your privileges, been reduced, if only for an instant, to misgiving
and despair? And when you have been thus depressed, has not the name of
Dumkins laid afresh within your breast the fire which had just gone out;
and has not a word from that man lighted it again as brightly as if it
had never expired? (Great cheering.) Gentlemen, I beg to surround with
a rich halo of enthusiastic cheering the united names of "Dumkins and
Podder."'
Here the little man ceased, and here the company commenced a raising of
voices, and thumping of tables, which lasted with little intermission
during the remainder of the evening. Other toasts were drunk. Mr. Luffey
and Mr. Struggles, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Jingle, were, each in his turn,
the subject of unqualified eulogium; and each in due course returned
thanks for the honour.
Enthusiastic as we are in the noble cause to which we have devoted
ourselves, we should have felt a sensation of pride which we cannot
express, and a consciousness of having done something to merit
immortality of which we are now deprived, could we have laid the
faintest outline on these addresses before our ardent readers. Mr.
Snodgrass, as usual, took a great mass of notes, which would no doubt
have afforded most useful and valuable information, had not the burning
eloquence of the words or the feverish influence of the wine made that
gentleman's hand so extremely unsteady, as to render his writing
nearly unintelligible, and his style wholly so. By dint of patient
investigation, we have been enabled to trace some characters bearing a
faint resemblance to the names of the speakers; and we can only discern
an entry of a song (supposed to have been sung by Mr. Jingle), in which
the words 'bowl' 'sparkling' 'ruby' 'bright' and 'wine' are frequently
repeated at short intervals. We fancy, too, that we can discern at the
very end of the notes, some indistinct reference to 'broiled bones'; and
then the words 'cold' 'without' occur: but as any hypothesis we could
found upon them must necessarily rest upon mere conjecture, we are not
disposed to indulge in any of the speculations to which they may give
rise.
We will therefore return to Mr. Tupman; merely adding that within
some few minutes before twelve o'clock that night, the convocation of
worthies of Dingley Dell and Muggleton were heard to sing, with great
feeling and emphasis, the beautiful and pathetic national air of
'We won't go home till morning,
We won't go home till morning,
We won't go home till morning,
Till daylight doth appear.'
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 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 farther 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.'
'All women are angels, they say,' murmured the lady playfully.
'Then what can you be; or to what, without presumption, can I compare
you?' replied Mr. Tupman. 'Where was the woman ever seen who resembled
you? Where else could I hope to find so rare a combination of excellence
and beauty? Where else could I seek to--Oh!' Here Mr. Tupman paused, and
pressed the hand which clasped the handle of the happy watering-pot.
The lady turned aside her head. 'Men are such deceivers,' she softly
whispered.
'They are, they are,' ejaculated Mr. Tupman; 'but not all men. There
lives at least one being who can never change--one being who would be
content to devote his whole existence to your happiness--who lives
but in your eyes--who breathes but in your smiles--who bears the heavy
burden of life itself only for you.'
'Could such an individual be found--' said the lady.
'But he CAN be found,' said the ardent Mr. Tupman, interposing. 'He
IS found. He is here, Miss Wardle.' And ere the lady was aware of his
intention, Mr. Tupman had sunk upon his knees at her feet.
'Mr. Tupman, rise,' said Rachael.
'Never!' was the valorous reply. 'Oh, Rachael!' He seized her passive
hand, and the watering-pot fell to the ground as he pressed it to his
lips.--'Oh, Rachael! say you love me.'
'Mr. Tupman,' said the spinster aunt, with averted head, 'I can hardly
speak the words; but--but--you are not wholly indifferent to me.'
Mr. Tupman no sooner heard this avowal, than he proceeded to do what his
enthusiastic emotions prompted, and what, for aught we know (for we are
but little acquainted with such matters), people so circumstanced always
do. He jumped up, and, throwing his arm round the neck of the spinster
aunt, imprinted upon her lips numerous kisses, which after a due show of
struggling and resistance, she received so passively, that there is no
telling how many more Mr. Tupman might have bestowed, if the lady had
not given a very unaffected start, and exclaimed in an affrighted tone--
'Mr. Tupman, we are observed!--we are discovered!'
Mr. Tupman looked round. There was the fat boy, perfectly motionless,
with his large circular eyes staring into the arbour, but without the
slightest expression on his face that the most expert physiognomist
could have referred to astonishment, curiosity, or any other known
passion that agitates the human breast. Mr. Tupman gazed on the fat boy,
and the fat boy stared at him; and the longer Mr. Tupman observed the
utter vacancy of the fat boy's countenance, the more convinced he became
that he either did not know, or did not understand, anything that had
been going forward. Under this impression, he said with great firmness--
'What do you want here, Sir?'
'Supper's ready, sir,' was the prompt reply.
'Have you just come here, sir?' inquired Mr. Tupman, with a piercing
look.
'Just,' replied the fat boy.
Mr. Tupman looked at him very hard again; but there was not a wink in
his eye, or a curve in his face.
Mr. Tupman took the arm of the spinster aunt, and walked towards the
house; the fat boy followed behind.
'He knows nothing of what has happened,'he whispered.
'Nothing,' said the spinster aunt.
There was a sound behind them, as of an imperfectly suppressed chuckle.
Mr. Tupman turned sharply round. No; it could not have been the fat boy;
there was not a gleam of mirth, or anything but feeding in his whole
visage.
'He must have been fast asleep,' whispered Mr. Tupman.
'I have not the least doubt of it,' replied the spinster aunt.
They both laughed heartily.
Mr. Tupman was wrong. The fat boy, for once, had not been fast asleep.
He was awake--wide awake--to what had been going forward.
The supper passed off without any attempt at a general conversation. The
old lady had gone to bed; Isabella Wardle devoted herself exclusively to
Mr. Trundle; the spinster's attentions were reserved for Mr. Tupman;
and Emily's thoughts appeared to be engrossed by some distant
object--possibly they were with the absent Snodgrass.
Eleven--twelve--one o'clock had struck, and the gentlemen had not
arrived. Consternation sat on every face. Could they have been waylaid
and robbed? Should they send men and lanterns in every direction by
which they could be supposed likely to have travelled home? or should
they--Hark! there they were. What could have made them so late? A
strange voice, too! To whom could it belong? They rushed into the
kitchen, whither the truants had repaired, and at once obtained rather
more than a glimmering of the real state of the case.
Mr. Pickwick, with his hands in his pockets and his hat cocked
completely over his left eye, was leaning against the dresser, shaking
his head from side to side, and producing a constant succession of the
blandest and most benevolent smiles without being moved thereunto by
any discernible cause or pretence whatsoever; old Mr. Wardle, with
a highly-inflamed countenance, was grasping the hand of a strange
gentleman muttering protestations of eternal friendship; Mr. Winkle,
supporting himself by the eight-day clock, was feebly invoking
destruction upon the head of any member of the family who should suggest
the propriety of his retiring for the night; and Mr. Snodgrass had sunk
into a chair, with an expression of the most abject and hopeless misery
that the human mind can imagine, portrayed in every lineament of his
expressive face.
'Is anything the matter?' inquired the three ladies.
'Nothing the matter,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'We--we're--all right.--I
say, Wardle, we're all right, ain't we?'
'I should think so,' replied the jolly host.--'My dears, here's my
friend Mr. Jingle--Mr. Pickwick's friend, Mr. Jingle, come 'pon--little
visit.'
'Is anything the matter with Mr. Snodgrass, Sir?' inquired Emily, with
great anxiety.
'Nothing the matter, ma'am,' replied the stranger. 'Cricket
dinner--glorious party--capital songs--old port--claret--good--very
good--wine, ma'am--wine.'
'It wasn't the wine,' murmured Mr. Snodgrass, in a broken voice. 'It was
the salmon.' (Somehow or other, it never is the wine, in these cases.)
'Hadn't they better go to bed, ma'am?' inquired Emma. 'Two of the boys
will carry the gentlemen upstairs.'
'I won't go to bed,' said Mr. Winkle firmly.
'No living boy shall carry me,' said Mr. Pickwick stoutly; and he went
on smiling as before. 'Hurrah!' gasped Mr. Winkle faintly.
'Hurrah!' echoed Mr. Pickwick, taking off his hat and dashing it on
the floor, and insanely casting his spectacles into the middle of the
kitchen. At this humorous feat he laughed outright.
'Let's--have--'nother--bottle,'cried Mr. Winkle, commencing in a very
loud key, and ending in a very faint one. His head dropped upon his
breast; and, muttering his invincible determination not to go to his
bed, and a sanguinary regret that he had not 'done for old Tupman' in
the morning, he fell fast asleep; in which condition he was borne to his
apartment by two young giants under the personal superintendence of
the fat boy, to whose protecting care Mr. Snodgrass shortly afterwards
confided his own person, Mr. Pickwick accepted the proffered arm of Mr.
Tupman and quietly disappeared, smiling more than ever; and Mr. Wardle,
after taking as affectionate a leave of the whole family as if he were
ordered for immediate execution, consigned to Mr. Trundle the honour of
conveying him upstairs, and retired, with a very futile attempt to look
impressively solemn and dignified. 'What a shocking scene!' said the
spinster aunt.
'Dis-gusting!' ejaculated both the young ladies.
