MISS DINAH PERFECT AND HER GUESTS.
“Is she alone?” he asked, postponing the trying moment of seeing her.
“No, the doctor’s with her still—Dr. Drake, and Miss Letty, his sister,
you remember; they’re drinkin’ a cup o’ tea, and some crumpets, and
they’ll all be right glad you’re come.”
“They ought to go away, don’t you think?” mildly suggested William
Maubray, a good deal shocked. “However, let me get to my room for two or
three minutes, and I shall be ready then.”
They passed the drawing-room door, and Miss Letty Drake’s deliberate
tones were audible from within. When he had got to his room he asked
Dobbs—
“What was the _warning_ you spoke of?”
“Well, dear me! It was the table; she and me, she makes me sit before
her, poor thing, and we—well, there _is_ cracks, sure, on and off! And
she puts this an’ that together; and so one way or other—it puzzles my
poor head, how—she does make out a deal.”
William Maubray was an odd, rather solitary young man, and more given to
reading and thinking than is usual at his years, and he detested these
incantations to which his aunt, Miss Perfect, had addicted herself, of
late years, with her usual capricious impetuosity; and he was very
uncomfortable on hearing that she was occupying her last days with these
questionable divinations.
When, in a few minutes, William ran down to the drawing-room, and with a
chill of anticipation opened the door of that comfortable rather than
imposing chamber, the tall slim figure of his aunt rose up from her
armchair beside the fire, for though it was early autumn, the fire was
pleasant, and the night-air was frosty, and with light and wiry tread,
stepped across the carpet to meet him. Her kind, energetic face was
pale, and the smile she used to greet him with was nowhere, and she was
arrayed from head to foot in deep mourning, in which, particularly as
she abhorred the modern embellishment of crinoline, she looked more slim
and tall even than she was.
The presence of her guests in nowise affected the greeting of the aunt
and nephew, which was very affectionate, and even agitated, though
silent.
“Good Willie, to come so quickly—I knew you would.” Miss Perfect never
wept, but she was very near tears at that moment, and there was a little
silence, during which she held his hands, and then recollecting herself,
dropt them, and continued more like herself.
“You did not expect to see me up and here; everything happens oddly with
me. Here I am, you see, apparently, I dare say, much as usual. By
half-past twelve o’clock to-morrow night I shall be dead! There, don’t
mind now—I’ll tell you all by-and-by. This is my friend, Miss Drake, you
know her.”
They shook hands, Miss Drake smiling as brisk a smile as in a scene so
awful she could hazard.
“And this, my kind friend Dr. Drake.”
William had occasionally seen Dr. Drake in the streets of Saxton, and on
the surrounding high roads at a distance, but he had never before had
the honour of an interview.
The doctor was short and fat, a little bald, and rather dusty, and
somehow, William thought, resembled a jolly old sexton a good deal more
than a physician. He rose up, with his hands in his trowsers pockets,
and some snuff in the wrinkles of his black cloth waistcoat, and bowed,
with raised eyebrows and pursed mouth, gravely to his plate of crumpet.
William Maubray looked again on his aunt, who was adjusting her black
draperies in her chair, and then once more at the doctor, whose little
eye he caught for a second, with a curious and even cunning expression
in it; but it was averted with a sudden accession of melancholy once
more—and William asked—
“I hope, Sir, there is nothing very imminent?”
The doctor cleared his voice, uneasily, and Aunt Dinah interposed with a
nod, a little dryly—
“It is not quite in _his_ department.”
And whose department _is_ it in? the student thought.
“I dare say Doctor Drake would tell you I’m very well—so, perhaps, in a
sense, I am; but Doctor Drake has kindly come here as a friend.”
Doctor Drake bowed, looking steadfastly into his cup.
“As a friend, dear Willie, just as you have come—an old friend.” Miss
Perfect spoke low, with a little tremor in her voice, and was, I
believe, near crying, but braced her resolution. William drew near
gently and sat down beside her, and placing her hand upon his, she
proceeded.
“My dear friend Miss Drake, there, does not agree with me, I’m aware;
but Doctor Drake who has read more, and perhaps, _thought_ more, thinks
otherwise—at least, so I’m led to suppose.”
The doctor coughed a little; Miss Drake raised her long chin, and with
raised eyebrows, looked down on her finger-tips which were drumming on
the table, and my Cousin William glanced from one to the other, not
quite understanding her drift.
“But,” she continued, “I’ve apprised them already, and I tell _you_ of
course; it is—you’ll remember the name—an intimation from Henbane.”
“Poison!” said William, under his breath, with a look of pale inquiry at
Doctor Drake, who at the moment was swallowing his tea very fast, and
was seized on a sudden with an explosion of coughing, sneezing, and
strangling, which compelled him to jump to his feet, and stagger about
the room with his face in his pocket-handkerchief and his back to the
tea-table.
“When Dr. Henbane,” said my aunt with severity, “I mean a—Doctor
_Drake_—has quite done coughing, I’ll go on.”
There was a little pause.
“Confound it,” thought William, who was half beside himself, “it’s a
very odd dying scene!”
The doctor, blowing his nose, returned very red and solemn, and
explained, still coughing at intervals, that it was a little tea in the
trachea; it invariably occurred to him when he drank tea in the evening;
he _must_ give it up; “_you_ know, Letty.”
Miss Drake did not deign to assist him.
“She does not seem to know so much about it as you do,” observed Aunt
Dinah with an irony.
“Owing to my not _thinking_ so much,” replied Miss Letty, sarcastically.
“Henbane?” murmured William again, in a puzzled horror.
“H’m!—yes!—Henbane? you seem to have forgotten; one of those—one of the
spirits who have attached themselves to me,” and Aunt Dinah shot a quick
glance at the doctor, who, though looking again at his crumpet, seemed
to cower awfully under it.
“Oh—ay—Henbane?” exclaimed William in a tone of familiarity, which
indicated anything but respect for that supernatural acquaintance.
“Henbane, to be _sure_.”
And he looked on his aunt with a half amused recognition, which seemed
to say, “Well—and what about that humbug?”
But Aunt Dinah said decisively—
“So much for the present; you shall hear _more_—everything, by-and-by.”
And there followed a silence.
“Did you remember the snuff, dear William?” inquired the doomed lady,
with rather an abrupt transition.
“Certainly; shall I fetch it?” said William, half rising.
Miss Perfect nodded, and away he went, somehow vastly relieved, and with
his bed-room candle in his hand, mounted the oak stairs, which were
broad and handsome in proportion to the other dimensions of that snug
old house.
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