Doctor Thorne, Anthony Trollope [best book reader .txt] 📗

to a week of misery.

 

When the post-bag arrived at the house on Monday morning, it was

opened as usual by the squire himself at the breakfast-table. “Here

is a letter for Frank,” said he, “posted in the village. You had

better send it to him:” and he threw the letter across the table to

Beatrice.

 

“It’s from Mary,” said Beatrice, out loud, taking the letter up and

examining the address. And having said so, she repented what she had

done, as she looked first at her father and then at her mother.

 

A cloud came over the squire’s brow as for a minute he went on

turning over the letters and newspapers. “Oh, from Mary Thorne, is

it?” he said. “Well, you had better send it to him.”

 

“Frank said that if any letters came they were to be kept,” said his

sister Sophy. “He told me so particularly. I don’t think he likes

having letters sent after him.”

 

“You had better send that one,” said the squire.

 

“Mr Oriel is to have all his letters addressed to Long’s Hotel, Bond

Street, and this one can very well be sent with them,” said Beatrice,

who knew all about it, and intended herself to make a free use of the

address.

 

“Yes, you had better send it,” said the squire; and then nothing

further was said at the table. But Lady Arabella, though she said

nothing, had not failed to mark what had passed. Had she asked for

the letter before the squire, he would probably have taken possession

of it himself; but as soon as she was alone with Beatrice, she did

demand it. “I shall be writing to Frank myself,” she said, “and will

send it to him.” And so, Beatrice, with a heavy heart, gave it up.

 

The letter lay before Lady Arabella’s eyes all that day, and many a

wistful glance was cast at it. She turned it over and over, and much

she desired to know its contents; but she did not dare to break the

seal of her son’s letter. All that day it lay upon her desk, and all

the next, for she could hardly bring herself to part with it; but on

the Wednesday it was sent—sent with these lines from herself:—

 

“Dearest, dearest Frank, I send you a letter which has come by the

post from Mary Thorne. I do not know what it may contain; but before

you correspond with her, pray, pray think of what I said to you. For

my sake, for your father’s, for your own, pray think of it.”

 

That was all, but it was enough to make her word to Beatrice true.

She did send it to Frank enclosed in a letter from herself. We must

reserve to the next chapter what had taken place between Frank and

his mother; but, for the present, we will return to the doctor’s

house.

 

Mary said not a word to him about the letter; but, keeping silent on

the subject, she felt wretchedly estranged from him. “Is anything the

matter, Mary?” he said to her on the Sunday afternoon.

 

“No, uncle,” she answered, turning away her head to hide her tears.

 

“Ah, but there is something; what is it, dearest?”

 

“Nothing—that is, nothing that one can talk about.”

 

“What Mary! Be unhappy and not to talk about it to me? That’s

something new, is it not?”

 

“One has presentiments sometimes, and is unhappy without knowing why.

Besides, you know—”

 

“I know! What do I know? Do I know anything that will make my pet

happier?” and he took her in his arms as they sat together on the

sofa. Her tears were now falling fast, and she no longer made an

effort to hide them. “Speak to me, Mary; this is more than a

presentiment. What is it?”

 

“Oh, uncle—”

 

“Come, love, speak to me; tell me why you are grieving.”

 

“Oh, uncle, why have you not spoken to me? Why have you not told

me what to do? Why have you not advised me? Why are you always so

silent?”

 

“Silent about what?”

 

“You know, uncle, you know; silent about him; silent about Frank.”

 

Why, indeed? What was he to say to this? It was true that he had

never counselled her; never shown her what course she should take;

had never even spoken to her about her lover. And it was equally true

that he was not now prepared to do so, even in answer to such an

appeal as this. He had a hope, a strong hope, more than a hope, that

Mary’s love would yet be happy; but he could not express or explain

his hope; nor could he even acknowledge to himself a wish that would

seem to be based on the death of him whose life he was bound, if

possible, to preserve.

 

“My love,” he said, “it is a matter in which you must judge for

yourself. Did I doubt your conduct, I should interfere; but I do

not.”

 

“Conduct! Is conduct everything? One may conduct oneself excellently,

and yet break one’s heart.”

 

This was too much for the doctor; his sternness and firmness

instantly deserted him. “Mary,” he said, “I will do anything that you

would have me. If you wish it, I will make arrangements for leaving

this place at once.”

 

“Oh, no,” she said, plaintively.

 

“When you tell me of a broken heart, you almost break my own. Come

to me, darling; do not leave me so. I will say all that I can say. I

have thought, do still think, that circumstances will admit of your

marriage with Frank if you both love each other, and can both be

patient.”

 

“You think so,” said she, unconsciously sliding her hand into his,

as though to thank him by its pressure for the comfort he was giving

her.

 

“I do think so now more than ever. But I only think so; I have been

unable to assure you. There, darling, I must not say more; only that

I cannot bear to see you grieving, I would not have said this:” and

then he left her, and nothing more was spoken on the subject.

 

If you can be patient! Why, a patience of ten years would be as

nothing to her. Could she but live with the knowledge that she was

first in his estimation, dearest in his heart; could it be also

granted to her to feel that she was regarded as his equal, she could

be patient for ever. What more did she want than to know and feel

this? Patient, indeed!

 

But what could these circumstances be to which her uncle had alluded?

“I do think that circumstances will admit of your marriage.” Such was

his opinion, and she had never known him to be wrong. Circumstances!

What circumstances? Did he perhaps mean that Mr Gresham’s affairs

were not so bad as they had been thought to be? If so, that alone

would hardly alter the matter, for what could she give in return? “I

would give him the world for one word of love,” she said to herself,

“and never think that he was my debtor. Ah! how beggarly the heart

must be that speculates on such gifts as those!”

 

But there was her uncle’s opinion: he still thought that they might

be married. Oh, why had she sent her letter? and why had she made it

so cold? With such a letter as that before him, Frank could not do

other than consent to her proposal. And then, why did he not at least

answer it?

 

On the Sunday afternoon there arrived at Greshamsbury a man and a

horse from Boxall Hill, bearing a letter from Lady Scatcherd to Dr

Thorne, earnestly requesting the doctor’s immediate attendance. “I

fear everything is over with poor Louis,” wrote the unhappy mother.

“It has been very dreadful. Do come to me; I have no other friend,

and I am nearly worn through with it. The man from the city”—she

meant Dr Fillgrave—“comes every day, and I dare say he is all very

well, but he has never done much good. He has not had spirit enough

to keep the bottle from him; and it was that, and that only, that

most behoved to be done. I doubt you won’t find him in this world

when you arrive here.”

 

Dr Thorne started immediately. Even though he might have to meet Dr

Fillgrave, he could not hesitate, for he went not as a doctor to the

dying man, but as the trustee under Sir Roger’s will. Moreover, as

Lady Scatcherd had said, he was her only friend, and he could not

desert her at such a moment for an army of Fillgraves. He told

Mary he should not return that night; and taking with him a small

saddle-bag, he started at once for Boxall Hill.

 

As he rode up to the hall door, Dr Fillgrave was getting into his

carriage. They had never met so as to speak to each other since that

memorable day, when they had their famous passage of arms in the hall

of that very house before which they both now stood. But, at the

present moment, neither of them was disposed to renew the fight.

 

“What news of your patient, Dr Fillgrave?” said our doctor, still

seated on his sweating horse, and putting his hand lightly to his

hat.

 

Dr Fillgrave could not refrain from one moment of supercilious

disdain: he gave one little chuck to his head, one little twist to

his neck, one little squeeze to his lips, and then the man within him

overcame the doctor. “Sir Louis is no more,” he said.

 

“God’s will be done!” said Dr Thorne.

 

“His death is a release; for his last days have been very frightful.

Your coming, Dr Thorne, will be a comfort to Lady Scatcherd.” And

then Dr Fillgrave, thinking that even the present circumstances

required no further condescension, ensconced himself in the carriage.

 

“His last days have been very dreadful! Ah, me, poor fellow! Dr

Fillgrave, before you go, allow me to say this: I am quite aware that

when he fell into your hands, no medical skill in the world could

save him.”

 

Dr Fillgrave bowed low from the carriage, and after this unwonted

exchange of courtesies, the two doctors parted, not to meet again—at

any rate, in the pages of this novel. Of Dr Fillgrave, let it now be

said, that he grows in dignity as he grows in years, and that he is

universally regarded as one of the celebrities of the city of

Barchester.

 

Lady Scatcherd was found sitting alone in her little room on the

ground-floor. Even Hannah was not with her, for Hannah was now

occupied upstairs. When the doctor entered the room, which he did

unannounced, he found her seated on a chair, with her back against

one of the presses, her hands clasped together over her knees, gazing

into vacancy. She did not ever hear him or see him as he approached,

and his hand had slightly touched her shoulder before she knew that

she was not alone. Then, she looked up at him with a face so full of

sorrow, so worn with suffering, that his own heart was racked to see

her.

 

“It is all over, my friend,” said he. “It is better so; much better

so.”

 

She seemed at first hardly to understand him, but still regarding him

with that wan face, shook her head slowly and sadly. One might have

thought that she was twenty years older than when Dr Thorne last saw

her.

 

He drew a chair to her side, and sitting by