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

not only did he see her to be beautiful, and perceive her

to be attractive and ladylike; but she was also the niece of the man

who, for the present, held the purse-strings of his wealth. Mary, it

is true, had no fortune. But Sir Louis knew that she was acknowledged

to be a lady; and he was ambitious that his “lady” should be a lady.

There was also much to recommend Mary to the mother, to any mother;

and thus it came to pass, that Miss Thorne had no obstacle between

her and the dignity of being Lady Scatcherd the second;—no obstacle

whatever, if only she could bring herself to wish it.

 

It was some time—two or three weeks, perhaps—before Mary’s mind was

first opened to this new brilliancy in her prospects. Sir Louis at

first was rather afraid of her, and did not declare his admiration

in any very determined terms. He certainly paid her many compliments

which, from any one else, she would have regarded as abominable.

But she did not expect great things from the baronet’s taste: she

concluded that he was only doing what he thought a gentleman should

do; and she was willing to forgive much for Lady Scatcherd’s sake.

 

His first attempts were, perhaps, more ludicrous than passionate. He

was still too much an invalid to take walks, and Mary was therefore

saved from his company in her rambles; but he had a horse of his own

at Boxall Hill, and had been advised to ride by the doctor. Mary

also rode—on a donkey only, it is true—but Sir Louis found himself

bound in gallantry to accompany her. Mary’s steed had answered every

expectation, and proved himself very quiet; so quiet, that without

the admonition of a cudgel behind him, he could hardly be persuaded

into the demurest trot. Now, as Sir Louis’s horse was of a very

different mettle, he found it rather difficult not to step

faster than his inamorata; and, let it him struggle as he would,

was generally so far ahead as to be debarred the delights of

conversation.

 

When for the second time he proposed to accompany her, Mary did what

she could to hinder it. She saw that he had been rather ashamed of

the manner in which his companion was mounted, and she herself would

have enjoyed her ride much more without him. He was an invalid,

however; it was necessary to make much of him, and Mary did not

absolutely refuse his offer.

 

“Lady Scatcherd,” said he, as they were standing at the door previous

to mounting—he always called his mother Lady Scatcherd—“why don’t

you have a horse for Miss Thorne? This donkey is—is—really is, so

very—very—can’t go at all, you know?”

 

Lady Scatcherd began to declare that she would willingly have got a

pony if Mary would have let her do so.

 

“Oh, no, Lady Scatcherd; not on any account. I do like the donkey so

much—I do indeed.”

 

“But he won’t go,” said Sir Louis. “And for a person who rides like

you, Miss Thorne—such a horsewoman you know—why, you know, Lady

Scatcherd, it’s positively ridiculous; d–- absurd, you know.”

 

And then, with an angry look at his mother, he mounted his horse, and

was soon leading the way down the avenue.

 

“Miss Thorne,” said he, pulling himself up at the gate, “if I had

known that I was to be so extremely happy as to have found you here,

I would have brought you down the most beautiful creature, an Arab.

She belongs to my friend Jenkins; but I wouldn’t have stood at any

price in getting her for you. By Jove! if you were on that mare, I’d

back you, for style and appearance, against anything in Hyde Park.”

 

The offer of this sporting wager, which naturally would have been

very gratifying to Mary, was lost upon her, for Sir Louis had again

unwittingly got on in advance, but he stopped himself in time to hear

Mary again declare her passion was a donkey.

 

“If you could only see Jenkins’s little mare, Miss Thorne! Only say

one word, and she shall be down here before the week’s end. Price

shall be no obstacle—none whatever. By Jove, what a pair you would

be!”

 

This generous offer was repeated four or five times; but on each

occasion Mary only half heard what was said, and on each occasion the

baronet was far too much in advance to hear Mary’s reply. At last he

recollected that he wanted to call on one of the tenants, and begged

his companion to allow him to ride on.

 

“If you at all dislike being left alone, you know—”

 

“Oh dear no, not at all, Sir Louis. I am quite used to it.”

 

“Because I don’t care about it, you know; only I can’t make this

horse walk the same pace as that brute.”

 

“You mustn’t abuse my pet, Sir Louis.”

 

“It’s a d–- shame on my mother’s part;” said Sir Louis, who, even

when in his best behaviour, could not quite give up his ordinary mode

of conversation. “When she was fortunate enough to get such a girl as

you to come and stay with her, she ought to have had something proper

for her to ride upon; but I’ll look to it as soon as I am a little

stronger, you see if I don’t;” and, so saying, Sir Louis trotted off,

leaving Mary in peace with her donkey.

 

Sir Louis had now been living cleanly and forswearing sack for what

was to him a very long period, and his health felt the good effects

of it. No one rejoiced at this more cordially than did the doctor. To

rejoice at it was with him a point of conscience. He could not help

telling himself now and again that, circumstanced as he was, he was

most specially bound to take joy in any sign of reformation which

the baronet might show. Not to do so would be almost tantamount

to wishing that he might die in order that Mary might inherit his

wealth; and, therefore, the doctor did with all his energy devote

himself to the difficult task of hoping and striving that Sir Louis

might yet live to enjoy what was his own. But the task was altogether

a difficult one, for as Sir Louis became stronger in health, so

also did he become more exorbitant in his demands on the doctor’s

patience, and more repugnant to the doctor’s tastes.

 

In his worst fits of disreputable living he was ashamed to apply to

his guardian for money; and in his worst fits of illness he was,

through fear, somewhat patient under his doctor’s hands; but just at

present he had nothing of which to be ashamed, and was not at all

patient.

 

“Doctor,”—said he, one day, at Boxall Hill—“how about those

Greshamsbury title-deeds?”

 

“Oh, that will all be properly settled between my lawyer and your

own.”

 

“Oh—ah—yes; no doubt the lawyers will settle it: settle it with a

fine bill of costs, of course. But, as Finnie says,”—Finnie was Sir

Louis’s legal adviser—“I have got a tremendously large interest at

stake in this matter; eighty thousand pounds is no joke. It ain’t

everybody that can shell out eighty thousand pounds when they’re

wanted; and I should like to know how the thing’s going on. I’ve a

right to ask, you know; eh, doctor?”

 

“The title-deeds of a large portion of the Greshamsbury estate will

be placed with the mortgage-deeds before the end of next month.”

 

“Oh, that’s all right. I choose to know about these things; for

though my father did make such a confound-ed will, that’s no reason

I shouldn’t know how things are going.”

 

“You shall know everything that I know, Sir Louis.”

 

“And now, doctor, what are we to do about money?”

 

“About money?”

 

“Yes; money, rhino, ready! ‘put money in your purse and cut a dash;’

eh, doctor? Not that I want to cut a dash. No, I’m going on the quiet

line altogether now: I’ve done with all that sort of thing.”

 

“I’m heartily glad of it; heartily,” said the doctor.

 

“Yes, I’m not going to make way for my far-away cousin yet; not if I

know it, at least. I shall soon be all right now, doctor; shan’t I?”

 

“‘All right’ is a long word, Sir Louis. But I do hope you will be all

right in time, if you will live with decent prudence. You shouldn’t

take that filth in the morning though.”

 

“Filth in the morning! That’s my mother, I suppose! That’s her

ladyship! She’s been talking, has she? Don’t you believe her, doctor.

There’s not a young man in Barsetshire is going more regular, all

right within the posts, than I am.”

 

The doctor was obliged to acknowledge that there did seem to be some

improvement.

 

“And now, doctor, how about money? Eh?”

 

Doctor Thorne, like other guardians similarly circumstanced, began to

explain that Sir Louis had already had a good deal of money, and had

begun also to promise that more should be forthcoming in the event

of good behaviour, when he was somewhat suddenly interrupted by Sir

Louis.

 

“Well, now; I’ll tell you what, doctor; I’ve got a bit of news for

you; something that I think will astonish you.”

 

The doctor opened his eyes, and tried to look as though ready to be

surprised.

 

“Something that will really make you look about; and something, too,

that will be very much to the hearer’s advantage,—as the newspaper

advertisements say.”

 

“Something to my advantage?” said the doctor.

 

“Well, I hope you’ll think so. Doctor, what would you think now of my

getting married?”

 

“I should be delighted to hear of it—more delighted than I can

express; that is, of course, if you were to marry well. It was your

father’s most eager wish that you should marry early.”

 

“That’s partly my reason,” said the young hypocrite. “But then, if I

marry I must have an income fit to live on; eh, doctor?”

 

The doctor had some fear that his interesting protégée was desirous

of a wife for the sake of the income, instead of desiring the income

for the sake of the wife. But let the cause be what it would,

marriage would probably be good for him; and he had no hesitation,

therefore, in telling him, that if he married well, he should be put

in possession of sufficient income to maintain the new Lady Scatcherd

in a manner becoming her dignity.

 

“As to marrying well,” said Sir Louis, “you, I take it, will the be

the last man, doctor, to quarrel with my choice.”

 

“Shall I?” said the doctor, smiling.

 

“Well, you won’t disapprove, I guess, as the Yankee says. What would

you think of Miss Mary Thorne?”

 

It must be said in Sir Louis’s favour that he had probably no idea

whatever of the estimation in which such young ladies as Mary Thorne

are held by those who are nearest and dearest to them. He had no sort

of conception that she was regarded by her uncle as an inestimable

treasure, almost too precious to be rendered up to the arms of any

man; and infinitely beyond any price in silver and gold, baronets’

incomes of eight or ten thousand a year, and such coins usually

current in the world’s markets. He was a rich man and a baronet,

and Mary was an unmarried girl without a portion. In Sir Louis’s

estimation he was offering everything, and asking for nothing. He

certainly had some idea that girls were apt to be coy, and required

a little wooing in the shape of presents, civil speeches—perhaps

kisses