“Oh! I didn’t mean any harm indeed. Upon my word I didn’t,” cried the small servant, struggling like a much larger one. “It’s so very dull, downstairs. Please don’t you tell upon me; please don’t.”
“Tell upon you!” said Dick. “Do you mean to say you were looking through the keyhole for company?”
“Yes, upon my word I was,” replied the small servant.
“How long have you been cooling your eye there?” said Dick.
“Oh ever since you first began to play them cards, and long before.”
Vague recollections of several fantastic exercises with which he had refreshed himself after the fatigues of business, and to all of which, no doubt, the small servant was a party, rather disconcerted Mr. Swiveller; but he was not very sensitive on such points, and recovered himself speedily.
“Well—come in”—he said, after a little consideration. “Here—sit down, and I’ll teach you how to play.”
“Oh! I durstn’t do it” rejoined the small servant; “Miss Sally ’ud kill me, if she know’d I came up here.”
“Have you got a fire downstairs?” said Dick.
“A very little one,” replied the small servant.
“Miss Sally couldn’t kill me if she know’d I went down there, so I’ll come,” said Richard, putting the cards into his pocket. “Why how thin you are! What do you mean by it?”
“It an’t my fault.”
“Could you eat any bread and meat?” said Dick, taking down his hat. “Yes? Ah! I thought so. Did you ever taste beer?”
“I had a sip of it once,” said the small servant.
“Here’s a state of things!” cried Mr. Swiveller, raising his eyes to the ceiling. “She never tasted it—it can’t be tasted in a sip! Why, how old are you?”
“I don’t know.”
Mr. Swiveller opened his eyes very wide, and appeared thoughtful for a moment; then bidding the child mind the door until he came back, vanished straightway.
Presently he returned, followed by the boy from the public-house, who bore in one hand a plate of bread and beef, and in the other a great pot, filled with some very fragrant compound, which sent forth a grateful steam, and was indeed choice purl, made after a particular recipe which Mr. Swiveller had imparted to the landlord at a period when he was deep in his books and desirous to conciliate his friendship. Relieving the boy of his burden at the door, and charging his little companion to fasten it to prevent surprise, Mr. Swiveller followed her into the kitchen.
“There!” said Richard, putting the plate before her. “First of all, clear that off, and then you’ll see what’s next.”
The small servant needed no second bidding, and the plate was soon empty.
“Next,” said Dick, handing the purl, “take a pull at that; but moderate your transports, you know, for you’re not used to it. Well, is it good?”
“Oh! isn’t it?” said the small servant.
Mr. Swiveller appeared gratified beyond all expression by this reply, and took a long draught himself, steadfastly regarding his companion while he did so. These preliminaries disposed of, he applied himself to teaching her the game, which she soon learnt tolerably well, being both sharp-witted and cunning.
“Now,” said Mr. Swiveller, putting two sixpences into a saucer, and trimming the wretched candle, when the cards had been cut and dealt, “those are the stakes. If you win, you get ’em all. If I win, I get ’em. To make it seem more real and pleasant, I shall call you the Marchioness, do you hear?”
The small servant nodded.
“Then, Marchioness,” said Mr. Swiveller, “fire away!”
The Marchioness, holding her cards very tight in both hands, considered which to play, and Mr. Swiveller, assuming the gay and fashionable air which such society required, took another pull at the tankard, and waited for her lead.
LVIII
Mr. Swiveller and his partner played several rubbers with varying success, until the loss of three sixpences, the gradual sinking of the purl, and the striking of ten o’clock, combined to render that gentleman mindful of the flight of Time, and the expediency of withdrawing before Mr. Sampson and Miss Sally Brass returned.
“With which object in view, Marchioness,” said Mr. Swiveller gravely, “I shall ask your ladyship’s permission to put the board in my pocket, and to retire from the presence when I have finished this tankard; merely observing, Marchioness, that since life like a river is flowing, I care not how fast it rolls on, ma’am, on, while such purl on the bank still is growing, and such eyes light the waves as they run. Marchioness, your health. You will excuse my wearing my hat, but the palace is damp, and the marble floor is—if I may be allowed the expression—sloppy.”
As a precaution against this latter inconvenience, Mr. Swiveller had been sitting for some time with his feet on the hob, in which attitude he now gave utterance to these apologetic observations, and slowly sipped the last choice drops of nectar.
“The Baron Sampsono Brasso and his fair sister are (you tell me) at the Play?” said Mr. Swiveller, leaning his left arm heavily upon the table, and raising his voice and his right leg after the manner of a theatrical bandit.
The Marchioness nodded.
“Ha!” said Mr. Swiveller, with a portentous frown. “ ’Tis well. Marchioness!—but no matter. Some wine there. Ho!” He illustrated these melodramatic morsels by handing the tankard to himself with great humility, receiving it haughtily, drinking from it thirstily, and smacking his lips fiercely.
The small servant, who was not so well acquainted with theatrical conventionalities as Mr. Swiveller (having indeed never
