"What do you mean!" exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, turning pale; "no other secret marriage, I hope?"
"No, no," replied old Wardle; "not so bad as that; no."
"What then?" inquired Mr. Pickwick; "am I interested in it?"
"Shall I answer that question, Perker?" said Wardle.
"If you don't commit yourself by doing so, my dear sir."
"Well then, you are," said Wardle.
"How?" asked Mr. Pickwick anxiously. "In what way?"
"Really," replied Wardle, "you're such a fiery sort of young fellow that I am almost afraid to tell you; but, however, if Perker will sit between us to prevent mischief, I'll venture."
Having closed the room-door, and fortified himself with another application to Perker's snuff-box, the old gentleman proceeded with his great disclosure in these words.
"The fact is, that my daughter Bella—Bella, who married young Trundle, you know."
"Yes, yes, we know," said Mr. Pickwick impatiently.
"Don't alarm me at the very beginning. My daughter Bella, Emily having gone to bed with a headache after she had read Arabella's letter to me, sat herself down by my side the other evening, and began to talk over this marriage affair. 'Well, pa,' she says, 'what do you think of it?' 'Why, my dear,' I said, 'I suppose it's all very well; I hope it's for the best.' I answered in this way because I was sitting before the fire at the time, drinking my grog rather thoughtfully, and I knew my throwing in an undecided word now and then, would induce her to continue talking. Both my girls are pictures of their dear mother, and as I grow old I like to sit with only them by me; for their voices and looks carry me back to the happiest period of my life, and make me, for the moment, as young as I used to be then, though not quite so light-hearted. 'It's quite a marriage of affection, pa,' said Bella, after a short silence. 'Yes, my dear,' said I, 'but such marriages do not always turn out the happiest.'"
