“Who's there?” inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle, as a gentle tap at his room-door disturbed these meditations one evening.
“Tottle, my dear fellow, how DO you do?” said a short elderly gentleman with a gruffish voice, bursting into the room, and replying to the question by asking another.
“Told you I should drop in some evening,” said the short gentleman, as he delivered his hat into Tottle's hand, after a little struggling and dodging.
“Delighted to see you, I'm sure,” said Mr. Watkins Tottle, wishing internally that his visitor had “dropped in” to the Thames at the bottom of the street, instead of dropping into his parlour. The fortnight was nearly up, and Watkins was hard up.
“How is Mrs. Gabriel Parsons?” inquired Tottle.
“Quite well, thank you,” replied Mr. Gabriel Parsons, for that was the name the short gentleman revelled in. Here there was a pause; the short gentleman looked at the left hob of the fireplace; Mr. Watkins Tottle stared vacancy out of countenance.
“Quite well,” repeated the short gentleman, when five minutes had expired. “I may say remarkably well.” And he rubbed the palms of his hands as hard as if he were going to strike a light by friction.
“What will you take?” inquired Tottle, with the desperate suddenness of a man who knew that unless the visitor took his leave, he stood very little chance of taking anything else.
“Oh, I don't know—have you any whiskey?”
“Why,” replied Tottle, very slowly, for all this was gaining time, “I HAD some capital, and remarkably strong whiskey last week; but it's all gone—and therefore its strength—”
“Is much beyond proof; or, in other words, impossible to be proved,” said the short gentleman; and he laughed very heartily, and seemed quite glad the whiskey had been drunk. Mr. Tottle smiled—but it was the smile of despair. When Mr. Gabriel Parsons had done laughing, he delicately insinuated that, in the absence of whiskey, he would not be averse to brandy. And Mr. Watkins Tottle, lighting a flat candle very ostentatiously; and displaying an immense key, which belonged to the street-door, but which, for the sake of appearances, occasionally did duty in an imaginary winecellar; left the room to entreat his landlady to charge their glasses, and charge them in the bill. The application was successful; the spirits were speedily called—not from the vasty deep, but the adjacent wine-vaults. The two short gentlemen mixed their grog; and then sat cosily down before the fire—a pair of shorts, airing themselves.
“Tottle,” said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, “you know my way—off-hand, open, say what I mean, mean what I say, hate reserve, and can't bear affectation. One, is a bad domino which only hides what good people have about “em, without making the bad look better; and the other is much about the same thing as pinking a white cotton stocking to make it look like a silk one. Now listen to what I'm going to say.”
Here, the little gentleman paused, and took a long pull at his brandy-and-water. Mr. Watkins Tottle took a sip of his, stirred the fire, and assumed an air of profound attention.
“It's of no use humming and ha'ing about the matter,” resumed the short gentleman.—“You want to get married.”
“Why,” replied Mr. Watkins Tottle evasively; for he trembled violently, and felt a sudden tingling throughout his whole frame; “why—I should certainly—at least, I THINK I should like—”
“Won't do,” said the short gentleman.—“Plain and free—or there's an end of the matter. Do you want money?”
“You know I do.”
“You admire the sex?”
“I do.”
“And you'd like to be married?”
“Certainly.”
“Then you shall be. There's an end of that.” Thus saying, Mr. Gabriel Parsons took a pinch of snuff, and mixed another glass.
“Let me entreat you to be more explanatory,” said Tottle. “Really, as the party principally interested, I cannot consent to be disposed of, in this way.”
“I'll tell you,” replied Mr. Gabriel Parsons, warming with the subject, and the brandy-and-water—“I know a lady—she's stopping with my wife now—who is just the thing for you. Well educated; talks French; plays the piano; knows a good deal about flowers, and shells, and all that sort of thing; and has five hundred a year, with an uncontrolled power of disposing of it, by her last will and testament.”
“I'll pay my addresses to her,” said Mr. Watkins Tottle. “She isn't VERY young—is she?”
“Not very; just the thing for you. I've said that already.”
“What coloured hair has the lady?” inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle.
“Egad, I hardly recollect,” replied Gabriel, with coolness. “Perhaps I ought to have observed, at first, she wears a front.”
“A what?” ejaculated Tottle.
“One of those things with curls, along here,” said Parsons, drawing a straight line across his forehead, just over his eyes, in illustration of his meaning. “I know the front's black; I can't speak quite positively about her own hair; because, unless one walks behind her, and catches a glimpse of it under her bonnet, one seldom sees it; but I should say that it was RATHER lighter than the front—a shade of a greyish tinge, perhaps.”
Mr. Watkins Tottle looked as if he had certain misgivings of mind. Mr. Gabriel Parsons perceived it, and thought it would be safe to begin the next attack without delay.
“Now, were you ever in love, Tottle?” he inquired.
Mr. Watkins Tottle blushed up to the eyes, and down to the chin, and exhibited a most extensive combination of colours as he confessed the soft impeachment.
“I suppose you popped the question, more than once, when you were a young—I beg your pardon—a younger—man,” said Parsons.
“Never in my life!” replied his friend, apparently indignant at being suspected of such an act. “Never! The fact is, that I entertain, as you know, peculiar opinions on these subjects. I am not afraid of ladies, young or old—far from it; but, I think, that in compliance with the custom of the present day, they allow too much freedom of speech and manner to marriageable men. Now, the fact is, that anything like this easy freedom I never could acquire; and as I am always afraid of going too far, I am generally, I dare say, considered formal and cold.”
“I shouldn't wonder if you were,” replied Parsons, gravely; “I shouldn't wonder. However, you'll be all right in this case; for the strictness and delicacy of this lady's ideas greatly exceed your own. Lord bless you, why, when she came to our house, there was an old portrait of some man or other, with two large, black, staring eyes, hanging up in her bedroom; she positively refused to go to bed there, till it was taken down, considering it decidedly wrong.”
“I think so, too,” said Mr. Watkins Tottle; “certainly.”
“And then, the other night—I never laughed so much in my life”—resumed Mr. Gabriel Parsons; “I had driven home in an easterly wind, and caught a devil of a face-ache. Well; as Fanny—that's Mrs. Parsons, you know—and this friend of hers, and I, and Frank Ross, were playing a rubber, I said, jokingly, that when I went to bed I should wrap my head in Fanny's flannel petticoat. She instantly threw up her cards, and left the room.”
“Quite right!” said Mr. Watkins Tottle; “she could not possibly have behaved in a more dignified manner. What did you do?”
“Do?—Frank took dummy; and I won sixpence.”
“But, didn't you apologise for hurting her feelings?”
“Devil a bit. Next morning at breakfast, we talked it over. She contended that any reference to a flannel petticoat was improper;—men ought not to be supposed to know that such things were. I pleaded my coverture; being a married man.”
“And what did the lady say to that?” inquired Tottle, deeply interested.
“Changed her ground, and said that Frank being a single man, its impropriety was obvious.”
“Noble-minded creature!” exclaimed the enraptured Tottle.
“Oh! both Fanny and I said, at once, that she was regularly cut out for you.”
> A gleam of placid satisfaction shone on the circular face of Mr. Watkins Tottle, as he heard the prophecy.
“There's one thing I can't understand,” said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as he rose to depart; “I cannot, for the life and soul of me, imagine how the deuce you'll ever contrive to come together. The lady would certainly go into convulsions if the subject were mentioned.” Mr. Gabriel Parsons sat down again, and laughed until he was weak. Tottle owed him money, so he had a perfect right to laugh at Tottle's expense.
Mr. Watkins Tottle feared, in his own mind, that this was another characteristic which he had in common with this modern Lucretia. He, however, accepted the invitation to dine with the Parsonses on the next day but one, with great firmness: and looked forward to the introduction, when again left alone, with tolerable composure.
The sun that rose on the next day but one, had never beheld a sprucer personage on the outside of the Norwood stage, than Mr. Watkins Tottle; and when the coach drew up before a cardboardlooking house with disguised chimneys, and a lawn like a large sheet of green letter-paper, he certainly had never lighted to his place of destination a gentleman who felt more uncomfortable.
The coach stopped, and Mr. Watkins Tottle jumped—we beg his pardon—alighted, with great dignity. “All right!” said he, and away went the coach up the hill with that beautiful equanimity of pace for which “short” stages are generally remarkable.
Mr. Watkins Tottle gave a faltering jerk to the handle of the garden-gate bell. He essayed a more energetic tug, and his previous nervousness was not at all diminished by hearing the bell ringing like a fire alarum.
“Is Mr. Parsons at home?” inquired Tottle of the man who opened the gate. He could hardly hear himself speak, for the bell had not yet done tolling.
“Here I am,” shouted a voice on the lawn,—and there was Mr. Gabriel Parsons in a flannel jacket, running backwards and forwards, from a wicket to two hats piled on each other, and from the two hats to the wicket, in the most violent manner, while another gentleman with his coat off was getting down the area of the house, after a ball. When the gentleman without the coat had found it—which he did in less than ten minutes—he ran back to the hats, and Gabriel Parsons pulled up. Then, the gentleman without the coat called out “play,” very loudly, and bowled. Then Mr. Gabriel Parsons knocked the ball several yards, and took another run. Then, the other gentleman aimed at the wicket, and didn't hit it; and Mr. Gabriel Parsons, having finished running on his own account, laid down the bat and ran after the ball, which went into a neighbouring field. They called this cricket.
“Tottle, will you “go in?” inquired Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as he approached him, wiping the perspiration off his face.
Mr. Watkins Tottle declined the offer, the bare idea of accepting which made him even warmer than his friend.
“Then we'll go into the house, as it's past four, and I shall have to wash my hands before dinner,” said Mr. Gabriel Parsons. “Here, I hate ceremony, you know! Timson, that's Tottle—Tottle, that's Timson; bred for the church, which I fear will never be bread for him;” and he chuckled at the old joke. Mr. Timson bowed carelessly. Mr. Watkins Tottle bowed stiffly. Mr. Gabriel Parsons led the way to the house. He was a rich sugar-baker, who mistook rudeness for honesty, and abrupt bluntness for an open and candid manner; many besides Gabriel mistake bluntness for sincerity.
Mrs. Gabriel Parsons received the visitors most graciously on the steps, and preceded them to the drawing-room. On the sofa, was seated a lady of very prim appearance, and remarkably inanimate. She was one of those persons at whose age it is impossible to make any reasonable guess; her features might have been remarkably pretty when she was younger, and they might always have presented the same appearance. Her complexion—with a slight trace of powder here and there—was as clear as that of a well-made wax doll, and her face as expressive. She was handsomely dressed, and was winding up a gold watch.
“Miss Lillerton, my dear, this is our friend Mr. Watkins Tottle; a very old acquaintance I assure you,” said Mrs. Parsons, presenting the Strephon of Cecil-street, Strand. The lady rose, and made a deep courtesy; Mr. Watkins Tottle made a bow.
“Splendid, majestic creature!” thought Tottle.
Mr. Timson advanced, and Mr. Watkins Tottle began to hate him. Men generally discover a rival, instinctively, and Mr. Watkins Tottle felt that his hate was deserved.
“May I beg,” said the reverend gentleman,—“May I beg to call upon you, Miss Lillerton, for some trifling donation to my soup, coals, and blanket distribution society?”
“Put my name down, for two sovereigns, if you please,” responded Miss Lillerton.
“You are truly charitable, madam,” said the Reverend Mr. Timson, “and we know that charity will cover a multitude of sins. Let me beg you to understand that I do not say this from the supposition that you have many sins which require palliation; believe me when I say that I never yet met any one who had fewer to atone for, than Miss Lillerton.”
Something like a bad imitation of animation lighted up the lady's face, as she acknowledged the compliment. Watkins Tottle incurred the sin of wishing that the ashes of the Reverend Charles Timson were quietly deposited in the churchyard of his curacy, wherever it might be.
“I'll tell you what,” interrupted Parsons, who had just appeared with clean hands, and a black coat, “it's my private opinion, Timson, that your “distribution society” is rather a humbug.”
“You are so severe,” replied Timson, with a Christian smile: he disliked Parsons, but liked his dinners.
“So positively unjust!” said Miss Lillerton.
“Certainly,” observed Tottle. The lady looked up; her eyes met those of Mr. Watkins Tottle. She withdrew them in a sweet confusion, and Watkins Tottle did the same—the confusion was mutual.
“Why,” urged Mr. Parsons, pursuing his objections, “what on earth is the use of giving a man coals who has nothing to cook, or giving him blankets when he hasn't a bed, or giving him soup when he requires substantial food?—”like sending them ruffles when wanting a shirt.” Why not give “em a trifle of money, as I do, when I think they deserve it, and let them purchase what they think best? Why?—because your subscribers wouldn't see their names flourishing in print on the church-door—that's the reason.”
“Really, Mr. Parsons, I hope you don't mean to insinuate that I wish to see MY name in print, on the church-door,” interrupted Miss Lillerton.
“I hope not,” said Mr. Watkins Tottle, putting in another word, and getting another glance.
“Certainly not,” replied Parsons. “I dare say you wouldn't mind seeing it in writing, though, in the church register—eh?”
“Register! What register?” inquired the lady gravely.
“Why, the register of marriages, to be sure,” replied Parsons, chuckling at the sally, and glancing at Tottle. Mr. Watkins Tottle thought he should have fainted for shame, and it is quite impossible to imagine what effect the joke would have had upon the lady, if dinner had not been, at that moment, announced. Mr. Watkins Tottle, with an unprecedented effort of gallantry, offered the tip of his little finger; Miss Lillerton accepted it gracefully, with maiden modesty; and they proceeded in due state to the dinner-table, where they were soon deposited side by side. The room was very snug, the dinner very good, and the little party in spirits. The conversation became pretty general, and when Mr. Watkins Tottle had extracted one or two cold observations from his neighbour, and had taken wine with her, he began to acquire confidence rapidly. The cloth was removed; Mrs. Gabriel Parsons drank four glasses of port on the plea of being a nurse just then; and Miss Lillerton took about the same number of sips, on the plea of not wanting any at all. At length, the ladies retired, to the great gratification of Mr. Gabriel Parsons, who had been coughing and frowning at his wife, for half-an-hour previously—signals which Mrs. Parsons never happened to observe, until she had been pressed to take her ordinary quantum, which, to avoid giving trouble, she generally did at once.
> “What do you think of her?” inquired Mr. Gabriel Parsons of Mr. Watkins Tottle, in an under-tone.
“I dote on her with enthusiasm already!” replied Mr. Watkins Tottle.
“Gentlemen, pray let us drink “the ladies,” said the Reverend Mr. Timson.
“The ladies!” said Mr. Watkins Tottle, emptying his glass. In the fulness of his confidence, he felt as if he could make love to a dozen ladies, off-hand.
“Ah!” said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, “I remember when I was a young man—fill your glass, Timson.”
“I have this moment emptied it.”
“Then fill again.”
“I will,” said Timson, suiting the action to the word.
“I remember,” resumed Mr. Gabriel Parsons, “when I was a younger man, with what a strange compound of feelings I used to drink that toast, and how I used to think every woman was an angel.”
“Was that before you were married?” mildly inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle.
“Oh! certainly,” replied Mr. Gabriel Parsons. “I have never thought so since; and a precious milksop I must have been, ever to have thought so at all. But, you know, I married Fanny under the oddest, and most ridiculous circumstances possible.”
“What were they, if one may inquire?” asked Timson, who had heard the story, on an average, twice a week for the last six months. Mr. Watkins Tottle listened attentively, in the hope of picking up some suggestion that might be useful to him in his new undertaking.
“I spent my wedding-night in a back-kitchen chimney,” said Parsons, by way of a beginning.
“In a back-kitchen chimney!” ejaculated Watkins Tottle. “How dreadful!”
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