“Yes, I apprehend. Therefore, you must be very quiet. Because your temperament is excitable. You’re very impulsive. Your nerves are most delicately strung.”
“Quite so. Often thought it. Smallest thing sets ’em tingling. I’m quite like an Eolian harp; played upon by the least breath. When I say”—
“To be sure. At this crisis you must be particularly careful. Pray attend to me”—the Doctor looked at his watch—“for I’m past my time. When you’ve taken the medicine, do not on any account suffer yourself to be disturbed. Be most particular in this. You will then have a sweet, refreshing sleep; and you will wake, as I say, like a drum. God bless you”—and Doctor Stubbs shook the Baronet’s hand—“like a drum.”
The Doctor returned to make his call at Jericho House, and Hodmadod took his way to his own abode; resolved to shut himself up until summoned by the chimes to his happy fate. Still the church steeple, as he phrased it in his thoughts, went up and down in his head; and he felt an increased sense of the necessity of quietude. With strengthened determination to be tranquil, Hodmadod, arrived at home, summoned his valet to his presence. “Atkins,” said Hodmadod, and Atkins stared at the soft, subdued manner of his master. What could ail him? “Atkins, you know what is about to happen to-morrow.”—Atkins, responding to what he thought the dejection of the Baronet, looked grave and shook his head. “Now, it is most necessary to my reputation as a man and a rock, Atkins, that I should not be disturbed. You understand?”
“Yes, sir; to be sure, sir; not disturbed, sir,” said Atkins.
“Very well. Then you will go yourself, Atkins, and get me that prescription,” and Hodmadod gave the document to the suspicious retainer. Yes; suspicious. For Atkins had grave doubts, as he took his way to the chemist’s; doubts which his fidelity to his master soon put into language.
“May I be so bold as to ask if there’s anything queer in that physic?” asked Atkins, with the best unconcern he could assume.
“No; oh no,” said the chemist; and Atkins was greatly relieved. “Merely soothing—merely soothing.”
And the evening closed in; and Hodmadod—though he would now and then put his hand to his head, by which it was evident that the steeple was still there—Hodmadod felt calmer and calmer; indeed, on the whole, happy and resigned. And then again he felt so dull and lonely, that he heartily wished the morning was come, and all was well over. Time never moved so heavily. And now the bridegroom ran his fingers along the piano—now he corrected his whiskers in the glass—now he looked at the bracelet that, on the morning, he proposed to clasp about the wrist of his bride. Still the minutes would lag; time would limp, as with a thorn in either foot. Nevertheless, Hodmadod did the best to speed him along. It was the last evening of his celibacy. He would try a little reading. In his time, the Baronet had been a great patron of the ring; but that thoughtless time was over. When his faithful valet appeared with the night-light, Hodmadod was deep in Boxiana.
“Everything’s ready for the morning,” said Atkins, following his master to the room. “Very handsome, sir,” said Atkins, with the freedom of an old favourite; “very handsome waistcoat. Must make the lady quite proud of you;” and Atkins looked admiringly at the delicate vest. “No lady could refuse a gentleman in such a waistcoat. Not often, sir, the church sees anything like that.”