“How are you safer there than anyveres else?” interrupted Sam.
“ ’Cos a coachman’s a privileged indiwidual,” replied Mr. Weller, looking fixedly at his son. “ ’Cos a coachman may do vithout suspicion wot other men may not; ’cos a coachman may be on the wery amicablest terms with eighty mile o’ females, and yet nobody think that he ever means to marry any vun among ’em. And wot other man can say the same, Sammy?”
“Vell, there’s somethin’ in that,” said Sam.
“If your gov’nor had been a coachman,” reasoned Mr. Weller, “do you s’pose as that ’ere jury ’ud ever ha’ conwicted him, s’posin’ it possible as the matter could ha’ gone to that extremity? They dustn’t ha’ done it.”
“Wy not?” said Sam, rather disparagingly.
“Wy not!” rejoined Mr. Weller; “ ’cos it ’ud ha’ gone agin their consciences. A reg’lar coachman’s a sort o’ con-nectin’ link betwixt singleness and matrimony, and every practicable man knows it.”
“Wot! You mean, they’re gen’ral favorites, and nobody takes adwantage on ’em, p’raps?” said Sam.
His father nodded.
“How it ever come to that ’ere pass,” resumed the parent Weller, “I can’t say. Wy it is that long-stage coachmen possess such insiniwations, and is alvays looked up to—adored I may say—by ev’ry young ’ooman in ev’ry town he vurks through, I don’t know. I only know that so it is. It’s a regulation of natur—a dispensary, as your poor mother-in-law used to say.”
“A dispensation,” said Sam, correcting the old gentleman.
“Wery good, Samivel, a dispensation if you like it better,” returned Mr. Weller; “I call it a dispensary, and it’s always writ up so, at the places vere they gives you physic for nothin’ in your own bottles; that’s all.”
With these words, Mr. Weller refilled and relighted his pipe, and once more summoning up a meditative expression of countenance, continued as follows—
“Therefore, my boy, as I do not see the adwisability o’ stoppin here to be married vether I vant to or not, and as at the same time I do not vish to separate myself from them interestin’ members o’ society altogether, I have come to the determination o’ driving the Safety, and puttin’ up vunce more at the Bell Savage, vich is my nat’ral born element, Sammy.”
“And wot’s to become o’ the bis’ness?” inquired Sam.
“The bis’ness, Samivel,” replied the old gentleman, “good-vill, stock, and fixters, vill be sold by private contract; and out o’ the money, two hundred pound, agreeable to a rekvest o’ your mother-in-law’s to me, a little afore she died, vill be invested in your name in—What do you call them things agin?”
“Wot things?” inquired Sam.
“Them things as is always a-goin’ up and down, in the city.”
“Omnibuses?” suggested Sam.
“Nonsense,” replied Mr. Weller. “Them things as is alvays a-fluctooatin’, and gettin’ theirselves inwolved somehow or another vith the national debt, and the chequers bill; and all that.”
“Oh! the funds,” said Sam.
“Ah!” rejoined Mr. Weller, “the funs; two hundred pounds o’ the money is to be inwested for you, Samivel, in the funs; four and a half percent reduced counsels, Sammy.”
“Wery kind o’ the old lady to think o’ me,” said Sam, “and I’m wery much obliged to her.”
“The rest will be inwested in my name,” continued the elder Mr. Weller; “and wen I’m took off the road, it’ll come to you, so take care you don’t spend it all at vunst, my boy, and mind that no widder gets a inklin’ o’ your fortun’, or you’re done.”
Having delivered this warning, Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with a more serene countenance; the disclosure of these matters appearing to have eased his mind considerably.
“Somebody’s a-tappin’ at the door,” said Sam.
“Let ’em tap,” replied his father, with dignity.
Sam acted upon the direction. There was another tap, and another, and then a long row of taps; upon which Sam inquired why the tapper was not admitted.
“Hush,” whispered Mr. Weller, with apprehensive looks, “don’t take no notice on ’em, Sammy, it’s vun o’ the widders, p’raps.”
No notice being taken of the taps, the unseen visitor, after a short lapse, ventured to open the door and peep in. It was no female head that was thrust in at the partially-opened door, but the long black locks and red face of Mr. Stiggins. Mr. Weller’s pipe fell from his hands.
The reverend gentleman gradually opened the door by almost imperceptible degrees, until the aperture was just wide enough to admit of the passage of his lank body, when he glided into the room and closed it after him, with great care and gentleness. Turning towards Sam, and raising his hands and eyes in token of the unspeakable sorrow with which he regarded the calamity that had befallen the family, he carried the high-backed chair to his old corner by the fire, and, seating himself on the very edge, drew forth a brown pocket-handkerchief, and applied the same to his optics.
While this was going forward, the elder Mr. Weller sat back in his chair, with his eyes wide open, his hands planted on his knees, and his whole countenance expressive of absorbing and overwhelming astonishment. Sam sat opposite him in perfect silence, waiting, with eager curiosity, for the termination of the scene.
Mr. Stiggins kept the brown pocket-handkerchief before his eyes for some minutes, moaning decently meanwhile, and then, mastering his feelings by a strong effort, put it in his pocket and buttoned it up. After this, he stirred the fire; after that, he rubbed his hands and looked at Sam.
“Oh, my young friend,” said Mr. Stiggins, breaking the silence, in a very low voice, “here’s a sorrowful affliction!”
Sam nodded very slightly.
“For the man of wrath, too!” added Mr. Stiggins; “it makes a vessel’s heart bleed!”
Mr. Weller was overheard by his son to murmur something relative to making a vessel’s nose bleed; but Mr. Stiggins heard him not.
“Do you know, young man,” whispered Mr. Stiggins, drawing his chair closer to Sam, “whether she has left Emanuel anything?”
“Who’s he?” inquired Sam.
“The chapel,” replied Mr. Stiggins; “our chapel; our fold,
