Poor Jack

"Well, I daresay it's all true," replied I; "for if a woman does not smile upon a man he's not very likely to marry her, and therefore has no chance of having a son."

"Tom, you have no soul for poetry."

"Perhaps not; I have been too busy to read any."

"But you should; youth is the age of poetry."

"Well, I thought it was the time to work; moreover, I don't understand how youth can be age. But pray tell me what is it you want of me, for I want to see Mrs. St. Felix before dinner-time."

"Well, then, Tom, I am in love—deeply, desperately, irrevocably, and everlastingly in love."

"I wish you well out of it," replied I, with some bitterness. "And pray with whom may you be so dreadfully in love—Anny Whistle?"

"Anny Whistle!—to the winds have I whistled her long ago. No, that was a juvenile fancy. Hear me. I am in love with the charming widow."

"What, Mrs. St. Felix?"

"Yes. Felix means happy in Latin, and my happiness depends upon her. I must either succeed, or—Tom, do you see that bottle?"

"Yes."

"Well, it's laudanum; that's all."

"But, Tom, you forget; you certainly would not supplant your patron, your master, I may say your benefactor—the doctor?"

"Why not? he has tried, and failed. He has been trying to make an impression upon her these ten years, but it's no go. Ain't I a doctor, as good as he? Ay, better, for I'm a young doctor, and he is an old one! All the ladies are for me now. I'm a very rising young man."

"Well, don't rise much higher, or your head will reach up to the shop ceiling. Have you anything more to say to me?"

"Why, I have hardly begun. You see, Tom, the widow looks upon me with a favorable eye, and more than once I have thought of popping the question over the counter; but I never could muster up courage, my love is so intense. As the poet says—

"'Silence in love betrays more woe
Than words, howe'er so witty;
The beggar that is dumb, you know,
Deserves our double pity.'

"Now, Tom, I wish to tax your friendship. I wish you to speak for me."

"What, speak to Mrs. St. Felix?"

"Yes, be my embassador. I have attempted to write some verses; but somehow or another I never could find rhymes. The poetic feeling is in me, nevertheless. Tell me, Tom, will you do what I ask?"

"But what makes you think that the widow is favorably inclined?"

"What? why, her behavior, to be sure. I never pass her but she laughs or smiles. And then the doctor is evidently jealous; accuses me of making wrong mixtures; of paying too much attention to dress; of reading too much; always finding fault. However, the time may come—I repeat my request; Tom, will you oblige me? You ought to have a fellow-feeling."

This last remark annoyed me. I felt convinced that Mrs. St. Felix was really laughing at him, so I replied, "I shall not refuse you, but recollect that he who has been so unsuccessful himself is not likely to succeed for others. You shall have your answer very soon."

"Thanks, Tom, thanks. My toast, as I said before, when called upon, is 'Friendship and Love.'"

I quitted the shop, and went into that of Mrs. St. Felix, who, I thought, looked handsomer than ever.

"Come at last, Tom!" said the widow, extending her hand. "I thought you would have called yesterday. Your sister was here."

"I have been less pleasantly engaged. You know that Spicer is dead."

"One of the pensioners—I never saw him that I know of, but I heard old Ben mention his death this morning, and that you were with him. Was he a friend of yours?"

"No, indeed, I thought you knew something of him, or I should not have mentioned his name." I then changed the conversation, telling her what had passed at Deal, and listening to her remarks upon old Nanny, my mother, and our mutual acquaintances.

"And the doctor—how is he?"

"As busy as ever. I'm sorry, however, that he complains very much of Tom Cobb, and says that he must dismiss him. He has made some very serious mistakes in mixing the medicines, and nearly killed five or six people."

"Had he killed them outright, their deaths must have been laid at your door," replied I, very seriously.

"Good Heavens! what do you mean, Tom?"

"I mean this, that your bright eyes have fascinated him; and that, to use his own expression, he is deeply, desperately, irrevocably, and everlastingly in love with you."

Here Mrs. St. Felix burst out in a laugh so violent that I thought that it would end in hysterics. As soon as she had recovered herself, I continued:

"It is all true, and independent of the five or six people half killed, you will have to answer for a whole death besides, for Tom has intimated to me that if he fails in his suit he will have recourse to the big bottle of laudanum. You must further know that he has taxed my friendship to make known to you his deplorable condition, being unequal to the task himself."

"He must be mad," observed Mrs. St. Felix, quietly.

"He flatters himself that you have given him encouragement. I asked in what way; he says you always laugh at him."

"True as the Bible—I can't help laughing at such a droll figure as he makes of himself. Mercy on me! what are men made of? Well, Tom, I'm sure I ought to be flattered, for (let it be a secret between us, Tom) this is the second offer I have received within these twenty-four hours."

"The doctor, I presume; Tom says that he is jealous."

"I mention no names. This is all very foolish."

"But you have not yet rejected both. Tom awaits his answer."

"Tell him anything that you please. By the bye, you may just as well add that, instead of taking the laudanum, he had better resort to his old remedy—of liquorice and water. It will look just as killing in the phial, and not be quite so fatal in its results."

"I shall certainly execute your commission in as delicate a way as I possibly can."

"Do, Tom, and pray let me hear no more of this nonsense, for, ridiculous as it may appear, it is to me very painful. Leave now—I am nervous and low-spirited. Good-by. Come this evening with your sister, I shall be better then."

Mrs. St. Felix went into the back parlor, and I left the shop. I had turned the wrong way, almost forgetting to give Tom his answer, when I recollected myself, and returned to the doctor's house.

"Well?" said Tom, eagerly.

"Why," replied I, hardly having made my mind up what to say, yet not wishing to hurt his feelings, "the fact is, Tom, that the widow has a very good opinion of you."