“But you don’t mean to say—” Poll Sweedlepipe began.
“No,” said Mrs. Gamp, cutting him very short, “I don’t. Don’t think I do. The torters of the Imposition shouldn’t make me own I did. All I says is,” added the good woman, rising and folding her shawl about her, “that the Bull’s a-waitin, and the precious moments is a-flyin’ fast.”
The little barber having in his eager curiosity a great desire to see Mrs. Gamp’s patient, proposed to Mr. Bailey that they should accompany her to the Bull, and witness the departure of the coach. That young gentleman assenting, they all went out together.
Arriving at the tavern, Mrs. Gamp (who was full-dressed for the journey, in her latest suit of mourning) left her friends to entertain themselves in the yard, while she ascended to the sick room, where her fellow-labourer Mrs. Prig was dressing the invalid.
He was so wasted, that it seemed as if his bones would rattle when they moved him. His cheeks were sunken, and his eyes unnaturally large. He lay back in the easy-chair like one more dead than living; and rolled his languid eyes towards the door when Mrs. Gamp appeared, as painfully as if their weight alone were burdensome to move.
“And how are we by this time?” Mrs. Gamp observed. “We looks charming.”
“We looks a deal charminger than we are, then,” returned Mrs. Prig, a little chafed in her temper. “We got out of bed back’ards, I think, for we’re as cross as two sticks. I never see sich a man. He wouldn’t have been washed, if he’d had his own way.”
“She put the soap in my mouth,” said the unfortunate patient feebly.
“Couldn’t you keep it shut then?” retorted Mrs. Prig. “Who do you think’s to wash one feater, and miss another, and wear one’s eyes out with all manner of fine work of that description, for half-a-crown a day! If you wants to be tittivated, you must pay accordin.”
“Oh dear me!” cried the patient, “oh dear, dear!”
“There!” said Mrs. Prig, “that’s the way he’s been a-conductin of himself, Sarah, ever since I got him out of bed, if you’ll believe it.”
“Instead of being grateful,” Mrs. Gamp observed, “for all our little ways. Oh, fie for shame, sir, fie for shame!”
Here Mrs. Prig seized the patient by the chin, and began to rasp his unhappy head with a hairbrush.
“I suppose you don’t like that, neither!” she observed, stopping to look at him.
It was just possible that he didn’t, for the brush was a specimen of the hardest kind of instrument producible by modern art; and his very eyelids were red with the friction. Mrs. Prig was gratified to observe the correctness of her supposition, and said triumphantly “she know’d as much.”
When his hair was smoothed down comfortably into his eyes, Mrs. Prig and Mrs. Gamp put on his neckerchief; adjusting his shirt collar with great nicety, so that the starched points should also invade those organs, and afflict them with an artificial ophthalmia. His waistcoat and coat were next arranged; and as every button was wrenched into a wrong buttonhole, and the order of his boots was reversed, he presented on the whole rather a melancholy appearance.
“I don’t think it’s right,” said the poor weak invalid. “I feel as if I was in somebody else’s clothes. I’m all on one side; and you’ve made one of my legs shorter than the other. There’s a bottle in my pocket too. What do you make me sit upon a bottle for?”
“Deuce take the man!” cried Mrs. Gamp, drawing it forth. “If he ain’t been and got my night-bottle here. I made a little cupboard of his coat when it hung behind the door, and quite forgot it, Betsey. You’ll find a ingun or two, and a little tea and sugar in his t’other pocket, my dear, if you’ll just be good enough to take ’em out.”
Betsey produced the property in question, together with some other articles of general chandlery; and Mrs. Gamp transferred them to her own pocket, which was a species of nankeen pannier. Refreshment then arrived in the form of chops and strong ale for the ladies, and a basin of beef-tea for the patient; which refection was barely at an end when John Westlock appeared.
“Up and dressed!” cried John, sitting down beside him. “That’s brave. How do you feel?”
“Much better. But very weak.”
“No wonder. You have had a hard bout of it. But country air, and change of scene,” said John, “will make another man of you! Why, Mrs. Gamp,” he added, laughing, as he kindly arranged the sick man’s garments, “you have odd notions of a gentleman’s dress!”
“Mr. Lewsome an’t a easy gent to get into his clothes, sir,” Mrs. Gamp replied with dignity; “as me and Betsey Prig can certify afore the Lord Mayor and Uncommon Counsellors, if needful!”
John at that moment was standing close in front of the sick man, in the act of releasing him from the torture of the collars before mentioned, when he said in a whisper:
“Mr. Westlock! I don’t wish to be overheard. I have something very particular and strange to say to you; something that has been a dreadful weight on my mind, through this long illness.”
Quick in all his motions, John was turning round to desire the women to leave the room; when the sick man held him by the sleeve.
“Not now. I’ve not the strength. I’ve not the courage. May I tell it when I have? May I write it, if I find that easier and better?”
“May you!” cried John. “Why, Lewsome, what is this!”
“Don’t ask me what it is. It’s unnatural and cruel. Frightful to think of. Frightful to tell. Frightful to know. Frightful to have helped in. Let me kiss your hand for all your goodness to me. Be kinder still, and
