“They might have flown on one wing, for what I know,” said Dr. Quackleben; “but there was early and sound advice taken in Lady Penelope's case. My friend, the late Earl of Featherhead, was a man of judgment – did little in his family but by rule of medicine – so that, what with the waters, and what with my own care, Lady Penelope is only freakish – fanciful – that's all – and her quality bears it out – the peccant principle might have broken out under other treatment.”
“Ay – she has been weel-friended,” said the widow; “but this bairn Mowbray, puir thing! how came she to be sae left to hersell?”
“Her mother was dead – her father thought of nothing but his sports,” said the Doctor. “Her brother was educated in England, and cared for nobody but himself, if he had been here. What education she got was at her own hand – what reading she read was in a library full of old romances – what friends or company she had was what chance sent her – then no family-physician, not even a good surgeon, within ten miles! And so you cannot wonder if the poor thing became unsettled.”
“Puir thing! – no doctor! – nor even a surgeon! – But, Doctor,” said the widow, “maybe the puir thing had the enjoyment of her health, ye ken, and, then” —
“Ah! ha, ha! – why then, madam, she needed a physician far more than if she had been delicate. A skilful physician, Mrs. Blower, knows how to bring down that robust health, which is a very alarming state of the frame when it is considered secundum artem. Most sudden deaths happen when people are in a robust state of health. Ah! that state of perfect health is what the doctor dreads most on behalf of his patient.”
“Ay, ay, Doctor? – I am quite sensible, nae doubt,” said the widow, “of the great advantage of having a skeelfu' person about ane.”
Here the Doctor's voice, in his earnestness to convince Mrs. Blower of the danger of supposing herself capable of living and breathing without a medical man's permission, sunk into a soft pleading tone, of which our reporter could not catch the sound. He was, as great orators will sometimes be, “inaudible in the gallery.”
Meanwhile, Lady Penelope overwhelmed Clara Mowbray with her caresses. In what degree her ladyship, at her heart, loved this young person, might be difficult to ascertain, – probably in the degree in which a child loves a favourite toy. But Clara was a toy not always to be come by – as whimsical in her way as her ladyship in her own, only that poor Clara's singularities were real, and her ladyship's chiefly affected. Without adopting the harshness of the Doctor's conclusions concerning the former, she was certainly unequal in her spirits; and her occasional fits of levity were chequered by very long intervals of sadness. Her levity also appeared, in the world's eye, greater than it really was; for she had never been under the restraint of society which was really good, and entertained an undue contempt for that which she sometimes mingled with; having unhappily none to teach her the important truth, that some forms and restraints are to be observed, less in respect to others than to ourselves. Her dress, her manners, and her ideas, were therefore very much her own; and though they became her wonderfully, yet, like Ophelia's garlands, and wild snatches of melody, they were calculated to excite compassion and melancholy, even while they amused the observer.
“And why came you not to dinner? – We expected you – your throne was prepared.”
“I had scarce come to tea,” said Miss Mowbray, “of my own freewill. But my brother says your ladyship proposes to come to Shaws-Castle, and he insisted it was quite right and necessary, to confirm you in so flattering a purpose, that I should come and say, Pray do, Lady Penelope; and so now here am I to say, Pray, do come.”
“Is an invitation so flattering limited to me alone, my dear Clara? – Lady Binks will be jealous.”
“Bring Lady Binks, if she has the condescension to honour us” – [a bow was very stiffly exchanged between the ladies] – “bring Mr. Springblossom – Winterblossom – and all the lions and lionesses – we have room for the whole collection. My brother, I suppose, will bring his own particular regiment of bears, which, with the usual assortment of monkeys seen in all caravans, will complete the menagerie. How you are to be entertained at Shaws-Castle, is, I thank Heaven, not my business, but John's.”
“We shall want no formal entertainment, my love,” said Lady Penelope; “a déjeûner à la fourchette– we know, Clara, you would die of doing the honours of a formal dinner.”
“Not a bit; I should live long enough to make my will, and bequeath all large parties to old Nick, who invented them.”
“Miss Mowbray,” said Lady Binks, who had been thwarted by this free-spoken young lady, both in her former character of a coquette and romp, and in that of a prude which she at present wore – “Miss Mowbray declares for
‘Champagne and a chicken at last.’”
“The chicken without the champagne, if you please,” said Miss Mowbray; “I have known ladies pay dear to have champagne on the board. – By the by, Lady Penelope, you have not your collection in the same order and discipline as Pidcock and Polito. There was much growling and snarling in the lower den when I passed it.”
“It was feeding-time, my love,” said Lady Penelope; “and the lower animals of every class become pugnacious at that hour – you see all our safer and well-conditioned animals are loose, and in good order.”
“Oh, yes – in the keeper's presence, you know – Well, I must venture to cross the hall again among all that growling and grumbling – I would I had the fairy prince's quarters of mutton to toss among them if they should break out – He, I mean, who fetched water from the Fountain of Lions. However, on second thoughts, I will take the back way, and avoid them. – What says honest Bottom? —
‘For if they should as lions come in strife
Into such place, 'twere pity of their life.’”
“Shall I go with you, my dear?” said Lady Penelope.
“No – I have too great a soul for that – I think some of them are lions only as far as the hide is concerned.”
“But why would you go so soon, Clara?”
“Because my errand is finished – have I not invited you and yours? and would not Lord Chesterfield himself allow I have done the polite thing?”
“But you have spoke to none of the company – how can you be so odd, my love?” said her ladyship.
“Why, I spoke to them all when I spoke to you and Lady Binks – but I am a good girl, and will do as I am bid.”
So saying, she looked round the company, and addressed each of them with an affectation of interest and politeness, which thinly concealed scorn and contempt.
“Mr. Winterblossom, I hope the gout is better – Mr. Robert Rymar – (I have escaped calling him Thomas for once) – I hope the public give encouragement to the muses – Mr. Keelavine, I trust your pencil is busy – Mr. Chatterly, I have no doubt your flock improves – Dr. Quackleben, I am sure your patients recover – These are all the especials of the worthy company I know – for the rest, health to the sick, and pleasure to the healthy!”
“You are not going in reality, my love?” said Lady Penelope; “these hasty rides agitate your nerves – they do, indeed – you should be cautious – Shall I speak to Quackleben?”
“To neither Quack nor quackle, on my account, my dear lady. It is not as you would seem to say, by your winking at Lady Binks – it is not, indeed – I shall be no Lady Clementina, to be the wonder and pity of the spring of St. Ronan's – No Ophelia neither – though I will say with her, Good-night, ladies – Good night, sweet ladies! – and now – not my coach, my coach – but my horse, my horse!”
So