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

awhile.”

 

“Of course I am. Am I not always to be so?”

 

“Well, well; let me have some tea, at any rate, for I’m in a fever of

thirst. They may call that tea at the Junction if they will; but if

China were sunk under the sea it would make no difference to them.”

 

Dr Thorne always was in a fever of thirst when he got home from the

railway, and always made complaint as to the tea at the Junction.

Mary went about her usual work with almost more than her usual

alacrity, and so they were soon seated in the drawing-room together.

 

She soon found that his manner was more than ordinarily kind to her;

and there was moreover something about him which seemed to make him

sparkle with contentment, but he said no word about Frank, nor did he

make any allusion to the business which had taken him up to town.

 

“Have you got through all your work?” she said to him once.

 

“Yes, yes; I think all.”

 

“And thoroughly?”

 

“Yes; thoroughly, I think. But I am very tired, and so are you too,

darling, with waiting for me.”

 

“Oh, no, I am not,” said she, as she went on continually filling his

cup; “but I am so happy to have you home again. You have been away so

much lately.”

 

“Ah, yes; well I suppose I shall not go away any more now. It will be

somebody else’s turn now.”

 

“Uncle, I think you’re going to take up writing mystery romances,

like Mrs Radcliffe’s.”

 

“Yes; and I’ll begin to-morrow, certainly with— But, Mary, I will

not say another word to-night. Give me a kiss, dearest, and I’ll go.”

 

Mary did kiss him, and he did go. But as she was still lingering in

the room, putting away a book, or a reel of thread, and then sitting

down to think what the morrow would bring forth, the doctor again

came into the room in his dressing-gown, and with the slippers on.

 

“What, not gone yet?” said he.

 

“No, not yet; I’m going now.”

 

“You and I, Mary, have always affected a good deal of indifference as

to money, and all that sort of thing.”

 

“I won’t acknowledge that it has been an affectation at all,” she

answered.

 

“Perhaps not; but we have often expressed it, have we not?”

 

“I suppose, uncle, you think that we are like the fox that lost his

tail, or rather some unfortunate fox that might be born without one.”

 

“I wonder how we should either of us bear it if we found ourselves

suddenly rich. It would be a great temptation—a sore temptation. I

fear, Mary, that when poor people talk disdainfully of money, they

often are like your fox, born without a tail. If nature suddenly

should give that beast a tail, would he not be prouder of it than all

the other foxes in the wood?”

 

“Well, I suppose he would. That’s the very meaning of the story. But

how moral you’ve become all of a sudden at twelve o’clock at night!

Instead of being Mrs Radcliffe, I shall think you’re Mr Æsop.”

 

He took up the article which he had come to seek, and kissing her

again on the forehead, went away to his bedroom without further

speech. “What can he mean by all this about money?” said Mary to

herself. “It cannot be that by Sir Louis’s death he will get any of

all this property;” and then she began to bethink herself whether,

after all, she would wish him to be a rich man. “If he were very

rich, he might do something to assist Frank; and then—”

 

There never was a fox yet without a tail who would not be delighted

to find himself suddenly possessed of that appendage. Never; let the

untailed fox have been ever so sincere in his advice to his friends!

We are all of us, the good and the bad, looking for tails—for one

tail, or for more than one; we do so too often by ways that are

mean enough: but perhaps there is no tail-seeker more mean, more

sneakingly mean than he who looks out to adorn his bare back with a

tail by marriage.

 

The doctor was up very early the next morning, long before Mary was

ready with her teacups. He was up, and in his own study behind the

shop, arranging dingy papers, pulling about tin boxes which he had

brought down with him from London, and piling on his writing-table

one set of documents in one place, and one in another. “I think I

understand it all,” said he; “but yet I know I shall be bothered.

Well, I never will be anybody’s trustee again. Let me see!” and then

he sat down, and with bewildered look recapitulated to himself sundry

heavy items. “What those shares are really worth I cannot understand,

and nobody seems able to tell one. They must make it out among

them as best they can. Let me see; that’s Boxall Hill, and this is

Greshamsbury. I’ll put a newspaper over Greshamsbury, or the squire

will know it!” and then, having made his arrangements, he went to his

breakfast.

 

I know I am wrong, my much and truly honoured critic, about these

title-deeds and documents. But when we’ve got that barrister in

hand, then if I go wrong after that, let the blame be on my own

shoulders—or on his.

 

The doctor ate his breakfast quickly; and did not talk much to his

niece. But what he did say was of a nature to make her feel strangely

happy. She could not analyse her own feelings, or give a reason for

her own confidence; but she certainly did feel, and even trust, that

something was going to happen after breakfast which would make her

more happy than she had been for many months.

 

“Janet,” said he, looking at his watch, “if Mr Gresham and Mr

Frank call, show them into my study. What are you going to do with

yourself, my dear?”

 

“I don’t know, uncle; you are so mysterious, and I am in such a

twitter, that I don’t know what to do. Why is Mr Gresham coming

here—that is, the squire?”

 

“Because I have business with him about the Scatcherd property. You

know that he owed Sir Louis money. But don’t go out, Mary. I want you

to be in the way if I should have to call for you. You can stay in

the drawing-room, can’t you?”

 

“Oh, yes, uncle; or here.”

 

“No, dearest; go into the drawing-room.” Mary obediently did as she

was bid; and there she sat, for the next three hours, wondering,

wondering, wondering. During the greater part of that time, however,

she well knew that Mr Gresham, senior, and Mr Gresham, junior, were

both with her uncle, below.

 

At eleven o’clock the doctor’s visitors came. He had expected them

somewhat earlier, and was beginning to become fidgety. He had so much

on his hands that he could not sit still for a moment till he had, at

any rate, commenced it. The expected footsteps were at last heard on

the gravel-path, and a moment or two afterwards Janet ushered the

father and son into the room.

 

The squire did not look very well. He was worn and sorrowful, and

rather pale. The death of his young creditor might be supposed to

have given him some relief from his more pressing cares, but the

necessity of yielding to Frank’s wishes had almost more than balanced

this. When a man has daily to reflect that he is poorer than he was

the day before, he soon becomes worn and sorrowful.

 

But Frank was well; both in health and spirits. He also felt as Mary

did, that the day was to bring forth something which should end his

present troubles; and he could not but be happy to think that he

could now tell Dr Thorne that his father’s consent to his marriage

had been given.

 

The doctor shook hands with them both, and then they sat down. They

were all rather constrained in their manner; and at first it seemed

that nothing but little speeches of compliment were to be made. At

last, the squire remarked that Frank had been talking to him about

Miss Thorne.

 

“About Mary?” said the doctor.

 

“Yes; about Mary,” said the squire, correcting himself. It was quite

unnecessary that he should use so cold a name as the other, now that

he had agreed to the match.

 

“Well!” said Dr Thorne.

 

“I suppose it must be so, doctor. He has set his heart upon it, and

God knows, I have nothing to say against her—against her personally.

No one could say a word against her. She is a sweet, good girl,

excellently brought up; and, as for myself, I have always loved her.”

Frank drew near to his father, and pressed his hand against the

squire’s arm, by way of giving him, in some sort, a filial embrace

for his kindness.

 

“Thank you, squire, thank you,” said the doctor. “It is very good of

you to say that. She is a good girl, and if Frank chooses to take

her, he will, in my estimation, have made a good choice.”

 

“Chooses!” said Frank, with all the enthusiasm of a lover.

 

The squire felt himself perhaps a little ruffled at the way in which

the doctor received his gracious intimation; but he did now show it

as he went on. “They cannot, you know, doctor, look to be rich

people—”

 

“Ah! well, well,” interrupted the doctor.

 

“I have told Frank so, and I think that you should tell Mary. Frank

means to take some land into his hand, and he must farm it as a

farmer. I will endeavour to give him three, or perhaps four hundred a

year. But you know better—”

 

“Stop, squire; stop a minute. We will talk about that presently. This

death of poor Sir Louis will make a difference.”

 

“Not permanently,” said the squire mournfully.

 

“And now, Frank,” said the doctor, not attending to the squire’s last

words, “what do you say?”

 

“What do I say? I say what I said to you in London the other day. I

believe Mary loves me; indeed, I won’t be affected—I know she does.

I have loved her—I was going to say always; and, indeed, I almost

might say so. My father knows that this is no light fancy of mine. As

to what he says about our being poor, why—”

 

The doctor was very arbitrary, and would hear neither of them on this

subject.

 

“Mr Gresham,” said he, interrupting Frank, “of course I am well aware

how very little suited Mary is by birth to marry your only son.”

 

“It is too late to think about it now,” said the squire.

 

“It is not too late for me to justify myself,” replied the doctor.

“We have long known each other, Mr Gresham, and you said here the

other day, that this is a subject as to which we have been both of

one mind. Birth and blood are very valuable gifts.”

 

“I certainly think so,” said the squire; “but one can’t have

everything.”

 

“No; one can’t have everything.”

 

“If I am satisfied in that matter—” began Frank.

 

“Stop a moment, my dear boy,” said the doctor. “As your father says,

one can’t have everything. My dear friend—” and he gave his hand to

the squire—“do not be angry if I alluded for a moment to the estate.

It has grieved me to see it melting away—the old family acres that