It was now the 9th; and the next day well over, he might laugh at his
visions and auguries.

On the evening of the 9th, Dr. Hedstone's footman knocked at the
Judge's door. The Doctor ran up the dusky stairs to the drawing-room. It
was a March evening, near the hour of sunset, with an east wind
whistling sharply through the chimney-stacks. A wood fire blazed
cheerily on the hearth. And Judge Harbottle, in what was then called a
brigadier-wig, with his red roquelaure on, helped the glowing effect of
the darkened chamber, which looked red all over like a room on fire.

The Judge had his feet on a stool, and his huge grim purple face
confronted the fire, and seemed to pant and swell, as the blaze
alternately spread upward and collapsed. He had fallen again among his
blue devils, and was thinking of retiring from the Bench, and of fifty
other gloomy things.

But the Doctor, who was an energetic son of Aesculapius, would listen to
no croaking, told the Judge he was full of gout, and in his present
condition no judge even of his own case, but promised him leave to
pronounce on all those melancholy questions, a fortnight later.

In the meantime the Judge must be very careful. He was overcharged with
gout, and he must not provoke an attack, till the waters of Buxton
should do that office for him, in their own salutary way.

The Doctor did not think him perhaps quite so well as he pretended, for
he told him he wanted rest, and would be better if he went forthwith to
his bed.