“No, no,” said Mr. Tupman, rising; “it will do me good. Let me accompany you.”
The lady paused to adjust the sling in which the left arm of the youth was placed, and taking his right arm led him to the garden.
There was a bower at the further end, with honeysuckle, jessamine, and creeping plants—one of those sweet retreats which humane men erect for the accommodation of spiders.
The spinster aunt took up a large watering-pot which lay in one corner, and was about to leave the arbour. Mr. Tupman detained her, and drew her to a seat beside him.
“Miss Wardle!” said he.
The spinster aunt trembled, till some pebbles which had accidentally found their way into the large watering-pot shook like an infant’s rattle.
“Miss Wardle,” said Mr. Tupman, “you are an angel.”
“Mr. Tupman!” exclaimed Rachael, blushing as red as the watering-pot itself.
“Nay,” said the eloquent Pickwickian, “I know it but too well.”