To practise patience,
An’ not to murmur ’neath his han’,
Leyke feckless gations.”
John Stagg.
Now, it so happened, that in the house where the Sandboys had taken up their residence, there was located on the second floor one of those malades imaginaires, in a white robe-de-chambre, who are so popular and pretty at the present day.
Mrs. Blanche Quinine certainly dressed the part of the invalid to the life—or, rather, to the death. Robed from head to foot in the purest white, she managed to look extremely well and ill at one and the same time. She was got up with the greatest possible regard to medical effect; for, although Mrs. Quinine was naturally a plump and strong-built woman, she was costumed so artistically, and looked, as she languished on the couch, so perilously delicate, that one could not help fancying but that, with the least shock or jar to her nerves, every bone in her body would fall asunder, like the skeleton in the Fantoccini, at the sudden “bomb” of the drum.
Her complexion—which could not have been called florid even at her healthiest moments—was rendered still more pale by the “bloom” of “babies” powder, with which she never failed to indue it, previous to leaving her chamber. Her eyes—they were of the Irish grey kind—she always kept half-closed, as if from long want of rest—but then Nature had blessed Mrs. Quinine with long, dark, sweeping eye-lashes, and these were never seen to such perfection as when brought into contrast with her white skin. Her upper lip was drawn up slightly, as if in continual pain—but then Mrs. Quinine was gifted with a “remarkably fine set of teeth,” and was sufficient “woman of the world” to know that there was no use in her having such things unless she showed them. Moreover, the favourite, because the most touching, posture, of Mrs. Quinine, was with her head slightly drooping, and her cheek resting on her hand—but then the lady prided herself on the smallness of her extremities (the tips of toes could be just seen at the end of the couch, peeping from beneath her robe); and, with her arms raised, she knew that the blood could not circulate so freely in her fingers, and, consequently, that she would be saved the trouble of continually rubbing them, in order to improve their whiteness.
And, truth to say, the illness of Mrs. Quinine was as agreeable to herself as it was interesting to her doctor and acquaintances, and inconvenient to her husband. Mrs. Blanche’s prevailing belief was, that she was suffering from extreme debility, and that if she had not the very best of food to live upon, accompanied with continual change of air and scene, she felt satisfied she had but a short time to remain in this world.
In this conviction Mrs. Quinine was fully borne out by the profound opinion, most gravely delivered, with the lady’s pulse in one hand, and his gold repeater in the other, by her medical adviser—that “dear, loveable old man,” Doctor Twaddles—who added, that unless she would keep herself quiet, and refrain from making the least exertion, and could at the same time be secured perfect peace of mind at home, without being thwarted in the slightest wish—as he said this, the doctor knitted the grey, bushy brows which hung down about his eyes like a Skye terrier’s, and looked death-warrants at the husband of the lady—he would not take it upon himself to answer for the consequences.
Now, Doctor Twaddles was a gentleman who had fortunately been blest with a remarkably imposing appearance.