Charles Dickens - Sketches by Boz

“Miss Julia Manners!” exclaimed the mayor at length, “you astonish me.”

“That's very unfair of you, Overton,” replied Miss Julia, “for I have known you, long enough, not to be surprised at anything you do, and you might extend equal courtesy to me.”

“But to run away—actually run away—with a young man!” remonstrated the mayor.

“You wouldn't have me actually run away with an old one, I presume?” was the cool rejoinder.

“And then to ask me—me—of all people in the world—a man of my age and appearance—mayor of the town—to promote such a scheme!” pettishly ejaculated Joseph Overton; throwing himself into an armchair, and producing Miss Julia's letter from his pocket, as if to corroborate the assertion that he HAD been asked.

“Now, Overton,” replied the lady, “I want your assistance in this matter, and I must have it. In the lifetime of that poor old dear, Mr. Cornberry, who—who—”

“Who was to have married you, and didn't, because he died first; and who left you his property unencumbered with the addition of himself,” suggested the mayor.

“Well,” replied Miss Julia, reddening slightly, “in the lifetime of the poor old dear, the property had the incumbrance of your management; and all I will say of that, is, that I only wonder it didn't die of consumption instead of its master. You helped yourself then:help me now.”

Mr. Joseph Overton was a man of the world, and an attorney; and as certain indistinct recollections of an odd thousand pounds or two, appropriated by mistake, passed across his mind he hemmed deprecatingly, smiled blandly, remained silent for a few seconds; and finally inquired, “What do you wish me to do?”

“I'll tell you,” replied Miss Julia—“I'll tell you in three words. Dear Lord Peter—”

“That's the young man, I suppose—” interrupted the mayor.

“That's the young Nobleman,” replied the lady, with a great stress on the last word. “Dear Lord Peter is considerably afraid of the resentment of his family; and we have therefore thought it better to make the match a stolen one. He left town, to avoid suspicion, on a visit to his friend, the Honourable Augustus Flair, whose seat, as you know, is about thirty miles from this, accompanied only by his favourite tiger. We arranged that I should come here alone in the London coach; and that he, leaving his tiger and cab behind him, should come on, and arrive here as soon as possible this afternoon.”

“Very well,” observed Joseph Overton, “and then he can order the chaise, and you can go on to Gretna Green together, without requiring the presence or interference of a third party, can't you?”

“No,” replied Miss Julia. “We have every reason to believe—dear Lord Peter not being considered very prudent or sagacious by his friends, and they having discovered his attachment to me—that, immediately on his absence being observed, pursuit will be made in this direction:to elude which, and to prevent our being traced, I wish it to be understood in this house, that dear Lord Peter is slightly deranged, though perfectly harmless; and that I am, unknown to him, awaiting his arrival to convey him in a post-chaise to a private asylum—at Berwick, say. If I don't show myself much, I dare say I can manage to pass for his mother.”

The thought occurred to the mayor's mind that the lady might show herself a good deal without fear of detection; seeing that she was about double the age of her intended husband. He said nothing, however, and the lady proceeded.

“With the whole of this arrangement dear Lord Peter is acquainted; and all I want you to do, is, to make the delusion more complete by giving it the sanction of your influence in this place, and assigning this as a reason to the people of the house for my taking the young gentleman away. As it would not be consistent with the story that I should see him until after he has entered the chaise, I also wish you to communicate with him, and inform him that it is all going on well.”

“Has he arrived?” inquired Overton.

“I don't know,” replied the lady.

“Then how am I to know!” inquired the mayor. “Of course he will not give his own name at the bar.”

“I begged him, immediately on his arrival, to write you a note,” replied Miss Manners; “and to prevent the possibility of our project being discovered through its means, I desired him to write anonymously, and in mysterious terms, to acquaint you with the number of his room.”

“Bless me!” exclaimed the mayor, rising from his seat, and searching his pockets—“most extraordinary circumstance—he has arrived—mysterious note left at my house in a most mysterious manner, just before yours—didn't know what to make of it before, and certainly shouldn't have attended to it.—Oh! here it is.” And Joseph Overton pulled out of an inner coat-pocket the identical letter penned by Alexander Trott. “Is this his lordship's hand?”

“Oh yes,” replied Julia; “good, punctual creature! I have not seen it more than once or twice, but I know he writes very badly and very large. These dear, wild young noblemen, you know, Overton—”

“Ay, ay, I see,” replied the mayor.—“Horses and dogs, play and wine—grooms, actresses, and cigars—the stable, the green-room, the saloon, and the tavern; and the legislative assembly at last.”

“Here's what he says,” pursued the mayor; “Sir,—A young gentleman in number nineteen at the Winglebury Arms, is bent on committing a rash act to-morrow morning at an early hour.” (That's good—he means marrying.) “If you have any regard for the peace of this town, or the preservation of one—it may be two—human lives”—What the deuce does he mean by that?”

“That he's so anxious for the ceremony, he will expire if it's put off, and that I may possibly do the same,” replied the lady with great complacency.

“Oh! I see—not much fear of that;—well—”two human lives, you will cause him to be removed to-night.” (He wants to start at once.) “Fear not to do this on your responsibility: for to-morrow the absolute necessity of the proceeding will be but too apparent. Remember: number nineteen. The name is Trott. No delay; for life and death depend upon your promptitude.” Passionate language, certainly. Shall I see him?”

“Do,” replied Miss Julia; “and entreat him to act his part well. I am half afraid of him. Tell him to be cautious.”

“I will,” said the mayor.

“Settle all the arrangements.”

“I will,” said the mayor again.

“And say I think the chaise had better be ordered for one o'clock.”

“Very well,” said the mayor once more; and, ruminating on the absurdity of the situation in which fate and old acquaintance had placed him, he desired a waiter to herald his approach to the temporary representative of number nineteen.

The announcement, “Gentleman to speak with you, sir,” induced Mr. Trott to pause half-way in the glass of port, the contents of which he was in the act of imbibing at the moment; to rise from his chair; and retreat a few paces towards the window, as if to secure a retreat, in the event of the visitor assuming the form and appearance of Horace Hunter. One glance at Joseph Overton, however, quieted his apprehensions. He courteously motioned the stranger to a seat. The waiter, after a little jingling with the decanter and glasses, consented to leave the room; and Joseph Overton, placing the broad-brimmed hat on the chair next him, and bending his body gently forward, opened the business by saying in a very low and cautious tone,

“My lord—”

“Eh?” said Mr. Alexander Trott, in a loud key, with the vacant and mystified stare of a chilly somnambulist.

“Hush—hush!” said the cautious attorney: “to be sure—quite right—no titles here—my name is Overton, sir.”