The Caxtons: A Family Picture — Volume 01. Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон

father raised his mild face, looked round apologetically, brushed his eyes with the back of his hand, stole to the door, and vanished.

      "I think," said a kind gossip seated at the other side of my mother's bed, "I think, my dear, that Mr. Caxton might have shown more joy,—more natural feeling, I may say,—at the sight of the baby: and Such a baby! But all men are just the same, my dear,—brutes,—all brutes, depend upon it!"

      "Poor Austin!" sighed my mother, feebly; "how little you understand him!"

      "And now I shall clear the room," said Mr. Squills. "Go to sleep, Mrs. Caxton."

      "Mr. Squills," exclaimed my mother, and the bed-curtains trembled, "pray see that Mr. Caxton does not set himself on fire. And, Mr. Squills, tell him not to be vexed and miss me,—I shall be down very soon,—sha' n't I?"

      "If you keep yourself easy, you will, ma'am."

      "Pray, say so. And, Primmins—"

      "Yes, ma'am."

      "Every one, I fear, is neglecting your master. Be sure," and my mother's lips approached close to Mrs. Primmins' ear, "be sure that you- -air his nightcap yourself."

      "Tender creatures those women," soliloquized Mr. Squills as, after clearing the room of all present save Mrs. Primmins and the nurse, he took his way towards my father's study. Encountering the footman in the passage, "John," said he, "take supper into your master's room, and make us some punch, will you,—stiffish!"

      CHAPTER II

      "Mr. Caxton, how on earth did you ever come to marry?" asked Mr. Squills, abruptly, with his feet on the hob, while stirring up his punch.

      That was a home question, which many men might reasonably resent; but my father scarcely knew what resentment was.

      "Squills," said he, turning round from his books, and laying one finger on the surgeon's arm confidentially,—"Squills," said he, "I myself should be glad to know how I came to be married."

      Mr. Squills was a jovial, good-hearted man,—stout, fat, and with fine teeth, that made his laugh pleasant to look at as well as to hear. Mr. Squills, moreover, was a bit of a philosopher in his way,—studied human nature in curing its diseases; and was accustomed to say that Mr. Caxton was a better book in himself than all he had in his library. Mr. Squills laughed, and rubbed his hands.

      My father resumed thoughtfully, and in the tone of one who moralizes:—

      "There are three great events in life, sir,—birth, marriage, and death. None know how they are born, few know how they die; but I suspect that many can account for the intermediate phenomenon—I cannot."

      "It was not for money, it must have been for love," observed Mr.

      Squills; "and your young wife is as pretty as she is good."

      "Ha!" said my father, "I remember."

      "Do you, sir?" exclaimed Squills, highly amused. "How was it?"

      My father, as was often the case with him, protracted his reply, and then seemed rather to commune with himself than to answer Mr. Squills.