CHAPTER LXI.
A DOUBT TROUBLES MAUBRAY
I come now to some incidents, the relation of which partakes, I can’t deny, of the marvellous. I can, however, vouch for the literal truth of the narrative; so can William Maubray; so can my excellent friend Doctor Wagget; so also can my friend Doctor Drake, a shrewd and sceptical physician, all thoroughly cognizant of the facts. If, therefore, anything related in the course of the next two or three chapters should appear to you wholly incredible, I beg that you will not ascribe the prodigious character of the narrative to any moral laxities on the part of the writer.
I believe William Maubray liked Vane Trevor very honestly, and that he was as capable of friendship as any man I have ever met with; but this I will aver, that he had not been so cheerful since poor Aunt Dinah’s death as for the remainder of the day on which he had heard the authentic report of his friend’s overthrow.
Down to the town of Saxton, that evening, walked William, for in his comfortable moods he required human society, as he yearned for sympathy in his afflictions. He visited his hospitable friend, Doctor Drake, now in his pardonable elation on the occasion of his friend’s downfall, as he had done when writhing under the thunderbolts of poor Aunt Dinah.
In this case, however, he could not disclose what lay nearest to his heart. It would not have done to commit poor Trevor’s little secret to Doctor Drake, nor yet to tell him how wildly in love he was, and how the events of this day had lighted up his hopes. In fact, Doctor Drake had long ceased to be the sort of doctor whom a gay fellow suffering from one of Cupid’s bow-shot wounds would have cared to consult, and William visited him on this occasion simply because he was elated, excited, and could not do without company of some sort.
At about half-past nine o’clock Doctor Drake was called away to visit Mr. Thomas, the draper.
“Gouty pain in the duodenum—there’s a man, now, wansh—a—kill himself. He is killing himself. Advice! You might as well advise that ub—bottle. You might, a bilious fellow—lithic acid—gouty—’sgouty a fellow, by Jove, Sir, as you’d like to see, and all I can do he wone ’rink his—his little—whatever it is, anyway but hot—hot Sir, and with sugar—sugar, and you know that’s poison, simple p—poison. You see me, any li’l’ thing I take—sometimes a liddle she’y, sometimes a li’l’ ole Tom, or branle; I take it cole, without—quite innocent—rather usefle—shlight impulse—all the organs—never affec’ the head—never touch the liver—that’s the way, Sir; that’s how you come to live long—lots o’ waw’r—cole waw’r, and just sprinkle over, that’s your sort, Sir, stick a’ that, Sir; cole, cole waw’r—lots o’ waw’r, Sir; never make too stiff, you know, an’ you may go on all nigh’—don’ go, you know, I mayn be half’n hour all nigh, Sir, an’ no harm done—no harm, Sir, rather usefle.”