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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
boys 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?
Suppers 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 spinsters attentions
were reserved for Mr. Tupman; and Emilys thoughts
appeared to be engrossed by some distant object--possibly they
were with the absent Snodgrass.
Eleven--twelve--one oclock 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--were--all
right.--I say, Wardle, were all right, aint we?
I should think so, replied the jolly host.--My dears, heres my
friend The Pickwick Papers page 47 The Pickwick Papers page 49 |