The Chronicles of Barsetshire (122 page)

“I’m glad to see you able to travel,” said Dr. Thorne, who could not force himself to tell his guest that he was glad to see him at Greshamsbury.

“Oh, travel; yes, I can travel well enough. But I wish you had some better sort of trap down in these country parts. I’m shaken to bits. And, doctor, would you tell your people to send that fellow of mine up here with hot water.”

So dismissed, the doctor went his way, and met Joe swaggering in one of the passages, while Janet and her colleague dragged along between them a heavy article of baggage.

“Janet,” said he, “go downstairs and get Sir Louis some hot water, and Joe, do you take hold of your master’s portmanteau.”

Joe sulkily did as he was bid. “Seems to me,” said he, turning to the girl, and speaking before the doctor was out of hearing, “seems to me, my dear, you be rather short-handed here; lots of work and nothing to get; that’s about the ticket, ain’t it?” Bridget was too demurely modest to make any answer upon so short an acquaintance; so, putting her end of the burden down at the strange gentleman’s door, she retreated into the kitchen.

Sir Louis, in answer to the doctor’s inquiries, had declared himself to be all right; but his appearance was anything but all right. Twelve months since, a life of dissipation, or rather, perhaps, a life of drinking, had not had upon him so strong an effect but that some of the salt of youth was still left; some of the freshness of young years might still be seen in his face. But this was now all gone; his eyes were sunken and watery, his cheeks were hollow and wan, his mouth was drawn and his lips dry; his back was even bent, and his legs were unsteady under him, so that he had been forced to step down from his carriage as an old man would do. Alas, alas! he had no further chance now of ever being all right again.

Mary had secluded herself in her bedroom as soon as the carriage had driven up to the door, and there she remained till dinner-time. But she could not shut herself up altogether. It would be necessary that she should appear at dinner; and, therefore, a few minutes before the hour, she crept out into the drawing-room. As she opened the door, she looked in timidly, expecting Sir Louis to be there; but when she saw that her uncle was the only occupant of the room, her brow cleared, and she entered with a quick step.

“He’ll come down to dinner; won’t he, uncle?”

“Oh, I suppose so.”

“What’s he doing now?”

“Dressing, I suppose; he’s been at it this hour.”

“But, uncle—”

“Well?”

“Will he come up after dinner, do you think?”

Mary spoke of him as though he were some wild beast, whom her uncle insisted on having in his house.

“Goodness knows what he will do! Come up? Yes. He will not stay in the dining-room all night.”

“But, dear uncle, do be serious.”

“Serious!”

“Yes; serious. Don’t you think that I might go to bed, instead of waiting?”

The doctor was saved the trouble of answering by the entrance of the baronet. He was dressed in what he considered the most fashionable style of the day. He had on a new dress-coat lined with satin, new dress-trousers, a silk waistcoat covered with chains, a white cravat, polished pumps, and silk stockings, and he carried a scented handkerchief in his hand; he had rings on his fingers, and carbuncle studs in his shirt, and he smelt as sweet as patchouli could make him. But he could hardly do more than shuffle into the room, and seemed almost to drag one of his legs behind him.

Mary, in spite of her aversion, was shocked and distressed when she saw him. He, however, seemed to think himself perfect, and was no whit abashed by the unfavourable reception which twelve months since had been paid to his suit. Mary came up and shook hands with him, and he received her with a compliment which no doubt he thought must be acceptable. “Upon my word, Miss Thorne, every place seems to agree with you; one better than another. You were looking charming at Boxall Hill; but, upon my word, charming isn’t half strong enough now.”

Mary sat down quietly, and the doctor assumed a face of unutterable disgust. This was the creature for whom all his sympathies had been demanded, all his best energies put in requisition; on whose behalf he was to quarrel with his oldest friends, lose his peace and quietness of life, and exercise all the functions of a loving friend! This was his self-invited guest, whom he was bound to foster, and whom he could not turn from his door.

Then dinner came, and Mary had to put her hand upon his arm. She certainly did not lean upon him, and once or twice felt inclined to give him some support. They reached the dining-room, however, the doctor following them, and then sat down, Janet waiting in the room, as was usual.

“I say, doctor,” said the baronet, “hadn’t my man better come in and help? He’s got nothing to do, you know. We should be more cosy, shouldn’t we?”

“Janet will manage pretty well,” said the doctor.

“Oh, you’d better have Joe; there’s nothing like a good servant at table. I say, Janet, just send that fellow in, will you?”

“We shall do very well without him,” said the doctor, becoming rather red about the cheek-bones, and with a slight gleam of determination about the eye. Janet, who saw how matters stood, made no attempt to obey the baronet’s order.

“Oh, nonsense, doctor; you think he’s an uppish sort of fellow, I know, and you don’t like to trouble him; but when I’m near him, he’s all right; just send him in, will you?”

“Sir Louis,” said the doctor, “I’m accustomed to none but my own old woman here in my own house, and if you will allow me, I’ll keep my old ways. I shall be sorry if you are not comfortable.” The baronet said nothing more, and the dinner passed off slowly and wearily enough.

When Mary had eaten her fruit and escaped, the doctor got into one arm-chair and the baronet into another, and the latter began the only work of existence of which he knew anything.

“That’s good port,” said he; “very fair port.”

The doctor loved his port wine, and thawed a little in his manner. He loved it not as a toper, but as a collector loves his pet pictures. He liked to talk about it, and think about it; to praise it, and hear it praised; to look at it turned towards the light, and to count over the years it had lain in his cellar.

“Yes,” said he, “it’s pretty fair wine. It was, at least, when I got it, twenty years ago, and I don’t suppose time has hurt it;” and he held the glass up to the window, and looked at the evening light through the ruby tint of the liquid. “Ah, dear, there’s not much of it left; more’s the pity.”

“A good thing won’t last for ever. I’ll tell you what now; I wish I’d brought down a dozen or two of claret. I’ve some prime stuff in 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 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 to 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.