WILLIAM CONSULTS A SAGE
Starting afresh, at a pace wholly uncalled for by time or distance,
William Maubray was soon in the silent street of Saxton, with the bright
moonlight on one side of it, and the houses and half the road black in
shadow on the other.
There was a light in Doctor Drake’s front parlour, which he called his
study. The doctor himself was in evidence, leaning upon the sash of the
window, which he had lowered, and smoking dreamily from a
“church-warden” toward the brilliant moon. It was plain that Miss Letty
had retired, and, in his desolation, human sympathy, some one to talk
to, ever so little, on his sudden calamity—a friendly soul, who knew
Aunt Dinah long and well, and was even half as wise as Doctor Drake was
reputed to be, would be a God-send. He yearned to shake the honest
fellow’s hand, and his haste was less, and subsided to a loitering pace,
as he approached the window, from which he was hailed, but not in a way
to make it quite clear what the learned physician exactly wanted.
“I shay—shizzy—shizhte—shizh-shizh-shizhte—V—V—Viator, I shay,” said the
doctor—playfully meaning, I believe, _Siste Viator_.
And Doctor Drake’s long pipe, like a shepherd’s crook was hospitably
extended, so that the embers fell out on the highway, to arrest the
wayfarer. So William stopped and said:
“What a sweet night—how beautiful, I’m so glad to find you still up,
Doctor Drake.”
“Alwayzh—all—alwayzh up,” said the Doctor, oracularly, smiling rather at
one side of his cheek, and with his eyes pretty nearly closed, and his
long pipe swaying gently, horizontally, over the trottoir; “you’ll
look—insh’r pleashure—acquaintensh.”
By this time the doctor, with his disengaged hand, had seized William’s,
and his pipe had dropped on the pavement, and was smashed.
“Bl—bloke—bl—boke!” murmured the doctor, smiling celestially, with a
little vague wave of his fingers toward the fragments of his
churchwarden, from the bowl of which the sparks were flitting lightly
along High Street. “Blo—boke—my—p—p—phife!”
“I—shay, ole boy, you—come—in,” and he beckoned William, grandly,
through the window.
William glanced at the door, and the doctor, comprehending, said, with
awful solemnity:
“All—thingsh deeshenly—in an—in or—or—orrer, I shay. Come ole
fellow—wone ye?—toothe th’—th’ door sh’r—an’ you’ll norr
regresh—no—never.”
William, though not very sharp on such points, perceived that Doctor
Drake had been making merry in his study; and the learned gentleman
received him at the hall-door, laying his hand lovingly and grandly on
his arm.
“Howzhe th’—th’ ladle—th’ admir’bl’ womr, over there, Mish Perfek?”
“My aunt is very well—perfectly well, thanks,” answered William.
“No thangs—I thang _you_ sh’r—I thang Prover’l!” and the doctor sank
with a comfortable sigh, and his back against the wall, shaking
William’s hand slowly, and looking piously up at the cornice.
“She’s quite well, but I’ve something to tell you,” said William.
“Comle—comle—ong!” said the doctor, encouragingly, and led the way
unsteadily into his study.
There was a jug of cold water, a “tumbler,” and a large black bottle on
the table, to which the doctor waved a gracious introduction.
“Ole Tom, ole Tom, an’ w—wawr hizh dring the chryshle brook!”
The doctor was given to quotation in his cups, and this was his
paraphrase of “The Hermit.”
“Thanks, no,” said William; “I have had my glass long ago. I’m going
back to Cambridge, Sir; I’m going to make a push in life. I’ve been too
long a burden on my aunt.”
“Admiral wom’le sh’r! Wurle—worry—no wurrier—ladle!” (worthier lady! I
believe he meant) exclaimed the doctor, with growing enthusiasm.
Contented with these evidences of mental vigour, William, who must have
spoken to the roadside trees, rather than refrain himself, proceeded to
tell his woeful story—to which Doctor Drake listened, clinging rather to
the chimney-piece with his right hand, and in his left sustaining a
large glass of his favourite “Old Tom” and water, a little of which
occasionally poured upon the hearthrug.
“And, Doctor Drake, you won’t mention what I’m going to say?”
The doctor intended to say, “silent as the sepulchre,” but broke down,
and merely nodded, funereally pointing his finger perpendicularly toward
the hearthstone; and having let go his hold on the chimney, he made an
involuntary wheel backward, and sat down quite unexpectedly, and rather
violently, in an elbow-chair.
“You promise, really and truly, Sir?” pressed William.
“Reel-reel-reelan’-_tooral_,” repeated the doctor as nearly as he could.
And upon this assurance William Maubray proceeded to state his case, and
feeling relieved as he poured forth his wrongs, waxed voluble; and the
doctor sat and heard, looking like Solomon, and refreshing his lips now
and again, as if William’s oration parched them.
“And what, Sir, do you think I had best do?” said William, not very
wisely it must be owned, applying to Philip, certainly not sober—for
judgment.
“Return to my duty?” repeated William, interpreting as well as he could
the doctor’s somewhat vague articulation. “Why, I am certain I never
left it. I have done all I could to please her; but this you know is
what no one on earth could be expected to do—what no one _ought_ to do.”
“_Wrong_, sh’r!” exclaimed the doctor with decision. “Thersh—r—r—_right_,
and th’rsh wrong—r—_ry_—an’ _wrong_—moshe admira’l ladle, Mish
Perfeck!—moshe amiable; we all appresheay—sheniorib—bush
pie—ri—pie—oribush—ole Latt’n, you know. I ’preshiay an’ _love_ Mish
Perfey.”
_Senioribus prioribus._ There was a want of clearness, William felt, in
the doctor’s views; still it weighed on him that such as they were they
were against him.
“The principle on which I have acted, Sir, can’t be shaken. If I were,
at my aunt’s desire, now to enter the Church, I should do so entirely
from worldly motives, which I know would be an impiety such as I could
not endure to practise.”
“Conn’ry toop—toop—prinsh’p’l—_connr’y_—conn’ry,” murmured the doctor,
with an awful shake to his head.
The coach was now seen to pass the windows, with a couple of outside
passengers, and a pile of luggage on top, and pulled up some sixty yards
lower down the street, at the Golden Posts. With a hasty shake of the
hand, William Maubray took his leave, and mounted to his elevated seat,
as the horses, with their looped traces hanging by them, emerged from
the inn-yard gate, like shadows, by the rapid sleight-of-hand of groom
and hostler—to replace the wayworn team, now snorting and shaking their
flanks, with drooping necks, and emitting a white steam in the
moonlight, as they waited to be led off to rest and comfort in the
stables of the Golden Posts.
------------------------------------------------------------------------