Chapter VIII

Strongly Illustrative Of The Position, That The Course Of True

Love Is Not A Railway

The quiet seclusion of Dingley Dell, the presence of so many of the

gentler sex, and the solicitude and anxiety they evinced in his behalf,

were all favourable to the growth and development of those softer

feelings which nature had implanted deep in the bosom of Mr Tracy

Tupman, and which now appeared destined to centre in one lovely

object. The young ladies were pretty, their manners winning, their

dispositions unexceptionable; but there was a dignity in the air, a

touch-me-not-ishness in the walk, a majesty in the eye, of the spinster

aunt, to which, at their time of life, they could lay no claim, which

distinguished her from any female on whom Mr Tupman had ever

gazed. That there was something kindred in their nature, something

congenial in their souls, something mysteriously sympathetic in their

bosoms, was evident. Her name was the first that rose to Mr

Tupman's lips as he lay wounded on the grass; and her hysteric

laughter was the first sound that fell upon his ear when he was

supported to the house. But had her agitation arisen from an amiable

and feminine sensibility which would have been equally irrepressible

in any case; or had it been called forth by a more ardent and

passionate feeling, which he, of all men living, could alone awaken?

These were the doubts which racked his brain as he lay extended on

the sofa; these were the doubts which he determined should be at

once and for ever resolved.

it was evening. Isabella and Emily had strolled out with Mr Trundle;

the deaf old lady had fallen asleep in her chair; the snoring of the fat

boy, penetrated in a low and monotonous sound from the distant

kitchen; the buxom servants were lounging at the side door, enjoying

the pleasantness of the hour, and the delights of a flirtation, on first

principles, with certain unwieldy animals attached to the farm; and

there sat the interesting pair, uncared for by all, caring for none, and

dreaming only of themselves; there they sat, in short, like a pair of

carefully- folded kid gloves - bound up in each other.

I have forgotten my flowers,' said the spinster aunt.

Water them now,' said Mr Tupman, in accents of persuasion.

You will take cold in the evening air,' urged the spinster aunt

affectionately.

'No, no,' said Mr Tupman, rising; 'it will do me good. Let me

accompany you.'

The Pickwick Papers