“Do they often go where glory waits ’em, and leave you here?”
“Oh, yes; I believe you they do,” returned the small servant. “Miss Sally’s such a one-er for that, she is.”
“Such a what?” said Dick.
“Such a one-er,” returned the Marchioness.
After a moment’s reflection, Mr. Swiveller determined to forego his responsible duty of setting her right, and to suffer her to talk on; as it was evident that her tongue was loosened by the purl, and her opportunities for conversation were not so frequent as to render a momentary check of little consequence.
“They sometimes go to see Mr. Quilp,” said the small servant with a shrewd look; “they go to a many places, bless you.”
“Is Mr. Brass a wunner?” said Dick.
“Not half what Miss Sally is, he isn’t,” replied the small servant, shaking her head. “Bless you, he’d never do anything without her.”
“Oh! He wouldn’t, wouldn’t he?” said Dick.
“Miss Sally keeps him in such order,” said the small servant; “he always asks her advice, he does; and he catches it sometimes. Bless you, you wouldn’t believe how much he catches it.”
“I suppose,” said Dick, “that they consult together a good deal, and talk about a great many people—about me for instance, sometimes, eh, Marchioness?”
The Marchioness nodded amazingly.
“Complimentary?” said Mr. Swiveller.
The Marchioness changed the motion of her head, which had not yet left off nodding, and suddenly began to shake it from side to side with a vehemence which threatened to dislocate her neck.
“Humph!” Dick muttered. “Would it be any breach of confidence, Marchioness, to relate what they say of the humble individual who has now the honour to—?”
“Miss Sally says you’re a funny chap,” replied his friend.
“Well, Marchioness,” said Mr. Swiveller, “that’s not uncomplimentary. Merriment, Marchioness, is not a bad or degrading quality. Old King Cole was himself a merry old soul, if we may put any faith in the pages of history.”
“But she says,” pursued his companion, “that you an’t to be trusted.”
“Why, really Marchioness,” said Mr. Swiveller, thoughtfully; “several ladies and gentlemen—not exactly professional persons, but tradespeople, ma’am, tradespeople—have made the same remark. The obscure citizen who keeps the hotel over the way, inclined strongly to that opinion tonight when I ordered him to prepare the banquet. It’s a popular prejudice, Marchioness; and yet I am sure I don’t know why, for I have been trusted in my time to a considerable amount, and I can safely say that I never forsook my trust until it deserted me—never. Mr. Brass is of the same opinion, I suppose?”
His friend nodded again, with a cunning look which seemed to hint that Mr. Brass held stronger opinions on the subject than his sister; and seeming to recollect herself, added imploringly, “But don’t you ever tell upon me, or I shall be beat to death.”
“Marchioness,” said Mr. Swiveller, rising, “the word of a gentleman is as good as his bond—sometimes better; as in the present case, where his bond might prove but a doubtful sort of security. I am your friend, and I hope we shall play many more rubbers together in this same saloon. But, Marchioness,” added Richard, stopping in his way to the door, and wheeling slowly round upon the small servant, who was following with the candle; “it occurs to me that you must be in the constant habit of airing your eye at keyholes, to know all this.”
“I only wanted,” replied the trembling Marchioness, “to know where the key of the safe was hid; that was all; and I wouldn’t have taken much, if I had found it—only enough to squench my hunger.”
“You didn’t find it then?” said Dick. “But of course you didn’t, or you’d be plumper. Good night, Marchioness. Fare thee well, and if forever, then forever fare thee well—and put up the chain, Marchioness, in case of accidents.”
With this parting injunction, Mr. Swiveller emerged from the house; and feeling that he had by this time taken quite as much to drink as promised to be good for his constitution (purl being a rather strong and heady compound), wisely resolved to betake himself to his lodgings, and to bed at once. Homeward he went therefore; and his apartments (for he still retained the plural fiction) being at no great distance from the office, he was soon seated in his own bedchamber, where, having pulled off one boot and forgotten the other, he fell into deep cogitation.
“This Marchioness,” said Mr. Swiveller, folding his arms, “is a very extraordinary person—surrounded by mysteries, ignorant of the taste of beer, unacquainted with her own name (which is less remarkable), and taking a limited view of society through the keyholes of doors—can these things be her destiny, or has some unknown person started an opposition to the decrees of fate? It is a most inscrutable and unmitigated staggerer!”
When his meditations had attained this satisfactory point, he became aware of his remaining boot, of which, with unimpaired solemnity, he proceeded to divest himself; shaking his head with exceeding gravity all the time, and sighing deeply.
“These rubbers,” said Mr. Swiveller, putting on his nightcap in exactly the same style as he wore his hat, “remind me of the matrimonial fireside. Cheggs’s wife plays cribbage; all-fours likewise. She rings the changes on ’em now. From sport to sport they hurry her, to banish her regrets, and when they win a smile from her, they think that she forgets—but she don’t. By this time, I should say,” added Richard, getting his left cheek into profile, and looking complacently at the reflection of a very little scrap of whisker in the looking-glass; “by this time, I should say, the iron has entered into her soul. It serves her
