“I have been less pleasantly engaged. You know that Spicer is dead.”
“One of the pensioners—I never saw him that I know of, but I heard old Ben mention his death this morning, and that you were with him: was he a friend of yours?”
“No, indeed, I thought you knew something of him, or I should not have mentioned his name.” I then changed the conversation, telling her what had passed at Deal, and listening to her remarks upon old Nanny, my mother, and our mutual acquaintances.
“And the doctor—how is he?”
“As busy as ever: I’m sorry, however, that he complains very much of Tom Cobb, and says that he must dismiss him. He has made some very serious mistakes in mixing the medicines, and nearly killed five or six people.”
“Had he killed them outright, their deaths must have been laid at your door,” replied I, very seriously.
“Good Heavens! what do you mean, Tom?”
“I mean this, that your bright eyes have fascinated him; and that, to use his own expression, he is deeply, desperately, irrevocably, and everlastingly in love with you.”
Here Mrs St. Felix burst out in a laugh, so violent that I thought that it would end in hysterics. As soon as she had recovered herself, continued:—
“It is all true, and independent of the five or six people half killed, you will have to answer for a whole death besides, for Tom has intimated to me that if he fails in his suit he will have recourse to the big bottle of laudanum. You must further know that he has taxed my friendship to make known to you his deplorable condition, being unequal to the task himself.”