‘Do you comprehend me?’
‘Not quite.’
‘Don’t you think — now, my dear Sir, I put it to you don’t you think — that fifty pounds and liberty would be better than Miss Wardle and expectation?’
‘Won’t do — not half enough!’ said Mr. Jingle, rising.
‘Nay, nay, my dear Sir,’ remonstrated the little attorney, seizing him by the button. ‘Good round sum — a man like you could treble it in no time — great deal to be done with fifty pounds, my dear Sir.’
‘More to be done with a hundred and fifty,’ replied Mr. Jingle coolly.
‘Well, my dear Sir, we won’t waste time in splitting straws,’ resumed the little man, ‘say — say — seventy.’ ‘Won’t do,’ said Mr. Jingle.
‘Don’t go away, my dear sir — pray don’t hurry,’ said the little man. ‘Eighty; come: I’ll write you a cheque at once.’
‘Won’t do,’ said Mr. Jingle.
‘Well, my dear Sir, well,’ said the little man, still detaining him; ‘just tell me what WILL do.’
‘Expensive affair,’ said Mr. Jingle. ‘Money out of pocket — posting, nine pounds; licence, three — that’s twelve — compensation, a hundred — hundred and twelve — breach of honour — and loss of the lady — ‘
‘Yes, my dear Sir, yes,’ said the little man, with a knowing look, ‘never mind the last two items. That’s a hundred and twelve — say a hundred — come.’
‘And twenty,’ said Mr. Jingle.
‘Come, come, I’ll write you a cheque,’ said the little man; and down he sat at the table for that purpose.
‘I’ll make it payable the day after tomorrow,’ said the little man, with a look towards Mr. Wardle; ‘and we can get the lady away, meanwhile.’ Mr. Wardle sullenly nodded assent.
‘A hundred,’ said the little man.
‘And twenty,’ said Mr. Jingle.
‘My dear Sir,’ remonstrated the little man.
‘Give it him,’ interposed Mr. Wardle, ‘and let him go.’
The cheque was written by the little gentleman, and pocketed by Mr. Jingle.
‘Now, leave this house instantly!’ said Wardle, starting up.
‘My dear Sir,’ urged the little man.
‘And mind,’ said Mr. Wardle, ‘that nothing should have induced me to make this compromise — not even a regard for my family — if I had not known that the moment you got any money in that pocket of yours, you’d go to the devil faster, if possible, than you would without it — ‘
‘My dear sir,’ urged the little man again.
‘Be quiet, Perker,’ resumed Wardle. ‘Leave the room, Sir.’
‘Off directly,’ said the unabashed Jingle. ‘Bye bye, Pickwick.’ If any dispassionate spectator could have beheld the countenance of the illustrious man, whose name forms the leading feature of the title of this work, during the latter part of this conversation, he would have been almost induced to wonder that the indignant fire which flashed from his eyes did not melt the glasses of his spectacles — so majestic was his wrath. His nostrils dilated, and his fists clenched involuntarily, as he heard himself addressed by the villain. But he restrained himself again — he did not pulverise him.
‘Here,’ continued the hardened traitor, tossing the licence at Mr. Pickwick’s feet; ‘get the name altered — take home the lady — do for Tuppy.’
Mr. Pickwick was a philosopher, but philosophers are only men in armour, after all. The shaft had reached him, penetrated through his philosophical harness, to his very heart. In the frenzy of his rage, he hurled the inkstand madly forward, and followed it up himself. But Mr. Jingle had disappeared, and he found himself caught in the arms of Sam.
‘Hollo,’ said that eccentric functionary, ‘furniter’s cheap where you come from, Sir. Self-acting ink, that ‘ere; it’s wrote your mark upon the wall, old gen’l’m’n. Hold still, Sir; wot’s the use o’ runnin’ arter a man as has made his lucky, and got to t’other end of the Borough by this time?’
Mr. Pickwick’s mind, like those of all truly great men, was open to conviction. He was a quick and powerful reasoner; and a moment’s reflection sufficed to remind him of the impotency of his rage. It subsided as quickly as it had been roused. He panted for breath, and looked benignantly round upon his friends.
Shall we tell the lamentations that ensued when Miss Wardle found herself deserted by the faithless Jingle? Shall we extract Mr. Pickwick’s masterly description of that heartrending scene? His notebook, blotted with the tears of sympathising humanity, lies open before us; one word, and it is in the printer’s hands. But, no! we will be resolute! We will not wring the public bosom, with the delineation of such suffering!
Slowly and sadly did the two friends and the deserted lady return next day in the Muggleton heavy coach. Dimly and darkly had the sombre shadows of a summer’s night fallen upon all around, when they again reached Dingley Dell, and stood within the entrance to Manor Farm.
Chapter XI.
Involving Another Journey, and an Antiquarian Discovery; Recording Mr. Pickwick’s Determination to be Present at an Election and Containing a Manuscript of the Old Clergyman’s
A night of quiet and repose in the profound silence of Dingley Dell, and an hour’s breathing of its fresh and fragrant air on the ensuing morning, completely recovered Mr. Pickwick from the effects of his late fatigue of body and anxiety of mind. That illustrious man had been separated from his friends and fol lowers for two whole days; and it was with a degree of pleasure and delight, which no common imagination can adequately conceive, that he stepped forward to greet Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass, as he encountered those gentlemen on his return from his early walk. The pleasure was mutual; for who could ever gaze on Mr. Pickwick’s beaming face without experiencing the sensation? But still a cloud seemed to hang over his companions which that great man could not but be sensible of, and was wholly at a loss to account for. There was a mysterious air about them both, as unusual as it was alarming.
‘And how,’ said Mr. Pickwick, when he had grasped his followers by the hand, and exchanged warm salutations of welcome — ‘how is Tupman?’
Mr. Winkle, to whom the question was more peculiarly addressed, made no reply. He turned away his head, and appeared absorbed in melancholy reflection.
‘Snodgrass,’ said Mr. Pickwick earnestly, ‘how is our friend — he is not ill?’
‘No,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass; and a tear trembled on his sentimental eyelid, like a raindrop on a window-frame-’no; he is not ill.’
Mr. Pickwick stopped, and gazed on each of his friends in turn.
‘Winkle — Snodgrass,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘what does this mean? Where is our friend? What has happened? Speak — I conjure, I entreat — nay, I command you, speak.’
There was a solemnity — a dignity — in Mr. Pickwick’s manner, not to be withstood.
‘He is gone,’ said Mr. Snodgrass.
‘Gone!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. ‘Gone!’
‘Gone,’ repeated Mr. Snodgrass.
‘Where!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick.
‘We can only guess, from that communication,’