第50章

"Number 5," said Sam, as he picked up the shoes, and taking a piece of chalk from his pocket, made a memorandum of their destination on the soles--"Lady's shoes and private sittin'-room! I suppose she didn't come in the waggin.""She came in early this morning," cried the girl, who was still leaning over the railing of the gallery, "with a gentleman in a hackney-coach, and it's him as wants his boots, and you'd better do 'em, that's all about it.""Vy didn't you say so before?" said Sam, with great indignation, singling out the boots in question from the heap before him."For all I know'd he vas one o' the regular three-pennies.Private room! and a lady too! If he's anything of a gen'lm'n, he's vorth a shillin' a day, let alone the arrands."Stimulated by this inspiring reflection, Mr.Samuel brushed away with such hearty good will, that in a few minutes the boots and shoes, with a polish which would have struck envy to the soul of the amiable Mr.Warren (for they used Day and Martin at the White Hart), had arrived at the door of number five.

"Come in," said a man's voice, in reply to Sam's rap at the door.

Sam made his best bow, and stepped into the presence of a lady and gentleman seated at breakfast.Having officiously deposited the gentleman's boots right and left at his feet, and the lady's shoes right and left at hers, he backed towards the door.

"Boots," said the gentleman.

"Sir," said Sam, closing the door, and keeping his hand on the knob of the lock.

"Do you know--what's a-name--Doctors' Commons?""Yes, sir."

"Where is it?"

"Paul's Church-yard, sir; low archway on the carriageside, bookseller's at one corner, hot-el on the other, and two porters in the middle as touts for licences.""Touts for licences!" said the gentleman.

"Touts for licences," replied Sam."Two coves in vhite aprons--touches their hats wen you walk in--`Licence, sir, licence?' Queer sort, them, and their mas'rs too, sir--Old Baily Proctors--and no mistake.""What do they do?" inquired the gentleman.

"Do! You , sir! That a'nt the wost on it, neither.They puts things into old gen'lm'n's heads as they never dreamed of.My father, sir, wos a coachman.A widower he wos, and fat enough for anything--uncommon fat, to be sure.His missus dies, and leaves him four hundred pound.Down he goes to the Commons, to see the lawyer and draw the blunt--wery smart--top-boots on--nosegay in his button-hole--broad-brimmed tile--green shawl--quite the gen'lm'n.Goes through the archvay, thinking how he should inwest the money--up comes the touter, touches his hat--`Licence, sir, licence?'--`What's that?' says my father.--`Licence, sir,' says he.--`What licence?' says my father.--`Marriage licence,' says the touter.--`Dash my veskit,' says my father, `I never thought o' that.'--`I think you wants one, sir,' says the touter.My father pulls up, and thinks abit--`No,' says he, `damme, I'm too old, b'sides I'm a many sizes too large,' says he.--`Not a bit on it, sir,' says the touter.--`Think not?' says my father.--`I'm sure not,' says he; `we married a gen'lm'n twice your size, last Monday.'--`Did you, though,' said my father.--`To be sure we did,' says the touter, `you're a babby to him--this way, sir--this way!'--and sure enough my father walks arter him, like a tame monkey behind a horgan, into a little back office, vere a feller sat among dirty papers and tin boxes, making believe he was busy.`Pray take a seat, vile I makes out the affidavit, sir,' says the lawyer.`Thank'ee, sir,' says may father, and down he sat, and stared with all his eyes, and his mouth vide open, at the names on the boxes.`What's your name, sir,' says the lawyer.--`Tony Weller,' says my father.--`Parish?'

says the lawyer.--`Belle Savage,' says my father; for he stopped there wen he drove up, and he know'd nothing about parishes, he didn't.--`And what's the lady's name?' says the lawyer.My father was struck all of a heap.`Blessed if I know,' says he.--`Not know!' says the lawyer.--`No more nor you do,' says my father, `can't I put that in arterwards?'--`Impossible!'

says the lawyer.--`Wery well,' says my father, after he'd thought a moment, `put down Mrs.Clarke.'--`What Clarke?' says the lawyer, dipping his pen in the ink.--`Susan Clarke, Markis o' Granby, Dorking,' says my father;`she'll have me, if I ask, I des-say--I never said nothing to her, but she'll have me, I know.' The licence was made out, and she did have him, and what's more she's got him now; and I never had any of the four hundred pound, worse luck.Beg your pardon, sir," said Sam, when he had concluded, "but wen I gets on this here grievance, I runs on like a new barrow vith the wheel greased." Having said which, and having paused for an instant to see whether he was wanted for anything more, Sam left the room.

"Half-past nine--just the time--off at once;" said the gentleman, whom we need hardly introduce as Mr.Jingle.

"Time--for what?" said the spinster aunt, coquettishly.

"Licence, dearest of angles--give notice at the church--call you mine, to-morrow"--said Mr.Jingle, and he squeezed the spinster aunt's hand.

"The licence!" said Rachael, blushing.

"The licence," repeated Mr.Jingle-- "In hurry, post-haste for a licence, In hurry, ding dong I come back.""How you run on," said Rachael.

"Run on--nothing to the hours, days, weeks, months, years, when we're united-- run on--they'll fly on--volt--mizzle--steam-engine--thousand-horse power--nothing to it.""Can't--can't we be married before to-morrow morning?" inquired Rachael.

"Impossible--can't be--notice at the church--leave the licence to-day--ceremony come off to-morrow.""I am so terrified, lest my brother should discover us!" said Rachael.