It was a very wicked rumour! A vile and cruel insinuation! And when we are made to feel the combined meanness and wickedness of such a slander; when we are oppressed by the power of such calumny; when our spirit faints beneath a sense of the poison,—how apt we are to wish the world at once at an end, that truth may vindicate its lasting triumph. “Shut the book, my dear”—it was thus an old man spoke to his grandchild, reading a chronicle of atrocity; of blood, and fire, and infanticide, and the rest—“shut the book, my child, and let us pray for the Judgment.”
Poor little Agatha! When she was assured by several bosom friends that it was well known throughout the world that Sir Arthur Hodmadod had taken poison—only, happily, a powerful constitution had triumphed over the deadly dose—poison for the sole, determined purpose of avoiding marriage with Miss Agatha Pennibacker,—she wished at once to sink into her grave, to be well quit of a world that could coin and circulate such a wicked, wicked counterfeit. Nevertheless, Hodmadod did not show himself at Jericho House. What then? Good Doctor Stubbs gave daily intelligence of his amending health. Still, Hodmadod did not write! Why, no; Stubbs had forbidden him any mental exercise soever; his nerves were still in a jangle, and pen and ink were luxuries, in his delicate condition, not to be tasted. Agatha continued to be assured of the devotion, the unalterable passion of Sir Arthur. And she was willing to believe it. Nevertheless—her heart would whisper as much in her bosom—nevertheless, the smallest of notes would have been thankfully received from the dearest of lovers, and still not a line from Sir Arthur! Not a syllable to give hope of his speedy convalescence! Not even a hint of an early day to carry out the beautiful intention, so disastrously marred at the very foot of St. Shekels altar. Well; a knowledge of the wicked truth oppresses us, and without further delay, we will at once make known the treachery of Candituft and the falsehood of the Baronet. As Agatha’s heart is, for a time, doomed to be broken, the blow may as well come down at once. The earlier the damage, the sooner the repair.
“It is enough to make a man leave civilised life, and wear goatskins,”—said Candituft, on his next visit to Hodmadod—“to know and feel the malignity of the family of man.”
“Certainly,” said Hodmadod, “it’s a family that will pick one another to pieces. When I say pick”—
“To be sure. Now, what do you imagine, my dear friend—what do you conceive to be the cause of your deferred marriage with the beautiful Agatha?”—
“Why, the physic—the sleeping draught. Morphine, wasn’t it?” asked the innocent Hodmadod.
“To be sure: but the world will not have it so. No—no. The world declares that you had thought better of the business”—
“Yes?” cried the Baronet, a little impatient.
“And between the bride and poison, chose the drug,” and Candituft spoke as one disgusted.