STRONGLY ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE POSITION,THAT THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE IS NOT ARAILWAYhe quiet seclusion of Dingley Dell, the presence of so manyof the gentler sex, and the solicitude and anxiety theyevinced in his behalf, were all favourable to the growthand development of those softer feelings which nature hadimplanted deep in the bosom of Mr. Tracy Tupman, and whichnow appeared destined to centre in one lovely object. The youngladies were pretty, their manners winning, their dispositionsunexceptionable; but there was a dignity in the air, a touch-me-not-ishness in the walk, a majesty in the eye, of the spinster aunt,to which, at their time of life, they could lay no claim, whichdistinguished her from any female on whom Mr. Tupman had evergazed. That there was something kindred in their nature,something congenial in their souls, something mysteriouslysympathetic in their bosoms, was evident. Her name was the firstthat rose to Mr. Tupman’s lips as he lay wounded on the grass;and her hysteric laughter was the first sound that fell upon his earwhen he was supported to the house. But had her agitation arisenfrom an amiable and feminine sensibility which would have beenequally irrepressible in any case; or had it been called forth by amore ardent and passionate feeling, which he, of all men living,could alone awaken? These were the doubts which racked hisbrain as he lay extended on the sofa; these were the doubts whichhe determined should be at once and for ever resolved.
It was evening. Isabella and Emily had strolled out with Mr.
Trundle; the deaf old lady had fallen asleep in her chair; thesnoring of the fat boy, penetrated in a low and monotonous soundfrom the distant kitchen; the buxom servants were lounging at theside door, enjoying the pleasantness of the hour, and the delightsof a flirtation, on first principles, with certain unwieldy animalsattached to the farm; and there sat the interesting pair, uncaredfor by all, caring for none, and dreaming only of themselves; therethey sat, in short, like a pair of carefully-folded kid gloves―boundup in each other.
‘I have forgotten my flowers,’ said the spinster aunt.
‘Water them now,’ said Mr. Tupman, in accents of persuasion.
‘You will take cold in the evening air,’ urged the spinster auntaffectionately.
‘No, no,’ said Mr. Tupman, rising; ‘it will do me good. Let meaccompany you.’
The lady paused to adjust the sling in which the left arm of theyouth was placed, and taking his right arm led him to the garden.
There was a bower at the farther end, with honeysuckle,jessamine, and creeping plants―one of those sweet retreats whichhumane men erect for the accommodation of spiders.
The spinster aunt took up a large watering-pot which lay in onecorner, and was about to leave the arbour. Mr. Tupman detainedher, and drew her to a seat beside him.
‘Miss Wardle!’ said he. The spinster aunt trembled, till somepebbles which had accidentally found their way into the largewatering-pot shook like an infant’s rattle.
‘Miss Wardle,’ said Mr. Tupman, ‘you are an angel.’
‘Mr. Tupman!’ exclaimed Rachael, blushing as red as thewatering-pot itself.
‘Nay,’ said the eloquent Pickwickian―‘I know it but too well.’
‘All women are angels, they say,’ murmured the lady playfully.
‘Then what can you be; or to what, without presumption, can Icompare you?’ replied Mr. Tupman. ‘Where was the woman everseen who resembled you? Where else could I hope to find so rare acombination of excellence and beauty? Where else could I seekto―Oh!’ Here Mr. Tupman paused, and pressed the hand whichclasped the handle of the happy watering-pot.
The lady turned aside her head. ‘Men are such deceivers,’ shesoftly whispered.
‘They are, they are,’ ejaculated Mr. Tupman; ‘but not all men.
There lives at least one being who can never change―one beingwho would be content to devote his whole existence to yourhappiness―who lives but in your eyes―who breathes but in yoursmiles―who bears the heavy burden of life itself only for you.’
‘Could such an individual be found―’ said the lady.
‘But he can be found,’ said the ardent Mr. Tupman, interposing.
‘He is found. He is here, Miss Wardle.’ And ere the lady was awareof his intention, Mr. Tupman had sunk upon his knees at her feet.
‘Mr. Tupman, rise,’ said Rachael.
‘Never!’ was the valorous reply. ‘Oh, Rachael!’ He seized herpassive hand, and the watering-pot fell to the ground as hepressed it to his lips.―‘Oh, Rachael! say you love me.’
‘Mr. Tupman,’ said the spinster aunt, with averted head, ‘I canhardly speak the words; but―but―you are not wholly indifferentto me.’
Mr. Tupman no sooner heard this avowal, than he proceeded todo what his enthusiastic emotions prompted, and what, for aughtwe know (for we are but little acquainted with such matters),people so circumstanced always do. He jumped up, and, throwinghis arm round the neck of the spinster aunt, imprinted upon herlips numerous kisses, which after a due show of struggling andresistance, she received so passively, that there is no telling howmany more Mr. Tupman might have bestowed, if the lady had notgiven a very unaffected start, and exclaimed in an affrightedtone―‘Mr. Tupman, we are observed!―we are discovered!’
Mr. Tupman looked round. There was the fat boy, perfectlymotionless, with his large circular eyes staring into the arbour, butwithout the slightest expression on his face that the most expertphysiognomist could have referred to astonishment, curiosity, orany other known passion that agitates the human breast. Mr.
Tupman gazed on the fat boy, and the fat boy stared at him; andthe longer Mr. Tupman observed the utter vacancy of the fat boy’scountenance, the more convinced he became that he either did notknow, or did not understand, anything that had been goingforward. Under this impression, he said with great firmness―‘What do you want here, sir?’
‘Supper’s ready, sir,’ was the prompt reply.
‘Have you just come here, sir?’ inquired Mr. Tupman, with apiercing look.
‘Just,’ replied the fat boy.
Mr. Tupman looked at him very hard again; but there was not awink in his eye, or a curve in his face.
Mr. Tupman took the arm of the spinster aunt, and walkedtowards the house; the fat boy followed behind.
‘He knows nothing of what has happened,’ he whispered.
‘Nothing,’ said the spinster aunt.
There was a sound behind them, as of an imperfectlysuppressed chuckle. Mr. Tupman turned sharply round. No; itcould not have been the fat boy; there was not a gleam of mirth, oranything but feeding in his whole visage.
‘He must have been fast asleep,’ whispered Mr. Tupman.
‘I have not the least doubt of it,’ replied the spinster aunt.
They both laughed heartily.
Mr, Tupman was wrong. The fat boy, for once, had not beenfast asleep. He was awake―wide awake―to what had been goingforward.
The supper passed off without any attempt at a generalconversation. The old lady had gone to bed; Isabella Wardledevoted herself exclusively to Mr. Trundle; the spinster’sattentions were reserved for Mr. Tupman; and Emily’s thoughtsappeared to be engrossed by some distant object―possibly theywere with the absent Snodgrass.
Eleven―twelve―one o’clock had struck, and the gentlemenhad not arrived. Consternation sat on every face. Could they havebeen waylaid and robbed? Should they send men and lanterns inevery direction by which they could be supposed likely to havetravelled home? or should they―Hark! there they were. Whatcould have made them so late? A strange voice, too! To whomcould it belong? They rushed into the kitchen, whither the truantshad repaired, and at once obtained rather more than a glimmeringof the real state of the case.
Mr. Pickwick, with his hands in his pockets and his hat cockedcompletely over his left eye, was leaning against the dresser,shaking his head from side to side, and producing a constantsuccession of the blandest and most benevolent smiles withoutbeing moved thereunto by any discernible cause or pretencewhatsoever; old Mr. Wardle, with a highly-inflamed countenance,was grasping the hand of a strange gentleman mutteringprotestations of eternal friendship; Mr. Winkle, supporting himselfby the eight-day clock, was feebly invoking destruction upon thehead of any member of the family who should suggest thepropriety of his retiring for the night; and Mr. Snodgrass had sunkinto a chair, with an expression of the most abject and hopelessmisery that the human mind can imagine, portrayed in everylineament of his expressive face.
‘Is anything the matter?’ inquired the three ladies.
‘Nothing the matter,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘We―we’re―allright.―I say, Wardle, we’re all right, ain’t we?’
‘I should think so,’ replied the jolly host.―‘My dears, here’s myfriend Mr. Jingle―Mr. Pickwick’s friend, Mr. Jingle, come ’pon―little visit.’
‘Is anything the matter with Mr. Snodgrass, sir?’ inquiredEmily, with great anxiety.
‘Nothing the matter, ma’am,’ replied the stranger. ‘Cricketdinner―glorious party―capital songs―old port―claret―good―very good―wine, ma’am―wine.’
‘It wasn’t the wine,’ murmured Mr. Snodgrass, in a brokenvoice. ‘It was the salmon.’ (Somehow or other, it never is the wine,in these cases.)‘Hadn’t they better go to bed, ma’am?’ inquired Emma. ‘Two ofthe boys will carry the gentlemen upstairs.’
‘I won’t go to bed,’ said Mr. Winkle firmly.
‘No living boy shall carry me,’ said Mr. Pickwick stoutly; and hewent on smiling as before. ‘Hurrah!’ gasped Mr. Winkle faintly.
‘Hurrah!’ echoed Mr. Pickwick, taking off his hat and dashing iton the floor, and insanely casting his spectacles into the middle ofthe kitchen. At this humorous feat he laughed outright.
‘Let’s―have―’nother―bottle,’ cried Mr. Winkle, commencingin a very loud key, and ending in a very faint one. His headdropped upon his breast; and, muttering his invincibledetermination not to go to his bed, and a sanguinary regret that hehad not ‘done for old Tupman’ in the morning, he fell fast asleep;in which condition he was borne to his apartment by two younggiants under the personal superintendence of the fat boy, to whoseprotecting care Mr. Snodgrass shortly afterwards confided his ownperson, Mr. Pickwick accepted the proffered arm of Mr. Tupmanand quietly disappeared, smiling more than ever; and Mr. Wardle,after taking as affectionate a leave of the whole family as if he wereordered for immediate execution, consigned to Mr. Trundle thehonour of conveying him upstairs, and retired, with a very futileattempt to look impressively solemn and dignified. ‘What ashocking scene!’ said the spinster aunt.
‘Dis-gusting!’ ejaculated both the young ladies.
‘Dreadful―dreadful!’ said Jingle, looking very grave: he wasabout a bottle and a half ahead of any of his companions. ‘Horridspectacle―very!’
‘What a nice man!’ whispered the spinster aunt to Mr. Tupman.
‘Good-looking, too!’ whispered Emily Wardle.
‘Oh, decidedly,’ observed the spinster aunt.
Mr. Tupman thought of the widow at Rochester, and his mindwas troubled. The succeeding half-hour’s conversation was not ofa nature to calm his perturbed spirit. The new visitor was verytalkative, and the number of his anecdotes was only to beexceeded by the extent of his politeness. Mr. Tupman felt that asJingle’s popularity increased, he (Tupman) retired further into theshade. His laughter was forced―his merriment feigned; and whenat last he laid his aching temples between the sheets, he thought,with horrid delight, on the satisfaction it would afford him to haveJingle’s head at that moment between the feather bed and themattress.
The indefatigable stranger rose betimes next morning, and,although his companions remained in bed overpowered with thedissipation of the previous night, exerted himself most successfullyto promote the hilarity of the breakfast-table. So successful werehis efforts, that even the deaf old lady insisted on having one ortwo of his best jokes retailed through the trumpet; and even shecondescended to observe to the spinster aunt, that ‘He’ (meaningJingle) ‘was an impudent young fellow:’ a sentiment in which allher relations then and there present thoroughly coincided.
It was the old lady’s habit on the fine summer mornings torepair to the arbour in which Mr. Tupman had already signalisedhimself, in form and manner following: first, the fat boy fetchedfrom a peg behind the old lady’s bedroom door, a close black satinbonnet, a warm cotton shawl, and a thick stick with a capacioushandle; and the old lady, having put on the bonnet and shawl ather leisure, would lean one hand on the stick and the other on thefat boy’s shoulder, and walk leisurely to the arbour, where the fatboy would leave her to enjoy the fresh air for the space of half anhour; at the expiration of which time he would return andreconduct her to the house.
The old lady was very precise and very particular; and as thisceremony had been observed for three successive summerswithout the slightest deviation from the accustomed form, she wasnot a little surprised on this particular morning to see the fat boy,instead of leaving the arbour, walk a few paces out of it, lookcarefully round him in every direction, and return towards herwith great stealth and an air of the most profound mystery.
The old lady was timorous―most old ladies are―and her firstimpression was that the bloated lad was about to do her somegrievous bodily harm with the view of possessing himself of herloose coin. She would have cried for assistance, but age andinfirmity had long ago deprived her of the power of screaming;she, therefore, watched his motions with feelings of intense horrorwhich were in no degree diminished by his coming close up to her,and shouting in her ear in an agitated, and as it seemed to her, athreatening tone―‘Missus!’
Now it so happened that Mr. Jingle was walking in the gardenclose to the arbou............