Doctor Thorne, Anthony Trollope [an ebook reader .TXT] 📗

back was even bent, and his legs were unsteady under him, so that he had been forced to step down from his carriage as an old man would do. Alas, alas! he had no further chance now of ever being all right again.

Mary had secluded herself in her bedroom as soon as the carriage had driven up to the door, and there she remained till dinnertime. But she could not shut herself up altogether. It would be necessary that she should appear at dinner; and, therefore, a few minutes before the hour, she crept out into the drawing-room. As she opened the door, she looked in timidly, expecting Sir Louis to be there; but when she saw that her uncle was the only occupant of the room, her brow cleared, and she entered with a quick step.

“He’ll come down to dinner; won’t he, uncle?”

“Oh, I suppose so.”

“What’s he doing now?”

“Dressing, I suppose; he’s been at it this hour.”

“But, uncle⁠—”

“Well?”

“Will he come up after dinner, do you think?”

Mary spoke of him as though he were some wild beast, whom her uncle insisted on having in his house.

“Goodness knows what he will do! Come up? Yes. He will not stay in the dining-room all night.”

“But, dear uncle, do be serious.”

“Serious!”

“Yes; serious. Don’t you think that I might go to bed, instead of waiting?”

The doctor was saved the trouble of answering by the entrance of the baronet. He was dressed in what he considered the most fashionable style of the day. He had on a new dress-coat lined with satin, new dress-trousers, a silk waistcoat covered with chains, a white cravat, polished pumps, and silk stockings, and he carried a scented handkerchief in his hand; he had rings on his fingers, and carbuncle studs in his shirt, and he smelt as sweet as patchouli could make him. But he could hardly do more than shuffle into the room, and seemed almost to drag one of his legs behind him.

Mary, in spite of her aversion, was shocked and distressed when she saw him. He, however, seemed to think himself perfect, and was no whit abashed by the unfavourable reception which twelve months since had been paid to his suit. Mary came up and shook hands with him, and he received her with a compliment which no doubt he thought must be acceptable. “Upon my word, Miss Thorne, every place seems to agree with you; one better than another. You were looking charming at Boxall Hill; but, upon my word, charming isn’t half strong enough now.”

Mary sat down quietly, and the doctor assumed a face of unutterable disgust. This was the creature for whom all his sympathies had been demanded, all his best energies put in requisition; on whose behalf he was to quarrel with his oldest friends, lose his peace and quietness of life, and exercise all the functions of a loving friend! This was his self-invited guest, whom he was bound to foster, and whom he could not turn from his door.

Then dinner came, and Mary had to put her hand upon his arm. She certainly did not lean upon him, and once or twice felt inclined to give him some support. They reached the dining-room, however, the doctor following them, and then sat down, Janet waiting in the room, as was usual.

“I say, doctor,” said the baronet, “hadn’t my man better come in and help? He’s got nothing to do, you know. We should be more cosy, shouldn’t we?”

“Janet will manage pretty well,” said the doctor.

“Oh, you’d better have Joe; there’s nothing like a good servant at table. I say, Janet, just send that fellow in, will you?”

“We shall do very well without him,” said the doctor, becoming rather red about the cheekbones, and with a slight gleam of determination about the eye. Janet, who saw how matters stood, made no attempt to obey the baronet’s order.

“Oh, nonsense, doctor; you think he’s an uppish sort of fellow, I know, and you don’t like to trouble him; but when I’m near him, he’s all right; just send him in, will you?”

“Sir Louis,” said the doctor, “I’m accustomed to none but my own old woman here in my own house, and if you will allow me, I’ll keep my old ways. I shall be sorry if you are not comfortable.” The baronet said nothing more, and the dinner passed off slowly and wearily enough.

When Mary had eaten her fruit and escaped, the doctor got into one armchair and the baronet into another, and the latter began the only work of existence of which he knew anything.

“That’s good port,” said he; “very fair port.”

The doctor loved his port wine, and thawed a little in his manner. He loved it not as a toper, but as a collector loves his pet pictures. He liked to talk about it, and think about it; to praise it, and hear it praised; to look at it turned towards the light, and to count over the years it had lain in his cellar.

“Yes,” said he, “it’s pretty fair wine. It was, at least, when I got it, twenty years ago, and I don’t suppose time has hurt it;” and he held the glass up to the window, and looked at the evening light through the ruby tint of the liquid. “Ah, dear, there’s not much of it left; more’s the pity.”

“A good thing won’t last forever. I’ll tell you what now; I wish I’d brought down a dozen or two of claret. I’ve some prime stuff in London; got it from Muzzle & Drug, at ninety-six shillings; it was a great favour, though. I’ll tell you what now, I’ll send up for a couple of dozen tomorrow. I mustn’t drink you out of house, high and dry; must I, doctor?”

The doctor froze immediately.

“I don’t think I need trouble you,” said he; “I never drink claret, at least not here; and there’s enough of the old bin left to last some little time longer yet.”

Sir Louis drank two or three glasses of wine