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Elisha Cuthbert Photos Books: Martin Eden The Pickwick Papers The Sea Wolf |
compassionate
females to ladies who are endeavouring to ferment themselves
into hysterics.
Coach is ready, Sir, said Sam, appearing at the door.
Come along, cried Wardle. Ill carry her downstairs.
At this proposition, the hysterics came on with redoubled violence.
The landlady was about to enter a very violent protest against
this proceeding, and had already given vent to an indignant
inquiry whether Mr. Wardle considered himself a lord of the
creation, when Mr. Jingle interposed--
Boots, said he, get me an officer.
Stay, stay, said little Mr. Perker. Consider, Sir, consider.
Ill not consider, replied Jingle. Shes her own mistress--see
who dares to take her away--unless she wishes it.
I WONT be taken away, murmured the spinster aunt. I DONT
wish it. (Here there was a frightful relapse.)
My dear Sir, said the little man, in a low tone, taking Mr.
Wardle and Mr. Pickwick apart--my dear Sir, were in a very
awkward situation. Its a distressing case--very; I never knew
one more so; but really, my dear sir, really we have no power to
control this ladys actions. I warned you before we came, my dear
sir, that there was nothing to look to but a compromise.
There was a short pause.
What kind of compromise would you recommend? inquired
Mr. Pickwick.
Why, my dear Sir, our friends in an unpleasant position--very
much so. We must be content to suffer some pecuniary loss.
Ill suffer any, rather than submit to this disgrace, and let her,
fool as she is, be made miserable for life, said Wardle.
I rather think it can be done, said the bustling little man.
Mr. Jingle, will you step with us into the next room for a
moment?
Mr. Jingle assented, and the quartette walked into an empty apartment.
Now, sir, said the little man, as he carefully closed the door,
is there no way of accommodating this matter--step this way,
sir, for a moment--into this window, Sir, where we can be alone
--there, sir, there, pray sit down, sir. Now, my dear Sir, between
you and I, we know very well, my dear Sir, that you have run off
with this lady for the sake of her money. Dont frown, Sir, dont
frown; I say, between you and I, WE know it. We are both men of
the world, and WE know very well that our friends here, are not--eh?
Mr. Jingles face gradually relaxed; and something distantly
resembling a wink quivered for an instant in his left eye.
Very good, very good, said the little man, observing the
impression he had made. Now, the fact is, that beyond a few
hundreds, the lady has little or nothing till the death of her
mother--fine old lady, my dear Sir.
OLD, said Mr. Jingle briefly but emphatically.
Why, yes, said the attorney, with a slight cough. You are
right, my dear Sir, she is rather old. She comes of an old family
though, my dear Sir; old in every sense of the word. The founder
of that family came into Kent when Julius Caesar invaded
Britain;--only one member of it, since, who hasnt lived to eighty-five,
and he was beheaded by one of the Henrys. The old lady
is not seventy-three now, my dear Sir. The little man paused, and
took a pinch of snuff.
Well, cried Mr. Jingle.
Well, my dear sir--you dont take snuff!--ah! so much the
better--expensive habit--well, my dear Sir, youre a fine young
man, man of the world--able to push your fortune, if you had
capital, eh?
Well, said Mr. Jingle again.
Do you comprehend me?
Not quite.
Dont you think--now, my dear Sir, I put it to you dont you
think--that fifty pounds and liberty would be better than Miss
Wardle and expectation?
Wont 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 wont waste time in splitting straws,
resumed the little man, say--say--seventy.
Wont do, said Mr. Jingle.
Dont go away, my dear sir--pray dont hurry, said the little
man. Eighty; come: Ill write you a cheque at once.
Wont 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--thats twelve--compensation,
a The Pickwick Papers page 61 The Pickwick Papers page 63 |