“Ah! he feels deeply for his afflicted friend,” thought Dr. Swinton, as he remained for a few moments on the threshold of the front door, looking forth into the mild, clear, and beauteous night: “but I shall be the greatest fool in existence if ever I allow Mr. Granby to recover his reason. An annuity of six hundred pounds is not to be thrown away in a hurry. But I must prevent this fellow Smithson from calling more than once or twice a-year at the outside—and then only on stated days, or else with a week’s notice. However, I shall get him here to supper in a short time, and will then cajole him into anything I propose. He is a soft-pated fool himself,—that I can see with half an eye.”
Having arrived at this complimentary conclusion in respect to Mr. Smithson, the Doctor returned to the room where Mr. Granby was still lying upon the sofa, and still playing with his fingers.
CHAPTER CLXXXVII.
THE LUNATIC ASYLUM.
Almost immediately after the departure of Mr. Smithson, supper was served up in a spacious and handsomely-furnished apartment.
The table literally groaned beneath the load of plate and China spread upon it: a splendid epergne, upon a large silver tray, occupied the middle of the board;—and numerous crystal decanters, containing choice wines of various sorts, sparkled in the flood of golden light poured forth from a magnificent lustre suspended to the ceiling.
Upwards of a dozen persons took their places at the table—all the first-class patients partaking of their meals in the delectable society of the Doctor.
That eminent individual seated himself at the head of the board; and our old friend, Mr. Sheepshanks, occupied the other extremity. The reverend gentleman, though now well stricken in years, was so little altered since the reader last found himself in his company, that no minute description of his personal appearance is again necessary: suffice it to say, that his long, pale countenance was as sanctimoniously hypocritical at ever,—his hair, now quite grey, was combed with its wonted sleekness over his forehead,—and his speech was as drawling in tone and as full of cant in respect to language, as when we beheld him holding forth to the members of the South Sea Islands Bible Circulating Society, or figuring so ignominiously in the Insolvents’ Court.
Mr. Granby, being a new-comer, was placed in the post of honour—namely, on the Doctor’s right hand: but the unfortunate young gentleman did not appear to understand, much lest appreciate the distinction—for he scarcely uttered a syllable, did but little justice to the succulent viands, and remained for the most part of the time gazing in listless vacancy straight before him.
We should however observe that, on first being introduced into the supper-room, he had darted a rapid and searching glance around,—embracing with that sweeping look the countenances of the dozen patients who were already assembled there: but immediately afterwards he resumed his stolid, meaningless expression, as if his mind were indeed a blank and mournful void.
“Now, Mr. Sheepshanks,” said the Doctor, when all were duly seated at the table, “will you ask the usual blessing?”