‘Jolly sort of lodgings,’ said Mark, rubbing
his nose with the knob at the end of the fire-shovel,
and looking round the poor chamber; ’that’s
a comfort. The rain’s come through the roof
too. That an’t bad. A lively old bedstead,
I’ll be bound; popilated by lots of wampires,
no doubt. Come! my spirits is a-getting up again.
An uncommon ragged nightcap this. A very good
sign. We shall do yet! Here, Jane, my dear,’
calling down the stairs, ’bring up that there
hot tumbler for my master as was a-mixing when I come
in. That’s right, sir,’ to Martin.
’Go at it as if you meant it, sir. Be very
tender, sir, if you please. You can’t make
it too strong, sir!’
In which Martin bids adieu
to the lady of his love;
and honours an obscure individual
whose fortune he intends to
make by commending her to
his protection
The letter being duly signed, sealed, and delivered,
was handed to Mark Tapley, for immediate conveyance
if possible. And he succeeded so well in his
embassy as to be enabled to return that same night,
just as the house was closing, with the welcome intelligence
that he had sent it upstairs to the young lady, enclosed
in a small manuscript of his own, purporting to contain
his further petition to be engaged in Mr Chuzzlewit’s
service; and that she had herself come down and told
him, in great haste and agitation, that she would
meet the gentleman at eight o’clock to-morrow
morning in St. James’s Park. It was then
agreed between the new master and the new man, that
Mark should be in waiting near the hotel in good time,
to escort the young lady to the place of appointment;
and when they had parted for the night with this understanding,
Martin took up his pen again; and before he went to
bed wrote another letter, whereof more will be seen
presently.
He was up before daybreak, and came upon the Park
with the morning, which was clad in the least engaging
of the three hundred and sixty-five dresses in the
wardrobe of the year. It was raw, damp, dark,
and dismal; the clouds were as muddy as the ground;
and the short perspective of every street and avenue
was closed up by the mist as by a filthy curtain.
‘Fine weather indeed,’ Martin bitterly
soliloquised, ’to be wandering up and down here
in, like a thief! Fine weather indeed, for a meeting
of lovers in the open air, and in a public walk!
I need be departing, with all speed, for another country;
for I have come to a pretty pass in this!’
He might perhaps have gone on to reflect that of all
mornings in the year, it was not the best calculated
for a young lady’s coming forth on such an errand,
either. But he was stopped on the road to this
reflection, if his thoughts tended that way, by her
appearance at a short distance, on which he hurried
forward to meet her. Her squire, Mr Tapley, at
the same time fell discreetly back, and surveyed the
fog above him with an appearance of attentive interest.
