A ROMANTIC ADVENTURE WITH A MIDDLE-AGED LADY IN YELLOW CURL-PAPERS. R. PICKWICK, in company | very centre of the history of the queer This is your room, sir," said the chambermaid. "Very well," replied Mr. Pickwick, looking round him. It was a tolerably large double-bedded room with a fire upon the whole, a more comfortablelooking-apartment than Mr. Pickwick's short experience of the accommodations of the Great White Horse had led him to expect. "Nobody sleeps in the other bed, of course," said Mr. Pickwick. "Oh no, sir." 66 White Horse at Ipswich with sufficient clearness to convince Mr. Pickwick that he was falling asleep; so he roused himself and began to undress, when he recollected he had left his watch on the table down stairs. Now, this watch was a special favorite with Mr. Pickwick, having been carried about beneath the shadow of his waistcoat for a greater number of for a greater number of years than we feel called upon to state at present. The possi bility of going to sleep unless it were ticking gently beneath his pillow or in his watch"No-pocket over his head had never entered Mr. Pickwick's brain. So, as it was pretty late now and he was unwilling to ring his bell at that hour of the night, he slipped on his coat, of which he had just divested himself, and, taking the japanned candlestick in his hand, walked quietly down stairs. Very good. Tell my servant to bring me up some hot water at half-past eight in the morning, and that I shall not want him any more to-night." Yes, sir;" and, bidding Mr. Pickwick Good-night," the chambermaid retired and left him alone. Mr. Pickwick sat himself down in a chair before the fire and fell into a train of rambling meditations. First he thought of his friends, and wondered when they would join him; then his mind reverted to Mrs. Martha Bardell, and from that lady it wandered, by a natural process, to the dingy countinghouse of Dodson & Fogg. From Dodson & Fogg's it flew off at a tangent to the The more stairs Mr. Pickwick went down, the more stairs there seemed to be to descend; and again and again when Mr. Pickwick got into some narrow passage, and began to congratulate himself on having gained the groundfloor, did another flight of stairs appear before his astonished eyes. At last he reached a stone hall which he remembered to have seen when he entered the house. Passage after passage did he explore; room after room did he peep into. At length, just as he was on the point of giving up the search in despair, he opened the door of the iden tical room in which he had spent the evening, and beheld his missing property on the table. Mr. Pickwick seized the watch in triumph and proceeded to retrace his steps to his bedchamber. If his progress downward had been attended with difficulties and uncertainty, his journey back was infinitely more perplexing. Rows of doors garnished with boots of every shape, make and size branched off in every possible direction. A dozen times did he softly turn the handle of some bedroom door which resembled his own, when a gruff cry from within of from within of "Who the devil's that?" or What do you want here?" caused him to steal away on tiptoe with a marvellous celerity. He was reduced to the verge of despair, when an open door attracted his attention. He peeped in right at last. There were the two beds, whose situation he perfectly remembered, and the fire still burning. His candlenot a long one when he first received ithad flickered away in the draughts of air through which he had passed, and sunk into the socket just as he closed the door after him. "No matter," said Mr. Pickwick; "I can 'I can undress myself just as well by the light of the fire." The bedsteads stood one on each side of the door, and on the inner side of each was a little path, terminating in a rush-bottomed chair just wide enough to admit of a person's getting into or out of bed on that side if he or she thought proper. Having carefully drawn the curtains of his bed on the outside, Mr. Pickwick sat down on the rush-bottomed chair and leisurely divested himself of his shoes and gaiters. He then took off and folded up his coat, waistcoat and neck cloth, and, slowly drawing on his tasselled nightcap, secured it firmly on his head by tying beneath his chin the strings which he had always attached to that article of dress. It was at this moment that the absurdity of his recent bewilderment struck upon his mind; and, throwing himself back in the rush-bottomed chair, Mr. Pickwick laughed to himself so heartily that it would have been quite delightful to any man of well-constituted mind to have watched the smiles which expanded his amiable features as they shone forth from beneath the night-cap. It is the best idea," said Mr. Pickwick to himself, smiling till he almost cracked the nightcap strings "it is the best idea, my losing myself in this place and wandering about those staircases, that I ever heard of. Droll, droll-very droll!" Here Mr. Pickwick smiled again, a broader smile than before, and was about to continue the process of undressing in the best possible humor, when he was suddenly stopped by a most unexpected interruption-to wit, the entrance into the room of some person with a candle, who, after locking the door, advanced to the dressing-table and set down the light upon it. The smile that played on Mr. Pickwick's features was instantaneously lost in a look of the most unbounded and wonder-stricken surprise. The person, whoever it was, had come in so suddenly and with so little noise that Mr. Pickwick had no time to call out or oppose their entrance. Who could it be? A robber! Some evil-minded person who had seen him come up stairs with a handsome watch in his hand, perhaps. What was he to do? The only way in which Mr. Pickwick could catch a glimpse of his mysterious visitor with the least danger of being seen himself was by creeping on to the bed and peeping out from between the curtains on the opposite side. To this manoeuvre he accordingly resorted. Keeping the curtains carefully closed with his hand, so that nothing more of him could be seen than his face and nightcap, and putting on his spectacles, he mustered up courage and looked out. Mr. Pickwick almost fainted with horror and dismay. Standing before the dressingglass was a middle-aged lady in yellow curlpapers busily engaged in brushing what ladies call their "back-hair." However the unconscious middle-aged lady came into that room, it was quite clear that she contemplated remaining there for the night; for she had brought a rushlight and shade with her, which, with praiseworthy precaution against fire, she had stationed in a basin on the floor, where it was glimmering away like a gigantic lighthouse in a particularly small piece of water. cap with a small plaited border, and was gazing pensively on the fire. "This matter is growing alarming," reasoned Mr. Pickwick with himself. "I can't allow things to go on in this way. By the self-possession of that lady, it's clear to me that I must have come into the wrong room. If I call out, she'll alarm the house; but if I remain here, the consequence will be still more frightful." Mr. Pickwick, it is quite unnecessary to say, was one of the most modest and delicate-minded of mortals. The very idea of exhibiting his nightcap to a lady overpowered him, but he had tied these confounded strings in a knot, and, do what he would, he couldn't get it off. The disclosure must be made. There was only one other way of doing it. He shrunk behind the curtains and called out very loudly, "Ha-hum !" That the lady started at this unexpected sound was evident by her falling up against the rushlight shade; that she persuaded herself it must have been the Bless my soul!" thought Mr. Pickwick. effect of imagination was equally clear; for "What a dreadful thing!" "Hem!" said the lady; and in went Mr. Pickwick's head with automaton-like rapidity. "I never met with anything so awful as this," thought poor Mr. Pickwick, the cold perspiration starting in drops upon his nightcap "never. This is fearful." It was quite impossible to resist the urgent desire to see what was going forward; so out went Mr. Pickwick's head again. The prospect was worse than before. The middleaged lady had finished arranging her hair and carefully enveloped it in a muslin night when Mr. Pickwick, under the impression. that she had fainted. away, stone-dead from fright, ventured to peep out again, she was gazing pensively on the fire as before. "Most extraordinary female this," thought Mr. Pickwick, popping in again. "Hahum!" These last sounds, so like those in which, as legends inform us, the ferocious giant Blunderbore was in the habit of expressing his opinion that it was time to lay the cloth, were too distinctly audible to be again mistaken for the workings of fancy. |