Debt, Imprisonment for -- Fiction; London (England) -- History -- 18th century -- Fiction
"Stay," said the Doctor. He stood while the rest were sitting. He thus
increased the natural advantage of his great proportions. "We are not
yet come to the drinking of healths. But, Mrs. Pimpernel, I must first
invite you, before I go on with what I have to say, to take a glass of
this most generous vintage. The grapes which produced it grew fat and
strong in thinking of the noble part they were about to fulfil: the
sunshine of Spain passed into their juices and filled them with the
spirit of strength and confidence: that spirit lies imprisoned in the
bottle before us----"
"It does--it does!" murmured Sir Miles, gazing thoughtfully at the
bottle.
"He ought to have been a poet!" whispered Solomon.
The Doctor looked round impatiently, and swept the folds of his gown
behind him with a large gesture.
"For what did the grapes rejoice? Why was the vintage more than
commonly rich? Because in the fulness of time it was destined to
comfort the heart and to strengthen the courage of a most worthy and
cruelly tried lady. Indeed, Mrs. Pimpernel, wonderful are the decrees
of heaven! Drink, madam."
He poured out a glass of wine and handed it to her. She stared in his
face almost stupidly: she was trying to repress a wild thought which
seized her: her lips were parted, her gaze fixed, her hands trembling.
"Drink it, madam," ordered the Doctor.
"What is it? oh! what is it?" she cried.
"Drink the wine, madam," said Sir Miles kindly. "Believe me, the wine
will give you courage."
I took the glass and held it to her lips, while she drank submissively.
"With a bottle of port before him," said Sir Miles encouragingly, "a
man may have patience for anything. With the help of such a friend,
would I receive with resignation and joy, good fortune for myself or
disasters to all my cousins, male and female. Go on, Doctor. The lady
hath taken one glass to prepare her palate for the next."
"Patience, now," said the Doctor, "and silence, all of you. Solomon
Stallabras, if you liken me again to a poet, you shall leave this room,
and lose the joy of hearing what I have to tell."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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