"indeed you do not know him. Augustus is all mildness and humility. Wait 'till you see Augustus, and I'm sure he will conciliate your affections."
"The question arises," said Spottletoe, folding his arms: "How long we are to wait. I am not accustomed to wait; that's the fact. And I want to know how long we are expected to wait."
"Mrs. Todgers!" said Charity, "Mr. Jinkins! I am afraid there must be some mistake. I think Augustus must have gone straight to the Altar!"
As such a thing was possible, and the church was close at hand, Mr. Jinkins ran off to see: accompanied by Mr. George Chuzzlewit the bachelor cousin, who preferred anything to the aggravation of sitting near the breakfast, without being able to eat it. But they came back with no other tidings than a familiar message from the clerk importing that if they wanted to be married that morning, they had better look sharp: as the curate wasn't going to wait there all day.
The bride was now alarmed; seriously alarmed. Good Heavens what could have happened! Augustus! Dear Augustus!
Mr. Jinkins volunteered to take a cab, and seek him at the newly-furnished house. The strong-minded woman administered comfort to Miss Pecksniff. "It was a specimen of what she had to expect. It would do her good. It would dispel the romance of the affair." The red-nosed daughters also administered the kindest comfort. "Perhaps he'd come," they said. The sketchy nephew hinted that he might have fallen off a bridge. The wrath of Mr. Spottletoe resisted all the entreaties of his wife. Everybody spoke at once, and Miss Pecksniff, with clasped hands, sought consolation everywhere and found it nowhere, when Jinkins having met the postman at the door, came back with a letter: which he put into her hand.
Miss Pecksniff opened it: glanced at it; uttered a piercing shriek; threw it down upon the ground: and fainted away.
They picked it up; and crowding round, and looking over one another's shoulders, read, in the words and dashes following, this communication:
"Off Gravesend.
"Clipper Schooner, Cupid.
"Wednesday night.
"Ever injured Miss Pecksniff,
"Ere this reaches you, the undersigned will be—if not a corpse—on the way to Van Diemen's Land. Send not in pursuit. I never will be taken alive!
"The burden—300 tons per register—forgive, if in my distraction, I allude to the ship—on my mind—has been truly dreadful. Frequently—when you have sought to soothe my brow with kisses—has self-destruction flashed across me. Frequently—incredible as it may seem—have I abandoned the idea.
"I love another. She is another's. Everything appears to be somebody else's. Nothing in the world is mine—not even my Situation—which I have forfeited—by my rash conduct—in running away.
