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

thankful because, at the moment of receiving, he utters no thanksgiving? or will it be thought that a man is made thankful because what is called a grace is uttered after dinner? It can hardly be imagined that anyone will so argue, or so think.

Dinner-graces are, probably, the last remaining relic of certain daily services1 which the Church in olden days enjoined: nones, complines, and vespers were others. Of the nones and complines we have happily got quit; and it might be well if we could get rid of the dinner-graces also. Let any man ask himself whether, on his own part, they are acts of prayer and thanksgiving⁠—and if not that, what then?

When the large party entered the dining-room one or two gentlemen might be seen to come in from some other door and set themselves at the table near to the duke’s chair. These were guests of his own, who were staying in the house, his particular friends, the men with whom he lived: the others were strangers whom he fed, perhaps once a year, in order that his name might be known in the land as that of one who distributed food and wine hospitably through the county. The food and wine, the attendance also, and the view of the vast repository of plate he vouchsafed willingly to his county neighbours;⁠—but it was beyond his good nature to talk to them. To judge by the present appearance of most of them, they were quite as well satisfied to be left alone.

Frank was altogether a stranger there, but Mr. Athill knew everyone at the table.

“That’s Apjohn,” said he: “don’t you know, Mr. Apjohn, the attorney from Barchester? he’s always here; he does some of Fothergill’s law business, and makes himself useful. If any fellow knows the value of a good dinner, he does. You’ll see that the duke’s hospitality will not be thrown away on him.”

“It’s very much thrown away upon me, I know,” said Frank, who could not at all put up with the idea of sitting down to dinner without having been spoken to by his host.

“Oh, nonsense!” said his clerical friend; “you’ll enjoy yourself amazingly by and by. There is not such champagne in any other house in Barsetshire; and then the claret⁠—” And Mr. Athill pressed his lips together, and gently shook his head, meaning to signify by the motion that the claret of Gatherum Castle was sufficient atonement for any penance which a man might have to go through in his mode of obtaining it.

“Who’s that funny little man sitting there, next but one to Mr. de Courcy? I never saw such a queer fellow in my life.”

“Don’t you know old Bolus? Well, I thought everyone in Barsetshire knew Bolus; you especially should do so, as he is such a dear friend of Dr. Thorne.”

“A dear friend of Dr. Thorne?”

“Yes; he was apothecary at Scarington in the old days, before Dr. Fillgrave came into vogue. I remember when Bolus was thought to be a very good sort of doctor.”

“Is he⁠—is he⁠—” whispered Frank, “is he by way of a gentleman?”

“Ha! ha! ha! Well, I suppose we must be charitable, and say that he is quite as good, at any rate, as many others there are here⁠—” and Mr. Athill, as he spoke, whispered into Frank’s ear, “You see there’s Finnie here, another Barchester attorney. Now, I really think where Finnie goes Bolus may go too.”

“The more the merrier, I suppose,” said Frank.

“Well, something a little like that. I wonder why Thorne is not here? I’m sure he was asked.”

“Perhaps he did not particularly wish to meet Finnie and Bolus. Do you know, Mr. Athill, I think he was quite right not to come. As for myself, I wish I was anywhere else.”

“Ha! ha! ha! You don’t know the duke’s ways yet; and what’s more, you’re young, you happy fellow! But Thorne should have more sense; he ought to show himself here.”

The gormandizing was now going on at a tremendous rate. Though the volubility of their tongues had been for a while stopped by the first shock of the duke’s presence, the guests seemed to feel no such constraint upon their teeth. They fed, one may almost say, rabidly, and gave their orders to the servants in an eager manner; much more impressive than that usual at smaller parties. Mr. Apjohn, who sat immediately opposite to Frank, had, by some well-planned manoeuvre, contrived to get before him the jowl of a salmon; but, unfortunately, he was not for a while equally successful in the article of sauce. A very limited portion⁠—so at least thought Mr. Apjohn⁠—had been put on his plate; and a servant, with a huge sauce tureen, absolutely passed behind his back inattentive to his audible requests. Poor Mr. Apjohn in his despair turned round to arrest the man by his coattails; but he was a moment too late, and all but fell backwards on the floor. As he righted himself he muttered an anathema, and looked with a face of anguish at his plate.

“Anything the matter, Apjohn?” said Mr. Fothergill, kindly, seeing the utter despair written on the poor man’s countenance; “can I get anything for you?”

“The sauce!” said Mr. Apjohn, in a voice that would have melted a hermit; and as he looked at Mr. Fothergill, he pointed at the now distant sinner, who was dispensing his melted ambrosia at least ten heads upwards, away from the unfortunate supplicant.

Mr. Fothergill, however, knew where to look for balm for such wounds, and in a minute or two, Mr. Apjohn was employed quite to his heart’s content.

“Well,” said Frank to his neighbour, “it may be very well once in a way; but I think that on the whole Dr. Thorne is right.”

“My dear Mr. Gresham, see the world on all sides,” said Mr. Athill, who had also been somewhat intent on the gratification of his own appetite, though with an energy less evident than that of the gentleman opposite. “See the world on all sides if you have an opportunity; and, believe me, a good dinner now and then