Volume I Part 10 (1/2)
The doctor now paced the room, so engrossed by pa.s.sion that he forgot he was not alone, and uttered threats and mumbled out dark predictions with a fearful energy. Meanwhile Polly put by the books and drawings, and removed everything which might recall the late misadventure.
”What's your letter about, papa?” said she, pointing to a square-shaped envelope which he still held in his hand.
”Oh, by the way,” said he, quietly, ”this is from Cob-ham. They ask us up there to dinner to-day, and to stop the night.” The doctor tried very hard to utter this speech with the unconcern of one alluding to some every-day occurrence. Nay, he did more; he endeavored to throw into it a certain air of fastidious weariness, as though to say, ”See how these people will have me; mark how they persecute me with their attentions!”
Polly understood the ”situation” perfectly, and it was with actual curiosity in her tone she asked, ”Do you mean to go, sir?”
”I suppose we must, dear,” he said, with a deep sigh. ”A professional man is no more the arbiter of his social hours than of his business ones. Cooper always said dining at home costs a thousand a year.”
”So much, papa?” asked she, with much semblance of innocence.
”I don't mean to myself,” said he, reddening, ”nor to any physician in country practice; but we all lose by it, more or less.”
Polly, meanwhile, had taken the letter, and was reading it over. It was very brief. It had been originally begun, ”Lady Cobham presents,” but a pen was run through the words, and it ran,--
”Dear Dr. Dill,--If a short notice will not inconvenience you, will you and your daughter dine here to-day at seven?
There is no moon, and we shall expect you to stay the night.
”Truly yours,
”Georgiana Cobham.
”The Admiral hopes Miss D. will not forget to bring her music.”
”Then we go, sir?” asked she, with eagerness; for it was a house to which she had never yet been invited, though she had long wished for the entree.
”I shall go, certainly,” said he. ”As to you, there will be the old discussion with your mother as to clothes, and the usual declaration that you have really nothing to put on.”
”Oh! but I have, papa. My wonderful-worked muslin, that was to have astonished the world at the race ball, but which arrived too late, is now quite ready to captivate all beholders; and I have just learned that new song, 'Where's the slave so lowly?' which I mean to give with a most rebellious fervor; and, in fact, I am dying to a.s.sault this same fortress of Cobham, and see what it is like inside the citadel.”
”Pretty much like Woodstay, and the Grove, and Mount Kelly, and the other places we go to,” said Dill, pompously.
”The same sort of rooms, the same sort of dinner, the same company; nothing different but the liveries.”
”Very true, papa; but there is always an interest in seeing how people behave in their own house, whom you have never seen except in strangers'. I have met Lady Cobham at the Beachers', where she scarcely noticed me. I am curious to see what sort of reception she will vouchsafe me at home.”
”Well, go and look after your things, for we have eight miles to drive, and Billy has already been at Dangan and over to Mooney's Mills, and he 's not the fresher for it.”
”I suppose I 'd better take my hat and habit, papa?”
”What for, child?”
”Just as you always carry your lancets, papa,--you don't know what may turn up.” And she was off before he could answer her.
CHAPTER VII. TOM DILL'S FIRST PATIENT
Before Tom Dill had set out on his errand he had learned all about his father and sister's dinner engagement; nor did the contrast with the way in which his own time was to be pa.s.sed at all improve his temper.
Indeed, he took the opportunity of intimating to his mother how few favors fell to her share or his own,--a piece of information she very philosophically received, all her sympathies being far more interested for the sorrows of ”Clarissa Harlowe” than for any incident that occurred around her. Poor old lady! she had read that story over and over again, till it might seem that every word and every comma in it had become her own; but she was blessed with a memory that retained nothing, and she could cry over the sorrowful bits, and pant with eagerness at the critical ones, just as pa.s.sionately, just as fervently, as she had done for years and years before. Dim, vague perceptions she might have retained of the personages, but these only gave them a stronger truthfulness, and made them more like the people of the real world, whom she had seen, pa.s.singly, once, and was now to learn more about. I doubt if Mezzofanti ever derived one tenth of the pleasure from all his marvellous memory that she did from the want of one.