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

my word, Frank, I beg your pardon; but⁠—well, my dear fellow, all well at Greshamsbury⁠—eh?” and as he shook himself, he made a lunge at one uncommonly disagreeable fly that had been at him for the last ten minutes. It is hardly necessary to say that he missed his enemy.

“I should have been with you before, doctor, but I was down at Malvern.”

“At Malvern, eh? Ah! so Oriel told me. The death of poor Sir Louis was very sudden⁠—was it not?”

“Very.”

“Poor fellow⁠—poor fellow! His fate has for some time been past hope. It is a madness, Frank; the worst of madness. Only think of it⁠—father and son! And such a career as the father had⁠—such a career as the son might have had!”

“It has been very quickly run,” said Frank.

“May it be all forgiven him! I sometimes cannot but believe in a special Providence. That poor fellow was not able, never would have been able, to make proper use of the means which fortune had given him. I hope they may fall into better hands. There is no use in denying it, his death will be an immense relief to me, and a relief also to your father. All this law business will now, of course, be stopped. As for me, I hope I may never be a trustee again.”

Frank had put his hand four or five times into his breast-pocket, and had as often taken out and put back again Mary’s letter before he could find himself able to bring Dr. Thorne to the subject. At last there was a lull in the purely legal discussion, caused by the doctor intimating that he supposed Frank would now soon return to Greshamsbury.

“Yes; I shall go tomorrow morning.”

“What! so soon as that? I counted on having you one day in London with me.”

“No, I shall go tomorrow. I’m not fit for company for anyone. Nor am I fit for anything. Read that, doctor. It’s no use putting it off any longer. I must get you to talk this over with me. Just read that, and tell me what you think about it. It was written a week ago, when I was there, but somehow I have only got it today.” And putting the letter into the doctor’s hands, he turned away to the window, and looked out among the Holborn omnibuses. Dr. Thorne took the letter and read it. Mary, after she had written it, had bewailed to herself that the letter was cold; but it had not seemed cold to her lover, nor did it appear so to her uncle. When Frank turned round from the window, the doctor’s handkerchief was up to his eyes; who, in order to hide the tears that were there, was obliged to go through a rather violent process of blowing his nose.

“Well,” he said, as he gave back the letter to Frank.

Well! what did well mean? Was it well? or would it be well were he, Frank, to comply with the suggestion made to him by Mary?

“It is impossible,” he said, “that matters should go on like that. Think what her sufferings must have been before she wrote that. I am sure she loves me.”

“I think she does,” said the doctor.

“And it is out of the question that she should be sacrificed; nor will I consent to sacrifice my own happiness. I am quite willing to work for my bread, and I am sure that I am able. I will not submit to⁠—Doctor, what answer do you think I ought to give to that letter? There can be no person so anxious for her happiness as you are⁠—except myself.” And as he asked the question, he again put into the doctor’s hand, almost unconsciously, the letter which he had still been holding in his own.

The doctor turned it over and over, and then opened it again.

“What answer ought I to make to it?” demanded Frank, with energy.

“You see, Frank, I have never interfered in this matter, otherwise than to tell you the whole truth about Mary’s birth.”

“Oh, but you must interfere: you should say what you think.”

“Circumstanced as you are now⁠—that is, just at the present moment⁠—you could hardly marry immediately.”

“Why not let me take a farm? My father could, at any rate, manage a couple of thousand pounds or so for me to stock it. That would not be asking much. If he could not give it me, I would not scruple to borrow so much elsewhere.” And Frank bethought him of all Miss Dunstable’s offers.

“Oh, yes; that could be managed.”

“Then why not marry immediately; say in six months or so? I am not unreasonable; though, Heaven knows, I have been kept in suspense long enough. As for her, I am sure she must be suffering frightfully. You know her best, and, therefore, I ask you what answer I ought to make: as for myself, I have made up my own mind; I am not a child, nor will I let them treat me as such.”

Frank, as he spoke, was walking rapidly about the room; and he brought out his different positions, one after the other, with a little pause, while waiting for the doctor’s answer. The doctor was sitting, with the letter still in his hands, on the head of the sofa, turning over in his mind the apparent absurdity of Frank’s desire to borrow two thousand pounds for a farm, when, in all human probability, he might in a few months be in possession of almost any sum he should choose to name. And yet he would not tell him of Sir Roger’s will. “If it should turn out to be all wrong?” said he to himself.

“Do you wish me to give her up?” said Frank, at last.

“No. How can I wish it? How can I expect a better match for her? Besides, Frank, I love no man in the world so well as I do you.”

“Then you will help me?”

“What! against your father?”

“Against! no, not against anybody. But will you tell Mary