Sketches by Boz Read online

  “Lady in number twenty-five,” screamed the landlady.—“Thomas!”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “Letter just been left for the gentleman in number nineteen. Boots at the Lion left it. No answer.”

  “Letter for you, sir,” said Thomas, depositing the letter on number nineteen's table.

  “For me?” said number nineteen, turning from the window, out of which he had been surveying the scene just described.

  “Yes, sir,”—(waiters always speak in hints, and never utter complete sentences,)—“yes, sir,—Boots at the Lion, sir,—Bar, sir,—Missis said number nineteen, sir—Alexander Trott, Esq., sir?—Your card at the bar, sir, I think, sir?”

  “My name IS Trott,” replied number nineteen, breaking the seal. “You may go, waiter.” The waiter pulled down the window-blind, and then pulled it up again—for a regular waiter must do something before he leaves the room—adjusted the glasses on the side-board, brushed a place that was NOT dusty, rubbed his hands very hard, walked stealthily to the door, and evaporated.

  There was, evidently, something in the contents of the letter, of a nature, if not wholly unexpected, certainly extremely disagreeable. Mr. Alexander Trott laid it down, and took it up again, and walked about the room on particular squares of the carpet, and even attempted, though unsuccessfully, to whistle an air. It wouldn't do. He threw himself into a chair, and read the following epistle aloud:—

  “Blue Lion and Stomach-warmer, “Great Winglebury. “Wednesday Morning.

  “Sir. Immediately on discovering your intentions, I left our counting-house, and followed you. I know the purport of your journey;—that journey shall never be completed.

  “I have no friend here, just now, on whose secrecy I can rely. This shall be no obstacle to my revenge. Neither shall Emily Brown be exposed to the mercenary solicitations of a scoundrel, odious in her eyes, and contemptible in everybody else's: nor will I tamely submit to the clandestine attacks of a base umbrella-maker.

  “Sir. From Great Winglebury church, a footpath leads through four meadows to a retired spot known to the townspeople as Stiffun's Acre.” [Mr. Trott shuddered.] “I shall be waiting there alone, at twenty minutes before six o'clock to-morrow morning. Should I be disappointed in seeing you there, I will do myself the pleasure of calling with a horsewhip.

  “HORACE HUNTER.

  “PS. There is a gunsmiths in the High-street; and they won't sell gunpowder after dark—you understand me.

  “PPS. You had better not order your breakfast in the morning until you have met me. It may be an unnecessary expense.”

  “Desperate-minded villain! I knew how it would be!” ejaculated the terrified Trott. “I always told father, that once start me on this expedition, and Hunter would pursue me like the Wandering Jew. It's bad enough as it is, to marry with the old people's commands, and without the girl's consent; but what will Emily think of me, if I go down there breathless with running away from this infernal salamander? What SHALL I do? What CAN I do? If I go back to the city, I'm disgraced for ever—lose the girl—and, what's more, lose the money too. Even if I did go on to the Browns” by the coach, Hunter would be after me in a post-chaise; and if I go to this place, this Stiffun's Acre (another shudder), I'm as good as dead. I've seen him hit the man at the Pall-mall shooting-gallery, in the second button-hole of the waistcoat, five times out of every six, and when he didn't hit him there, he hit him in the head.” With this consolatory reminiscence Mr. Alexander Trott again ejaculated, “What shall I do?”

  Long and weary were his reflections, as, burying his face in his hand, he sat, ruminating on the best course to be pursued. His mental direction-post pointed to London. He thought of the “governor's” anger, and the loss of the fortune which the paternal Brown had promised the paternal Trott his daughter should contribute to the coffers of his son. Then the words “To Brown's” were legibly inscribed on the said direction-post, but Horace Hunter's denunciation rung in his ears;—last of all it bore, in red letters, the words, “To Stiffun's Acre;” and then Mr. Alexander Trott decided on adopting a plan which he presently matured.

  First and foremost, he despatched the under-boots to the Blue Lion and Stomach-warmer, with a gentlemanly note to Mr. Horace Hunter, intimating that he thirsted for his destruction and would do himself the pleasure of slaughtering him next morning, without fail. He then wrote another letter, and requested the attendance of the other boots—for they kept a pair. A modest knock at the room door was heard. “Come in,” said Mr. Trott. A man thrust in a red head with one eye in it, and being again desired to “come in,” brought in the body and the legs to which the head belonged, and a fur cap which belonged to the head.

  “You are the upper-boots, I think?” inquired Mr. Trott.

  “Yes, I am the upper-boots,” replied a voice from inside a velveteen case, with mother-of-pearl buttons—“that is, I'm the boots as b'longs to the house; the other man's my man, as goes errands and does odd jobs. Top-boots and half-boots, I calls us.”

  “You're from London ?” inquired Mr. Trott.

  “Driv a cab once,” was the laconic reply.

  “Why don't you drive it now?” asked Mr. Trott.

  “Over-driv the cab, and driv over a “ooman,” replied the top-boots, with brevity.

  “Do you know the mayor's house?” inquired Mr. Trott.

  “Rather,” replied the boots, significantly, as if he had some good reason to remember it.

  “Do you think you could manage to leave a letter there?” interrogated Trott.

  “Shouldn't wonder,” responded boots.

  “But this letter,” said Trott, holding a deformed note with a paralytic direction in one hand, and five shillings in the other—“this letter is anonymous.”

  “A—what?” interrupted the boots.

  “Anonymous—he's not to know who it comes from.”

  “Oh! I see,” responded the reg'lar, with a knowing wink, but without evincing the slightest disinclination to undertake the charge—“I see—bit o” Sving, eh?” and his one eye wandered round the room, as if in quest of a dark lantern and phosphorus-box. “But, I say!” he continued, recalling the eye from its search, and bringing it to bear on Mr. Trott. “I say, he's a lawyer, our mayor, and insured in the County. If you've a spite agen him, you'd better not burn his house down—blessed if I don't think it would be the greatest favour you could do him.” And he chuckled inwardly.

  If Mr. Alexander Trott had been in any other situation, his first act would have been to kick the man down-stairs by deputy; or, in other words, to ring the bell, and desire the landlord to take his boots off. He contented himself, however, with doubling the fee and explaining that the letter merely related to a breach of the peace. The top-boots retired, solemnly pledged to secrecy; and Mr. Alexander Trott sat down to a fried sole, maintenon cutlet, Madeira, and sundries, with greater composure than he had experienced since the receipt of Horace Hunter's letter of defiance.

  The lady who alighted from the London coach had no sooner been installed in number twenty-five, and made some alteration in her travelling-dress, than she indited a note to Joseph Overton, esquire, solicitor, and mayor of Great Winglebury, requesting his immediate attendance on private business of paramount importance—a summons which that worthy functionary lost no time in obeying; for after sundry openings of his eyes, divers ejaculations of “Bless me!” and other manifestations of surprise, he took his broad-brimmed hat from its accustomed peg in his little front office, and walked briskly down the High-street to the Winglebury Arms; through the hall and up the staircase of which establishment he was ushered by the landlady, and a crowd of officious waiters, to the door of number twenty-five.

  “Show the gentleman in,” said the stranger lady, in reply to the foremost waiter's announcement. The gentleman was shown in accordingly.

  The lady rose from the sofa; the mayor advanced a step from the door; and there they both paused, for a minute or two, looking at one another as if by mutual c
onsent. The mayor saw before him a buxom, richly-dressed female of about forty; the lady looked upon a sleek man, about ten years older, in drab shorts and continuations, black coat, neckcloth, and gloves.

  “Miss Julia Manners!” exclaimed the mayor at length, “you astonish me.”

  “That's very unfair of you, Overton,” replied Miss Julia, “for I have known you, long enough, not to be surprised at anything you do, and you might extend equal courtesy to me.”

  “But to run away—actually run away—with a young man!” remonstrated the mayor.

  “You wouldn't have me actually run away with an old one, I presume?” was the cool rejoinder.

  “And then to ask me—me—of all people in the world—a man of my age and appearance—mayor of the town—to promote such a scheme!” pettishly ejaculated Joseph Overton; throwing himself into an armchair, and producing Miss Julia's letter from his pocket, as if to corroborate the assertion that he HAD been asked.

  “Now, Overton,” replied the lady, “I want your assistance in this matter, and I must have it. In the lifetime of that poor old dear, Mr. Cornberry, who—who—”

  “Who was to have married you, and didn't, because he died first; and who left you his property unencumbered with the addition of himself,” suggested the mayor.

  “Well,” replied Miss Julia, reddening slightly, “in the lifetime of the poor old dear, the property had the incumbrance of your management; and all I will say of that, is, that I only wonder it didn't die of consumption instead of its master. You helped yourself then:help me now.”

  Mr. Joseph Overton was a man of the world, and an attorney; and as certain indistinct recollections of an odd thousand pounds or two, appropriated by mistake, passed across his mind he hemmed deprecatingly, smiled blandly, remained silent for a few seconds; and finally inquired, “What do you wish me to do?”

  “I'll tell you,” replied Miss Julia—“I'll tell you in three words. Dear Lord Peter—”

  “That's the young man, I suppose—” interrupted the mayor.

  “That's the young Nobleman,” replied the lady, with a great stress on the last word. “Dear Lord Peter is considerably afraid of the resentment of his family; and we have therefore thought it better to make the match a stolen one. He left town, to avoid suspicion, on a visit to his friend, the Honourable Augustus Flair, whose seat, as you know, is about thirty miles from this, accompanied only by his favourite tiger. We arranged that I should come here alone in the London coach; and that he, leaving his tiger and cab behind him, should come on, and arrive here as soon as possible this afternoon.”

  “Very well,” observed Joseph Overton, “and then he can order the chaise, and you can go on to Gretna Green together, without requiring the presence or interference of a third party, can't you?”

  “No,” replied Miss Julia. “We have every reason to believe—dear Lord Peter not being considered very prudent or sagacious by his friends, and they having discovered his attachment to me—that, immediately on his absence being observed, pursuit will be made in this direction:to elude which, and to prevent our being traced, I wish it to be understood in this house, that dear Lord Peter is slightly deranged, though perfectly harmless; and that I am, unknown to him, awaiting his arrival to convey him in a post-chaise to a private asylum—at Berwick, say. If I don't show myself much, I dare say I can manage to pass for his mother.”

  The thought occurred to the mayor's mind that the lady might show herself a good deal without fear of detection; seeing that she was about double the age of her intended husband. He said nothing, however, and the lady proceeded.

  “With the whole of this arrangement dear Lord Peter is acquainted; and all I want you to do, is, to make the delusion more complete by giving it the sanction of your influence in this place, and assigning this as a reason to the people of the house for my taking the young gentleman away. As it would not be consistent with the story that I should see him until after he has entered the chaise, I also wish you to communicate with him, and inform him that it is all going on well.”

  “Has he arrived?” inquired Overton.

  “I don't know,” replied the lady.

  “Then how am I to know!” inquired the mayor. “Of course he will not give his own name at the bar.”

  “I begged him, immediately on his arrival, to write you a note,” replied Miss Manners; “and to prevent the possibility of our project being discovered through its means, I desired him to write anonymously, and in mysterious terms, to acquaint you with the number of his room.”

  “Bless me!” exclaimed the mayor, rising from his seat, and searching his pockets—“most extraordinary circumstance—he has arrived—mysterious note left at my house in a most mysterious manner, just before yours—didn't know what to make of it before, and certainly shouldn't have attended to it.—Oh! here it is.” And Joseph Overton pulled out of an inner coat-pocket the identical letter penned by Alexander Trott. “Is this his lordship's hand?”

  “Oh yes,” replied Julia; “good, punctual creature! I have not seen it more than once or twice, but I know he writes very badly and very large. These dear, wild young noblemen, you know, Overton—”

  “Ay, ay, I see,” replied the mayor.—“Horses and dogs, play and wine—grooms, actresses, and cigars—the stable, the green-room, the saloon, and the tavern; and the legislative assembly at last.”

  “Here's what he says,” pursued the mayor; “Sir,—A young gentleman in number nineteen at the Winglebury Arms, is bent on committing a rash act to-morrow morning at an early hour.” (That's good—he means marrying.) “If you have any regard for the peace of this town, or the preservation of one—it may be two—human lives”—What the deuce does he mean by that?”

  “That he's so anxious for the ceremony, he will expire if it's put off, and that I may possibly do the same,” replied the lady with great complacency.

  “Oh! I see—not much fear of that;—well—”two human lives, you will cause him to be removed to-night.” (He wants to start at once.) “Fear not to do this on your responsibility: for to-morrow the absolute necessity of the proceeding will be but too apparent. Remember: number nineteen. The name is Trott. No delay; for life and death depend upon your promptitude.” Passionate language, certainly. Shall I see him?”

  “Do,” replied Miss Julia; “and entreat him to act his part well. I am half afraid of him. Tell him to be cautious.”

  “I will,” said the mayor.

  “Settle all the arrangements.”

  “I will,” said the mayor again.

  “And say I think the chaise had better be ordered for one o'clock.”

  “Very well,” said the mayor once more; and, ruminating on the absurdity of the situation in which fate and old acquaintance had placed him, he desired a waiter to herald his approach to the temporary representative of number nineteen.

  The announcement, “Gentleman to speak with you, sir,” induced Mr. Trott to pause half-way in the glass of port, the contents of which he was in the act of imbibing at the moment; to rise from his chair; and retreat a few paces towards the window, as if to secure a retreat, in the event of the visitor assuming the form and appearance of Horace Hunter. One glance at Joseph Overton, however, quieted his apprehensions. He courteously motioned the stranger to a seat. The waiter, after a little jingling with the decanter and glasses, consented to leave the room; and Joseph Overton, placing the broad-brimmed hat on the chair next him, and bending his body gently forward, opened the business by saying in a very low and cautious tone,

  “My lord—”

  “Eh?” said Mr. Alexander Trott, in a loud key, with the vacant and mystified stare of a chilly somnambulist.

  “Hush—hush!” said the cautious attorney: “to be sure—quite right—no titles here—my name is Overton, sir.”

  “Overton?”

  “Yes: the mayor of this place—you sent me a letter with anonymous information, this afternoon.”

  “I, sir?” exclaimed Trott with ill-dissembled s
urprise; for, coward as he was, he would willingly have repudiated the authorship of the letter in question. “I, sir?”

  “Yes, you, sir; did you not?” responded Overton, annoyed with what he supposed to be an extreme degree of unnecessary suspicion. “Either this letter is yours, or it is not. If it be, we can converse securely upon the subject at once. If it be not, of course I have no more to say.”

  “Stay, stay,” said Trott, “it IS mine; I DID write it. What could I do, sir? I had no friend here.”

  “To be sure, to be sure,” said the mayor, encouragingly, “you could not have managed it better. Well, sir; it will be necessary for you to leave here to-night in a post-chaise and four. And the harder the boys drive, the better. You are not safe from pursuit.”

  “Bless me!” exclaimed Trott, in an agony of apprehension, “can such things happen in a country like this? Such unrelenting and coldblooded hostility!” He wiped off the concentrated essence of cowardice that was oozing fast down his forehead, and looked aghast at Joseph Overton.

  “It certainly is a very hard case,” replied the mayor with a smile, “that, in a free country, people can't marry whom they like, without being hunted down as if they were criminals. However, in the present instance the lady is willing, you know, and that's the main point, after all.”

  “Lady willing,” repeated Trott, mechanically. “How do you know the lady's willing?”

  “Come, that's a good one,” said the mayor, benevolently tapping Mr. Trott on the arm with his broad-brimmed hat; “I have known her, well, for a long time; and if anybody could entertain the remotest doubt on the subject, I assure you I have none, nor need you have.”

  “Dear me!” said Mr. Trott, ruminating. “This is VERY extraordinary!”

  “Well, Lord Peter,” said the mayor, rising.