Having safely housed our unhappy girl in the house of the worthy
physician, we may perhaps be permitted to cast our eyes towards the gay
widow and her sensitive sister, who, truth to be told, were suffering
as much in _their_ way as our more humble friend from Walworth.
Mrs. Dallington, whose perception was remarkably clear, and whose
judgment was particularly sound, had for some time been fully aware of
the state of Sir Charles Lydiard’s heart and mind--for his mind and
his heart were waging a perpetual war with each other; nor, however
solicitous she might be (I admit that supposition merely for argument’s
sake) to bring their acquaintance to a happy termination, did she
entirely regret the caution and consideration with which, it was so
evident, the fastidious baronet bent his steps towards the hymeneal
altar. She felt assured that, if he judged her rightly and fairly, she
should eventually possess his entire affection; and she also felt, that
to obtain it after such a scrutiny, would be to secure it for the rest
of her life.
It must be allowed that she sometimes thought he had considered and
examined and scrutinized quite long enough, and believed that the time
had arrived when she should have an opportunity of saying yea or nay,
as the case might be; but, whenever the crisis seemed at hand, some
new doubt, some new apprehension, appeared to be conjured up, the
bright vision was dissipated, and she remained still the expecting,
disappointed Mrs. Dallington.
Blanche, on the other hand, received a proposal from Rushton almost
every day in the week--if at least the most violent protestations of
love and devotion might be so construed; but the _brusquerie_ of his
character evinced itself so perpetually, that the chances were, that
the evening of the brightest day ended in a storm. Blanche was quite
aware of the disposition she had to deal with; and although flurried
and fluttered by her lover’s extraordinary animation and vivacity,
she resolved not to surrender her hand, whatever might be the fate
of her heart, until she was convinced that her hero was calmed into
a fit state for domestication. In point of fact, Rushton was quite
as jealous of Blanche as Lydiard was of her sister; but his jealousy
was of a different caste: he smiled, frowned, laughed, scolded, and
did ten thousand unaccountable things, just as he was acted upon by
passing events, while Lydiard never suffered himself to be betrayed
into any external evidence of what occupied his mind: and thus the pair
of lovers continued to make themselves as uncomfortable as they made
those, whom upon all essential points were devotedly their own.
Affairs were in this delicate position when Brag, who was encouraged in
all his absurdities by his noble friend Lord Tom, partly to gratify
his vanity, and so secure his aid, if required, upon emergencies, and
partly to afford sport to his lordship’s friends, opened his heart
in a kind of hypothetical way to the young lord with regard to the
widow and her sister, to which train of thought he had been led by the
conversation he had previously had with Rushton in the street.
“I don’t see,” said Jack, “why--I--shouldn’t do as well as my
neighbours, in the matrimonial line. I look on, at others who play at
courting with wonder; they seem to me to make no move. Now there’s Sir
Charles Lydiard and the widow--they don’t care a fig for each other,
and yet they are to be married, as the world says. As for Blanche, she
seems to me to care as little for Rushton. Why, hang it! if I wanted
to marry either of them, it would not be a week’s work. No, no!--faint
heart--eh! you know. I’d just make either of them buckle to, in half
the time, and no mistake.”
“Have you ever thought of such a thing, Jack?” said Lord Tom, who,
piqued by the coldness with which the widow had always received him,
felt by no means ill-disposed to encourage his tiger in any scheme
likely to make a commotion in the family.
“Why,” said Jack, “I can’t say that I have; but I--of course, I dare
say it means no more than what I always meet with--but I _have_ thought
that there was something uncommon odd about the widow’s eyes.”
“Indeed!” said Lord Tom,--“and very handsome eyes they are too:
besides, Jack, she is rich, and what they call in the city ‘well to
do.’”
“Mum!” said Jack--“know her fortune to a fraction: didn’t overlook that
in the calculation.”
“Oh!” said his lordship--“then you _have_ been thinking rather
seriously upon the subject.”
“Not seriously,” replied the tiger, “only I was considering that Sir
Charles is what I call losing time--waiting upon her too long, as we
should say at Epsom. It would be a good match,--not that I care for
money--no more than my father did. Did I ever tell you of my governor
and his hundred-pound note?”
“Not that I recollect,” said his lordship, although he did.
“Why, _my_ father,” said Jack, “was one day walking along the Strand,
when, just as he came by the end of Buckingham Street, a fellow picked
his pocket of his pocket-book, full of memorandums, letters, and other
papers, “of no use but to the owner,” and a hundred pound note besides.
What d’ye think he did, as soon as he found out his loss?”
“Went to Bow Street, perhaps,” said Lord Tom.
“No.”
“Stepped to the Bank and stopped it.”
“Couldn’t--didn’t know the number.”
“Caught the thief, then.”
“No,” said Jack, “not a bit of it. The minute he found he had lost it,
he went home and got another.”
“In order to have it stolen like the former,” said Lord Tom.
“Not a bit of it,” replied Jack; “just to show how little he cared
about money. So with _me_; I don’t care for money, except as it buys
money’s worth. What’s a guinea in a box?--not better than a brass
button in a bag. But still one cannot marry without the stumpy.”
“Then try the widow,” said Lord Tom; “you have my full permission--only
don’t quote me as authority. You will drive Sir Charles either into a
proposal or the Serpentine river; so at all events something will come
of it.”
“But, my lord,” said Jack, “since we _have_ touched upon this matter,
I will be candid. I have just said I don’t value money; but, if it
weren’t for the fortune, I would rather marry the sister.”
“And has _she_ been kind too,” said Lord Tom.
“Why,” said Jack, simpering, and affecting to look modest, “I can’t say
kind--uncommon goodnatured--and--laughs--and all that: and I have heard
a long-headed old fellow, who knows the sex, say, that if you can once
make a grave female laugh, the day is your own.”
“Provided always,” said his lordship, “that she laughs _with_ and not
_at_ you; the difference is surprisingly great.”
“Oh! Blanche is no ways whatsoever satirical,” said the tallow
chandler:--“and, hang me! if I was asked, I should say there wasn’t a
pin to choose between them.”
“Take my advice, Jack,” said the mischievous lordling--“try them both.
Manage your matters well--lead them both on--there is no chance of
their confiding in each other, because as they are both supposed to be
engaged, neither would choose to trust the other with any proof of her
infidelity.”
“Shall I write to the widow,” said Jack, “and talk to the sister”--
“Write, man! are you mad?” said Lord Tom. “Never write--that _would_ be
a pretty affair. Who knows how notes may miscarry--how writing-desks
may be left open, or if not, be broken open? Besides, they might, upon
so strange a proceeding as that, compare notes, and what a pretty mess
you would be in then! No; sound them--try them--get them apart, and
ascertain the extent of their interest in you.”
Brag listened to all this advice of his noble friend, believing it to
be given _de bonne foi_; and although there appeared difficulties in
the delicate process which his lordship suggested, and which, by a mind
like Brag’s, were not perfectly easy to be surmounted, he thought he
comprehended the general tenor of his instructions, which had for its
object his making himself uncommonly agreeable to both parties.
“Lead Blanche on,” said Lord Tom, “by a course of negative
officiousness; be always near her, devoted and unaffected. Let her fall
into friendship; sympathize with her in all her feelings, agree in all
her opinions--but never seem to do so with any defined object: thus in
a fortnight or three weeks you will obtain her confidence. She will be
convinced you esteem her and value her, and are anxious for her comfort
and happiness; then she’ll grow kind and familiar, and, thrown off her
guard by your respectful behaviour, will begin to evince an undisguised
wish for your society. She will at last feel that you are somehow, she
can scarcely tell how, essential to her happiness, and when you have
got her into this blessed state of amiability, off with your disguise
of friendship, like the hero of a tragedy, and profess yourself her
lover. Then”--
“Ay, ay,” interrupted Jack, “that’s all very well, my dear lord, and
a very pretty month’s amusement it would be, to do all you prescribe:
but, then, what will Frank Rushton be about to let me? He’s as fiery as
a dragon, and as jealous as old Nick. No, no, whatever is done, must be
done clean, off-hand, smack smooth, and no mistake.”
“Then,” said Lord Tom, “if that’s your principle, you had better take
a shot at the widow; she’s not so likely to be flurried by a hurry;
and, besides, your activity will form such a striking contrast to
the respectable icicle now hanging about her, that you will in all
probability carry the day by a _coup de main_.”
“Just after my own heart,” said Jack; “by Job! I’ll have a shy at her.”
“Do,” said his lordship, “and when you are installed in the town-house
and family mansion in the west or north, or wherever it is, make
yourself agreeable; fill your house with your friends, and let us be
jolly.”
“We’ll live like fighting cocks,” said Jack, “you only just see. I’ll
do it regular; there sha’nt be a fellow in the king’s dominions who
shall beat me.”
“Success attend you, Jack!” said his lordship, “but don’t forget
Thursday.”
“I’ll be punctual to the minute,” said Jack; “my watch is a
regular-built chronometer. You shall find me at the starting-post, all
right, and no mistake.”
And so the friends parted, Brag having not the slightest intention of
ever risking a second visit to Wrigglesford, or a second attempt to
trespass on the surly farmer’s grounds, who had threatened him for his
former proceeding; and moreover being resolved to devote the next few
days to the achievement of one of the beauties, of both of whom he was
convinced, in his small mind, he was a regularly established favourite.
Meanwhile we must not forget poor Anne Brown, whom we left under the
care of the physician’s housekeeper, and who, when she recovered from
the agitation which kept her senseless for some hours, found herself
with her head reclining upon the arm of that highly respectable
functionary.
It would require a much greater space than I am permitted in this hasty
narrative, to describe the excellent qualities of Dr. Mead, the eminent
and able practitioner to whom the anxious daughter had prevailed upon
herself to apply for advice and assistance; but it is absolutely
necessary that the reader should be made acquainted to a certain extent
with the attributes of his character, even beyond the pale of his
profession, the exercise of which seemed rather the fruit of a desire
to do good to others, than of any venal feeling of self-aggrandizement.
Although there exists no documentary evidence to prove his descent
from the eminent physician of the same name, it seems not entirely
improbable that the fortuitous circumstance of a similarity of
patronymic and profession might have conduced almost unconsciously
to a similarity of feeling and disposition between them. Matthew
Mead, the father of the famous doctor, was a nonconforming divine:
our Dr. Mead’s father was an orthodox clergyman. If the famous Mead
married early, our Mead was yet single; and whatever turn he might
have had for the fine arts, or whatever veneration he entertained
for their professors, his means, although fully adequate to the
maintenance of a highly respectable establishment and equipage, were
not yet sufficiently extensive to emulate his namesake as a patron or
protector. Still, his income might have been much larger, had he not
upon every occasion where, by a benevolent curiosity, he discovered the
slenderness of a patient’s means, forborne to accept the fees which
from the rich and great he did not hesitate to accept, and which his
spreading fame and rising reputation produced in very considerable
numbers.
In his manners mild and soothing, in his conversation unaffected
and intelligent, his study appeared to be to “minister to the mind
diseased,” as well as to the body; and his approach to the sick chamber
was hailed by the watchful invalid rather as a relief from pain and
suffering in itself, than as the mere business visit of a professional
man, coming in the ordinary routine of duty to enquire and prescribe.
With feelings and a disposition like this, the benevolence of his
heart beaming in his countenance, and the sympathy which he felt for
sorrow and sadness expressed in language the most gentle and in a tone
the most harmonious, it is not surprising that Dr. Mead should have
speedily reassured poor Anne, to whom, as soon as she was sufficiently
recovered to be conscious of her situation, he was summoned by the
housekeeper, and whom he was greatly surprised, upon inquiry, to find
not a patient, but merely the emissary from one who sought his advice.
It was in a moment evident to his searching eye, that the agitation
under which she had been suffering, and from which she was not yet
quite recovered, must have had its origin in some more sudden event,
and one of more recent occurrence than the illness of her mother: he
resolved to question her upon the point; but a recurrence of all the
worst symptoms induced him to forego any further search into a matter,
in fact, disconnected with the object of her visit to his house.
That object was immediately attained. The excellent man ordered his
carriage to be got ready instantly, and directed the housekeeper,
who had been in attendance on Anne, to accompany her to her mother’s
house, and to return home with the carriage, telling her that he would
himself, having called upon one or two patients in his immediate
neighbourhood on foot, proceed to visit his new patient at a later
hour; giving as a reason for this proceeding the absolute necessity of
his seeing those persons before his departure for Walworth, and the
probable anxiety of Mrs. Brown for the safety of her daughter, if she
should delay her return until he should be able to accompany her.
To some practitioners, this delicacy on the part of our doctor might
appear somewhat too refined, the obvious mode of proceeding being, to
have handed the young lady into the carriage, and driven with her to
her mother’s residence; but Mead felt otherwise. He had odd notions
upon many points; and beyond what he considered the main object of
this arrangement, the fact, that an entirely unexpected visit from a
stranger might not altogether suit the convenience of an establishment
so confined as that of Mrs. Brown’s, did not slip his regard or
consideration.
When Anne reached home, she had a hard part to play. The anxiety she
felt for her mother; the pang she received when she saw the sunken
eye of her beloved parent fixed--not tearless--on her returned child,
filled with a half-sanguine, half-hopeless expression, and heard her
breathing heavily, made her heart ache to its very centre. Filled with
gratitude to their expected benefactor, she endeavoured to explain to
her suffering mother the extent of his kindness and consideration,
while the recollection of the callous barbarity of the man she had once
loved, and whom she believed to have loved _her_, wrung her to the very
soul.
That she was indignant at the treatment she had experienced, who shall
doubt?--but who, that knows woman, will doubt either that in the heart
where Love has once dwelt, the very memory of his presence there, will
extenuate the fault which should make the object hateful.
This generous, gentle feeling turned all the force of the indignation
which ought to have been directed against the paltry pretender
himself, towards his associates, to whose baleful influence Anne
entirely attributed the astounding change which had taken place in his
manners. Even the neglect of her letter was laid to the same account;
but yet what made the wound he had inflicted rankle the more, was
the impossibility at the present juncture of risking her mother’s
tranquillity--perhaps existence, by telling her what had occurred, or
of accounting for her lengthened absence by explaining the cause of the
indisposition to which it was attributable.
In less than two hours after Anne’s return the doctor, true to his
promise, arrived. It is scarcely possible to describe her feelings as
he entered the room where her mother lay; it seemed as if Hope had
revived in her breast--that there was somebody who felt an interest for
them. She drew back from the bed-side, and hid her face in her hands
to conceal her emotion: she cried like a child, and tears again were a
relief to her aching heart.
The kind doctor’s questions to Mrs. Brown were few: the case needed
little enquiry--it was a sinking of nature, caused, as it seemed to
him, less by bodily ills than mental affliction, and considerably
accelerated by the want of proper air, and, he almost feared,
nourishment. He wrote a prescription, rather however as a matter of
form, satisfactory to the patient, than with any view of the success of
medicine, and then, having taken leave of his patient, beckoned Anne to
follow him from the apartment.
“Your mother must be removed as soon as she can bear the fatigue,” said
the doctor. “Change of air and diet are absolutely necessary.”
Anne heard the fiat in silence, and again tears rolled down her cheeks.
“I should think,” continued Dr. Mead, “that with care and a proper
regimen the removal might be effected in four or five days.”
Still Anne remained silent and trembling, her eyes cast down upon the
ground.
“You should contrive to amuse her mind,” said the doctor; “she should
not refuse to see her friends.”
“God help us!” sobbed Anne, unable longer to conceal her
agitation,--“we have no friends! What is to be done, Heaven knows! She
must be moved; your kind directions shall be obeyed, sir;--I”--
“My dear young lady,” said Mead, “you wrong yourself, and _me_, when
you say you have no friends. In _me_ you have a friend. Rely on
Providence, and never despair:--friends will always be raised up for
confiding piety, for suffering virtue, and for filial duty in distress.
I will not indelicately press my enquiries, but you must permit me to
act upon my own advice. _I_ am the friend your mother must admit. I
will call here to-morrow; and I think, without putting either of you
to much inconvenience, I can secure you a comfortable residence in a
worthy and respectable family, in a desirable climate. _I_ must manage
all this; and perhaps I may be able, at no distant period, to give
you and your mother a good reason why she need not feel herself under
any serious obligation to me:--upon this point I will not trouble you
to-day,--you have had worry and agitation enough. Keep yourself calm
and quiet; cheer your mother’s hopes--there is no fear of a dangerous
result; upon that point I will stake my reputation. Let her have the
medicine I have written for, and to-morrow, by one, I shall see you
again.”
Saying which, he shook hands with the grateful Anne, and proceeded to
his carriage.
At no period of our lives does kindness so powerfully affect us as
when it comes immediately after we have received some cruel blow. The
affectionate tone and spirit of the doctor’s consolatory address struck
to Anne’s heart, and she returned to her mother, blessing God who had
raised up such a help to them in the hour of gloom and adversity.
The doctor’s benevolence did not stop here, even for the day. In the
evening, whilst Anne was preparing the best refreshment she could
contrive to procure with but slender means of purchase and small skill
in cookery, the housekeeper of the excellent doctor arrived, bringing
with her, sundry little delicacies, and some wine which her master
“had taken the liberty of sending, because by experience he knew its
soundness and excellence of quality, and was therefore sure it would
be serviceable to his patient in her particular case;” in short, every
comfort was secured to her that sympathy could suggest or art provide;
and, as Anne herself said, the very feelings which such attentions
inspired, contributed of themselves materially to exhilarate and revive
her poor mother, whose bodily ailments, as Mead had surmised, were
painfully aggravated by mental depression.
And yet, grateful to Providence as Anne was, with a heart overflowing
with thankfulness to the generous, noble-minded man who in a few hours
had converted a house of mourning into a house of hope, if not of
happiness,--when she laid her head upon the pillow near her mother, who
slept tranquilly, her first thoughts were of that unworthy being by
whom she had been first insulted and then repudiated even as a common
acquaintance, in the street that morning.
It seemed like a dream to her even then. Prepared as she must have
been, and indeed had told him she was, eternally to resign any claim of
a tender nature upon his heart, she could not bear the thought of being
spurned by the man for whom she had permitted herself not only to feel,
but admit that she felt, an affection. That she had not deserved such
usage was self-evident, and that she should receive it particularly
after her last appeal, was galling and distracting beyond endurance.
Little did she think how perfectly disconnected with that appeal his
conduct was, or suspect how he had treated her last letter.
These thoughts, and those of early days, were naturally blended in her
mind with the memory of her brother George, whose long silence was
another source of anxiety and agitation; nor could she forget, besides
the tenderer ties to John, the closeness of their connexion by George’s
marriage. If George had been at home, thought Anne, he would not have
behaved so--but George too has forgotten us. All those who once were
dear to us, and we to them, are gone! and we are helped and comforted
by the stranger upon whom we have no claim, and who has no tie to us
but his own benevolence.
In the morning, Mrs. Brown awoke after a refreshing sleep, very much
better than even her watchful daughter could have hoped. It was but
too evident that the physician had rightly decided on the character
of her complaint, and the absolute necessity of a change of regimen
in the first instance, to be followed up by a removal from the close
atmosphere of a small room in a gas-lighted suburban village to a
purer air. Indeed, so very much better did her mother appear, that
Anne repeated to her the verbal prescription of the doctor, adding the
proposal he had made of providing them with a comfortable residence in
a family known to himself.
For three days did Dr. Mead continue his visits punctually, bringing
with him upon each occasion some little luxury prepared for use,
under the plea that he was most anxious his patient’s food should be
dressed according to rule, and that he could not be satisfied unless
his own servants were the operators, under his own immediate direction.
At the expiration of a week he pronounced her capable of bearing the
fatigue of removal; and on the following Saturday evening Mrs. Brown
and her daughter found themselves established in a delightful cottage
surrounded by gardens and fields, within four miles of town, the master
and mistress of which appeared the devoted servants of the worthy
doctor, and vied with each other in showing attention and courtesy to
their new inmates.
With returning health, there arose in Mrs. Brown’s mind an irresistible
feeling of embarrassment connected with her present situation. She
found herself and her daughter placed in a position of ease and
comfort, with the consciousness hanging over her that she was incapable
of affording the luxuries which she was enjoying, and a sensitive
unwillingness either to trespass upon the kindness of their benefactor,
or if that kindness were merely limited to the recommendation of their
new residence, equally anxious not to involve herself in expenses which
she was aware that she could not defray.
The doctor’s hours of visiting his patient were different from those
which he had fixed before their removal. He came in the evenings,
partook of their tea, and sat longer and stayed later each evening
that he came--and so a week wore away--and yet Mrs. Brown had not the
courage to put those questions which she had resolved somehow to ask,
and to which her medical friend’s conduct certainly did not appear
likely to afford any practical solution; for when he congratulated her
upon the improvement of her health, he alluded to a trial of some new
medicine, about the effects of which upon her constitution he was very
sanguine, and which he should begin with, in “a week or two.”
The words had scarce passed his lips, when the eyes of mother and
daughter met, not unseen by the doctor, who immediately added to what
he had already said:--“Perhaps you may be of opinion that in that time
you will have no need of any medicine at all.”
This seemed to be an occasion which Mrs. Brown might seize, of coming
to an explanation of her feelings, and she availed herself of it
accordingly; and, difficult as was the task to perform, she contrived
to make the doctor understand the delicacy of her position, and the
apprehensions under which she laboured.
“My dear madam,” said Mead, “I am delighted that you have given me
an opportunity of speaking upon this matter. As the worthy people of
this house can tell you, or may perhaps have told you, you are not the
first patient I have recommended to their care; and that when such an
event happens, I consider them my guests during their residence here.
In _your_ case, however, there are circumstances very different from
those which occur in many others, as far as I am concerned:--you have,
naturally enough, forgotten _me_; but we have met before the occasion
upon which I recently visited you.”
“Indeed!” said the lady, somewhat incredulously.
“Indeed,” replied the physician, “I have dined in your house, madam,
more than once. I was not aware of this fact when first I called on
you, but circumstances and coincidences led me to institute an enquiry,
and I found in _you_, madam, the widow of the man to whom I may,
without exaggeration, attribute my success in life, and the place I now
hold in society and my profession.”
“You surprise me exceedingly,” said Mrs. Brown.
“It is now more than four-and-twenty years since,” said Dr. Mead,
“that I was recommended to the notice of Mr. Brown by a friend of his
and a connexion of mine, then living at Bristol; and upon my arrival
in London I was, in consequence of that introduction, invited to your
house, where, as I have already said, I dined more than once. But it
was not by mere commonplace hospitality that Mr. Brown proved the
warmth and sincerity of his feelings towards me. Upon one occasion,
when an opportunity presented itself--in all human probability the
deciding opportunity of my life for furthering my professional views--a
sum of money was necessary to the accomplishment of my wishes, of
which I was not possessed. Had not Mr. Brown at that time generously
assisted me, I must have relinquished the object I had in view, the
realization of which, proved, as I have already said, the foundation of
my fortunes. I have now, I think, said sufficient to overcome all your
scruples with regard to my present conduct; and I only rejoice that the
opportunity is afforded me of proving to you and this dear young lady,
that there is still in the world such a sentiment as Gratitude.”
“This is most extraordinary!” said Anne.
“For several years,” continued Dr. Mead, “after my return from the
Continent, I endeavoured to find out the widow of my benefactor, but
without success, and I look upon that as one of the most fortunate
hours of my life in which the suffering daughter of my first friend
came to require my assistance, attracted to me by a reputation which
her father had so materially contributed to establish. Now,” added
he, “you may look on me with feelings far different from those which
have hitherto occupied your hearts and minds:--in me you see only the
_protegé_ endeavouring as much as in his power lies, to evince his
thankfulness where it is so justly due.”
“What are we to say to you?” said the agitated parent.
“Nothing, nothing,” interrupted Mead. “Permit me to continue my visits,
now, luckily not rendered professionally necessary. Let me entreat
you to remain where you are, and allow me, whenever I can, to come
hither and enjoy in your society, and that of your exemplary daughter,
a repose after the hurries and worries of a London life, which I have
long but vainly sought.”
Nobody can doubt what, under the circumstances, was the course Mrs.
Brown pursued, although, it must be confessed, that she even then,
had her doubts as to the truth of the doctor’s narrative; regarding
the statement of his obligations to her husband, and his consequent
success in life, rather as the fruits of an inventive faculty, exerted
in order to overcome her scruples and satisfy her delicacy, than as a
matter-of-fact bit of history.
Of herself, she had not the slightest recollection of the name of her
new old friend in the catalogue of visiters at her house; nor could
she recall to her mind the personal appearance of any guest at her
husband’s hospitable board which bore a resemblance to the doctor.
A quarter of a century had elapsed, and the tallow-faced pupil of
the hospitals had grown into the mellow-tinted arbiter of the mortal
destinies of men; and if the doctor had been sufficiently ungallant
(which doctors never are) to have made an ample confession on _his_
part, it is quite certain he must have said, that he found not in the
sinking widow whom he had restored, any remains of the charms and
attractions which had in his early days characterized the gay and
dashing wife.
Poor Brown however had, in the zenith of his career, been as hospitable
as a Madeira merchant, and was wont to welcome to his table men of
all trades and nations, all callings and professions. He held it to be
part of his business to cement connexions by social intercourse, and
therefore while he kept in fact, open house, it was morally impossible
for his lady, who was not much interested in the casual guests “below
the salt,” to recollect all their names or persons. Still she could
hardly divest herself of the idea that the doctor’s history was a
soothing fiction; although her daughter, whose opinion of the said
doctor was somehow more favourable than that of her parent, declared
her conviction that he was much too honourable, too candid, and too
sincere, to endeavour to carry even a favourite point by deception or
misrepresentation.
How this paragon of physicians turned out in the wearing, we may
perhaps live to see.