“But, you stupid rascal, isn't that a sign of fever? and isn't my complaint fulness about the head—a tendency of blood there? That will do now; yes, the plethoric complexion to a shade; and, by the way, it is no joke either. Send her up now.”
When Mrs. Mainwaring entered, the worthy invalid was lying incumbent upon the sofa, his head raised high upon pillows, with his dressing-gown and night-cap on, and his arms stretched along by his sides, as if he were enduring great pain.
“Oh, Mrs. Norton,” said he, after she had courtesied, “how do you do?”
“I am sorry to see you ill, Sir Thomas,” she replied, “I hope there is nothing serious the matter.”
“I wish I myself could hope so, Mrs. Norton.”
“Excuse me, Sir Thomas, I am no longer Mrs. Norton; Mrs. Mainwaring, at your service.”
“Ah, indeed! Then you have changed your condition, as they say. Well, I hope it is for the better, Mrs. Mainwaring; I wish you all joy and happiness!”
“Thank you, Sir Thomas, it is for the better; I am very happily married.”
“I am glad to hear it—I am very glad to hear it; that is to say, if I can be glad at anything. I feel very ill, Mrs. Mainwaring, very ill, indeed; and this blunt, plain-spoken doctor of mine gives me but little comfort. Not that I care much about any doctor's opinion—it is what I feel myself that troubles me. You are not aware, perhaps, that my daughter has abandoned me—deserted me—and left me solitary—sick—ill; without care—without attendance—without consolation;—and all because I wished to make her happy.”
“This, Sir Thomas,” replied Mrs. Mainwaring, avoiding a direct reply as to her knowledge of Lucy's movements, “is, I presume, with reference to her marriage with Lord Dunroe.”