“Damn that boy!” thought old Mr. Wardle to himself.—He had heard the story from his mother. “Damn that boy! He must have been asleep. It’s all imagination.”
“Traitor!” thought the spinster aunt. “Dear Mr. Jingle was not deceiving me. Ugh! how I hate the wretch!”
The following conversation may serve to explain to our readers this apparently unaccountable alteration of deportment on the part of Mr. Tracy Tupman.
The time was evening; the scene the garden. There were two figures walking in the side path; one was rather short and stout; the other rather tall and slim. They were Mr. Tupman and Mr. Jingle. The stout figure commenced the dialogue.
“How did I do it?” he inquired.
“Splendid—capital—couldn’t act better myself—you must repeat the part to-morrow—every evening, till further notice.”
“Does Rachael still wish it?”
“Of course—she don’t like it—but must be done—avert suspicion—afraid of her brother—says there’s no help for it—only a few days more—when old folks blinded—crown your happiness.”
“Any message?”
“Love—best love—kindest regards—unalterable affection. Can I say anything for you?”