INVOLVING A SERIOUS CHANGE IN THEWELLER FAMILY, AND THE UNTIMELYDOWNFALL OF Mr. STIGGINSonsidering it a matter of delicacy to abstain fromintroducing either Bob Sawyer or Ben Allen to the youngcouple, until they were fully prepared to expect them, andwishing to spare Arabella’s feelings as much as possible, Mr.

　　Pickwick proposed that he and Sam should alight in theneighbourhood of the George and Vulture, and that the two youngmen should for the present take up their quarters elsewhere. Tothis they very readily agreed, and the proposition was accordinglyacted upon; Mr. Ben Allen and Mr. Bob Sawyer betakingthemselves to a sequestered pot-shop on the remotest confines ofthe Borough, behind the bar door of which their names had inother days very often appeared at the head of long and complexcalculations worked in white chalk.

　　‘Dear me, Mr. Weller,’ said the pretty housemaid, meeting Samat the door.

　　‘Dear me I vish it vos, my dear,’ replied Sam, dropping behind,to let his master get out of hearing. ‘Wot a sweet-lookin’ creeturyou are, Mary!’

　　‘Lot, Mr. Weller, what nonsense you do talk!’ said Mary. ‘Oh!

　　don’t, Mr. Weller.”

　　‘Don’t what, my dear?’ said Sam.

　　‘Why, that,’ replied the pretty housemaid. ‘Lor, do get alongwith you.’ Thus admonishing him, the pretty housemaid pushedSam against the wall, declaring that he had tumbled her cap, andput her hair quite out of curl.

　　‘And prevented what I was going to say, besides,’ added Mary.

　　‘There’s a letter been waiting here for you four days; you hadn’tgone away, half an hour, when it came; and more than that, it’s got“immediate,” on the outside.’

　　‘Vere is it, my love?’ inquired Sam.

　　‘I took care of it, for you, or I dare say it would have been lostlong before this,’ replied Mary. ‘There, take it; it’s more than youdeserve.’

　　With these words, after many pretty little coquettish doubts andfears, and wishes that she might not have lost it, Mary producedthe letter from behind the nicest little muslin tucker possible, andhanded it to Sam, who thereupon kissed it with much gallantryand devotion.

　　‘My goodness me!’ said Mary, adjusting the tucker, and feigningunconsciousness, ‘you seem to have grown very fond of it all atonce.’

　　To this Mr. Weller only replied by a wink, the intense meaningof which no description could convey the faintest idea of; and,sitting himself down beside Mary on a window-seat, opened theletter and glanced at the contents.

　　‘Hollo!’ exclaimed Sam, ‘wot’s all this?’

　　‘Nothing the matter, I hope?’ said Mary, peeping over hisshoulder.

　　‘Bless them eyes o’ yourn!’ said Sam, looking up.

　　‘Never mind my eyes; you had much better read your letter,’

　　said the pretty housemaid; and as she said so, she made the eyestwinkle with such slyness and beauty that they were perfectlyirresistible.

　　Sam refreshed himself with a kiss, and read as follows:―‘Markis Gran‘By Dorken‘Wensdy.

　　‘My dear Sammle,‘I am werry sorry to have the pleasure of being a Bear of illnews your Mother in law cort cold consekens of imprudently settintoo long on the damp grass in the rain a hearing of a shepherdwho warnt able to leave off till late at night owen to his havingvound his-self up vith brandy and vater and not being able to stophis-self till he got a little sober which took a many hours to do thedoctor says that if she’d svallo’d varm brandy and vater artervardsinsted of afore she mightn’t have been no vus her veels wosimmedetly greased and everythink done to set her agoin as couldbe inwented your father had hopes as she vould have vorkedround as usual but just as she wos a turnen the corner my boy shetook the wrong road and vent down hill vith a welocity you neversee and notvithstandin that the drag wos put on directly by themedikel man it wornt of no use at all for she paid the last pike attwenty minutes afore six o’clock yesterday evenin havin done thejourney wery much under the reglar time vich praps was partlyowen to her haven taken in wery little luggage by the vay yourfather says that if you vill come and see me Sammy he vill take itas a wery great favor for I am wery lonely Samivel n. b. he villhave it spelt that vay vich I say ant right and as there is sich amany things to settle he is sure your guvner wont object of coursehe vill not Sammy for I knows him better so he sends his dooty inwhich I join and am Samivel infernally yours‘Tony Veller.’

　　‘Wot a incomprehensible letter,’ said Sam; ‘who’s to know wot itmeans, 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 ithimself afterwards,’ said the pretty housemaid.

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

　　Having satisfied himself on this point, Sam read the letter allover, once more, and, appearing to form a clear notion of itscontents for the first time, ejaculated thoughtfully, as he folded itup―‘And so the poor creetur’s dead! I’m sorry for it. She warn’t abad-disposed ’ooman, if them shepherds had let her alone. I’mwery sorry for it.’

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

　　‘Hows’ever,’ said Sam, putting the letter in his pocket with agentle sigh, ‘it wos to be―and wos, as the old lady said arter she’dmarried 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 headaway.

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

　　The pretty housemaid put out a hand which, although it was ahousemaid’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 slightestpossible toss in the air. ‘You no sooner come, Mr. Weller, than yougo again.’

　　Mr. Weller drew the household beauty closer to him, andentered upon a whispering conversation, which had not proceededfar, when she turned her face round and condescended to look athim again. When they parted, it was somehow or otherindispensably necessary for her to go to her room, and arrange thecap and curls before she could think of presenting herself to hermistress; which preparatory ceremony she went off to perform,bestowing many nods and smiles on Sam over the banisters as shetripped 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 theintelligence of his father’s loss.

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

　　Sam bowed.

　　‘You will tell your father, Sam, that if I can be of any assistanceto him in his present situation, I shall be most willing and ready tolend 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 fromthe box of a stage-coach which passed through Dorking, stoodwithin a few hundred yards of the Marquis of Granby. It was acold, dull evening; the little street looked dreary and dismal; andthe mahogany countenance of the noble and gallant marquisseemed to wear a more sad and melancholy expression than it waswont to do, as it swung to and fro, creaking mournfully in thewind. The blinds were pulled down, and the shutters partly closed;of the knot of loungers that usually collected about the door, notone was to be seen; the place was silent and desolate.

　　Seeing nobody of whom he could ask any preliminaryquestions, Sam walked softly in, and glancing round, he quicklyrecognised his parent in the distance.

　　The widower was seated at a small round table in the littleroom behind the bar, smoking a pipe, with his eyes intently fixedupon the fire. The funeral had evidently taken place that day, forattached to his hat, which he still retained on his head, was ahatband measuring about a yard and a half in length, which hungover 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, hestill continued to smoke with the same fixed and quietcountenance, and was only roused ultimately by his son’s placingthe 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, hanginghis hat on a peg, ‘but you didn’t hear me.’

　　‘No, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller, again looking thoughtfully atthe 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, ‘regardingher, Samivel.’ Here Mr. Weller jerked his head in the direction ofDorking churchyard, in mute explanation that his words referredto the late Mrs. Weller.

　　‘I wos a-thinkin’, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, eyeing his son, withgreat earnestness, over his pipe, as if to assure him that howeverextraordinary and incredible the declaration might appear, it wasnevertheless 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 againfastening his eyes on the fire, shrouded himself in a cloud, andmused deeply.

　　‘Those wos wery sensible observations as she made, Sammy,’

　　said Mr. Weller, driving the smoke away with his hand, after a longsilence.

　　‘Wot observations?’ inquired Sam.

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

　　‘Somethin’ to this here effect. “Veller,” she says, “I’m afeeredI’ve not done by you quite wot I ought to have done; you’re a werykind-hearted man, and I might ha’ made your home morecomfortabler. I begin to see now,” she says, “ven it’s too late, thatif a married ’ooman vishes to be religious, she should begin vithdischargin’ her dooties at home, and makin’ them as is about hercheerful and happy, and that vile she goes to church, or chapel, orwot 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 onthem as has done it more than me; but I hope ven I’m gone, Veller,that you’ll think on me as I wos afore I know’d them people, and asI raly wos by natur.” “Susan,” says I―I wos took up wery short bythis, Samivel; I von’t deny it, my boy―“Susan,” I says, “you’vebeen a wery good vife to me, altogether; don’t say nothin’ at allabout it; keep a good heart, my dear; and you’ll live to see mepunch that ’ere Stiggins’s head yet.” She smiled at this, Samivel,’

　　said the old gentleman, stifling a sigh with his pipe, ‘but she diedarter all!’

　　‘Vell,’ said Sam, venturing to offer a little homely consolation,after the lapse of three or four minutes, consumed by the oldgentleman in slowly shaking his head from side to side, andsolemnly smoking, ‘vell, gov’nor, ve must all come to it, one day oranother.’

　　‘So we must, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller the elder.

　　‘There’s a Providence in it all,’ said Sam.

　　‘O’ course there is,’ replied his father, with a nod of graveapproval. ‘Wot ’ud become of the undertakers vithout it, Sammy?’

　　Lost in the immense field of conjecture opened by thisreflection, the elder Mr. Weller laid his pipe on the table, andstirred the fire with a meditative visage.

　　While the old gentleman was thus engaged, a very buxom-looking cook, dressed in mourning, who had been bustling about,in the bar, glided into the room, and bestowing many smirks ofrecognition upon Sam, silently stationed herself at the back of hisfather’s chair, and announced her presence by a slight cough, thewhich, being disregarded, was followed by a louder one.

　　‘Hollo!’ said the elder Mr. Weller, dropping the poker as helooked round, and hastily drew his chair away. ‘Wot’s the matternow?’

　　‘Have a cup of tea, there’s a good soul,’ replied the buxomfemale coaxingly. ‘I von’t,’ replied Mr. Weller, in a somewhatboisterous manner. ‘I’ll see you―’ Mr. Weller hastily checkedhimself, and added in a low tone, ‘furder fust.’

　　‘Oh, dear, dear! How adwersity does change people!’ said thelady, looking upwards.

　　‘It’s the only thing ’twixt this and the doctor ............