THE STORY OF LONDON: Charles Dickens' Perspective in 11 Novels & 80+ Short Stories (Illustrated Edition). Charles Dickens
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delusion.
Sam thought he might as well talk to this groom as to any one else, especially as he was very tired with walking, and there was a good large stone just opposite the wheelbarrow; so he strolled down the lane, and, seating himself on the stone, opened a conversation with the ease and freedom for which he was remarkable.
‘Mornin’, old friend,’ said Sam.
‘Arternoon, you mean,’ replied the groom, casting a surly look at Sam.
‘You’re wery right, old friend,’ said Sam; ‘I DO mean arternoon. How are you?’
‘Why, I don’t find myself much the better for seeing of you,’ replied the ill-tempered groom.
‘That’s wery odd — that is,’ said Sam, ‘for you look so uncommon cheerful, and seem altogether so lively, that it does vun’s heart good to see you.’
The surly groom looked surlier still at this, but not sufficiently so to produce any effect upon Sam, who immediately inquired, with a countenance of great anxiety, whether his master’s name was not Walker.
‘No, it ain’t,’ said the groom.
‘Nor Brown, I s’pose?’ said Sam.
‘No, it ain’t.’
‘Nor Vilson?’
‘No; nor that @ither,’ said the groom.
‘Vell,’ replied Sam, ‘then I’m mistaken, and he hasn’t got the honour o’ my acquaintance, which I thought he had. Don’t wait here out o’ compliment to me,’ said Sam, as the groom wheeled in the barrow, and prepared to shut the gate. ‘Ease afore ceremony, old boy; I’ll excuse you.’
‘I’d knock your head off for half-a-crown,’ said the surly groom, bolting one half of the gate.
‘Couldn’t afford to have it done on those terms,’ rejoined Sam. ‘It ‘ud be worth a life’s board wages at least, to you, and ‘ud be cheap at that. Make my compliments indoors. Tell ‘em not to vait dinner for me, and say they needn’t mind puttin’ any by, for it’ll be cold afore I come in.’
In reply to this, the groom waxing very wroth, muttered a desire to damage somebody’s person; but disappeared without carrying it into execution, slamming the door angrily after him, and wholly unheeding Sam’s affectionate request, that he would leave him a lock of his hair before he went.
Sam continued to sit on the large stone, meditating upon what was best to be done, and revolving in his mind a plan for knocking at all the doors within five miles of Bristol, taking them at a hundred and fifty or two hundred a day, and endeavouring to find Miss Arabella by that expedient, when accident all of a sudden threw in his way what he might have sat there for a twelvemonth and yet not found without it.
Into the lane where he sat, there opened three or four garden gates, belonging to as many houses, which though detached from each other, were only separated by their gardens. As these were large and long, and well planted with trees, the houses were not only at some distance off, but the greater part of them were nearly concealed from view. Sam was sitting with his eyes fixed upon the dustheap outside the next gate to that by which the groom had disappeared, profoundly turning over in his mind the difficulties of his present undertaking, when the gate opened, and a female servant came out into the lane to shake some bedside carpets.
Sam was so very busy with his own thoughts, that it is probable he would have taken no more notice of the young woman than just raising his head and remarking that she had a very neat and pretty figure, if his feelings of gallantry had not been most strongly roused by observing that she had no one to help her, and that the carpets seemed too heavy for her single strength. Mr. Weller was a gentleman of great gallantry in his own way, and he no sooner remarked this circumstance than he hastily rose from the large stone, and advanced towards her.
‘My dear,’ said Sam, sliding up with an air of great respect, ‘you’ll spile that wery pretty figure out o’ all perportion if you shake them carpets by yourself. Let me help you.’
The young lady, who had been coyly affecting not to know that a gentleman was so near, turned round as Sam spoke — no doubt (indeed she said so, afterwards) to decline this offer from a perfect stranger — when instead of speaking, she started back, and uttered a half-suppressed scream. Sam was scarcely less staggered, for in the countenance of the well-shaped female servant, he beheld the very features of his valentine, the pretty housemaid from Mr. Nupkins’s.
‘Wy, Mary, my dear!’ said Sam.
‘Lauk, Mr. Weller,’ said Mary, ‘how you do frighten one!’
Sam made no verbal answer to this complaint, nor can we precisely say what reply he did make. We merely know that after a short pause Mary said, ‘Lor, do adun, Mr. Weller!’ and that his hat had fallen off a few moments before — from both of which tokens we should be disposed to infer that one kiss, or more, had passed between the parties.
‘Why, how did you come here?’ said Mary, when the conversation to which this interruption had been offered, was resumed.
‘O’ course I came to look arter you, my darlin’,’ replied Mr. Weller; for once permitting his passion to get the better of his veracity.
‘And how did you know I was here?’ inquired Mary. ‘Who could have told you that I took another service at Ipswich, and that they afterwards moved all the way here? Who COULD have told you that, Mr. Weller?’
‘Ah, to be sure,’ said Sam, with a cunning look, ‘that’s the pint. Who could ha’ told me?’
‘It wasn’t Mr. Muzzle, was it?’ inquired Mary.
‘Oh, no.’ replied Sam, with a solemn shake of the head, ‘it warn’t him.’
‘It must have been the cook,’ said Mary.
‘O’ course it must,’ said Sam.
‘Well, I never heard the like of that!’ exclaimed Mary.
‘No more did I,’ said Sam. ‘But Mary, my dear’ — here Sam’s manner grew extremely affectionate — ‘Mary, my dear, I’ve got another affair in hand as is wery pressin’. There’s one o’ my governor’s friends — Mr. Winkle, you remember him?’
‘Him in the green coat?’ said Mary. ‘Oh, yes, I remember him.’
‘Well,’ said Sam, ‘he’s in a horrid state o’ love; reg’larly comfoozled, and done over vith it.’
‘Lor!’ interposed Mary.
‘Yes,’ said Sam; ‘but that’s nothin’ if we could find out the young ‘ooman;’ and here Sam, with many digressions upon the personal beauty of Mary, and the unspeakable tortures he had experienced since he last saw her, gave a faithful account of Mr. Winkle’s present predicament.
‘Well,’ said Mary, ‘I never did!’
‘O’ course not,’ said Sam, ‘and nobody never did, nor never vill neither; and here am I a-walkin’ about like the wandering Jew — a sportin’ character you have perhaps heerd on Mary, my dear, as vos alvays doin’ a match agin’ time, and never vent to sleep — looking arter this here Miss Arabella Allen.’
‘Miss who?’ said Mary, in great astonishment.
‘Miss Arabella Allen,’ said Sam.
‘Goodness gracious!’ said Mary, pointing to the garden door which the sulky groom had locked after him. ‘Why, it’s that very house; she’s been living there these six weeks. Their upper housemaid, which is lady’s-maid too, told me all about it over the washhouse palin’s before the family was out of bed, one mornin’.’
‘Wot, the wery next door to you?’ said Sam.
‘The very next,’ replied Mary.
Mr. Weller was so deeply overcome on receiving this intelligence