to conviction. He was a quick and powerful reasoner; and a moment's
reflection sufficed to remind him of the impotency of his rage. It
subsided as quickly as it had been roused. He panted for breath, and
looked benignantly round upon his friends.
Shall we tell the lamentations that ensued when Miss Wardle found
herself deserted by the faithless Jingle? Shall we extract Mr.
Pickwick's masterly description of that heartrending scene? His
note-book, blotted with the tears of sympathising humanity, lies open
before us; one word, and it is in the printer's hands. But, no! we will
be resolute! We will not wring the public bosom, with the delineation of
such suffering!
Slowly and sadly did the two friends and the deserted lady return
next day in the Muggleton heavy coach. Dimly and darkly had the sombre
shadows of a summer's night fallen upon all around, when they again
reached Dingley Dell, and stood within the entrance to Manor Farm.
CHAPTER XI. INVOLVING ANOTHER JOURNEY, AND AN ANTIQUARIAN DISCOVERY;
RECORDING Mr. PICKWICK'S DETERMINATION TO BE PRESENT AT AN ELECTION; AND
CONTAINING A MANUSCRIPT OF THE OLD CLERGYMAN'S
A night of quiet and repose in the profound silence of Dingley Dell,
and an hour's breathing of its fresh and fragrant air on the ensuing
morning, completely recovered Mr. Pickwick from the effects of his
late fatigue of body and anxiety of mind. That illustrious man had been
separated from his friends and fol lowers for two whole days; and it was
with a degree of pleasure and delight, which no common imagination can
adequately conceive, that he stepped forward to greet Mr. Winkle and
Mr. Snodgrass, as he encountered those gentlemen on his return from
his early walk. The pleasure was mutual; for who could ever gaze on Mr.
Pickwick's beaming face without experiencing the sensation? But still a
cloud seemed to hang over his companions which that great man could not
but be sensible of, and was wholly at a loss to account for. There was a
mysterious air about them both, as unusual as it was alarming.
'And how,' said Mr. Pickwick, when he had grasped his followers by the
hand, and exchanged warm salutations of welcome--'how is Tupman?'
Mr. Winkle, to whom the question was more peculiarly addressed, made
no reply. He turned away his head, and appeared absorbed in melancholy
reflection.
'Snodgrass,' said Mr. Pickwick earnestly, 'how is our friend--he is not
ill?'
'No,' replied Mr. Snodgrass; and a tear trembled on his sentimental
eyelid, like a rain-drop on a window-frame-'no; he is not ill.'
Mr. Pickwick stopped, and gazed on each of his friends in turn.
'Winkle--Snodgrass,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'what does this mean? Where
is our friend? What has happened? Speak--I conjure, I entreat--nay, I
command you, speak.'
There was a solemnity--a dignity--in Mr. Pickwick's manner, not to be
withstood.
'He is gone,' said Mr. Snodgrass.
'Gone!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. 'Gone!'
'Gone,' repeated Mr. Snodgrass.
'Where!' ejaculated Mr. Pickwick.
'We can only guess, from that communication,' replied Mr. Snodgrass,
taking a letter from his pocket, and placing it in his friend's hand.
'Yesterday morning, when a letter was received from Mr. Wardle, stating
that you would be home with his sister at night, the melancholy which
had hung over our friend during the whole of the previous day, was
observed to increase. He shortly afterwards disappeared: he was missing
during the whole day, and in the evening this letter was brought by the
hostler from the Crown, at Muggleton. It had been left in his charge in
the morning, with a strict injunction that it should not be delivered
until night.'
Mr. Pickwick opened the epistle. It was in his friend's hand-writing,
and these were its contents:--
'MY DEAR PICKWICK,--YOU, my dear friend, are placed far beyond the reach
of many mortal frailties and weaknesses which ordinary people cannot
overcome. You do not know what it is, at one blow, to be deserted by a
lovely and fascinating creature, and to fall a victim to the artifices
of a villain, who had the grin of cunning beneath the mask of
friendship. I hope you never may.
'Any letter addressed to me at the Leather Bottle, Cobham, Kent, will
be forwarded--supposing I still exist. I hasten from the sight of
that world, which has become odious to me. Should I hasten from it
altogether, pity--forgive me. Life, my dear Pickwick, has become
insupportable to me. The spirit which burns within us, is a porter's
knot, on which to rest the heavy load of worldly cares and troubles; and
when that spirit fails us, the burden is too heavy to be borne. We sink
beneath it. You may tell Rachael--Ah, that name!--
'TRACY TupmAN.'
'We must leave this place directly,' said Mr. Pickwick, as he refolded
the note. 'It would not have been decent for us to remain here, under
any circumstances, after what has happened; and now we are bound to
follow in search of our friend.' And so saying, he led the way to the
house.
His intention was rapidly communicated. The entreaties to remain were
pressing, but Mr. Pickwick was inflexible. Business, he said, required
his immediate attendance.
The old clergyman was present.
'You are not really going?' said he, taking Mr. Pickwick aside.
Mr. Pickwick reiterated his former determination.
'Then here,' said the old gentleman, 'is a little manuscript, which I
had hoped to have the pleasure of reading to you myself. I found it
on the death of a friend of mine--a medical man, engaged in our county
lunatic asylum--among a variety of papers, which I had the option of
destroying or preserving, as I thought proper. I can hardly believe that
the manuscript is genuine, though it certainly is not in my friend's
hand. However, whether it be the genuine production of a maniac, or
founded upon the ravings of some unhappy being (which I think more
probable), read it, and judge for yourself.'
Mr. Pickwick received the manuscript, and parted from the benevolent old
gentleman with many expressions of good-will and esteem.
It was a more difficult task to take leave of the inmates of Manor
Farm, from whom they had received so much hospitality and kindness. Mr.
Pickwick kissed the young ladies--we were going to say, as if they were
his own daughters, only, as he might possibly have infused a little
more warmth into the salutation, the comparison would not be quite
appropriate--hugged the old lady with filial cordiality; and patted the
rosy cheeks of the female servants in a most patriarchal manner, as he
slipped into the hands of each some more substantial expression of his
approval. The exchange of cordialities with their fine old host and Mr.
Trundle was even more hearty and prolonged; and it was not until Mr.
Snodgrass had been several times called for, and at last emerged from
a dark passage followed soon after by Emily (whose bright eyes looked
unusually dim), that the three friends were enabled to tear themselves
from their friendly entertainers. Many a backward look they gave at the
farm, as they walked slowly away; and many a kiss did Mr. Snodgrass
waft in the air, in acknowledgment of something very like a lady's
handkerchief, which was waved from one of the upper windows, until a
turn of the lane hid the old house from their sight.
At Muggleton they procured a conveyance to Rochester. By the time
they reached the last-named place, the violence of their grief had
sufficiently abated to admit of their making a very excellent early
dinner; and having procured the necessary information relative to the
road, the three friends set forward again in the afternoon to walk to
Cobham.
A delightful walk it was; for it was a pleasant afternoon in June, and
their way lay through a deep and shady wood, cooled by the light wind
which gently rustled the thick foliage, and enlivened by the songs of
the birds that perched upon the boughs. The ivy and the moss crept in
thick clusters over the old trees, and the soft green turf overspread
the ground like a silken mat. They emerged upon an open park, with an
ancient hall, displaying the quaint and picturesque architecture of
Elizabeth's time. Long vistas of stately oaks and elm trees appeared
on every side; large herds of deer were cropping the fresh grass; and
occasionally a startled hare scoured along the ground, with the speed
of the shadows thrown by the light clouds which swept across a sunny
landscape like a passing breath of summer.
'If this,' said Mr. Pickwick, looking about him--'if this were the place
to which all who are troubled with our friend's complaint came, I fancy
their old attachment to this world would very soon return.'
'I think so too,' said Mr. Winkle.
'And really,' added Mr. Pickwick, after half an hour's walking had
brought them to the village, 'really, for a misanthrope's choice, this
is one of the prettiest and most desirable places of residence I ever
met with.'
In this opinion also, both Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass expressed their
concurrence; and having been directed to the Leather Bottle, a clean and
commodious village ale-house, the three travellers entered, and at once
inquired for a gentleman of the name of Tupman.
'Show the gentlemen into the parlour, Tom,' said the landlady.
A stout country lad opened a door at the end of the passage, and the
three friends entered a long, low-roofed room, furnished with a large
number of high-backed leather-cushioned chairs, of fantastic shapes, and
embellished with a great variety of old portraits and roughly-coloured
prints of some antiquity. At the upper end of the room was a table, with
a white cloth upon it, well covered with a roast fowl, bacon, ale, and
et ceteras; and at the table sat Mr. Tupman, looking as unlike a man who
had taken his leave of the world, as possible.
On the entrance of his friends, that gentleman laid down his knife and
fork, and with a mournful air advanced to meet them.
'I did not expect to see you here,' he said, as he grasped Mr.
Pickwick's hand. 'It's very kind.'
'Ah!' said Mr. Pickwick, sitting down, and wiping from his forehead the
perspiration which the walk had engendered. 'Finish your dinner, and
walk out with me. I wish to speak to you alone.'
Mr. Tupman did as he was desired; and Mr. Pickwick having refreshed
himself with a copious draught of ale, waited his friend's leisure. The
dinner was quickly despatched, and they walked out together.
For half an hour, their forms might have been seen pacing the churchyard
to and fro, while Mr. Pickwick was engaged in combating his companion's
resolution. Any repetition of his arguments would be useless; for what
language could convey to them that energy and force which their great
originator's manner communicated? Whether Mr. Tupman was already tired
of retirement, or whether he was wholly unable to resist the eloquent
appeal which was made to him, matters not, he did NOT resist it at last.
'It mattered little to him,' he said, 'where he dragged out the
miserable remainder of his days; and since his friend laid so much
stress upon his humble companionship, he was willing to share his
adventures.'
Mr. Pickwick smiled; they shook hands, and walked back to rejoin their
companions.
It was at this moment that Mr. Pickwick made that immortal discovery,
which has been the pride and boast of his friends, and the envy of every
antiquarian in this or any other country. They had passed the door
of their inn, and walked a little way down the village, before they
recollected the precise spot in which it stood. As they turned back, Mr.
Pickwick's eye fell upon a small broken stone, partially buried in the
ground, in front of a cottage door. He paused.
'This is very strange,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'What is strange?' inquired Mr. Tupman, staring eagerly at every object
near him, but the right one. 'God bless me, what's the matter?'
This last was an ejaculation of irrepressible astonishment, occasioned
by seeing Mr. Pickwick, in his enthusiasm for discovery, fall on his
knees before the little stone, and commence wiping the dust off it with
his pocket-handkerchief.
'There is an inscription here,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Is it possible?' said Mr. Tupman.
'I can discern,'continued Mr. Pickwick, rubbing away with all his might,
and gazing intently through his spectacles--'I can discern a cross, and
a 13, and then a T. This is important,' continued Mr. Pickwick, starting
up. 'This is some very old inscription, existing perhaps long before the
ancient alms-houses in this place. It must not be lost.'
He tapped at the cottage door. A labouring man opened it.
'Do you know how this stone came here, my friend?' inquired the
benevolent Mr. Pickwick.
'No, I doan't, Sir,' replied the man civilly. 'It was here long afore I
was born, or any on us.'
Mr. Pickwick glanced triumphantly at his companion.
'You--you--are not particularly attached to it, I dare say,' said Mr.
Pickwick, trembling with anxiety. 'You wouldn't mind selling it, now?'
'Ah! but who'd buy it?' inquired the man, with an expression of face
which he probably meant to be very cunning.
'I'll give you ten shillings for it, at once,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'if
you would take it up for me.'
The astonishment of the village may be easily imagined, when (the little
stone having been raised with one wrench of a spade) Mr. Pickwick, by
dint of great personal exertion, bore it with his own hands to the inn,
and after having carefully washed it, deposited it on the table.
