Charles Dickens : The Complete Novels (Best Navigation, Active TOC) (A to Z Classics). A to Z Classics

she’d svallo’d varm brandy and vater artervards insted of afore she mightn’t have been no vus her veels wos immedetly greased and everythink done to set her agoin as could be inwented your father had hopes as she vould have vorked round as usual but just as she wos a turnen the corner my boy she took the wrong road and vent down hill vith a welocity you never see and notvithstandin that the drag wos put on directly by the medikel man it wornt of no use at all for she paid the last pike at twenty minutes afore six o’clock yesterday evenin havin done the journey wery much under the reglar time vich praps was partly owen to her haven taken in wery little luggage by the vay your father says that if you vill come and see me Sammy he vill take it as a wery great favor for I am wery lonely Samivel n. b. he vill have it spelt that vay vich I say ant right and as there is sich a many things to settle he is sure your guvner wont object of course he vill not Sammy for I knows him better so he sends his dooty in which I join and am Samivel infernally yours

      ‘Tony Veller.’

      ‘Wot a incomprehensible letter,’ said Sam; ‘who’s to know wot it means, vith all this he–ing and I–ing! It ain’t my father’s writin’, ‘cept this here signater in print letters; that’s his.’

      ‘Perhaps he got somebody to write it for him, and signed it himself afterwards,’ said the pretty housemaid.

      ‘Stop a minit,’ replied Sam, running over the letter again, and pausing here and there, to reflect, as he did so. ‘You’ve hit it. The gen’l’m’n as wrote it wos a–tellin’ all about the misfortun’ in a proper vay, and then my father comes a–lookin’ over him, and complicates the whole concern by puttin’ his oar in. That’s just the wery sort o’ thing he’d do. You’re right, Mary, my dear.’

      Having satisfied himself on this point, Sam read the letter all over, once more, and, appearing to form a clear notion of its contents for the first time, ejaculated thoughtfully, as he folded it up—

      ‘And so the poor creetur’s dead! I’m sorry for it. She warn’t a bad–disposed ‘ooman, if them shepherds had let her alone. I’m wery sorry for it.’

      Mr. Weller uttered these words in so serious a manner, that the pretty housemaid cast down her eyes and looked very grave.

      ‘Hows’ever,’ said Sam, putting the letter in his pocket with a gentle sigh, ‘it wos to be—and wos, as the old lady said arter she’d married the footman. Can’t be helped now, can it, Mary?’

      Mary shook her head, and sighed too.

      ‘I must apply to the hemperor for leave of absence,’ said Sam.

      Mary sighed again—the letter was so very affecting.

      ‘Good–bye!’ said Sam.

      ‘Good–bye,’ rejoined the pretty housemaid, turning her head away.

      ‘Well, shake hands, won’t you?’ said Sam.

      The pretty housemaid put out a hand which, although it was a housemaid’s, was a very small one, and rose to go.

      ‘I shan’t be wery long avay,’ said Sam.

      ‘You’re always away,’ said Mary, giving her head the slightest possible toss in the air. ‘You no sooner come, Mr. Weller, than you go again.’

      Mr. Weller drew the household beauty closer to him, and entered upon a whispering conversation, which had not proceeded far, when she turned her face round and condescended to look at him again. When they parted, it was somehow or other indispensably necessary for her to go to her room, and arrange the cap and curls before she could think of presenting herself to her mistress; which preparatory ceremony she went off to perform, bestowing many nods and smiles on Sam over the banisters as she tripped upstairs.

      ‘I shan’t be avay more than a day, or two, Sir, at the furthest,’ said Sam, when he had communicated to Mr. Pickwick the intelligence of his father’s loss.

      ‘As long as may be necessary, Sam,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘you have my full permission to remain.’

      Sam bowed.

      ‘You will tell your father, Sam, that if I can be of any assistance to him in his present situation, I shall be most willing and ready to lend him any aid in my power,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

      ‘Thank’ee, sir,’ rejoined Sam. ‘I’ll mention it, sir.’

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

      It was just seven o’clock when Samuel Weller, alighting from the box of a stage–coach which passed through Dorking, stood within a few hundred yards of the Marquis of Granby. It was a cold, dull evening; the little street looked dreary and dismal; and the mahogany countenance of the noble and gallant marquis seemed to wear a more sad and melancholy expression than it was wont to do, as it swung to and fro, creaking mournfully in the wind. The blinds were pulled down, and the shutters partly closed; of the knot of loungers that usually collected about the door, not one was to be seen; the place was silent and desolate.

      Seeing nobody of whom he could ask any preliminary questions, Sam walked softly in, and glancing round, he quickly recognised his parent in the distance.

      The widower was seated at a small round table in the little room behind the bar, smoking a pipe, with his eyes intently fixed upon the fire. The funeral had evidently taken place that day, 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 negligently down. Mr. Weller was in a very abstracted and contemplative mood. Notwithstanding that Sam called him by name several times, he still continued to smoke with the same fixed and quiet countenance, and was only roused ultimately by his son’s placing the 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 thoughtfully at 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, ‘regarding her, Samivel.’ Here Mr. Weller jerked his head in the direction of Dorking churchyard, in mute explanation that his words referred 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 that however extraordinary and incredible the declaration might appear, it was nevertheless calmly and deliberately uttered. ‘I wos a–thinkin’, Sammy, that upon the whole I wos wery sorry she wos gone.’

      ‘Vell, and so you ought to be,’ replied Sam.

      Mr. Weller nodded his acquiescence in the sentiment, and again 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 a long silence.

      ‘Wot observations?’ inquired Sam.

      ‘Them as she made, arter she was took ill,’ replied the old gentleman. ‘Wot was they?’

      ‘Somethin’ to this here effect. “Veller,” she says, “I’m afeered I’ve not done by you quite wot I ought to have done; you’re a wery kind–hearted man, and I might ha’ made your home more comfortabler. I begin to see now,” she says, “ven it’s too late, that if a married ‘ooman vishes to be religious, she should begin vith dischargin’ her dooties at home, and makin’ them as is about her cheerful and happy, and that vile she goes to church, or chapel, or wot not, at all proper times, she should be wery careful not to con–wert this sort o’ thing into a excuse for idleness or self–indulgence. I have done this,” she says, “and I’ve vasted time and substance on them as has