The Pickwick Papers
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 horror 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 that moment. He too heard the shouts 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 grandda’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 of 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 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 was one individual in the whole world, of whom the
spinster aunt entertained a mortal and deep-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 a side path; one was rather short and stout; the other 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