What precise mischief he meditates towards you I cannot guess,but death and disease have ever dogged his footsteps.Say nought of this to thy mistress;my art suggests to me that in her state the fear of evil may be as dangerous as its operation.But see that she take my specific,for(he lowered his voice,and spoke low but impressively in her ear)it is an antidote against poison.--Hark,they enter the garden!In effect,a sound of noisy mirth and loud talking approached the garden door,alarmed by which Wayland Smith sprung into the midst of a thicket of overgrown shrubs,while Janet withdrew to the garden-house that she might not incur observation,and that she might at the same time conceal,at least for the present,the purchases made from the supposed pedlar,which lay scattered on the floor of the summer-house.
Janet,however,had no occasion for anxiety.Her father,his old attendant,Lord Leicester's domestic,and the astrologer,entered the garden in tumult and in extreme perplexity,endeavouring to quiet Lambourne,whose brain had now become completely fired with liquor,and who was one of those unfortunate persons who,being once stirred with the vinous stimulus,do not fall asleep like other drunkards,but remain partially influenced by it for many hours,until at length,by successive draughts,they are elevated into a state of uncontrollable frenzy.Like many men in this state also,Lambourne neither lost the power of motion,speech,or expression;but,on the contrary,spoke with unwonted emphasis and readiness,and told all that at another time he would have been most desirous to keep secret.
What!ejaculated Michael,at the full extent of his voice,am I to have no welcome,no carouse,when I have brought fortune to your old,ruinous dog-house in the shape of a devil's ally,that can change slate-shivers into Spanish dollars?--Here,you,Tony Fire-the-***ot,Papist,Puritan,hypocrite,miser,profligate,devil,compounded of all men's sins,bow down and reverence him who has brought into thy house the very mammon thou worshippest.For God's sake,said Foster,speak low--come into the house--thou shalt have wine,or whatever thou wilt.No,old puckfoist,I will have it here,thundered the inebriated ruffian--here,AL FRESCO,as the Italian hath it.No,no,I will not drink with that poisoning devil within doors,to be choked with the fumes of arsenic and quick-silver;I learned from villain Varney to beware of that.Fetch him wine,in the name of all the fiends!said the alchemist.
Aha!and thou wouldst spice it for me,old Truepenny,wouldst thou not?Ay,I should have copperas,and hellebore,and vitriol,and aqua fortis,and twenty devilish materials bubbling in my brain-pan like a charm to raise the devil in a witch's cauldron.Hand me the flask thyself,old Tony Fire-the-***ot--and let it be cool--I will have no wine mulled at the pile of the old burnt bishops.Or stay,let Leicester be king if he will--good--and Varney,villain Varney,grand vizier--why,excellent!--and what shall I be,then?--why,emperor--Emperor Lambourne!I will see this choice piece of beauty that they have walled up here for their private pleasures;I will have her this very night to serve my wine-cup and put on my nightcap.What should a fellow do with two wives,were he twenty times an Earl?Answer me that,Tony boy,you old reprobate,hypocritical dog,whom God struck out of the book of life,but tormented with the constant wish to be restored to it--you old bishop-burning,blasphemous fanatic,answer me that.I will stick my knife to the haft in him,said Foster,in a low tone,which trembled with passion.