An hour had elapsed, when the Doctor’s horse gallopped up to the
door; and, in two minutes after he had taken off his boots, he
entered the room.
“Well! Doctor, what news? Is she dead? How stands the will? Were
you in time? May we congratulate you? Has the cordial had any
effect?”--reiterated from every lip, till they fairly stunned the
poor Doctor; who, hemming very loud, demanded silence, to answer
their profuse inquiries.
He then deliberately drew his chair, and prefaced the recital by
assuring them Mrs. Drinkwater was not dead. “She called me to her
bed-side,” continued the Doctor, “to request I would sign her will;
which I instantly refused, stating, if I was a witness, of course
my name was not in the will; a circumstance which nettled me most
devilishly, you must know.”
“Of course,” cried everybody; and the Doctor thus went on; while his
auditors, and particularly his own young cormorants, sat, with open
mouths and attentive ears, to catch the sequel:--
“Well, Sirs, the lawyer presented me the pen and ink, which, like a
man of spirit, I inflexibly pushed away, positively declaring I would
not sign any thing to my own disadvantage, having flattered myself,
as an old friend, I should have been _handsomely_ remembered.”
“My dear Doctor,” said Mrs. Drinkwater, “don’t mistake my request;
for, though your name is not down, I have taken care of your family:
I have left all your children a _plum-cake_ a-piece.”
“Oh! very well, Madam,” said I; “if you have done that, I’m
satisfied. With that, I seized the pen, and affixed my sign manual at
the oven’s mouth; for what _sized_ cake it will produce, I know not.
So there’s an end of the concern; and my boys and girls will reap the
harvest their father ploughed.”
“Humph!” ejaculated Mrs. Tonic, on whose features sat the shade of
disappointment: “I confess I’m surprised at her conduct.”
“I hope there’s plenty of plums in the cake, however,” said Bob
Tonic, with an unintelligent grin.
“Few or many,” replied the Doctor, “you’ll take your chance: her old
fool of a husband served me the same trick--in fact, worse; for he
only left me a ring. Egad! I’ve kept her alive, by art, these seven
years.”
“Yes; your happy medical art, subjoined to the power of her head
physician, the brandy bottle,” said Mr. Prolix, sneeringly, who
felt he was five guineas out of pocket by the job. “Are you sure,”
continued he, “she was compos?”
“That’s no look-out of mine,” said the Doctor; “I only know I’m d--d
mad.”
“Then you know nothing of the tenor of the will?” asked Mr. Deposit.
“Not I! I don’t care a fig about it. If she sends for me any more,
Bob shall go; he’s _paid_ for it: I won’t go, by G--d!”
“Blessed is he who never expects, for he shall never be
disappointed,” exclaimed Parson Faddle.
“Amen,” ejaculated Bob Tonic, bursting into a laugh at his own
sagacity.
“Well,” cried the Widow Quiz (primming her mouth, and shoving her
elbows into her sides, as she drew up her head); “I wonder whether
she has _cut off_ the _entail_ of her estate.”
“She may cut off her head, for what I care,” replied the Doctor. “But
come, good folks; if your cards are over, we’ll adjourn to supper;
where, if we don’t find plum-cakes, we must content ourselves with
bread and cheese.”
We now followed, en train, to a table of cold relics: but as there
was no _chantilly_, Mistresses Deposit and Fungus declined eating
what they privately termed _kitchen scraps_, which the derisive
contraction of their noses most perfectly evinced. The Doctor made a
stiff bowl of punch, at which he was a famous hand; and Miss Elizetta
treated us, after supper (at her papa’s request), with the “Beautiful
Maid,” whom she completely murdered, for no screech-owlet ever
quivered or shrieked more unmusical. My uncle fixed his eyes on me;
and I very prudently cast mine on the table, till the hooting scream
finished.
“Bravo! bravo!” thundered the Doctor, rapping the table with
his knuckles; while Mr. Deposit responded with the foot of his
wine-glass, with as much dexterity as if it had been his own pulpit
hammer.
“Did you ever hear Braham sing that delightful song, Miss Tonic?”
asked Mrs. Deposit, winking at Mrs. Fungus.
“No, Ma’am; I never heard _nobody_ sing it,” answered the bronze
songstress.
“I suppose not, my dear,” replied Mrs. Deposit, bursting into a rude
laugh. “But that was not exactly the question I asked; because, of
course, _nobody never_ could sing _nothing nowhere_; but _somebody_,
blessed with the enchanting powers of a Braham, might sing
_anywhere_.”
“True,” said the Doctor (who was neither aware of the exposure of
his daughter’s oratory by the sarcastic lip of Mrs. Deposit, nor of
Miss Elizetta’s self-conviction of false grammar), “true; but my
daughter’s are all _pure wild notes_; therefore, I say, the greater
the merit. What think you, Mr. Victor?”
“I agree with you, that _some_ wild notes are exquisitely melodious,
Sir,” returned I.
“Can’t you tip us a stave, Victor?” asked my uncle. “They tell me you
were always a devotee at the Oxford Music Meetings. It’s my opinion,
you’re like the monkeys--know more than you think proper to own.
Come, strike up; I challenge you. If I could sing, I’d set you the
example.”
Recollecting my uncle’s injunction, to _dash_, I instantly complied,
and, to the best of my abilities, sang “Beware of Love;” for which I
received a thunder of applause from Mrs. Deposit, who discovered I
was well versed in the science of music. “Why, my dear Sir,” said
she, “you are positively the Apollo of the village: you frequent the
Opera, I’ll be bound.”