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

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 tonight,” said he.

“Yes,” said the doctor, “and so have I, but⁠—” He did not express the rest of his thoughts.

XXXVI 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