Oliver’s pillow was smoothed by woman’s hands that night, and loveliness and virtue watched him as he slept. He felt calm and happy, and could have died without a murmur.
The momentous interview was no sooner concluded, and Oliver composed to rest again, than the doctor, after wiping his eyes, and condemning them for being weak all at once, betook himself down stairs to open upon Mr. Giles. And finding nobody about the parlours, it occurred to him, that he could perhaps originate the proceedings with better effect in the kitchen; so into the kitchen he went.
There were assembled, in that lower house of the domestic parliament, the women-servants, Mr. Brittles, Mr. Giles, the tinker (who had received a special invitation to regale himself for the remainder of the day, in consideration of his services), and the constable. The latter gentleman had a large staff, a large head, large features, and large half-boots, and looked as if he had been taking a proportionate allowance of ale, as indeed he had.
The adventures of the previous night were still under discussion, for Mr. Giles was expatiating upon his presence of mind when the doctor entered; and Mr. Brittles, with a mug of ale in his hand, was corroborating everything before his superior said it.
“Sit still,” said the doctor, waving his hand.
“Thank you, sir,” said Mr. Giles. “Misses wished some ale to be given out, sir; and as I felt no ways inclined for my own little room, sir, and disposed for company, I am taking mine among ’em here.”
Brittles headed a low murmur, by which the ladies and gentlemen generally were understood to express the gratification they derived from Mr. Giles’s condescension; and Mr. Giles looked round with a patronising air, as much as to say, that so long as they behaved properly, he would never desert them.
“How is the patient to-night, sir?” asked Giles.
“So-so;” returned the doctor. “I am afraid you have got yourself into a scrape there, Mr. Giles.”