There was a bright moon, but it was behind the clouds.It was a fine dry night, but it was mot uncommonly dark.Paths, hedges, fields, houses, and trees, were enveloped in one deep shade.The atmosphere was hot and sultry, the summer lightning quivered faintly on the verge of the horizon, and was the only sight that varied the dull gloom in which everything was wrapped--sound there was none, except the distant barking of some restless house-dog.
They found the house, read the brass plate, walked round the wall, and stopped at that portion of it which divided them from the bottom of the garden.
"You will return to the inn, Sam, when you have assisted me over," said Mr.Pickwick.
"Very well, sir."
"And you will sit up, 'till I return."
"Cert'nly, sir."
"Take hold of my leg; and, when I say `Over,' raise me gently.""All right, sir."
Having settled these preliminaries, Mr.Pickwick grasped the top of the wall, and gave the word "Over," which was very literally obeyed.Whether his body partook in some degree of the elasticity of his mind, or whether Mr.Weller's notions of a gentle push were of a somewhat rougher description than Mr.Pickwick's, the immediate effect of his assistance was to jerk that immortal gentleman completely over the wall on to the bed beneath, where, after crushing three gooseberry-bushes and a rose-tree, he finally alighted at full length.
"You ha'n't hurt yourself, I hope, sir?" said Sam, in a loud whisper, as soon as he recovered from the surprise consequent upon the mysterious disappearance of his master.
"I have not hurt myself , Sam, certainly," replied Mr.Pickwick, from the other side of the wall, "but I rather think that you have hurt me.""I hope not, sir," said Sam.
"Never mind," said Mr.Pickwick, rising, "it's nothing but a few scratches.
Go away, or we shall be overheard."
"Good-bye, sir."
"Good-bye."
With stealthy steps Sam Weller departed, leaving Mr.Pickwick alone in the garden.
Lights occasionally appeared in the different windows of the house, or glanced from the staircases, as if the inmates were retiring to rest.
Not caring to go too near the door, until the appointed time, Mr.Pickwick crouched into an angle of the wall, and awaited its arrival.
It was a situation which might well have depressed the spirits of many a man.Mr.Pickwick, however, felt neither depression nor misgiving.He knew that his purpose was in the main a good one, and he placed implicit reliance on the high-minded Job.It was dull, certainly; not to say, dreary;but a contemplative man can always employ himself in meditation.Mr.Pickwick had mediated himself into a doze, when he was roused by the chimes of the neighbouring church ringing out the hour--half-past eleven.
"That is the time," thought Mr.Pickwick, getting cautiously on his feet.He looked up at the house.The lights had disappeared, and the shutters were closed--all in bed, no doubt.He walked on tip-toe to the door, and gave a gentle tap.Two or three minutes passing without any reply, he gave another tap rather louder, and then another rather louder than that.
At length the sound of feet was audible upon the stairs, and then the light of a candle shone through the key-hole of the door.There was a good deal of unchaining and unbolting, and the door was slowly opened.
Now the door opened outwards: and as the door opened wider and wider, Mr.Pickwick receded behind it, more and more.What was his astonishment when he just peeped out, by way of caution, to see that the person who had opened it was--not Job Trotter, but a servant-girl with a candle in her hand! Mr.Pickwick drew in his head again, with the swiftness displayed by that admirable melodramatic performer, Punch, when he lies in wait for the flat-headed comedian with the tin box of music.
"It must have been the cat, Sarah," said the girl, addressing herself to some one in the house."Puss, puss, puss,--tit, tit, tit."But no animal being decoyed by these blandishments, the girl slowly closed the door, and re-fastened it; leaving Mr.Pickwick drawn up straight against the wall.
"This is very curious," thought Mr.Pickwick."They are sitting up beyond their usual hour, I suppose.Extremely unfortunate, that they should have chosen this night, of all others, for such a purpose--exceedingly." And with these thoughts, Mr.Pickwick cautiously retired to the angle of the wall in which he had been before ensconced; waiting until such time as he might deem it safe to repeat the signal.
He had not been here five minutes, when a vivid flash of lightning was followed by a loud peal of thunder that crashed and rolled away in the distance with a terrific noise--then came another flash of lightning, brighter than the other, and a second peal of thunder louder than the first; and then down came the rain, with a force and fury that swept everything before it.
Mr.Pickwick was perfectly aware that a tree is a very dangerous neighbour in a thunder-storm.He had a tree on his right, a tree on his left a third before him, and a fourth behind.If he remained where he was, he might fall the victim of an accident; if he showed himself in the centre of the garden, he might be consigned to a constable;--once or twice he tried to scale the wall, but having no other legs this time, than those with which Nature had furnished him, the only effect of his struggles was to inflict a variety of very unpleasant gratings on his knees and shins, and to throw him into a state of the most profuse perspiration.
"What a dreadful situation," said Mr.Pickwick, pausing to wipe his brow after this exercise.He looked up at the house--all was dark.They must be gone to bed now.He would try the signal again.
He walked on tip-toe across the moist gravel, and tapped at the door.
He held his breath, and listened at the keyhole.No reply: very odd.Another knock.He listened again.There was a low whispering inside, and then a voice cried--"Who's there?"
