Doctor Thorne, Anthony Trollope [best book reader .txt] 📗
- Author: Anthony Trollope
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but he hoped to be forgiven by the ladies in consequence of the
severity of the miseries to which he was subjected. He and Mr Oriel
were soon to be seen through the dining-room window, walking about
the grounds with the two eldest Miss Greshams. And Patience Oriel,
who had also been of the party, was also to be seen with the twins.
Frank looked at his father with almost a malicious smile, and began
to think that he too might be better employed out among the walks.
Did he think then of a former summer evening, when he had half broken
Mary’s heart by walking there too lovingly with Patience Oriel?
Sir Louis, if he continued his brilliant career of success, would
soon be left the cock of the walk. The squire, to be sure, could
not bolt, nor could the doctor very well; but they might be equally
vanquished, remaining there in their chairs. Dr Thorne, during all
this time, was sitting with tingling ears. Indeed, it may be said
that his whole body tingled. He was in a manner responsible for this
horrid scene; but what could he do to stop it? He could not take Sir
Louis up bodily and carry him away. One idea did occur to him. The
fly had been ordered for ten o’clock. He could rush out and send for
it instantly.
“You’re not going to leave me?” said the squire, in a voice of
horror, as he saw the doctor rising from his chair.
“Oh, no, no, no,” said the doctor; and then he whispered the purpose
of his mission. “I will be back in two minutes.” The doctor would
have given twenty pounds to have closed the scene at once; but he was
not the man to desert his friend in such a strait as that.
“He’s a well-meaning fellow, the doctor,” said Sir Louis, when his
guardian was out of the room, “very; but he’s not up to trap—not at
all.”
“Up to trap—well, I should say he was; that is, if I know what trap
means,” said Frank.
“Ah, but that’s just the ticket. Do you know? Now I say Dr Thorne’s
not a man of the world.”
“He’s about the best man I know, or ever heard of,” said the squire.
“And if any man ever had a good friend, you have got one in him; and
so have I:” and the squire silently drank the doctor’s health.
“All very true, I dare say; but yet he’s not up to trap. Now look
here, squire—”
“If you don’t mind, sir,” said Frank, “I’ve got something very
particular—perhaps, however—”
“Stay till Thorne returns, Frank.”
Frank did stay till Thorne returned, and then escaped.
“Excuse me, doctor,” said he, “but I’ve something very particular to
say; I’ll explain to-morrow.” And then the three were left alone.
Sir Louis was now becoming almost drunk, and was knocking his words
together. The squire had already attempted to stop the bottle; but
the baronet had contrived to get hold of a modicum of Madeira, and
there was no preventing him from helping himself; at least, none at
that moment.
“As we were saying about lawyers,” continued Sir Louis. “Let’s see,
what were we saying? Why, squire, it’s just here. Those fellows will
fleece us both if we don’t mind what we are after.”
“Never mind about lawyers now,” said Dr Thorne, angrily.
“Ah, but I do mind; most particularly. That’s all very well for you,
doctor; you’ve nothing to lose. You’ve no great stake in the matter.
Why, now, what sum of money of mine do you think those d–- doctors
are handling?”
“D–- doctors!” said the squire in a tone of dismay.
“Lawyers, I mean, of course. Why, now, Gresham; we’re all totted
now, you see; you’re down in my books, I take it, for pretty near a
hundred thousand pounds.”
“Hold your tongue, sir,” said the doctor, getting up.
“Hold my tongue!” said Sir Louis.
“Sir Louis Scatcherd,” said the squire, slowly rising from his chair,
“we will not, if you please, talk about business at the present
moment. Perhaps we had better go to the ladies.”
This latter proposition had certainly not come from the squire’s
heart: going to the ladies was the very last thing for which Sir
Louis was now fit. But the squire had said it as being the only
recognised formal way he could think of for breaking up the
symposium.
“Oh, very well,” hiccupped the baronet, “I’m always ready for the
ladies,” and he stretched out his hand to the decanter to get a last
glass of Madeira.
“No,” said the doctor, rising stoutly, and speaking with a determined
voice. “No; you will have no more wine:” and he took the decanter
from him.
“What’s all this about?” said Sir Louis, with a drunken laugh.
“Of course he cannot go into the drawing-room, Mr Gresham. If you
will leave him here with me, I will stay with him till the fly
comes. Pray tell Lady Arabella from me, how sorry I am that this has
occurred.”
The squire would not leave his friend, and they sat together till the
fly came. It was not long, for the doctor had dispatched his
messenger with much haste.
“I am so heartily ashamed of myself,” said the doctor, almost with
tears.
The squire took him by the hand affectionately. “I’ve seen a tipsy
man before to-night,” said he.
“Yes,” said the doctor, “and so have I, but—” He did not express the
rest of his thoughts.
Will He Come Again?
Long before the doctor returned home after the little dinner-party
above described, Mary had learnt that Frank was already at
Greshamsbury. She had heard nothing of him or from him, not a word,
nothing in the shape of a message, for twelve months; and at her age
twelve months is a long period. Would he come and see her in spite of
his mother? Would he send her any tidings of his return, or notice
her in any way? If he did not, what would she do? and if he did, what
then would she do? It was so hard to resolve; so hard to be deserted;
and so hard to dare to wish that she might not be deserted! She
continued to say to herself, that it would be better that they should
be strangers; and she could hardly keep herself from tears in the
fear that they might be so. What chance could there be that he should
care for her, after an absence spent in travelling over the world?
No; she would forget that affair of his hand; and then, immediately
after having so determined, she would confess to herself that it was
a thing not to be forgotten, and impossible of oblivion.
On her uncle’s return, she would hear some word about him; and so
she sat alone, with a book before her, of which she could not read
a line. She expected them about eleven, and was, therefore, rather
surprised when the fly stopped at the door before nine.
She immediately heard her uncle’s voice, loud and angry, calling
for Thomas. Both Thomas and Bridget were unfortunately out, being,
at this moment, forgetful of all sublunary cares, and seated in
happiness under a beech-tree in the park. Janet flew to the little
gate, and there found Sir Louis insisting that he would be taken at
once to his own mansion at Boxall Hill, and positively swearing that
he would no longer submit to the insult of the doctor’s surveillance.
In the absence of Thomas, the doctor was forced to apply for
assistance to the driver of the fly. Between them the baronet was
dragged out of the vehicle, the windows suffered much, and the
doctor’s hat also. In this way, he was taken upstairs, and was at
last put to bed, Janet assisting; nor did the doctor leave the room
till his guest was asleep. Then he went into the drawing-room to
Mary. It may easily be conceived that he was hardly in a humour to
talk much about Frank Gresham.
“What am I to do with him?” said he, almost in tears: “what am I to
do with him?”
“Can you not send him to Boxall Hill?” asked Mary.
“Yes; to kill himself there! But it is no matter; he will kill
himself somewhere. Oh! what that family have done for me!” And then,
suddenly remembering a portion of their doings, he took Mary in his
arms, and kissed and blessed her; and declared that, in spite of all
this, he was a happy man.
There was no word about Frank that night. The next morning the doctor
found Sir Louis very weak, and begging for stimulants. He was worse
than weak; he was in such a state of wretched misery and mental
prostration; so low in heart, in such collapse of energy and spirit,
that Dr Thorne thought it prudent to remove his razors from his
reach.
“For God’s sake do let me have a little chasse-café; I’m always
used to it; ask Joe if I’m not! You don’t want to kill me, do you?”
And the baronet cried piteously, like a child, and, when the doctor
left him for the breakfast-table, abjectly implored Janet to get him
some curaçoa which he knew was in one of his portmanteaus. Janet,
however, was true to her master.
The doctor did give him some wine; and then, having left strict
orders as to his treatment—Bridget and Thomas being now both in the
house—went forth to some of his too much neglected patients.
Then Mary was again alone, and her mind flew away to her lover. How
should she be able to compose herself when she should first see him?
See him she must. People cannot live in the same village without
meeting. If she passed him at the church-door, as she often passed
Lady Arabella, what should she do? Lady Arabella always smiled
a peculiar, little, bitter smile, and this, with half a nod of
recognition, carried off the meeting. Should she try the bitter
smile, the half-nod with Frank? Alas! she knew it was not in her to
be so much mistress of her own heart’s blood.
As she thus thought, she stood at the drawing-room window, looking
out into her garden; and, as she leant against the sill, her head was
surrounded by the sweet creepers. “At any rate, he won’t come here,”
she said: and so, with a deep sigh, she turned from the window into
the room.
There he was, Frank Gresham himself standing there in her immediate
presence, beautiful as Apollo. Her next thought was how she might
escape from out of his arms. How it happened that she had fallen into
them, she never knew.
“Mary! my own, own love! my own one! sweetest! dearest! best! Mary!
dear Mary! have you not a word to say to me?”
No; she had not a word, though her life had depended on it. The
exertion necessary for not crying was quite enough for her. This,
then, was the bitter smile and the half-nod that was to pass between
them; this was the manner in which estrangement was to grow into
indifference; this was the mode of meeting by which she was to prove
that she was mistress of her conduct, if not her heart! There he held
her close bound to his breast, and she could only protect her face,
and that all ineffectually, with her hands. “He loves another,”
Beatrice had said. “At any rate, he will not love me,”
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