Doctor Thorne, Anthony Trollope [an ebook reader .TXT] 📗

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 halfway 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 tonight.” 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 connection 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 to dinner for the following day; and that to the doctor was in this wise:⁠—

Dear Doctor,

Do come and dine here tomorrow, 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