Christmas gold, p.812
Christmas Gold, page 812
This little business disposed of, there remained the great affair of the day to settle, and it took a great deal of settlement. There were diversities of opinions about every detail connected with the murderous operations. There were disputes about the number of paces which should separate the combatants, about the length of those paces, about the proper method of loading pistols, about the best way of giving the signal to fire—about everything. But what disgusted me most, was the levity displayed by my opponent, who seemed to think the whole thing a capital joke, sneering and sniggering at everything that was done or said. Does the man bear a charmed life, I asked myself, that he behaves with such sickening flippancy when about to risk it?
At last all these endless preliminaries were settled, and Mr. Huffell and I remained staring defiance at each other with a distance of only twelve paces between us. The beast was grinning even now, and when he was asked for the last time whether he was prepared to make an apology, he absolutely laughed.
It had been arranged that one of the seconds, Huffell's as it happened, should count one, two, three, and that at the word "three" we should both fire (if we could) at the same moment. My heart felt so tight at about this period, that I fancied it must have contracted to half its usual size, and I had a sensation of being light on my legs, and inordinately tall, such as one has after having had a fever.
"One!" said the apothecary, and the monosyllable was followed by quite a long pause.
"Two!"
"Stop!" cried a voice, which I recognised as the voice of my adversary, "I have something to say."
I whisked myself round in a moment, and saw that Mr. Huffell had thrown his weapon down on the ground, and had left the position which had been assigned to him.
"What have you to say, sir?" asked the inexorable Dewsnap, in a severe tone; "whatever it is, you have chosen a most extraordinary moment to say it in."
"I have changed my mind,"said Mr. Huffell, in a lachrymose tone; "I think that duelling is sinful, and I consent to apologise."
Astounded as I was at this announcement, I had yet leisure to observe that the apothecary did not look in the least surprised at what had happened.
"You consent to apologise?" asked Dewsnap, "to resign all claim to the lady, to express your deep contrition for the insolent expressions you have made use of towards my friend?"
"I consent," was the reply.
"We must have it all down in writing, mind!" stipulated my uncompromising friend.
"You shall have it all down in writing," said the contrite one.
"Well, this is a most extraordinary and unsatisfactory sort of thing," said Dewsnap, turning to me. "What are we to do?"
"It is unsatisfactory, but I suppose we must accept his apology," I answered, in a leisurely and nonchalant manner. My heart expanded at about this period.
"Has anybody got writing materials about him by chance?" asked my second, in a not very conciliatory tone.
Yes, the apothecary had, and he whipped them out in a moment—a note-book of unusual size, and an indelible ink-pencil.
An apology of the most humble and abject kind was now dictated by my friend Dewsnap, and written down by the crushed and conquered Huffell. When he had affixed his signature to the document, it exactly filled one leaf of the apothecary's memorandum-book. The leaf was torn out and handed to my representative. At that moment the sound of the village-clock striking nine reached us from the distant church.
Mr. Huffell started as if the day were more advanced than he anticipated.
"I believe that the document is regular?" he asked. "If so, there is nothing to detain us in a spot henceforth replete with painful associations. Gentlemen both, good morning."
"Good morning, sir," said Dewsnap, sharply; "and allow me to add, that you have reason to consider yourself an uncommonly lucky young man."
"I do so consider myself, I assure you," retorted the servile wretch.
With that, he took his leave and disappeared over the stile, closely followed by his companion. Again I thought I heard this precious pair explode into fits of laughter as soon as they were on the other side of the hedge.
Dewsnap looked at me, and I looked at Dewsnap, but we could make nothing of it. It was the most inexplicable thing that the man should have gone so far, should have had his finger on the trigger of his pistol, should have waited till the very signal to fire was on the lips of his second, and should then have broken down in that lamentable manner. It really was, as my friend and I agreed, the most disgraceful piece of cowardice of which we had ever had experience. Another point on which we were agreed, was, that our side had come out of this affair with an amount of honour and glory such as is rarely achieved by the sons of men in this practical and un-romantic age.
And now behold the victor and his friends assembled round the small dining-table at the George and Dragon, and celebrating their triumph by a breakfast! in preparing which all the resources of the establishment were brought into play.
It was a solemn occasion. The moment, I acknowledge, was to me a glorious one. My friends, naturally proud of their associate, and anxious to commemorate in some fitting manner the event of the morning, had invited me to this meal to be provided at their own expense. These dear fellows were no longer my guests. I was theirs. Dewsnap was in the chair—it was of the Windsor pattern—I was placed on his right: while at the other end of the table, which was not very far off, another Windsor chair supported the person of Mr. Cripps, the vice. The viands set before us were of the most recherché description, and when these had been done full justice to, and the chair had called for a bottle of champagne, our hilarity began almost to verge on the boisterous. My own mirth, indeed, was chastened by one pervading thought, of which I never for a moment lost sight. Had I not a secret joy which champagne could neither increase nor diminish? Had not my rival formally abdicated, and was I not that very day to appear in the presence of Mary Nuttlebury as one who had risked his life for her sake? Yes. I waited impatiently for the hour when these good fellows should take their departure, determining that, the moment they were gone, I would take possession of the field ingloriously vacated by my rival, and would enjoy the fruits of my victory. I was aroused from these reflections by the voice of my friend Dewsnap. It was, however, no longer the familiar acquaintance who spoke, but the official chairman.
Mr. Dewsnap began by remarking that we were met together on an occasion and under circumstances, of a very peculiar—he might almost say of an anomalous—nature. To begin with, here was a social meeting—nay, a convivial meeting, taking place at ten o'clock in the forenoon. That was the first anomaly. And for what was that meeting convened? To commemorate an act belonging to a class of achievements usually associated with a bygone age, rather than with that in which an inexorable Destiny had cast the lots of the present generation. Here was the second anomaly. Yes, these were anomalies, but anomalies of what a delightful kind! Would there were more such! It was—Mr. Dewsnap went on to say—the fashion of the day to decry the practice of duelling, but he, for his part, had always felt that circumstances might occur in the course of any man's career which would render an appeal to arms desirable—nay, to one who was sensitive on the point of honour, inevitable—and he therefore thought it highly important that the practice of duelling should not wholly fall into desuetude, but should be occasionally revived, as it had been on—on—in short, the present occasion.
At this moment, curiously enough, a faint cheer was heard in the distance. It came, doubtless, from the throats of some of the village-boys, and presently subsided. It was enough, however, to deprive our worthy chair of the thread of his eloquence, so that he was compelled to start again on a new tack.
"Gentlemen," said Mr.Dewsnap, "I must throw myself on your indulgence if my words fail to flow as freely as I could wish. I am, to begin with, gentlemen, powerfully moved, and that alone is enough to deprive me of any small amount of eloquence of which I may at other times be possessed. Likewise, I must frankly own that I am unaccustomed to public speaking at ten o'clock in the morning, and that the daylight puts me out. And yet," continued the chair, "I do not know why this should be so. Do not wedding-breakfasts take place by daylight? And are not speeches made on those occasions? And, after all, why should we not look upon this very meal as, to a certain extent, a wedding-breakfast? You seem surprised, gentlemen, at this inquiry, but I will ask you whether the event we are met together to celebrate—the event of this morning—has not been the first act of a drama which we all hope will terminate in a wedding—the wedding of our noble and courageous friend?"
It was a curious thing that, just when our chairman had got as far as this in his speech, the cheering we had heard before was repeated; though now much more loudly. It was also a curious tiling that the bells of the village church, which was not very far off, began to ring a merry peal. There might not be much to concern us, in this, but still it was curious. The attention of Mr. Dewsnap's audience began to wander, and their glances were, from time to time, directed towards the window. Mr. Dewsnap's own attention began also to wander, and the thread of his discourse seemed once more to elude his grasp.
"Gentlemen," he began again, resolved, like a true orator as he was, to avail himself of accident, "I was remarking that this festive meal was, in some sort and by a figure of speech, a kind of wedding-breakfast, and while the words were yet upon my lips, behold the bells of the village church break out into a joyous peal! Gentlemen, there is something almost supernatural about this. It is a happy augury, and as such I accept it."
The bells were becoming quite frantic now, and the cheering was louder.
"And as such I accept it!" repeated Mr. Dewsnap. "Gentlemen, I should not be surprised if this were an ovation offered to our noble and courageous friend. The villagers have heard of his noble and courageous conduct, and are approaching the inn to offer their humble congratulations."
It was quite certain that the villagers were approaching the inn, for the sound of their voices became every moment louder and louder. We all began to be restless under our chairman's eloquence, and when at length the sound of wheels rapidly approaching was added to the cheering and the bell-ringing, I could bear it no longer, and rushed hastily to the window, followed by everybody else in the room, the chair himself included.
A carriage and pair drove swiftly past the window. Major, I sicken while I speak. There was a postilion on the near horse, and I on that postilion's jacket was a—Oho!—Excuse me, I beg—a wedding-favour. It was an open carriage, and in it were seated two persons; one, was the gentleman, who had made me that humble apology not much more than an hour ago; the other, was Mary Nuttlebury, now, if I were to believe the evidence of my senses, Mary Huffell. They both laughed when they saw me at the window, and kissed their hands to me as they whirled away.
I became as one frantic. I pushed my friends, who in vain sought to restrain me, on one side. I rushed out into the village street. I yelled after the carriage. I gesticulated at the carriage. I ran after the carriage. But to what purpose? It was over. The thing was done. I had to return to the inn, the laughing-stock of the rude and ignorant populace.
I know no more. I don't know what became of me, how my bill at the inn was defrayed, how I got away. I only know that I am finally, hopelessly, and irretrievably under a cloud; that all my old companions, and my old habits have become odious to me; and that even the very lodgings in which I formerly resided were so unbearable, owing to the furniture being impregnated with painful associations, that I was obliged to remove and take up my quarters elsewhere. This, sir, is how I came to occupy these rooms, and I may here mention—if indeed the testimonial of a blighted wretch is of any value—that I have no cause to regret my change of abode, and that I regard Mrs. Lirriper as a most unexceptionable person, labouring indeed, as far as I can see, under only one defect. She is A WOMAN.
Chapter VII.
How the Parlours Added a Few Words
Table of Contents
Charles Dickens
I have the honour of presenting myself by the name of Jackman. I esteem it a proud privilege to go down to posterity through the instrumentality of the most remarkable boy that ever lived,—by the name of JEMMY JACKMAN LIRRIPER,—and of my most worthy and most highly respected friend, Mrs. Emma Lirriper, of Eighty-one, Norfolk Street, Strand, in the County of Middlesex, in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland.
It is not for me to express the rapture with which we received that dear and eminently remarkable boy, on the occurrence of his first Christmas holidays. Suffice it to observe that when he came flying into the house with two splendid prizes (Arithmetic, and Exemplary Conduct), Mrs. Lirriper and myself embraced with emotion, and instantly took him to the Play, where we were all three admirably entertained.
Nor is it to render homage to the virtues of the best of her good and honoured sex—whom, in deference to her unassuming worth, I will only here designate by the initials E. L.—that I add this record to the bundle of papers with which our, in a most distinguished degree, remarkable boy has expressed himself delighted, before re-consigning the same to the left-hand glass closet of Mrs. Lirriper’s little bookcase.
Neither is it to obtrude the name of the old original superannuated obscure Jemmy Jackman, once (to his degradation) of Wozenham’s, long (to his elevation) of Lirriper’s. If I could be consciously guilty of that piece of bad taste, it would indeed be a work of supererogation, now that the name is borne by JEMMY JACKMAN LIRRIPER.
No, I take up my humble pen to register a little record of our strikingly remarkable boy, which my poor capacity regards as presenting a pleasant little picture of the dear boy’s mind. The picture may be interesting to himself when he is a man.
Our first reunited Christmas-day was the most delightful one we have ever passed together. Jemmy was never silent for five minutes, except in church-time. He talked as we sat by the fire, he talked when we were out walking, he talked as we sat by the fire again, he talked incessantly at dinner, though he made a dinner almost as remarkable as himself. It was the spring of happiness in his fresh young heart flowing and flowing, and it fertilised (if I may be allowed so bold a figure) my much-esteemed friend, and J. J. the present writer.
There were only we three. We dined in my esteemed friend’s little room, and our entertainment was perfect. But everything in the establishment is, in neatness, order, and comfort, always perfect. After dinner our boy slipped away to his old stool at my esteemed friend’s knee, and there, with his hot chestnuts and his glass of brown sherry (really, a most excellent wine!) on a chair for a table, his face outshone the apples in the dish.
We talked of these jottings of mine, which Jemmy had read through and through by that time; and so it came about that my esteemed friend remarked, as she sat smoothing Jemmy’s curls:
“And as you belong to the house too, Jemmy,—and so much more than the Lodgers, having been born in it,—why, your story ought to be added to the rest, I think, one of these days.”
Jemmy’s eyes sparkled at this, and he said, “So I think, Gran.”
Then he sat looking at the fire, and then he began to laugh in a sort of confidence with the fire, and then he said, folding his arms across my esteemed friend’s lap, and raising his bright face to hers. “Would you like to hear a boy’s story, Gran?”
“Of all things,” replied my esteemed friend.
“Would you, godfather?”
“Of all things,” I too replied.
“Well, then,” said Jemmy, “I’ll tell you one.”
Here our indisputably remarkable boy gave himself a hug, and laughed again, musically, at the idea of his coming out in that new line. Then he once more took the fire into the same sort of confidence as before, and began:
“Once upon a time, When pigs drank wine, And monkeys chewed tobaccer, ’Twas neither in your time nor mine, But that’s no macker——”
“Bless the child!” cried my esteemed friend, “what’s amiss with his brain?”
“It’s poetry, Gran,” returned Jemmy, shouting with laughter. “We always begin stories that way at school.”
“Gave me quite a turn, Major,” said my esteemed friend, fanning herself with a plate. “Thought he was light-headed!”
“In those remarkable times, Gran and godfather, there was once a boy,—not me, you know.”
“No, no,” says my respected friend, “not you. Not him, Major, you understand?”
“No, no,” says I.
“And he went to school in Rutlandshire——”
“Why not Lincolnshire?” says my respected friend.
“Why not, you dear old Gran? Because I go to school in Lincolnshire, don’t I?”
“Ah, to be sure!” says my respected friend. “And it’s not Jemmy, you understand, Major?”
“No, no,” says I.
“Well!” our boy proceeded, hugging himself comfortably, and laughing merrily (again in confidence with the fire), before he again looked up in Mrs. Lirriper’s face, “and so he was tremendously in love with his schoolmaster’s daughter, and she was the most beautiful creature that ever was seen, and she had brown eyes, and she had brown hair all curling beautifully, and she had a delicious voice, and she was delicious altogether, and her name was Seraphina.”
“What’s the name of your schoolmaster’s daughter, Jemmy?” asks my respected friend.
“Polly!” replied Jemmy, pointing his forefinger at her. “There now! Caught you! Ha, ha, ha!”
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