle without a hat, and his clothes torn in several places, stood by his side, and the fragments of the chaise lay scattered at their feet. The post-boys, who had succeeded in cutting the traces, were standing, disfigured with mud and disordered by hard riding, by the horses’ heads. About a hundred yards in advance was the other chaise, which had pulled up on hearing the crash. The postillions, each with a broad grin convulsing his countenance, were viewing the adverse party from their saddles, and Mr. Jingle was contemplating the wreck from the coach window, with evident satisfaction. The day was just breaking, and the whole scene was rendered perfectly visible by the grey light of the morning.
‘Hollo!’ shouted the shameless Jingle, ‘anybody damaged? – elderly gentlemen – no light weights – dangerous work – very.’
‘You’re a rascal,’ roared Wardle.
‘Ha! ha!’ replied Jingle; and then he added, with a knowing wink, and a jerk of the thumb towards the interior of the chaise – ‘I say – she’s very well – desires her compliments – begs you won’t trouble yourself – love to Tuppy– won’t you get up behind? – drive on, boys.’
The postillions resumed their proper attitudes, and away rattled the chaise, Mr. Jingle fluttering in derision a white handkerchief from the coach window.
Nothing in the whole adventure, not even the upset, had disturbed the calm and equable current of Mr. Pickwick’s temper. The villainy, however, which could first borrow money of his faithful follower, and then abbreviate his name to ‘Tuppy,’ was more than he could patiently bear. He drew his breath hard, and coloured up to the very tips of his spectacles, as he said, slowly and emphatically —
‘If ever I meet that man again, I’ll – ’
‘Yes, yes,’ interrupted Wardle, ‘that’s all very well; but while we stand talking here, they’ll get their licence, and be married in London.’
Mr. Pickwick paused, bottled up his vengeance, and corked it down. ‘How far is it to the next stage?’ inquired Mr. Wardle, of one of the boys.
‘Six mile, ain’t it, Tom?’
‘Rayther better.’
‘Rayther better nor six mile, Sir.’
‘Can’t be helped,’ said Wardle, ‘we must walk it, Pickwick.’
‘No help for it,’ replied that truly great man.
So sending forward one of the boys on horseback, to procure a fresh chaise and horses, and leaving the other behind to take care of the broken one, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Wardle set manfully forward on the walk, first tying their shawls round their necks, and slouching down their hats to escape as much as possible from the deluge of rain, which after a slight cessation had again begun to pour heavily down.
CHAPTER X. CLEARING UP ALL DOUBTS (IF ANY EXISTED) OF THE DISINTERESTEDNESS OF MR. A. JINGLE’S CHARACTER
There are in London several old inns, once the headquarters of celebrated coaches in the days when coaches performed their journeys in a graver and more solemn manner than they do in these times; but which have now degenerated into little more than the abiding and booking-places of country wagons. The reader would look in vain for any of these ancient hostelries, among the Golden Crosses and Bull and Mouths, which rear their stately fronts in the improved streets of London. If he would light upon any of these old places, he must direct his steps to the obscurer quarters of the town, and there in some secluded nooks he will find several, still standing with a kind of gloomy sturdiness, amidst the modern innovations which surround them.
In the Borough especially, there still remain some half-dozen old inns, which have preserved their external features unchanged, and which have escaped alike the rage for public improvement and the encroachments of private speculation. Great, rambling queer old places they are, with galleries, and passages, and staircases, wide enough and antiquated enough to furnish materials for a hundred ghost stories, supposing we should ever be reduced to the lamentable necessity of inventing any, and that the world should exist long enough to exhaust the innumerable veracious legends connected with old London Bridge, and its adjacent neighbourhood on the Surrey side.
It was in the yard of one of these inns – of no less celebrated a one than the White Hart – that a man was busily employed in brushing the dirt off a pair of boots, early on the morning succeeding the events narrated in the last chapter. He was habited in a coarse, striped waistcoat, with black calico sleeves, and blue glass buttons; drab breeches and leggings. A bright red handkerchief was wound in a very loose and unstudied style round his neck, and an old white hat was carelessly thrown on one side of his head. There were two rows of boots before him, one cleaned and the other dirty, and at every addition he made to the clean row, he paused from his work, and contemplated its results with evident satisfaction.
The yard presented none of that bustle and activity which are the usual characteristics of a large coach inn. Three or four lumbering wagons, each with a pile of goods beneath its ample canopy, about the height of the second-floor window of an ordinary house, were stowed away beneath a lofty roof which extended over one end of the yard; and another, which was probably to commence its journey that morning, was drawn out into the open space. A double tier of bedroom galleries, with old clumsy balustrades, ran round two sides of the straggling area, and a double row of bells to correspond, sheltered from the weather by a little sloping roof, hung over the door leading to the bar and coffee-room. Two or three gigs and chaise-carts were wheeled up under different little sheds and pent-houses; and the occasional heavy tread of a cart-horse, or rattling of a chain at the farther end of the yard, announced to anybody who cared about the matter, that the stable lay in that direction. When we add that a few boys in smock-frocks were lying asleep on heavy packages, wool-packs, and other articles that were scattered about on heaps of straw, we have described as fully as need be the general appearance of the yard of the White Hart Inn, High Street, Borough, on the particular morning in question.
A loud ringing of one of the bells was followed by the appearance of a smart chambermaid in the upper sleeping gallery, who, after tapping at one of the doors, and receiving a request from within, called over the balustrades —
‘Sam!’
‘Hollo,’ replied the man with the white hat.
‘Number twenty-two wants his boots.’
‘Ask number twenty-two, vether he’ll have ‘em now, or vait till he gets ‘em,’ was the reply.
‘Come, don’t be a fool, Sam,’ said the girl coaxingly, ‘the gentleman wants his boots directly.’
‘Well, you are a nice young ‘ooman for a musical party, you are,’ said the boot-cleaner. ‘Look at these here boots – eleven pair o’ boots; and one shoe as belongs to number six, with the wooden leg. The eleven boots is to be called at half-past eight and the shoe at nine. Who’s number twenty-two, that’s to put all the others out? No, no; reg’lar rotation, as Jack Ketch said, ven he tied the men up. Sorry to keep you a-waitin’, Sir, but I’ll attend to you directly.’
Saying which, the man in the white hat set to work upon a top-boot with increased assiduity.
There was another loud ring; and the bustling old landlady of the White Hart made her appearance in the opposite gallery.
‘Sam,’ cried the landlady, ‘where’s that lazy, idle – why, Sam – oh, there you are; why don’t you answer?’
‘Vouldn’t be gen-teel to answer, till you’d done talking,’ replied Sam gruffly.
‘Here, clean these shoes for number seventeen directly, and take ‘em to private sitting-room, number five, first floor.’
The landlady flung a pair of lady’s shoes into the yard, and bustled away.
‘Number five,’ said Sam, as he picked up the shoes, and taking a piece of chalk from his pocket, made a memorandum of their destination on the soles – ‘Lady’s shoes and private sittin’-room! I suppose she didn’t come in the vagin.’
‘She came in early this morning,’ cried the girl, who was still leaning over the railing of the gallery, ‘with a gentleman in a hackney-coach, and it’s him as wants his boots, and you’d better do ‘em, that’s all about it.’
‘Vy didn’t you say so before,’ said Sam, with great indignation, singling out the boots in question from the heap before him. ‘For all I know’d he was one o’ the regular threepennies. Private room! and a lady too! If he’s anything of a gen’l’m’n, he’s vurth a shillin’ a day, let alone the arrands.’
Stimulated by this inspiring reflection, Mr. Samuel brushed away with such hearty good-will, that in a few minutes the boots and shoes, with a polish which would have struck envy to the soul of the amiable Mr. Warren (for they used Day & Martin at the White Hart), had arrived at the door of number five.
‘Come in,’ said a man’s voice, in reply to Sam’s rap at the door. Sam made his best bow, and stepped into the presence of a lady and gentleman seated at breakfast. Having officiously deposited the gentleman’s boots right and left at his feet, and the lady’s shoes right and left at hers, he backed towards the door.
‘Boots,’ said the gentleman.
‘Sir,’ said Sam, closing the door, and keeping his hand on the knob of the lock.
‘Do you know – what’s a-name – Doctors’ Commons?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Paul’s Churchyard, Sir; low archway on the carriage side, bookseller’s at one corner, hotel on the other, and two porters in the middle as touts for licences.’
‘Touts for licences!’ said the gentleman.
‘Touts for licences,’ replied Sam. ‘Two coves in vhite aprons – touches their hats ven you walk in – “Licence, Sir, licence?” Queer sort, them, and their mas’rs, too, sir – Old Bailey Proctors – and no mistake.’
‘What do they do?’ inquired the gentleman.
‘Do! You, Sir! That ain’t the worst on it, neither. They puts things into old gen’l’m’n’s heads as they never dreamed of. My father, Sir, wos a coachman. A widower he wos, and fat enough for anything – uncommon fat, to be sure. His missus dies, and leaves him four hundred pound. Down he goes to the Commons, to see the lawyer and draw the blunt – very smart – top boots on – nosegay in his button-hole – broad-brimmed tile – green shawl – quite the gen’l’m’n. Goes through the archvay, thinking how he should inwest the money – up comes the touter, touches his hat – “Licence, Sir, licence?” – “What’s that?” says my father. – “Licence, Sir,” says he. – “What licence?” says my father. – “Marriage licence,” says the touter. – “Dash my veskit,” says my father, “I never thought o’ that.” – “I think you wants one, Sir,” says the touter. My father pulls up, and thinks a bit – “No,” says he, “damme, I’m too old, b’sides, I’m a many sizes too large,” says he. – “Not a bit on it, Sir,” says the touter. – “Think not?” says my father. – “I’m sure not,” says he; “we married a gen’l’m’n twice your size, last Monday.” – “Did you, though?” said my father. – “To be sure, we did,” says the touter, “you’re a babby to him – this way, sir – this way!” – and sure enough my father walks arter him, like a tame monkey behind a horgan, into a little back office, vere a teller sat among dirty papers, and tin boxes, making believe he was busy. “Pray take a seat, vile I makes out the affidavit, Sir,” says the lawyer. – “Thank’ee, Sir,” says my father, and down he sat, and stared with all his eyes, and his mouth vide open, at the names on the boxes. “What’s your name, Sir,” says the lawyer. – “Tony Weller,” says my father. – “Parish?” says the lawyer. “Belle Savage,” says my father; for he stopped there wen he drove up, and he know’d nothing about parishes, he didn’t. – “And what’s the lady’s name?” says the lawyer. My father was struck all of a heap. “Blessed if I know,” says he. – “Not know!” says the lawyer. – “No more nor you do,” says my father; “can’t I put that in arterwards?” – “Impossible!” says the lawyer. – “Wery well,” says my father, after he’d thought a moment, “put down Mrs. Clarke.” – “What Clarke?” says the lawyer, dipping his pen in the ink. – “Susan Clarke, Markis o’ Granby, Dorking,” says my father; “she’ll have me, if I ask. I des-say – I never said nothing to her, but she’ll have me, I know.” The licence was made out, and she did have him, and what’s more she’s got him now; and I never had any of the four hundred pound, worse luck. Beg your pardon, sir,’ said Sam, when he had concluded, ‘but wen I gets on this here grievance, I runs on like a new barrow with the wheel greased.’ Having said which, and having paused for an instant to see whether he was wanted for anything more, Sam left the room.
‘Half-past nine – just the time – off at once;’ said the gentleman, whom we need hardly introduce as Mr. Jingle.
‘Time – for what?’ said the spinster aunt coquettishly.
‘Licence, dearest of angels – give notice at the church – call you mine, to-morrow’ – said Mr. Jingle, and he squeezed the spinster aunt’s hand.
‘The licence!’ said Rachael, blushing.
‘The licence,’ repeated Mr. Jingle —
‘In hurry, post-haste for a licence, In hurry, ding dong I come back.’‘How you run on,’ said Rachael.
‘Run on – nothing to the hours, days, weeks, months, years, when we’re united – run on – they’ll fly on – bolt – mizzle – steam-engine – thousand-horse power – nothing to it.’
‘Can’t – can’t we be married before to-morrow morning?’ inquired Rachael.
‘Impossible – can’t be – notice at the church – leave the licence to-day – ceremony come off to-morrow.’
I am so terrified, lest my brother should discover us!’ said Rachael.
‘Discover – nonsense – too much shaken by the break-down – besides – extreme caution – gave up the post-chaise – walked on – took a hackney-coach – came to the Borough – last place in the world that he’d look in – ha! ha! – capital notion that – very.’
‘Don’t be long,’ said the spinster affectionately, as Mr. Jingle stuck the pinched-up hat on his head.
‘Long away from you? – Cruel charmer,’ and Mr. Jingle skipped playfully up to the spinster aunt, imprinted a chaste kiss upon her lips, and danced out of the room.
‘Dear man!’ said the spinster, as the door closed after him.
‘Rum old girl,’ said Mr. Jingle, as he walked down the passage.
It is painful to reflect upon the perfidy of our species; and we will not, therefore, pursue the thread of Mr. Jingle’s meditations, as he wended his way to Doctors’ Commons. It will be sufficient for our purpose to relate, that escaping the snares of the dragons in white aprons, who guard the entrance to that enchanted region, he reached the vicar-general’s office in safety and having procured a highly flattering address on parchment, from the Archbishop of Canterbury, to his ‘trusty and well-beloved Alfred Jingle and Rachael Wardle, greeting,’ he carefully deposited the mystic document in his pocket, and retraced his steps in triumph to the Borough.
He was yet on his way to the White Hart, when two plump gentleman and one thin one entered the yard, and looked round in search of some authorised person of whom they could make a few inquiries. Mr. Samuel Weller happened to be at that moment engaged in burnishing a pair of painted tops, the personal property of a farmer who was refreshing himself with a slight lunch of two or three pounds of cold beef and a pot or two of porter, after the fatigues of the Borough market; and to him the thin gentleman straightway advanced.
‘My friend,’ said the thin gentleman.
‘You’re one o’ the adwice gratis order,’ thought Sam, ‘or you wouldn’t be so wery fond o’ me all at once.’ But he only said – ‘Well, Sir.’
‘My friend,’ said the thin gentleman, with a conciliatory hem – ‘have you got many people stopping here now? Pretty busy. Eh?’
Sam stole a look at the inquirer. He was a little high-dried man, with a dark squeezed-up face, and small, restless, black eyes, that kept winking and twinkling on each side of his little inquisitive nose, as if they were playing a perpetual game of peep-bo with that feature. He was dressed all in black, with boots as shiny as his eyes, a low white neckcloth, and a clean shirt with a frill to it. A gold watch-chain, and seals, depended from his fob. He carried his black kid gloves in his hands, and not ON them; and as he spoke, thrust his wrists beneath his coat tails, with the air of a man who was in the habit of propounding some regular posers.