MRS. ALFRED AUGUSTUS POTTS;

A TALE OF THE INFLUENZA.

BY MRS. FRANK ELLIOT.

"How do you find your patient to night, doctor?" said Mr. Potts, to a round rosy little man, who entered the room, rubbing his hands with infinite complacency.

"Low, sir-very low, sir," was the reply.

The doctor was right. Mrs. Potts, (or, to call her by her proper title, Mrs. Alfred Augustus Potts) was "low-very low." It was her tenth night of barley water, and influenza-we give due precedence to the former. "She was going fast," she said herself, "but was resigned-quite so, beautifully submissive."

So was Mr. Alfred Augustus Potts, so he had been from a very early period of his married life; it was his ordinary state of being, and on the present occasion, he saw no reason to depart from it.

He took out his pocket-handkerchief, however, and remarked, that "it was a most unfortunate business-this influenza."

"

"By Jove, it is, sir," said the little doctor, with the utmost glee, "disposes of a pretty many of us, in no time, young, old, and"Middle-aged," suggested Mr. Potts.

It was a prudent clause, and had reference to the invalid lady above stairs.

"And is our dear friend really so very poorly?" sighed Miss Lavinia Simcox-a fair, faded, sentimental, elderly, young lady, presiding at the tea-table, who had been attentively engaged in perusing the doctor's countenance, from the moment he had entered the room.

"Poorly! I consider Mrs. Potts is in a precarious state-her symptoms serious, Miss Lavinia, excessively so, and in cases of this kind," continued the doctor, turning his jovial face on Mr. Potts. "I conceive it my duty to be candid-perfectly explicit-your good lady, sir-"

"God bless my soul!" cried Mr. Potts, starting up from his chair. "My dear friend, my strong-minded, exemplary Mr. Potts, be composed, don't give way," entreated Miss Lavinia.

"What's to be done? what's to become of my infant family?— my poor orphans," exclaimed the prospective widower.

"That's an after consideration," said Doctor Dobbs, with (as Lavinia thought) a peculiarly expressive twinkle of the eyes. She cast down her's. "Our present business," he continued, "is to devote all our energies, sir, to bring the patient round."

And thereupon, the doctor drawing a chair to the table, devoted all his energies, to the discussion of the fragrant souchong, and nicely buttered muffins, which Miss Simcox was dispensing.

"Capital tea this," he exclaimed, "admirable flavour! where do you get it, Mr. Potts ?"

"From Twinings, in three pound packages. It is good tea-but I assure you, doctor," continued Mr. Potts, "half the secret is in the making."

"Oh, Mr. Potts!" Lavinia exclaimed, "you are too good-too complimentary,"

"By no means," he replied, "I never knew what real good tea was, I may say, till-till-my poor dear Mrs. Potts unfortunately got the influenza, and Miss Simcox was so kind—so very kind, as to-to-"

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Supply her place," observed the doctor.

"Exactly so," answered the afflicted husband. "I protest I'm so overcome by my feelings," he added, "feelings quite natural and suitable to the occasion, as you will acknowledge, doctor, that I hardly know how to express myself."

"Do

"Take another cup of tea, Dr. Dobbs," said Miss Simcox. you know," she continued with charming vivacity, "I quite pique myself upon my second cup."

"Ah," said the doctor, "in general that's a weak point with teamakers."

Now, doctor," simpered Lavinia, "you are a great deal too bad. I can't forgive you-I really can't. My dear Mr. Potts, I appeal to you-is not your second as good as your first?"

"Better-a thousand times better," was the prompt reply. "But I have not got it yet," and Mr. Potts stretched out his cup to be replenished.

"You hear what Mr. Potts says! Hey, Miss Lavinia!” cried the doctor, and he chuckled.

Miss Simcox was agitated-she blushed-she sighed. Mr. Potts might have heard her heart beat-he did hear the sugar tongs fall— he stooped to pick them up-he handed them to her their eyes met-providentially Mr. Potts squinted. "What can he mean?" she thought. "Better a thousand times than his first; it was a strong expression, and had perhaps, under the circumstances, a deep meaning."

While she thus pondered, Mr. Potts was sent for by the sick lady. Left tête-à-tête with the doctor, Miss Simcox turned to him. "And you tell me there is no hope?" she said, with mournful impressiveness.

"Lord bless you, ma'am, I told you no such thing-no hope, indeed!"

“I—I— understood you to say as much," observed the crestfallen Lavinia.

"No hope!" repeated the doctor-"no hope!-while there's life there's hope, and though I say it, that shouldn't say it, while there's Thomas Dobbs there's hope."

This last assertion was made with so much energy, that Miss Simcox immediately acknowledged her mistake. "There was hope -she was confident there was-every hope."

Yes-every hope but the right one.

Poor Lavinia! she fell into a reverie, that lasted for the next five minutes, then starting suddenly from it, tried to brighten up her face, twitched her cap, twirled her ringlets, and looking up sweetly at Dr. Dobbs, said, "she was glad very glad,"

"Glad of what, ma'am?" said the doctor.

Miss Simcox might have found some difficulty in explaining her feelings, to so literal an auditor, but she was spared the task, being hastily summoned, in her turn, to the bedside of Mrs. Potts.

She stole softly up the stairs, and entered the sick chamber on tip-toe.

"I hear a rustle-the rustle of her best striped silk," said a voice from behind the curtains-a voice "made faint with too much sweets," black currant jelly, pulmonic paste, and pectoral wafers. "Is it my friend ?" it said.

Lavinia declared that it was, and approaching the bedside expressed her overwhelming sorrow, at finding her dear Mrs. Potts so poorly.

"My Simcox!" said the sufferer, plaintively.

It was one of her charming little peculiarities, to designate her friends and acquaintances by their surnames. Her husband was simply "Potts

— with me, Lavinia was wont to think, he would have been Alfred Augustus, and what a pity 't is, the name should be thus thrown away.

"My sweet, my sympathizing Simcox!" pursued Mrs. Potts"Draw near to me-do you know why I have sent for you?"

"No, my dear friend," said Lavinia;" but never mind it nowdon't worry yourself, I entreat. I-I-assure you everything goes on down stairs, just as if you were about again, as I trust in heaven, you will be soon,-next week perhaps."

"I shall never be about again," said Mrs. Potts, solemnly" but I'm resigned, quite so, we have made up our minds to it, Potts and I."

Mr. Potts made no observation as to his mind-he muttered something from the other side of the bed, respecting his heart, which, according to his statement, was torn to pieces, pierced, cut through and through.

Lavinia said nothing, but she wept sufficiently.

"And you can't tell what I want to confide to you-you don't know why I sent for you?"

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'No," sobbed Miss Simcox.

"You don't know the anxiety that is upon me-the weight."

Mr. Potts adjusted the quilt-a heavy Marseilles.

"It isn't that, Potts-Oh no! It's a very different kind of weight -you little know what it is to lie here hour after hour and think and fret."

"

'My dear dear Mrs. Potts," entreated Lavinia, "don't agitatedon't excite yourself,-I protest to you solemnly, everything is going on below like clock-work, and I shall see to those preserves myself, I promise you, on Monday-I shall make a point of doing so."

"A lb. and half of pale Seville oranges to one lb. and half of sugar, double refined," murmured Mrs. Potts, "Boil together gently for twenty minutes; if not sufficiently clear, simmer for five or six minutes longer, stirring gently all the time-page 132, leaf doubled down-and the book is on the second shelf, right-hand corner of the little closet next to the Holy Living and Dying,' and you will be sure to follow the receipt exactly, Simcox.-But after all," pursued Mrs. Potts, "what's in a receipt? there is an art in marmalade, and to be sure there never was any like mine."

"Never, never," said the disconsolate husband.

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'Oh, Potts!" the wife replied, "how you did enjoy it! and the children-I think I see them now, poor dears, with their pinafores on, and their sweet sticky little lips and fingers."

The picture was so vivid, that when Mrs. Potts paused to cough,

Miss Simcox cast a frightened glance upon the best striped silk, and drew its folds more closely around her in alarm.

"Little angels!" said Mrs. Potts, still apostrophizing her young family, "And that cherub Tommy!"

"Don't-don't be uncomfortable about him," said Miss Simcox, "How well he got over the influenza-and his new tunic is come home-he looks so sweetly in it, little darling!"

"He'll look sweetly in his mourning," replied Mrs. Potts, with infinite pathos. "Six of them, like steps of stairs, and all in black for their poor dear mamma!"

"Oh! it's too much!" cried Potts.

Perhaps he meant too many; he spoke vaguely, but the feelings of a man who stands, as he did, on the brink of widower-hood, are too sacred for investigation- a deep mystery they are, even to himself.

"And you'll take them all to church the first Sunday, if their mourning can be got ready?" said Mrs. Potts.

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"All?" enquired Potts, whose grief now assumed the semblance of terror. All," replied Mrs. Potts, with sublime composure, "All excepting baby; and fifteen months is too young-he might take cold; but, Simcox," she added, turning towards her friend, "His feather must be dyed, and I depend on you about his sash.”

Black, or French grey?" enquired Lavinia, in a muffled tone. "I-I shall go distracted," exclaimed Potts, "Upon my word I shall."

As a preliminary, he drew his fingers through his hair, and rushed to the door.

"Come back, Potts," cried his wife.

His hand was on the lock, but obedient to the conjugal command, he turned.

Come, and stand beside my dying bed."

He did as he was bid, but at the same time took occasion to inform Mrs. Potts he "wasn't flint or marble, or the nether millstone, and that this sort of thing tried him.”

"You must endeavour, my dear Mr. Potts," said Miss Simcox, who was industriously employed in drying her eyes. "You must endeavour to overcome these emotions, laudable as they are."

"They are an honour to your head and heart, but they must be overcome," said Mrs. Potts, somewhat peremptorily.

"I am not a stoic philosopher, nor a Brutus, no, nor a brute, Mrs. P.," he replied, "and I must be allowed to feel, I really must."

never

Lavinia, with uplifted hands and eyes, protested she had " seen such a husband-no, never-such devoted love!" Mrs. Potts raised her head from the pillow, nodded approbation to this sentiment, and then sank back exhausted.

There was silence in the sick chamber-Mr. Potts was dying to be out of it, and to go distracted in the parlour, where he had left the doctor, and the tea. Miss Simcox began to feel her situation embarrassing. Mr. Potts might now be considered a single man—a widower, with black crape upon his hat-her poor dear friend was evidently all but gone. Mrs. Potts, herself, broke not the stillness; she uttered no murmur, no complaint; she did not even cough,

but she covered up her face with the bed-clothes, and lay in meditation-she was collecting strength for a great effort.

At last she spoke

"Simcox," she said.

"My sweet sufferer!" Lavinia responded.

"When I'm gone-when I'm laid in my cold cold grave," (here Potts was observed to shiver convulsively,) "will you be a mother to my orphan six ?”

"I'll try," said Lavinia; and Lavinia said the truth.

"Compose yourself, Simcox-It's all very natural, and creditable to your affectionate disposition, to cry and give way so, but you must hear me come nearer both of you."

Lavinia came close-very close indeed. approach.

Potts was more slow of

"Remember it is my last wish, that you should be poor Potts's consolation-his second choice."

"Mrs. P.!" exclaimed that gentleman, who appeared to consider himself aggrieved.

"Potts," said the lady, emphatically, "it must be."

"It's-It's premature," stammered out the unhappy Mr. Potts. "Don't-don't talk so-dear Mrs. Potts," said the agitated Lavinia. "It looks as if I hadn't been a good husband-it looks as if I wasn't sorry. Upon my word, Mrs. P-, any stranger would think that we did not regret you."

"Oh, dear Mr. Potts," screamed Lavinia, "how can you give utterance to such horrid thoughts!"

"I see

'I am sure you do regret me, Simcox," said Mrs. Potts. how you feel-I see it perfectly well." Lavinia_winced-" but there are plenty of artful Misses," continued the sick lady, with remarkable energy-" whom I know to be on the look out, and I'm determined to disappoint them all-those Fusbys here three times a day to enquire!"

"Only twice," mildly observed Mr. Potts.

"Twice-three times-don't I lie here and count the double knocks?" said the lady with much asperity-" but I see how it is, Potts.-I see through it all—Oh, that Fanny Fusby!"

Mr. Potts protested his innocence with regard to Fanny, or any other Fusby.

Lavinia was alarmed-she recalled the Fusby eyes, as black as sloes-the Fusby skins, as white as cream-the Fusby cheeks, as red as roses-the Fusby faces, made after the pattern of a princess in a fairy tale no wonder that she trembled and turned pale.

"Promise me on your word of honour, Potts," said his wife, "that you'll never marry Fanny Fusby." He gave the promise. "Give me your hand." He gave that too.

"Simcox, where is yours?" said Mrs. Potts, and she sat up in the bed bolt upright.

Lavinia produced her hand, with a good deal of alacrity-it was shrouded in a worsted mitten.

"Take off that glove," said Mrs. Potts. "It's more impressive without it." Lavinia obeyed.

"There," said Mrs. Potts, as she seized her friend's hand, and placed it in that of Mr. Potts-" there it's done now-they 're joined -let them not be put asunder."