It might have been Mr. Pickwick's appearance, or it might have been his manner, or it might have been the temptation—irresistible to a female mind—of hearing something at present enveloped in mystery, that reduced the more reasonable portion of the establishment (some four individuals) to a state of comparative quiet. By them it was proposed, as a test of Mr. Pickwick's sincerity, that he should immediately submit to personal restraint; and that gentleman having consented to hold a conference with Miss Tomkins, from the interior of a closet in which the day boarders hung their bonnets and sandwich-bags, he at once stepped into it, of his own accord, and was securely locked in. This revived the others; and Miss Tomkins having been brought to, and brought down, the conference began.
"What did you do in my garden, Man?" said Miss Tomkins, in a faint voice.
"I came to warn you, that one of your young ladies was going to elope to-night," replied Mr. Pickwick, from the interior of the closet.
"Elope!" exclaimed Miss Tomkins, the three teachers, the thirty boarders, and the five servants. "Who with?"
"Your friend, Mr. Charles Fitz-Marshall."
"My friend! I don't know any such person."
"Well; Mr. Jingle, then."
I never heard the name in my life."
"Then, I have been deceived, and deluded," said Mr. Pickwick. "I have been the victim of a conspiracy—a foul and base conspiracy. Send to the Angel, my dear ma'am, if you don't believe me. Send to the Angel for Mr. Pickwick's man-servant, I implore you ma'am."
"He must be respectable—he keeps a man-servant," said Miss Tomkins to the writing and ciphering governess.
"It's my opinion, Miss Tomkins," said the writing and ciphering governess, "that his man-servant keeps him. I think he's a madman, Miss Tomkins, and the other's his keeper."
