[Illustration]
_Strongly Illustrative of the Position, that the Course of True
Love is not a Railway_
The quiet seclusion of Dingley Dell, the presence of so many of the
gentler sex, and the solicitude and anxiety they evinced in his
behalf, were all favourable to the growth and development of those
softer feelings which nature had implanted deep in the bosom of Mr.
Tracy Tupman, and which now appeared destined to centre in one lovely
object. The young ladies were pretty, their manners winning, their
dispositions unexceptionable; 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, which
distinguished her from any female on whom Mr. Tupman had ever gazed.
That there was something kindred in their nature, something congenial
in their souls, something mysteriously sympathetic in their bosoms,
was evident. Her name was the first that 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 ear when he was supported to the house. But
had her agitation arisen from an amiable and feminine sensibility which
would have been equally irrepressible in any case; or had it been
called forth by a more ardent and passionate feeling, which he, of all
men living, could alone awaken? These were the doubts which racked his
brain as he lay extended on the sofa: these were the doubts which he
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; the snoring of the
fat boy penetrated in a low and monotonous sound from the distant
kitchen; the buxom servants were lounging at the side-door, enjoying
the pleasantness of the hour, and the delights of a flirtation, on
first principles, with certain unwieldy animals attached to the farm;
and there sat the interesting pair, uncared for by all, caring for
none, and dreaming only of themselves; there they sat, in short, like a
pair of carefully-folded kid-gloves--bound up 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 aunt,
affectionately.
"No, no," said Mr. Tupman, rising; "it will do me good. Let me
accompany you."
The lady paused to adjust the sling in which the left arm of the youth
was placed, and taking his right arm led him to the garden.
There was a bower at the further end, with honeysuckle, jessamine, and
creeping plants--one of those sweet retreats which humane men erect for
the accommodation of spiders.
The spinster aunt took up a large watering-pot which lay in one corner,
and was about to leave the arbour. Mr. Tupman detained her, and drew
her to a seat beside him.
"Miss Wardle!" said he.
The spinster aunt trembled, till some pebbles which had accidentally
found their way into the large watering-pot shook like an infant's
rattle.
"Miss Wardle," said Mr. Tupman, "you are an angel."
"Mr. Tupman!" exclaimed Rachael, blushing as red as the watering-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 I
compare you?" replied Mr. Tupman. "Where was the woman ever seen who
resembled you? Where else could I hope to find so rare a combination
of excellence and beauty? Where else could I seek to----Oh!" Here Mr.
Tupman paused, and pressed the hand which clasped the handle of the
happy watering-pot.
The lady turned aside her head. "Men are such deceivers," she softly
whispered.
"They are, they are," ejaculated Mr. Tupman; "but not all men. There
lives at least one being who can never change--one being who would be
content to devote his whole existence to your happiness--who lives but
in your eyes--who breathes but in your smiles--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 aware of 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 her passive
hand, and the watering-pot fell to the ground as he pressed it to his
lips. "Oh, Rachael! say you love me."
"Mr. Tupman," said the spinster aunt, with averted head--"I can hardly
speak the words; but--but--you are not wholly indifferent to me."
Mr. Tupman no sooner heard this avowal, than he proceeded to do what
his enthusiastic emotions prompted, and what, for aught we know (for we
are but little acquainted with such matters) people so circumstanced
always do. He jumped up, and, throwing his arm round the neck of the
spinster aunt, imprinted upon her lips numerous kisses, which after
a due show of struggling and resistance, she received so passively,
that there is no telling how many more Mr. Tupman might have bestowed,
if the lady had not given a very unaffected start and exclaimed in an
affrighted tone--
"Mr. Tupman, we are observed!--we are discovered!"
Mr. Tupman looked round. There was the fat boy, perfectly motionless,
with his large circular eyes staring into the arbour, but without the
slightest expression on his face that the most expert physiognomist
could have referred to astonishment, curiosity, or any other known
passion that agitates the human breast. Mr. Tupman gazed on the fat
boy, and the fat boy stared at him; and the longer Mr. Tupman observed
the utter vacancy of the fat boy's countenance, the more convinced
he became that he either did not know or did not understand anything
that had been going forward. 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 a piercing
look.
"Just," replied the fat boy.
Mr. Tupman looked at him very hard again; but there was not a wink in
his eye, or a curve in his face.
Mr. Tupman took the arm of the spinster aunt, and walked towards 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 imperfectly suppressed chuckle.
Mr. Tupman turned sharply round. No; it could not have been the fat
boy; there was not a gleam of mirth, or anything 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 been fast asleep.
He was awake--wide awake--to what had been going forward.
The supper passed off without any attempt at a general conversation.
The old lady had gone to bed; Isabella Wardle devoted herself
exclusively to Mr. Trundle; the spinster's attentions were reserved
for Mr. Tupman; and Emily's thoughts appeared to be engrossed by some
distant object--possibly they were with the absent Snodgrass.
[Illustration: _"He must have been fast asleep," whispered Mr. Tupman_]
Eleven--twelve--one o'clock had struck, and the gentlemen had not
arrived. Consternation sat on every face. Could they have been waylaid
and robbed? Should they send men and lanterns in every direction by
which they could be supposed likely to have travelled home? or should
they----Hark! there they were. What could have made them so late?
A strange voice too! To whom could it belong? They rushed into the
kitchen whither the truants had repaired, and at once obtained rather
more than a glimmering of the real state of the case.
Mr. Pickwick, with his hands in his pockets and his hat cocked
completely over his left eye, was leaning against the dresser, shaking
his head from side to side, and producing a constant succession of
the blandest and most benevolent smiles without being moved thereunto
by any discernible cause or pretence whatsoever; old Mr. Wardle, with
a highly-inflamed countenance, was grasping the hand of a strange
gentleman, muttering protestations of eternal friendship; Mr. Winkle,
supporting himself by the eight-day clock, was feebly invoking
destruction upon the head of any member of the family who should
suggest the propriety of his retiring for the night; and Mr. Snodgrass
had sunk into a chair, with an expression of the most abject and
hopeless misery that the human mind can imagine, portrayed in every
lineament of his expressive face.
"Is anything the matter?" inquired the three ladies.
"Nothing the matter," replied Mr. Pickwick. "We--we're--all right--I
say, Wardle, we're all right, an't we?"
"I should think so," replied the jolly host.--"My dears, here's
my friend, Mr. Jingle.--Mr. Pickwick's friend, Mr. Jingle, come
'pon--little visit."
"Is anything the matter with Mr. Snodgrass, sir?" inquired Emily, with
great anxiety.
"Nothing the matter, ma'am," replied the stranger. "Cricket
dinner--glorious party--capital songs--old port--claret--good--very
good--wine, ma'am--wine."
"It wasn't the wine," murmured Mr. Snodgrass, in a broken voice. "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 of the boys
will carry the gentlemen up stairs."
"I won't go to bed," said Mr. Winkle, firmly.
"No living boy shall carry me," said Mr. Pickwick, stoutly;--and he
went on smiling as before.
"Hurrah!" gasped Mr. Winkle, faintly.
"Hurrah!" echoed Mr. Pickwick, taking off his hat and dashing it on
the floor, and insanely casting his spectacles into the middle of the
kitchen.--At this humorous feat he laughed outright.
"Let's--have--'nother--bottle," cried Mr. Winkle, commencing in a very
loud key, and ending in a very faint one. His head dropped upon his
breast; and, muttering his invincible determination not to go to his
bed, and a sanguinary regret that he had not "done for old Tupman" in
the morning, he fell fast asleep; in which condition he was borne to
his apartment by two young giants under the personal superintendence of
the fat boy, to whose protecting care Mr. Snodgrass shortly afterwards
confided his own person. Mr. Pickwick accepted the proffered arm of Mr.
Tupman and quietly disappeared, smiling more than ever; and Mr. Wardle,
after taking as affectionate a leave of the whole family as if he were
ordered for immediate execution, consigned to Mr. Trundle the honour
of conveying him up-stairs, and retired, with a very futile attempt to
look impressively solemn and dignified.
"What a shocking scene!" said the spinster aunt.
"Dis--gusting!" ejaculated both the young ladies.
"Dreadful--dreadful!" said Jingle, looking very grave; he was
about a bottle and a half ahead of any of his companions. "Horrid
spectacle--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 mind was
troubled. The succeeding half-hour's conversation was not of a nature
to calm his perturbed spirit. The new visitor was very talkative, and
the number of his anecdotes was only to be exceeded by the extent
of his politeness. Mr. Tupman felt that as Jingle's popularity
increased, he (Tupman) retired further into the shade. His laughter
was forced--his merriment feigned; and when at last he laid his aching
temples between the sheets, he thought, with horrid delight, on the
satisfaction it would afford him to have Jingle's head at that moment
between the feather-bed and the mattress.
The indefatigable stranger rose betimes next morning, and, although
his companions remained in bed overpowered with the dissipation of
the previous night, exerted himself most successfully to promote the
hilarity of the breakfast-table. So successful were his efforts, that
even the deaf old lady insisted on having one or two of his best jokes
retailed through the trumpet; and even she condescended to observe to
the spinster aunt that "he" (meaning Jingle) "was an impudent young
fellow"; a sentiment in which all her relations then and there present
thoroughly coincided.
It was the old lady's habit on the fine summer mornings to repair to
the arbour in which Mr. Tupman had already signalised himself, in form
and manner following: first, the fat boy fetched from a peg behind the
old lady's bed-room door, a close black satin bonnet, a warm cotton
shawl, and a thick stick with a capacious handle; and the old lady
having put on the bonnet and shawl at her leisure, would lean one
hand on the stick and the other on the fat boy's shoulder, and walk
leisurely to the arbour, where the fat boy would leave her to enjoy the
fresh air for the space of half-an-hour; at the expiration of which
time he would return and reconduct her to the house.
The old lady was very precise and very particular; and as this ceremony
had been observed for three successive summers without the slightest
deviation from the accustomed form, she was not a little surprised on
this particular morning, to see the fat boy, instead of leaving the
arbour, walk a few paces out of it, look carefully round him in every
direction, and return towards her with great stealth and an air of the
most profound mystery.
The old lady was timorous--most old ladies are--and her first
impression was that the bloated lad was about to do her some grievous
bodily harm with the view of possessing himself of her loose coin.
She would have cried for assistance, but age and infirmity had long
ago deprived her of the power of screaming; she, therefore, watched
his motions with feelings of intense terror, which 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, a threatening tone--
"Missus!"
Now it so happened that Mr. Jingle was walking in the garden close to
the arbour at this moment. He too heard the shout of "Missus," and
stopped to hear more. There were three reasons for his doing so. In
the first place, he was idle and curious; secondly, he was by no means
scrupulous; thirdly, and lastly, he was concealed from view by some
flowering shrubs. So there he stood, and there he listened.
"Missus!" shouted the fat boy.
"Well, Joe," said the trembling old lady. "I'm sure I have been a good
mistress to you, Joe. You have invariably been treated very kindly. You
have never had too much to do; and you have always had enough to eat."
This last was an appeal to the fat boy's most sensitive feelings. He
seemed touched, as he replied, emphatically--
"I knows I has."
"Then what can you want to do now?" said the old lady, gaining courage.
"I wants to make your flesh creep," replied the boy.
This sounded like a very bloodthirsty mode of showing one's gratitude;
and as the old lady did not precisely understand the process by which
such a result was to be attained, all her former horrors returned.
"What do you think I see in this very arbour last night?" inquired the
boy.
"Bless us! What?" exclaimed the old lady, alarmed at the solemn manner
of the corpulent youth.
"The strange gentleman--him as had his arm hurt--a kissin' and
huggin'----"
"Who, Joe? None of the servants, I hope?"
"Worser than that," roared the fat boy, in the old lady's ear.
"Not one of my grand-da'aters?"
"Worser than that."
"Worse than _that_, Joe!" said the old lady, who had thought this
the extreme limit of human atrocity. "Who was it, Joe? I insist upon
knowing."
The fat boy looked cautiously round, and having concluded his survey,
shouted in the old lady's ear:
"Miss Rachael."
"What!" said the old lady, in a shrill tone. "Speak louder."
"Miss Rachael," roared the fat boy.
"My da'ater!"
The train of nods which the fat boy gave by way of assent, communicated
a _blanc-mange_-like motion to his fat cheeks.
"And she suffered him!" exclaimed the old lady.
A grin stole over the fat boy's features as he said:
"I see her a kissin' of him agin."
If Mr. Jingle, from his place of concealment, could have beheld the
expression which the old lady's face assumed at this communication, the
probability is that a sudden burst of laughter would have betrayed his
close vicinity to the summer-house. He listened attentively. Fragments
of angry sentences such as, "Without my permission!"--"At her time of
life"--"Miserable old 'ooman like me"--"Might have waited till I was
dead," and so forth reached his ears; and then he heard the heels of
the fat boy's boots crunching the gravel, as he retired and left the
old lady alone.
It was a remarkable coincidence perhaps, but it was nevertheless a
fact, that Mr. Jingle within five minutes after his arrival at Manor
Farm on the preceding night, had inwardly resolved to lay siege to the
heart of the spinster aunt, without delay. He had observation enough to
see, that his off-hand manner was by no means disagreeable to the fair
object of his attack; and he had more than a strong suspicion that she
possessed that most desirable of all requisites, a small independence.
The imperative necessity of ousting his rival by some means or other,
flashed quickly upon him, and he immediately resolved to adopt certain
proceedings tending to that end and object, without a moment's delay.
Fielding tells us that man is fire, and woman tow, and the Prince
of Darkness sets a light to 'em. Mr. Jingle knew that young men, to
spinster aunts, are as lighted gas to gunpowder, and he determined to
essay the effect of an explosion without loss of time.
Full of reflections upon this important decision, he crept from his
place of concealment, and, under cover of the shrubs before mentioned,
approached the house. Fortune seemed determined to favour his design.
Mr. Tupman and the rest of the gentlemen left the garden by the side
gate just as he obtained a view of it; and the young ladies, he knew,
had walked out alone, soon after breakfast. The coast was clear.
The breakfast-parlour door was partially open. He peeped in. The
spinster aunt was knitting. He coughed; she looked up and smiled.
Hesitation formed no part of Mr. Alfred Jingle's character. He laid his
finger on his lips mysteriously, walked in, and closed the door.
"Miss Wardle," said Mr. Jingle, with affected earnestness, "forgive
intrusion--short acquaintance--no time for ceremony--all discovered."
"Sir!" said the spinster aunt, rather astonished by the unexpected
apparition and somewhat doubtful of Mr. Jingle's sanity.
"Hush!" said Mr. Jingle, in a stage whisper;--"large boy--dumpling
face--round eyes--rascal!" Here he shook his head expressively, and the
spinster aunt trembled with agitation.
"I presume you allude to Joseph, sir?" said the lady, making an effort
to appear composed.
"Yes, ma'am--damn that Joe!--treacherous dog, Joe--told the old
lady--old lady furious--wild--raving--arbour--Tupman--kissing and
hugging--all that sort of thing--eh, ma'am--eh?"
"Mr. Jingle," said the spinster aunt, "if you come here, sir, to insult
me----"
"Not at all--by no means," replied the unabashed Mr. Jingle;--"overheard
the tale--came to warn you of your danger--tender my services--prevent
the hubbub. Never mind--think it an insult--leave the room"--and he
turned as if to carry the threat into execution.
"What _shall_ I do?" said the poor spinster, bursting into tears. "My
brother will be furious."
"Of course he will," said Mr. Jingle, pausing--"outrageous."
"Oh, Mr. Jingle, what _can_ I say?" exclaimed the spinster aunt, in
another flood of despair.
"Say he dreamt it," replied Mr. Jingle, coolly.
A ray of comfort darted across the mind of the spinster aunt at this
suggestion. Mr. Jingle perceived it, and followed up his advantage.
"Pooh, pooh! nothing more easy--blackguard boy--lovely woman--fat boy
horsewhipped--you believed--end of the matter--all comfortable."
Whether the probability of escaping from the consequences of this
ill-timed discovery was delightful to the spinster's feelings, or
whether the hearing herself described as a "lovely woman" softened the
asperity of her grief, we know not. She blushed slightly, and cast a
grateful look on Mr. Jingle.
That insinuating gentleman sighed deeply, fixed his eyes on the
spinster aunt's face for a couple of minutes, started melodramatically,
and suddenly withdrew them.
"You seem unhappy, Mr. Jingle," said the lady, in a plaintive voice.
"May I show my gratitude for your kind interference by inquiring into
the cause, with a view, if possible, to its removal?"
"Ha!" exclaimed Mr. Jingle, with another start--"removal! remove _my_
unhappiness, and your love bestowed upon a man who is insensible to the
blessing--who even now contemplates a design upon the affections of the
niece of the creature who--but no; he is my friend; I will not expose
his vices. Miss Wardle--farewell!" At the conclusion of this address,
the most consecutive he was ever known to utter, Mr. Jingle applied
to his eyes the remnant of a handkerchief before noticed, and turned
towards the door.
"Stay, Mr. Jingle," said the spinster aunt, emphatically. "You have
made an allusion to Mr. Tupman--explain it."
"Never!" exclaimed Jingle, with a professional (_i.e._ theatrical) air.
"Never!" and, by way of showing that he had no desire to be questioned
further, he drew a chair close to that of the spinster aunt and sat
down.
"Mr. Jingle," said the aunt, "I entreat--I implore you, if there is any
dreadful mystery connected with Mr. Tupman, reveal it."
"Can I," said Mr. Jingle, fixing his eyes on the aunt's face--"Can I
see--lovely creature--sacrificed at the shrine--heartless avarice!" He
appeared to be struggling with various conflicting emotions for a few
seconds, and then said in a low deep voice--
"Tupman only wants your money."
"The wretch!" exclaimed the spinster, with energetic indignation. (Mr.
Jingle's doubts were resolved. She _had_ money.)
"More than that," said Jingle--"loves another."
"Another!" ejaculated the spinster. "Who?"
"Short girl--black eyes--niece Emily."
There was a pause.
Now, if there were one individual in the whole world, of whom the
spinster aunt entertained a mortal and deeply-rooted jealousy, it was
this identical niece. The colour rushed over her face and neck, and she
tossed her head in silence with an air of ineffable contempt. At last,
biting her thin lips, and bridling up, she said--
"It can't be. I won't believe it."
"Watch 'em," said Jingle.
"I will," said the aunt.
"Watch his looks."
"I will."
"His whispers."
"I will."
"He'll sit next her at table."
"Let him."
"He'll flatter her."
"Let him."
"He'll pay her every possible attention."
"Let him."
"And he'll cut you."
"Cut _me_!" screamed the spinster aunt. "_He_ cut _me_;--_will_ he!"
and she trembled with rage and disappointment.
"You will convince yourself?" said Jingle.
"I will."
"You'll show your spirit?"
"I will."
"You'll not have him afterwards?"
"Never."
"You'll take somebody else?"
"Yes."
"You shall."
Mr. Jingle fell on his knees, remained thereupon for five minutes
thereafter: and rose the accepted lover of the spinster aunt:
conditionally upon Mr. Tupman's perjury being made clear and manifest.
The burden of proof lay with Mr. Alfred Jingle; and he produced his
evidence that very day at dinner. The spinster aunt could hardly
believe her eyes. Mr. Tracy Tupman was established at Emily's side,
ogling, whispering, and smiling, in opposition to Mr. Snodgrass. Not a
word, not a look, not a glance, did he bestow upon his heart's pride of
the evening before.
"Damn that boy!" thought old Mr. Wardle to himself.--He had heard the
story from his mother. "Damn that boy! He _must_ have been asleep. It's
all imagination."
"Traitor!" thought the spinster aunt. "Dear Mr. Jingle was not
deceiving me. Ugh! how I hate the wretch!"
The following conversation may serve to explain to our readers this
apparently unaccountable alteration of deportment on the part of Mr.
Tracy Tupman.
The time was evening; the scene the garden. There were two figures
walking in the side path; one was rather short and stout; the other
rather tall and slim. They were Mr. Tupman and Mr. Jingle. The stout
figure commenced the dialogue.
"How did I do it?" he inquired.
"Splendid--capital--couldn't act better myself--you must repeat the
part to-morrow--every evening, till further notice."
"Does Rachael still wish it?"
"Of course--she don't like it--but must be done--avert suspicion--afraid
of her brother--says there's no help for it--only a few days more--when
old folks blinded--crown your happiness."
"Any message?"
"Love--best love--kindest regards--unalterable affection. Can I say
anything for you?"
"My dear fellow," replied the unsuspicious Mr. Tupman, fervently
grasping his "friend's" hand--"carry my best love--say how hard I find
it to dissemble--say anything that's kind: but add how sensible I am
of the necessity of the suggestion she made to me, through you, this
morning. Say I applaud her wisdom and admire her discretion."
"I will. Anything more?"
"Nothing; only add how ardently I long for the time when I may call her
mine, and all dissimulation may be unnecessary."
"Certainly, certainly. Anything more?"
"Oh, my friend!" said poor Mr. Tupman, again grasping the hand of his
companion, "receive my warmest thanks for your disinterested kindness;
and forgive me if I have ever, even in thought, done you the injustice
of supposing that you _could_ stand in my way. My dear friend, can I
ever repay you?"
"Don't talk of it," replied Mr. Jingle. He stopped short, as if
suddenly recollecting something, and said--"By-the-bye--can't spare ten
pounds, can you?--very particular purpose--pay you in three days."
"I dare say I can," replied Mr. Tupman, in the fulness of his heart.
"Three days, you say?"
"Only three days--all over then--no more difficulties."
Mr. Tupman counted the money into his companion's hand, and he dropped
it piece by piece into his pocket, as they walked towards the house.
"Be careful," said Mr. Jingle--"not a look."
"Not a wink," said Mr. Tupman.
"Not a syllable."
"Not a whisper."
"All your attentions to the niece--rather rude, than otherwise, to the
aunt--only way of deceiving the old ones."
"I'll take care," said Mr. Tupman, aloud.
"And _I_'ll take care," said Mr. Jingle, internally; and they entered
the house.
The scene of that afternoon was repeated that evening, and on the three
afternoons and evenings next ensuing. On the fourth, the host was in
high spirits, for he had satisfied himself that there was no ground for
the charge against Mr. Tupman. So was Mr. Tupman, for Mr. Jingle had
told him that his affair would soon be brought to a crisis. So was Mr.
Pickwick, for he was seldom otherwise. So was not Mr. Snodgrass, for
he had grown jealous of Mr. Tupman. So was the old lady, for she had
been winning at whist. So were Mr. Jingle and Miss Wardle, for reasons
of sufficient importance in this eventful history to be narrated in
another chapter.