Doctor Thorne, Anthony Trollope [best book reader .txt] 📗

>London; got it from Muzzle & Drug, at ninety-six shillings; it was

a great favour, though. I’ll tell you what now, I’ll send up for a

couple of dozen to-morrow. I mustn’t drink you out of house, high and

dry; must I, doctor?”

 

The doctor froze immediately.

 

“I don’t think I need trouble you,” said he; “I never drink claret,

at least not here; and there’s enough of the old bin left to last

some little time longer yet.”

 

Sir Louis drank two or three glasses of wine very quickly after each

other, and they immediately began to tell upon his weak stomach. But

before he was tipsy, he became more impudent and more disagreeable.

 

“Doctor,” said he, “when are we to see any of this Greshamsbury

money? That’s what I want to know.”

 

“Your money is quite safe, Sir Louis; and the interest is paid to the

day.”

 

“Interest, yes; but how do I know how long it will be paid? I should

like to see the principal. A hundred thousand pounds, or something

like it, is a precious large stake to have in one man’s hands, and he

preciously hard up himself. I’ll tell you what, doctor—I shall look

the squire up myself.”

 

“Look him up?”

 

“Yes; look him up; ferret him out; tell him a bit of my mind. I’ll

thank you to pass the bottle. D–- me doctor; I mean to know how

things are going on.”

 

“Your money is quite safe,” repeated the doctor, “and, to my mind,

could not be better invested.”

 

“That’s all very well; d–- well, I dare say, for you and Squire

Gresham—”

 

“What do you mean, Sir Louis?”

 

“Mean! why I mean that I’ll sell the squire up; that’s what I

mean—hallo—beg pardon. I’m blessed if I haven’t broken the

water-jug. That comes of having water on the table. Oh, d–- me,

it’s all over me.” And then, getting up, to avoid the flood he

himself had caused, he nearly fell into the doctor’s arms.

 

“You’re tired with your journey, Sir Louis; perhaps you’d better go

to bed.”

 

“Well, I am a bit seedy or so. Those cursed roads of yours shake a

fellow so.”

 

The doctor rang the bell, and, on this occasion, did request that Joe

might be sent for. Joe came in, and, though he was much steadier than

his master, looked as though he also had found some bin of which he

had approved.

 

“Sir Louis wishes to go to bed,” said the doctor; “you had better

give him your arm.”

 

“Oh, yes; in course I will,” said Joe, standing immoveable about

half-way between the door and the table.

 

“I’ll just take one more glass of the old port—eh, doctor?” said Sir

Louis, putting out his hand and clutching the decanter.

 

It is very hard for any man to deny his guest in his own house, and

the doctor, at the moment, did not know how to do it; so Sir Louis

got his wine, after pouring half of it over the table.

 

“Come in, sir, and give Sir Louis your arm,” said the doctor,

angrily.

 

“So I will in course, if my master tells me; but, if you please, Dr

Thorne,”—and Joe put his hand up to his hair in a manner that had a

great deal more of impudence than reverence in it—“I just want to ax

one question: where be I to sleep?”

 

Now this was a question which the doctor was not prepared to answer

on the spur of the moment, however well Janet or Mary might have been

able to do so.

 

“Sleep,” said he, “I don’t know where you are to sleep, and don’t

care; ask Janet.”

 

“That’s all very well, master—”

 

“Hold your tongue, sirrah!” said Sir Louis. “What the devil do you

want of sleep?—come here,” and then, with his servant’s help, he

made his way up to his bedroom, and was no more heard of that night.

 

“Did he get tipsy,” asked Mary, almost in a whisper, when her uncle

joined her in the drawing-room.

 

“Don’t talk of it,” said he. “Poor wretch! poor wretch! Let’s

have some tea now, Molly, and pray don’t talk any more about him

to-night.” Then Mary did make the tea, and did not talk any more

about Sir Louis that night.

 

What on earth were they to do with him? He had come there

self-invited; but his connexion with the doctor was such, that it

was impossible he should be told to go away, either he himself, or

that servant of his. There was no reason to disbelieve him when he

declared that he had come down to ferret out the squire. Such was,

doubtless, his intention. He would ferret out the squire. Perhaps he

might ferret out Lady Arabella also. Frank would be home in a few

days; and he, too, might be ferreted out.

 

But the matter took a very singular turn, and one quite unexpected

on the doctor’s part. On the morning following the little dinner of

which we have spoken, one of the Greshamsbury grooms rode up to the

doctor’s door with two notes. One was addressed to the doctor in the

squire’s well-known large handwriting, and the other was for Sir

Louis. Each contained an invitation do dinner for the following day;

and that to the doctor was in this wise:—

 

DEAR DOCTOR,

 

Do come and dine here to-morrow, and bring Sir Louis

Scatcherd with you. If you’re the man I take you to be,

you won’t refuse me. Lady Arabella sends a note for

Sir Louis. There will be nobody here but Oriel, and Mr

Gazebee, who is staying in the house.

 

Yours ever,

 

F. N. GRESHAM.

 

Greshamsbury, July, 185—.

 

P.S.—I make a positive request that you’ll come, and I

think you will hardly refuse me.

 

The doctor read it twice before he could believe it, and then ordered

Janet to take the other note up to Sir Louis. As these invitations

were rather in opposition to the then existing Greshamsbury tactics,

the cause of Lady Arabella’s special civility must be explained.

 

Mr Mortimer Gazebee was now at the house, and therefore, it must

be presumed, that things were not allowed to go on after their old

fashion. Mr Gazebee was an acute as well as a fashionable man; one

who knew what he was about, and who, moreover, had determined to give

his very best efforts on behalf of the Greshamsbury property. His

energy, in this respect, will explain itself hereafter. It was not

probable that the arrival in the village of such a person as Sir

Louis Scatcherd should escape attention. He had heard of it before

dinner, and, before the evening was over, had discussed it with Lady

Arabella.

 

Her ladyship was not at first inclined to make much of Sir Louis, and

expressed herself as but little inclined to agree with Mr Gazebee

when that gentleman suggested that he should be treated with civility

at Greshamsbury. But she was at last talked over. She found it

pleasant enough to have more to do with the secret management of the

estate than Mr Gresham himself; and when Mr Gazebee proved to her,

by sundry nods and winks, and subtle allusions to her own infinite

good sense, that it was necessary to catch this obscene bird which

had come to prey upon the estate, by throwing a little salt upon his

tail, she also nodded and winked, and directed Augusta to prepare the

salt according to order.

 

“But won’t it be odd, Mr Gazebee, asking him out of Dr Thorne’s

house?”

 

“Oh, we must have the doctor, too, Lady Arabella; by all means ask

the doctor also.”

 

Lady Arabella’s brow grew dark. “Mr Gazebee,” she said, “you can

hardly believe how that man has behaved to me.”

 

“He is altogether beneath your anger,” said Mr Gazebee, with a bow.

 

“I don’t know: in one way he may be, but not in another. I really do

not think I can sit down to table with Doctor Thorne.”

 

But, nevertheless, Mr Gazebee gained his point. It was now about a

week since Sir Omicron Pie had been at Greshamsbury, and the squire

had, almost daily, spoken to his wife as to that learned man’s

advice. Lady Arabella always answered in the same tone: “You can

hardly know, Mr Gresham, how that man has insulted me.” But,

nevertheless, the physician’s advice had not been disbelieved: it

tallied too well with her own inward convictions. She was anxious

enough to have Doctor Thorne back at her bedside, if she could only

get him there without damage to her pride. Her husband, she thought,

might probably send the doctor there without absolute permission from

herself; in which case she would have been able to scold, and show

that she was offended; and, at the same time, profit by what had been

done. But Mr Gresham never thought of taking so violent a step as

this, and, therefore, Dr Fillgrave still came, and her ladyship’s

finesse was wasted in vain.

 

But Mr Gazebee’s proposition opened a door by which her point might

be gained. “Well,” said she, at last, with infinite self-denial, “if

you think it is for Mr Gresham’s advantage, and if he chooses to ask

Dr Thorne, I will not refuse to receive him.”

 

Mr Gazebee’s next task was to discuss the matter with the squire. Nor

was this easy, for Mr Gazebee was no favourite with Mr Gresham. But

the task was at last performed successfully. Mr Gresham was so glad

at heart to find himself able, once more, to ask his old friend to

his own house; and, though it would have pleased him better that this

sign of relenting on his wife’s part should have reached him by other

means, he did not refuse to take advantage of it; and so he wrote the

above letter to Dr Thorne.

 

The doctor, as we have said, read it twice; and he at once resolved

stoutly that he would not go.

 

“Oh, do, do go!” said Mary. She well knew how wretched this feud had

made her uncle. “Pray, pray go!”

 

“Indeed, I will not,” said he. “There are some things a man should

bear, and some he should not.”

 

“You must go,” said Mary, who had taken the note from her uncle’s

hand, and read it. “You cannot refuse him when he asks you like

that.”

 

“It will greatly grieve me; but I must refuse him.”

 

“I also am angry, uncle; very angry with Lady Arabella; but for him,

for the squire, I would go to him on my knees if he asked me in that

way.”

 

“Yes; and had he asked you, I also would have gone.”

 

“Oh! now I shall be so wretched. It is his invitation, not hers: Mr

Gresham could not ask me. As for her, do not think of her; but do, do

go when he asks you like that. You will make me so miserable if you

do not. And then Sir Louis cannot go without you,”—and Mary pointed

upstairs—“and you may be sure that he will go.”

 

“Yes; and make a beast of himself.”

 

This colloquy was cut short by a message praying the doctor to go up

to Sir Louis’s room. The young man was sitting in his dressing-gown,

drinking a cup of coffee at his toilet-table, while Joe was preparing

his razor and hot water. The doctor’s nose immediately told him

that there was more in the coffee-cup than had come out of his own

kitchen, and he would not let the offence pass unnoticed.

 

“Are you taking