Bella, Emily--a surgeon! Is he wounded?--Is he dead?--Is
he-- Ha, ha, ha!' Here the spinster aunt burst into fit number
two, of hysteric laughter interspersed with screams.
'Calm yourself,' said Mr. Tupman, affected almost to tears by
this expression of sympathy with his sufferings. 'Dear, dear
madam, calm yourself.'
'It is his voice!' exclaimed the spinster aunt; and strong
symptoms of fit number three developed themselves forthwith.
'Do not agitate yourself, I entreat you, dearest madam,' said
Mr. Tupman soothingly. 'I am very little hurt, I assure you.'
'Then you are not dead!' ejaculated the hysterical lady. 'Oh,
say you are not dead!'
'Don't be a fool, Rachael,' interposed Mr. Wardle, rather
more roughly than was consistent with the poetic nature of the
scene. 'What the devil's the use of his saying he isn't dead?'
'No, no, I am not,' said Mr. Tupman. 'I require no assistance
but yours. Let me lean on your arm.' He added, in a whisper,
'Oh, Miss Rachael!' The agitated female advanced, and offered
her arm. They turned into the breakfast parlour. Mr. Tracy
Tupman gently pressed her hand to his lips, and sank upon the sofa.
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