“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 bedroom 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 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 blancmange-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 summerhouse. 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
