He was about six feet or nearly so in height, with a highly intellectual though not a handsome face. His brown hair, carelessly brushed, fell over a forehead both broad and lofty, beneath which shone a pair of bold, clear grey eyes. The moment Troubridge saw him he set him down in his own mind as a "goer," by which he meant a man who had go, or energy, in him. A man, he thought, who is thrown away as a parson.
The Bishop, ringing the bell, began again, "This is my nephew, Mr. Frank Maberly."
The sleek servant entered.
"My dear Frank, pray give that rat to Sanders, and let him take it away. I don't like such things in the study."
"I only brought it to convince you, uncle," said the other. "Here you are, Sanders!"
But Sanders would have as soon shaken hands with the Pope. He rather thought the rat was alive; and, taking the tongs, he received the beast at a safe distance, while Tom saw a smile of contempt pass over the young curate's features.
"You'd make a good missionary, Sanders," said he; and, turning to Troubridge, continued, "Pray excuse this interlude, sir. You don't look as if you would refuse to shake me by my ratty hand."
Tom thought he would sooner shake hands with him than fight him, and was so won by Maberly's manner, that he was just going to say so, when he recollected the presence he was in, and blushed scarlet.
"My dear Frank," resumed his uncle, "Mr. Thornton of Drumston is taken suddenly ill, and I want you to go over and do his duties for him till he is better."
"Most certainly, my dear lord; and when shall I go?"