“I’ll wager my professional skill you’re mistaken, don’t you see,” said the doctor. “But who do you imagine to be the guilty parties?”
“Oriel and Lilya,” replied his young companion.
“It can’t be, don’t you see,” remarked the other. “I’m a little older than you are, and a better judge of character; and from the result of my own observations, I feel certain that neither of them are capable of such conduct. Oriel Porphyry is noble, and is more sincere in his character than any man I ever met with; and Lilya is the most artless, shy, unsophisticated creature that ever existed. You must be wrong, don’t you see.”
“Both of them have acknowledged it to me,” said Zabra; “both have confessed to me their mutual regard. Yes, it is too true. It is placed beyond the possibility of a doubt.”
“Without meaning any offence to you, I can’t believe it, don’t you see,” said the doctor good humouredly. “You have been deceiving yourself. There is a little bit of jealousy in the case, depend upon it. And though I maintain that jealousy is usually a very reasonable passion; for it is impossible for one who has thought himself the owner of the affections of another, to find a third party regarded as their possessor, without feeling a considerable degree of indignation: I think, in this instance, there is no cause for it.”
“I wish I could think so! I most fervently wish I could think so!” exclaimed the youth earnestly. “Nothing could gratify me so much as to find my suspicions unfounded; but the facts are so clear that the most credulous would be convinced.”
“Ah! lovers are the worst people in the world to argue with, don’t you see,” remarked Tourniquet with a smile. “They are always convinced of something that no one else would entertain for a moment. They believe without a proof, and deny without a cause. With all due respect for you, I must say that love is the greatest folly upon earth. I don’t mean to say that I have not had my follies, don’t you see; for I have had a very fair share of them. I remember my first folly of the kind very well. I had commenced my medical education under the auspices of an old uncle of mine. He was exceedingly like all other uncles from the creation of the world to the present time. He was obstinate, peevish, domineering, and quarrelsome, and was blest with a daughter, as all uncles are that have a nephew to reside with them. I was then a youth remarkable for the pains I took in my clothes and in my personal appearance; in fact, my dandyism was so conspicuous that I was ashamed to look a dog in the face for fear he should acknowledge me as a puppy.
“All at once I thought it was highly necessary I should be in love, don’t you see; so I brushed up my bits of whiskers, held my head as high as I could, and looked about me. My eyes quickly fell upon the charming Papaverica. To be sure her hair was as much like a bundle of scorched tow as it was possible to be; but of course I called it an auburn. Her nose was a lump of flesh; but of what shape it would have puzzled a geometrician to decide; yet I declared it was Grecian; and her mouth was a mouth—there was no mistaking it, and it gave an openness to her countenance more than usually expressive; and of course I swore it was like two cherries seeming parted. Then her body showed that she was somebody. It might have been as thick as it was long, for its length was nothing to brag of. As for her feet, Papaverica was not a girl to stand upon trifles. But whatever her figure was like, I had no difficulty in convincing her it was the very perfection of grace and beauty.
“I fell in love. Papaverica was medicine, surgery, and anatomy to me. The pharmacopœia was neglected, the vade mecum thrust on one side. I forgot drugs and dressings, lancets and laudanum. I had no taste for mixtures, and my soul was above pills. My thoughts were ever wandering towards the charming Papaverica; and as it is not possible for the mind to entertain two thoughts at the same time, my labours in making up the medicines for my uncle’s patients occasionally produced very strange effects. Potions and lotions, cathartics and emetics, pills and squills, were mixed together in what was not considered ‘most admired disorder;’ for my uncle’s stick spoke of any thing but admiration. But my blunders were most conspicuous in writing the labels. In giving the directions for a mixture I was sure to write ‘Papaverica, when taken to be well shaken’—for a draught, ‘Papaverica to be taken at bedtime,’—and for a lotion that had been repeated, ‘Papaverica as before.’