eye, an air of authority which greatly tends to enlarge his reputation. Mr. Gray, or, as the country people called him, Doctor Gray, (he might hold the title by diploma for what I know, though he only claimed the rank of Master of Arts,) had few wants, and these were amply supplied by a professional income which generally approached two hundred pounds a year, for which, upon an average, he travelled about five thousand miles on horseback in the course of the twelve months. Nay, so liberally did this revenue support himself and his ponies, called Pestle and Mortar, which he exercised alternately, that he took a damsel to share it, Jean Watson, namely, the cherry-cheeked daughter of an honest farmer, who being herself one of twelve children who had been brought up on an income of fourscore pounds a year, never thought there could be poverty in more than double the sum; and looked on Gray, though now termed by irreverent youth the Old Doctor, as a very advantageous match. For several years they had no children, and it seemed as if Doctor Gray, who had so often assisted the efforts of the goddess Lucina, was never to invoke her in his own behalf. Yet his domestic roof was, on a remarkable occasion, decreed to be the scene where the goddess’s art was required.
Late of an autumn evening three old women might be observed plying their aged limbs through the single street of the village at Middlemas towards the honoured door, which, fenced off from the vulgar causeway, was defended by a broken paling, enclosing two slips of ground, half arable, half overrun with an abortive attempt at shrubbery. The door itself was blazoned with the name of Gideon Gray, M. A. Surgeon, etc. etc. Some of the idle young fellows, who had been a minute or two before loitering at the other end of the street before the door of the alehouse, (for the pretended inn deserved no better name,) now accompanied the old dames with shouts of laughter, excited by their unwonted agility; and with bets on the winner, as loudly expressed as if they had been laid at the starting post of Middlemas races. “Half a mutchkin on Luckie Simson!”—”Auld Peg Tamson against the field!”—”Mair speed, Alison Jaup, ye’ll tak the wind out of them yet!”—”Canny against the hill, lasses, or we may have a burstern auld earline amang ye!” These, and a thousand such gibes, rent the air, without being noticed, or even heard, by the anxious racers, whose object of contention seemed to be, which should first reach the Doctor’s door.
“Guide us, Doctor, what can be the matter now?” said Mrs. Gray, whose character was that of a goodnatured simpleton; “Here’s Peg Tamson, Jean Simson, and Alison Jaup, running a race on the hie street of the burgh!”
The Doctor, who had but the moment before hung his wet greatcoat before the fire, (for he was just dismounted from a long journey,) hastened down stairs, arguing some new occasion for his services, and happy, that, from, the character of the messengers, it was likely to be within burgh, and not landward.
He had just reached the door as Luckie Simson, one of the racers, arrived in the little area before it. She had got the start, and kept it, but at the expense, for the time, of her power of utterance; for when she came in presence of the Doctor, she stood blowing like a grampus, her loose toy flying back from her face, making the most violent effort to speak, but without the power of uttering a single intelligible word. Peg Thompson whipped in before her.
“The leddy, sir, the leddy!”
“Instant help, instant help!”—screeched rather than uttered, Alison Jaup; while Luckie Simson, who had certainly won the race, found words to claim the prize which had set them all in motion.
“And I hope, sir, you will recommend me to be the sick-nurse; I was here to bring you the tidings lang before ony o’ thae lazy queans.”
Loud were the counter-protestations of the two competitors, and loud the laugh of the idle loons who listened at a little distance.
“Hold your tongue, ye flyting fools,” said the Doctor; “and you, ye idle rascals, if I come out among you.” So saying, he smacked his long-lashed whip with great emphasis, producing much the effect of the celebrated Quos ego of Neptune in the first AEneid.—”And now,” said the Doctor, “where, or who, is this lady?”
The question was scarce necessary; for a plain carriage, with four horses, came at a foot’s pace towards the door of the Doctor’s house, and the old women, now more at their ease, gave the Doctor to understand, that the gentleman thought the accommodation of the Swan Inn totally unfit for his lady’s rank and condition, and had, by their advice, (each claiming the merit of the suggestion,) brought her here, to experience the hospitality of the west room;—a spare apartment, in which Doctor Gray occasionally accommodated such patients, as he desired to keep for a space of time under his own eye.
There were two persons only in the vehicle. The one, a gentleman in a riding dress, sprung out, and having received from the Doctor an assurance that the lady would receive tolerable accommodation in his house, he lent assistance to his companion to leave the carriage, and with great apparent satisfaction, saw her safely deposited in a decent sleeping apartment, and under the respectable charge of the Doctor and his lady, who assured him once more of every species of attention. To bind their promise more firmly, the stranger slipped a purse of twenty guineas (for this story chanced in the golden age) into the hand of the Doctor, as an earnest of the most liberal recompense, and requested he would spare no expense in providing all that was necessary or desirable for a person in the lady’s condition, and for the helpless being to whom she might immediately be expected to give birth. He then said he would retire to the inn, where he begged a message might instantly acquaint him with the expected change in the lady’s situation.
“She is of rank,” he said, “and a foreigner; let no expense be spared. We designed to have reached Edinburgh, but were forced to turn off the road by an accident.” Once more he said, “Let no expense be spared, and manage that she may travel as soon as possible.”
“That,” said the Doctor, “is past my control. Nature must not be hurried, and she avenges herself of every attempt to do so.”
“But art,” said the stranger, “can do much,” and he proffered a second purse, which seemed as heavy as the first.
“Art,” said the Doctor, “may be recompensed, but cannot be purchased. You have already paid me more than enough to take the utmost care I can of your lady; should I accept more money, it could only be for promising, by implication at least, what is beyond my power to perform. Every possible care shall be taken of your lady, and that affords the best chance of her being speedily able to travel. Now, go you to the inn, sir, for I may be instantly wanted, and we have not yet provided either an attendant for the lady, or a nurse for the child; but both shall be presently done.”
“Yet a moment, Doctor—what languages do you understand?”
“Latin and French I can speak indifferently, and so as to be understood; and I read a little Italian.”
“But no Portuguese or Spanish?” continued the stranger.
“No, sir.”
“That is unlucky. But you may make her understand you by means of French. Take notice, you are to comply with her request in everything—if you want means to do so, you may apply to me.”
“May I ask, sir, by what name the lady is to be”—
“It is totally indifferent,” said the stranger, interrupting the question; “You shall know it at more leisure.”
So saying, he threw his ample cloak about him, turning himself half round to assist the operation, with an air which the Doctor would have found it difficult to imitate, and walked down the street to the little inn. Here he paid and dismissed the postilions, and shut himself up in an apartment, ordering no one to be admitted till the Doctor should call.
The
