But all this concluding eloquence was lost upon the doctor, who had mentioned, in a lofty “aside” to Miss Arden, that “unless sent for he should not call again;” and with a marked politeness to her, and no recognition whatever of the baronet, he had taken his departure.
“I'm not the doctor, Sir Reginald; I'm the clergyman,” said the Reverend Peter Sprott, gravely and timidly, for the prominent brown eyes were threatening him.
“Oh, the clergyman! Oh, I see. Will you be so good as to ring the bell, please, and excuse a sick man giving you that trouble. And is there a post-office near this?”
“Yes, Sir—close by.”
“This is you, Alice? I'm glad you're here. You must write a letter this moment—a note to your brother. Don't be afraid—I'm better, a good deal—and tell the people, when they come, to get me some strong soup this moment, and—good evening, Sir, or good-night, or morning, or whatever it is,” he added, to the clergyman, who was taking his leave. “What o'clock is it?” he asked Alice. “Well, you'll write to your brother to meet me at Mortlake. I have not seen him, now, for how many years? I forget. He's in town, is he? Very good. And tell him it is perhaps the last time, and I expect him. I suppose he'll come. Say at a quarter past nine in the evening. The sooner it's over the better. I expect no good of it; it is only just to try. And I shall leave this early—immediately after breakfast—as quickly as we can. I hate it!”
CHAPTER XIII.
ON THE ROAD.
