When Mr Edwards came in after his accustomed stroll in the town, he
brought with him another gentleman. Mr Ackroyd, the D---- apothecary,
was a small elderly person, a general favourite with his patients,
despite a considerable independence of mind and habit. After suitable
greetings had been exchanged, and solicitous enquiries made of Emma by
Mr Edwards, he remarked:
“Our friend here has been turned out of his house, so I told him that I
thought Mrs Edwards would provide an extra knife and fork here.”
“That will indeed be a pleasure,” replied she, “but you cannot make me
believe the Rector would turn Mr Ackroyd out of his house even with six
month’s warning, still less with no warning at all.”
Mr Ackroyd chuckled.
“All must fear the apothecary, eh! Mr Samuel? They know the time must
come when we mix them a draught.”
“You gentlemen are always making fun,” put in Mrs Edwards. “But there
is a spare bed for an old friend here, as quick as a knife and fork.”
“Thank you, Mrs Edwards, thank you, but I believe I may be permitted to
sleep in my own bed. It is only at dinner-time that I am better away.
The kitchen is full of smoke, and my good housekeeper does not like
it, and when the chimney misbehaves she does not like me.”
At dinner Sam, seated between Mrs and Miss Edwards, found himself
conversing with the elder lady, but comforted by the proximity of the
younger. Mrs Edwards engaged in an animated discussion with Mr Samuel,
and advocated the use of poultices in preference to the giving of
physic. Mr Ackroyd, when applied to, would give no opinion beyond “The
sick man is a poor helpless fellow; give it to him inside and outside,
and he will gain a healthy desire to be up and well.”
Dessert was enjoyed by the fireside, and in cracking nuts and peeling
apples all were becoming more intimate, when a servant brought in a
message for Mr Ackroyd.
“Lady Osborne’s hand was paining her again, and would Mr Ackroyd please
to wait on her?”
Mr Ackroyd kept his seat. He seemed more disposed to think than to do.
“It’s just gout,” he said. “She will not have it that it is gout, but I
should know.” He held up his hand, “I have it myself.”
“Does her ladyship suffer much?” inquired Miss Edwards.
“Gout is not pleasant, my dear, but at present I think more of the
unpleasantness of leaving this very pleasant party, and the fire, and
my first and second glass of port wine.”
The apothecary stirred, and laid his hands on the arms of his chair in
preparation, but did not rise.
“Who said second thoughts are best?” he asked. “Here is Mr Samuel
Watson, a young surgeon, with all the latest learning in his head. I
have a cold, and feel it growing worse. I beseech you, Mr Samuel, to
wait on Lady Osborne in my stead, and do not fail to mention my cold.”
Sam was naturally obliging, and Mary Edwards gave him an encouraging
smile. He went for his greatcoat, and Mr Ackroyd’s horse, as if a cold
ride on a wet night were exactly what he most enjoyed.
When a young man has quitted the fire, and gone out to meet a cold
wind, the older men and the ladies may draw their chairs a little
nearer.
Mr Ackroyd was the first to speak.
“A bad, cold wind,” he remarked, and held out his hands to feel the
fire.
Mrs Edwards comforted them all with:
“Gentlemen, that is, many gentlemen, are accustomed to cold and wet,
and do not find it so very unpleasant.”
Emma encouraged them further with:
“Sam has a good greatcoat.”
Mrs Edwards added that it could not be like a real, cold, winter wind.
Mr Edwards sipped his wine.
“When I was a young man,” he said, “I thought no more of hardships than
of eating my dinner.” His glance swept the half-circle, met his wife’s
eye, and returned to the fire. She took up the challenge.
“You could always eat your dinner, Mr Edwards, but I am sure I do not
know what the hardships may have been. They must all have happened
before you married, to my thinking.” Mr Edwards retorted with:
“The day will come when Mr Samuel will be a married man too.”
“Getting married will not enable a young surgeon to stay with his wife
by the fire. He will need to be out all the more to support her.” There
was a slight pause. Perhaps Mr and Mrs Edwards felt their repartee was
getting them near to subjects better not discussed. They were grateful
for Emma’s remark.
“My brother is, I am sure, always ready and willing for his work.”
“True enough, Miss Emma,” said Mr Ackroyd with warmth. “He has a good
hand and head to my knowledge, and a good heart too, I will be bound.”
Emma, touched by the commendation of one she held so dear, replied with
a happy glow.
“Thank you, sir, I can only answer for his being an excellent brother.”
The ladies now withdrew to the best parlour, where they employed
themselves in happy informality with their needlework, until joined by
the gentlemen, who appeared quite content to watch and do nothing. Tea
came up, and was followed a few minutes later by Sam, returned from his
ride. There followed a delightful half-hour for him, and for Emma on
his behalf. Mr Samuel must come close to the fire, the cook must toast
another muffin for Mr Samuel, and he must relate in detail how he had
fared. Some little encouragement was needed to make Sam talk, but all
were ready to give it, and the whole story of his visit was narrated
from the first words with a lofty manservant, to the last words from a
very affable Lady Osborne.
Sam’s tale being complete, Mrs Edwards returned to her solicitude for
Emma.
“I am convinced that sleep is what you most require. Do you not agree
with me, Mr Ackroyd?”
“Indeed I do, ma’am,” he replied. “Sleep is good for the young, and I
recommend plenty of sleep for the old, and in middle life. I always
took a full allowance myself, when I got the chance.”
Miss Edwards _would_ go up with Emma to see her settled, and Mrs
Edwards decided to go with them, letting it be known that she must not
be expected downstairs again; which led to a not unfriendly difference
with her husband, Mr Edwards contending that some ladies took any
occasion to retire as soon after nine as might be, and Mrs Edwards
asserting that gentlemen stayed downstairs to talk scandal, and drink
more port wine than was good for them.
If the early retirement of the ladies was something of a disappointment
to Sam, he had still many kind looks and words to remember. Before long
he was giving his arm to Mr Ackroyd on his way home, and on his return
found Mr Edwards yawning and prepared to falsify his wife’s words.
When Emma rose next morning, Sam was already away, sped by what kind
glances she could only surmise.
She kept the house, and the short day passed pleasantly. Sam’s
prospects were much in her thoughts. The attendance at the Castle could
at least do him no disservice, but she reflected that were she mistress
there, it would be in her power to do much for his advancement. As to
Mary Edwards, she could form no opinion. Miss Edwards was certainly
friendly, and Emma had noticed certain exchange of glances, but it
had to be admitted that Mr and Mrs Edwards looked for something more
important.