The Doctor, stumping away rapidly to his yellow door, and red and green twin bottles, in the village, was thinking how the deuce this misadventure of Sir Jekyl's had befallen. The Baronet's unlucky character was well known wherever he resided or had property.
"Who the devil did it, I wonder?" conjectured the Doctor. "Two o'clock at night. Some pretty fury with a scissors, maybe. We'll know time enough; these things always come out—always come out, egad! It's a shame for him getting into scrapes at his time of life."
In the breakfast-parlour, very merry was the party then assembled, notwithstanding the absence of some of its muster-roll. Lady Jane Lennox, an irregular breakfaster, stood excused. Old Lady Alice was no more expected than the portrait of Lady Mary in her bed-room. General Lennox had business that morning, and was not particularly inquired after. Sir Jekyl, indeed, was missed—bustling, good-natured, lively—his guests asked after him with more than a conventional solicitude.
"Well, and how is papa now?" inquired Sir Paul, who knew what gout was, and being likely to know it again, felt a real interest in the Baronet's case. "No acute pain, I hope?"
"I'm afraid he is in pain, more than he admits," answered Beatrix.
"Tomlinson told me it's all in the—the extremity, though that's well. Intelligent fellow, Tomlinson. Mine is generally what they call atonic, not attended with much pain, you know;" and he illustrated his disquisition by tendering his massive mulberry knuckles for the young lady's contemplation, and fondling them with the glazed fingers of the other hand, while his round blue eyes stared, with a slow sort of wonder, in her face, as if he expected a good deal in the way of remark from the young lady to mitigate his astonishment.
Lady Blunket, who was beside her, relieved this embarrassment, and nodding at her ear, said—
"Flannel—flannel, chiefly. Sir Paul, there, his medical man, Doctor Duddle, we have great confidence in him—relies very much on warmth. My poor father used to take Regent's—Regent's—I forget what—a bottle. But Doctor Duddle would not hear of Sir Paul there attempting to put it to his lips. Regent's—what is it? I shall forget my own name soon. Water is it? At all events he won't hear of it—diet and flannel, that's his method. My poor father, you know, died of gout, quite suddenly, at Brighton. Cucumber, they said."
And Lady Blunket, overcome by the recollection, touched her eyes with her handkerchief.
"Cucumber and salmon, it was, I recollect," said Sir Paul, with a new accession of intelligence.