“Well, here I am,” said Mr. Watkins, as he sat down on the sofa; and placing the palms of his hands on his knees, anxiously glanced at his friend's countenance.
“Yes; and here you're likely to be,” said Gabriel, coolly, as he rattled the money in his unmentionable pockets, and looked out of the window.
“What's the amount with the costs?” inquired Parsons, after an awkward pause.
“Have you any money?”
“Nine and sixpence halfpenny.”
Mr. Gabriel Parsons walked up and down the room for a few seconds, before he could make up his mind to disclose the plan he had formed; he was accustomed to drive hard bargains, but was always most anxious to conceal his avarice. At length he stopped short, and said, “Tottle, you owe me fifty pounds.”
“I do.”
“And from all I see, I infer that you are likely to owe it to me.”
“I fear I am.”
“Though you have every disposition to pay me if you could?”
“Certainly.”
“Then,” said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, “listen: here's my proposition. You know my way of old. Accept it—yes or no—I will or I won't. I'll pay the debt and costs, and I'll lend you 10L. more (which, added to your annuity, will enable you to carry on the war well) if you'll give me your note of hand to pay me one hundred and fifty pounds within six months after you are married to Miss Lillerton.”
“My dear—”
“Stop a minute—on one condition; and that is, that you propose to Miss Lillerton at once.”
“At once! My dear Parsons, consider.”
“It's for you to consider, not me. She knows you well from reputation, though she did not know you personally until lately. Notwithstanding all her maiden modesty, I think she'd be devilish glad to get married out of hand with as little delay as possible. My wife has sounded her on the subject, and she has confessed.”
“What—what?” eagerly interrupted the enamoured Watkins.
“Why,” replied Parsons, “to say exactly what she has confessed, would be rather difficult, because they only spoke in hints, and so forth; but my wife, who is no bad judge in these cases, declared to me that what she had confessed was as good as to say that she was not insensible of your merits—in fact, that no other man should have her.”
Mr. Watkins Tottle rose hastily from his seat, and rang the bell.
“What's that for?” inquired Parsons.
“I want to send the man for the bill stamp,” replied Mr. Watkins Tottle.
“Then you've made up your mind?”
“I have,”—and they shook hands most cordially. The note of hand was given—the debt and costs were paid—Ikey was satisfied for his trouble, and the two friends soon found themselves on that side of Mr. Solomon Jacobs's establishment, on which most of his visitors were very happy when they found themselves once again—to wit, the outside.
“Now,” said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as they drove to Norwood together—“you shall have an opportunity to make the disclosure to-night, and mind you speak out, Tottle.”
“I will—I will!” replied Watkins, valorously.
“How I should like to see you together,” ejaculated Mr. Gabriel Parsons.—“What fun!” and he laughed so long and so loudly, that he disconcerted Mr. Watkins Tottle, and frightened the horse.
“There's Fanny and your intended walking about on the lawn,” said Gabriel, as they approached the house. “Mind your eye, Tottle.”
“Never fear,” replied Watkins, resolutely, as he made his way to the spot where the ladies were walking.
“Here's Mr. Tottle, my dear,” said Mrs. Parsons, addressing Miss Lillerton. The lady turned quickly round, and acknowledged his courteous salute with the same sort of confusion that Watkins had noticed on their first interview, but with something like a slight expression of disappointment or carelessness.
“Did you see how glad she was to see you?” whispered Parsons to his friend.
“Why, I really thought she looked as if she would rather have seen somebody else,” replied Tottle.
“Pooh, nonsense!” whispered Parsons again—“it's always the way with the women, young or old. They never show how delighted they are to see those whose presence makes their hearts beat. It's the way with the whole sex, and no man should have lived to your time of life without knowing it. Fanny confessed it to me, when we were first married, over and over again—see what it is to have a wife.”
“Certainly,” whispered Tottle, whose courage was vanishing fast.
“Well, now, you'd better begin to pave the way,” said Parsons, who, having invested some money in the speculation, assumed the office of director.
“Yes, yes, I will—presently,” replied Tottle, greatly flurried.
“Say something to her, man,” urged Parsons again. “Confound it! pay her a compliment, can't you?”
“No! not till after dinner,” replied the bashful Tottle, anxious to postpone the evil moment.
“Well, gentlemen,” said Mrs. Parsons, “you are really very polite; you stay away the whole morning, after promising to take us out, and when you do come home, you stand whispering together and take no notice of us.”
“We were talking of the BUSINESS, my dear, which detained us this morning,” replied Parsons, looking significantly at Tottle.
“Dear me! how very quickly the morning has gone,” said Miss Lillerton, referring to the gold watch, which was wound up on state occasions, whether it required it or not.
“I think it has passed very slowly,” mildly suggested Tottle.
('That's right—bravo!') whispered Parsons.
“Indeed!” said Miss Lillerton, with an air of majestic surprise.
“I can only impute it to my unavoidable absence from your society, madam,” said Watkins, “and that of Mrs. Parsons.”
During this short dialogue, the ladies had been leading the way to the house.
“What the deuce did you stick Fanny into that last compliment for?” inquired Parsons, as they followed together; “it quite spoilt the effect.”
“Oh! it really would have been too broad without,” replied Watkins Tottle, “much too broad!”
“He's mad!” Parsons whispered his wife, as they entered the drawing-room, “mad from modesty.”
“Dear me!” ejaculated the lady, “I never heard of such a thing.”
“You'll find we have quite a family dinner, Mr. Tottle,” said Mrs. Parsons, when they sat down to table: “Miss Lillerton is one of us, and, of course, we make no stranger of you.”
Mr. Watkins Tottle expressed a hope that the Parsons family never would make a stranger of him; and wished internally that his bashfulness would allow him to feel a little less like a stranger himself.
“Take off the covers, Martha,” said Mrs. Parsons, directing the shifting of the scenery with great anxiety. The order was obeyed, and a pair of boiled fowls, with tongue and et ceteras, were displayed at the top, and a fillet of veal at the bottom. On one side of the table two green sauce-tureens, with ladles of the same, were setting to each other in a green dish; and on the other was a curried rabbit, in a brown suit, turned up with lemon.
“Miss Lillerton, my dear,” said Mrs. Parsons, “shall I assist you?”
“Thank you, no; I think I'll trouble Mr. Tottle.”
Watkins started—trembled—helped the rabbit—and broke a tumbler. The countenance of the lady of the house, which had been all smiles previously, underwent an awful change.
“Extremely sorry,” stammered Watkins, assisting himself to currie and parsley and butter, in the extremity of his confusion.
“Not the least consequence,” replied Mrs. Parsons, in a tone which implied that it was of the greatest consequence possible,—directing aside the researches of the boy, who was groping under the table for the bits of broken glass.
“I presume,” said Miss Lillerton, “that Mr. Tottle is aware of the interest which bachelors usually pay in such cases; a dozen glasses for one is the lowest pe
nalty.”
Mr. Gabriel Parsons gave his friend an admonitory tread on the toe. Here was a clear hint that the sooner he ceased to be a bachelor and-'emancipated himself from such penalties, the better. Mr. Watkins Tottle viewed the observation in the same light, and challenged Mrs. Parsons to take wine, with a degree of presence of mind, which, under all the circumstances, was really extraordinary.
“Miss Lillerton,” said Gabriel, “may I have the pleasure?”
“I shall be most happy.”
“Tottle, will you assist Miss Lillerton, and pass the decanter. Thank you.” (The usual pantomimic ceremony of nodding and sipping gone through)—
“Tottle, were you ever in Suffolk ?” inquired the master of the house, who was burning to tell one of his seven stock stories.
“No,” responded Watkins, adding, by way of a saving clause, “but I've been in Devonshire.”
“Ah!” replied Gabriel, “it was in Suffolk that a rather singular circumstance happened to me many years ago. Did you ever happen to hear me mention it?”
Mr. Watkins Tottle HAD happened to hear his friend mention it some four hundred times. Of course he expressed great curiosity, and evinced the utmost impatience to hear the story again. Mr. Gabriel Parsons forthwith attempted to proceed, in spite of the interruptions to which, as our readers must frequently have observed, the master of the house is often exposed in such cases. We will attempt to give them an idea of our meaning.
“When I was in Suffolk —” said Mr. Gabriel Parsons.
“Take off the fowls first, Martha,” said Mrs. Parsons. “I beg your pardon, my dear.”
“When I was in Suffolk,” resumed Mr. Parsons, with an impatient glance at his wife, who pretended not to observe it, “which is now years ago, business led me to the town of Bury St. Edmund 's. I had to stop at the principal places in my way, and therefore, for the sake of convenience, I travelled in a gig. I left Sudbury one dark night—it was winter time—about nine o'clock; the rain poured in torrents, the wind howled among the trees that skirted the roadside, and I was obliged to proceed at a foot-pace, for I could hardly see my hand before me, it was so dark—”
“John,” interrupted Mrs. Parsons, in a low, hollow voice, “don't spill that gravy.”
“Fanny,” said Parsons impatiently, “I wish you'd defer these domestic reproofs to some more suitable time. Really, my dear, these constant interruptions are very annoying.”
“My dear, I didn't interrupt you,” said Mrs. Parsons.
“But, my dear, you did interrupt me,” remonstrated Mr. Parsons.
“How very absurd you are, my love! I must give directions to the servants; I am quite sure that if I sat here and allowed John to spill the gravy over the new carpet, you'd be the first to find fault when you saw the stain to-morrow morning.”
“Well,” continued Gabriel with a resigned air, as if he knew there was no getting over the point about the carpet, “I was just saying, it was so dark that I could hardly see my hand before me. The road was very lonely, and I assure you, Tottle (this was a device to arrest the wandering attention of that individual, which was distracted by a confidential communication between Mrs. Parsons and Martha, accompanied by the delivery of a large bunch of keys), I assure you, Tottle, I became somehow impressed with a sense of the loneliness of my situation—”
“Pie to your master,” interrupted Mrs. Parsons, again directing the servant.
“Now, pray, my dear,” remonstrated Parsons once more, very pettishly. Mrs. P. turned up her hands and eyebrows, and appealed in dumb show to Miss Lillerton. “As I turned a corner of the road,” resumed Gabriel, “the horse stopped short, and reared tremendously. I pulled up, jumped out, ran to his head, and found a man lying on his back in the middle of the road, with his eyes fixed on the sky. I thought he was dead; but no, he was alive, and there appeared to be nothing the matter with him. He jumped up, and potting his hand to his chest, and fixing upon me the most earnest gaze you can imagine, exclaimed—“Pudding here,” said Mrs. Parsons.
“Oh! it's no use,” exclaimed the host, now rendered desperate. “Here, Tottle; a glass of wine. It's useless to attempt relating anything when Mrs. Parsons is present.”
This attack was received in the usual way. Mrs. Parsons talked TO Miss Lillerton and AT her better half; expatiated on the impatience of men generally; hinted that her husband was peculiarly vicious in this respect, and wound up by insinuating that she must be one of the best tempers that ever existed, or she never could put up with it. Really what she had to endure sometimes, was more than any one who saw her in every-day life could by possibility suppose.—The story was now a painful subject, and therefore Mr. Parsons declined to enter into any details, and contented himself by stating that the man was a maniac, who had escaped from a neighbouring madhouse.
The cloth was removed; the ladies soon afterwards retired, and Miss Lillerton played the piano in the drawing-room overhead, very loudly, for the edification of the visitor. Mr. Watkins Tottle and Mr. Gabriel Parsons sat chatting comfortably enough, until the conclusion of the second bottle, when the latter, in proposing an adjournment to the drawing-room, informed Watkins that he had concerted a plan with his wife, for leaving him and Miss Lillerton alone, soon after tea.
“I say,” said Tottle, as they went up-stairs, “don't you think it would be better if we put it off till-till-to-morrow?”
“Don't YOU think it would have been much better if I had left you in that wretched hole I found you in this morning?” retorted Parsons bluntly.
“Well—well—I only made a suggestion,” said poor Watkins Tottle, with a deep sigh.
Tea was soon concluded, and Miss Lillerton, drawing a small worktable on one side of the fire, and placing a little wooden frame upon it, something like a miniature clay-mill without the horse, was soon busily engaged in making a watch-guard with brown silk.
“God bless me!” exclaimed Parsons, starting up with well-feigned surprise, “I've forgotten those confounded letters. Tottle, I know you'll excuse me.”
If Tottle had been a free agent, he would have allowed no one to leave the room on any pretence, except himself. As it was, however, he was obliged to look cheerful when Parsons quitted the apartment.
He had scarcely left, when Martha put her head into the room, with—“Please, ma'am, you're wanted.”
Mrs. Parsons left the room, shut the door carefully after her, and Mr. Watkins Tottle was left alone with Miss Lillerton.
For the first five minutes there was a dead silence.—Mr. Watkins Tottle was thinking how he should begin, and Miss Lillerton appeared to be thinking of nothing. The fire was burning low; Mr. Watkins Tottle stirred it, and put some coals on.
“Hem!” coughed Miss Lillerton; Mr. Watkins Tottle thought the fair creature had spoken. “I beg your pardon,” said he.
“Eh?”
“I thought you spoke.”
“No.”
“Oh!”
“There are some books on the sofa, Mr. Tottle, if you would like to look at them,” said Miss Lillerton, after the lapse of another five minutes.
“No, thank you,” returned Watkins; and then he added, with a courage which was perfectly astonishing, even to himself, “Madam, that is Miss Lillerton, I wish to speak to you.”
“To me!” said Miss Lillerton, letting the silk drop from her hands, and sliding her chair back a few paces.—“Speak—to me!”
“To you, madam—and on the subject of the state of your affections.” The lady hastily rose and would have left the room; but Mr. Watkins Tottle gently detained her by the hand, and holding it as far from him as the joint length of their arms would permit, he thus proceeded: “Pray do not misunderstand me, or suppose that I am led to address you, after so short an acquaintance, by any feeling of my own merits—for merits I have none which could give me a claim to your hand. I hope you will acquit me of any presumption when I explain that I have been acquainted through Mrs. Parsons, with the state—that is, that Mrs. Parsons has told
me—at least, not Mrs. Parsons, but—” here Watkins began to wander, but Miss Lillerton relieved him.
“Am I to understand, Mr. Tottle, that Mrs. Parsons has acquainted you with my feeling—my affection—I mean my respect, for an individual of the opposite sex?”
“She has.”
“Then, what?” inquired Miss Lillerton, averting her face, with a girlish air, “what could induce YOU to seek such an interview as this? What can your object be? How can I promote your happiness, Mr. Tottle?”
Here was the time for a flourish—“By allowing me,” replied Watkins, falling bump on his knees, and breaking two brace-buttons and a waistcoat-string, in the act—“By allowing me to be your slave, your servant—in short, by unreservedly making me the confidant of your heart's feelings—may I say for the promotion of your own happiness—may I say, in order that you may become the wife of a kind and affectionate husband?”
“Disinterested creature!” exclaimed Miss Lillerton, hiding her face in a white pocket-handkerchief with an eyelet-hole border.
Mr. Watkins Tottle thought that if the lady knew all, she might possibly alter her opinion on this last point. He raised the tip of her middle finger ceremoniously to his lips, and got off his knees, as gracefully as he could. “My information was correct?” he tremulously inquired, when he was once more on his feet.
“It was.” Watkins elevated his hands, and looked up to the ornament in the centre of the ceiling, which had been made for a lamp, by way of expressing his rapture.
“Our situation, Mr. Tottle,” resumed the lady, glancing at him through one of the eyelet-holes, “is a most peculiar. and delicate one.”
“It is,” said Mr. Tottle.
“Our acquaintance has been of SO short duration,” said Miss Lillerton.
“Only a week,” assented Watkins Tottle.
“Oh! more than that,” exclaimed the lady, in a tone of surprise.
“Indeed!” said Tottle.
“More than a month—more than two months!” said Miss Lillerton.
“Rather odd, this,” thought Watkins.
“Oh!” he said, recollecting Parsons's assurance that she had known him from report, “I understand. But, my dear madam, pray, consider. The longer this acquaintance has existed, the less reason is I there for delay now. Why not at once fix a period for gratifying the hopes of your devoted admirer?”
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