Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Doctor Thorne by Anthony Trollope (interesting books to read TXT) 📖
- Author: Anthony Trollope
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Book online «Doctor Thorne by Anthony Trollope (interesting books to read TXT) 📖». Author Anthony Trollope
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 that she
has your consent?”
“I think she knows that.”
“But you have never said anything to her.”
“Look here, Frank; you ask me for my advice, and I will give it you:
go home; though, indeed, I would rather you went anywhere else.”
“No, I must go home; and I must see her.”
“Very well, go home: as for seeing Mary, I think you had better put
it off for a fortnight.”
“Quite impossible.”
“Well, that’s my advice. But, at any rate, make up your mind to
nothing for a fortnight. Wait for one fortnight, and I then will tell
you plainly—you and her too—what I think you ought to do. At the
end of a fortnight come to me, and tell the squire that I will take
it as a great kindness if he will come with you. She has suffered,
terribly, terribly; and it is necessary that something should be
settled. But a fortnight more can make no great difference.”
“And the letter?”
“Oh! there’s the letter.”
“But what shall I say? Of course I shall write to-night.”
“Tell her to wait a fortnight. And, Frank, mind you bring your father
with you.”
Frank could draw nothing further from his friend save constant
repetitions of this charge to him to wait a fortnight,—just one
other fortnight.
“Well, I will come to you at any rate,” said Frank; “and, if
possible, I will bring my father. But I shall write to Mary
to-night.”
On the Saturday morning, Mary, who was then nearly broken-hearted at
her lover’s silence, received a short note:—
MY OWN MARY,
I shall be home to-morrow. I will by no means release you
from your promise. Of course you will perceive that I only
got your letter to-day.
Your own dearest,
FRANK.
P.S.—You will have to call me so hundreds and hundreds of
times yet.
Short as it was, this sufficed Mary. It is one thing for a young lady
to make prudent, heart-breaking suggestions, but quite another to
have them accepted. She did call him dearest Frank, even on that one
day, almost as often as he had desired her.
Our Pet Fox Finds a Tail
Frank returned home, and his immediate business was of course with
his father, and with Mr Gazebee, who was still at Greshamsbury.
“But who is the heir?” asked Mr Gazebee, when Frank had explained
that the death of Sir Louis rendered unnecessary any immediate legal
steps.
“Upon my word I don’t know,” said Frank.
“You saw Dr Thorne,” said the squire. “He must have known.”
“I never thought of asking him,” said Frank, naïvely.
Mr Gazebee looked rather solemn. “I wonder at that,” said he; “for
everything now depends on the hands the property will go into. Let
me see; I think Sir Roger had a married sister. Was not that so, Mr
Gresham?” And then it occurred for the first time, both to the squire
and to his son, that Mary Thorne was the eldest child of this sister.
But it never occurred to either of them that Mary could be the
baronet’s heir.
Dr Thorne came down for a couple of days before the fortnight was
over to see his patients, and then returned again to London. But
during this short visit he was utterly dumb on the subject of the
heir. He called at Greshamsbury to see Lady Arabella, and was even
questioned by the squire on the subject. But he obstinately refused
to say more than that nothing certain could be known for yet a few
days.
Immediately after his return, Frank saw Mary, and told her all that
had happened. “I cannot understand my uncle,” said she, almost
trembling as she stood close to him in her own drawing-room. “He
usually hates mysteries, and yet now he is so mysterious. He told me,
Frank—that was after I had written that unfortunate letter—”
“Unfortunate, indeed! I wonder what you really thought of me when you
were writing it?”
“If you had heard what your mother said, you would not be surprised.
But, after that, uncle said—”
“Said what?”
“He seemed to think—I don’t remember what it was he said. But he
said, he hoped that things might yet turn out well; and then I was
almost sorry that I had written the letter.”
“Of course you were sorry, and so you ought to have been. To say that
you would never call me Frank again!”
“I didn’t exactly say that.”
“I have told him I will wait a fortnight, and so I will. After that,
I shall take the matter into my own hands.”
It may be well supposed that Lady Arabella was not well pleased to
learn that Frank and Mary had been again together; and, in the agony
of her spirit, she did say some ill-natured things before Augusta,
who had now returned from Courcy Castle, as to the gross impropriety
of Mary’s conduct. But to Frank she said nothing.
Nor was there much said between Frank and Beatrice. If everything
could really be settled at the end of that fortnight which was to
witness the disclosure of the doctor’s mystery, there would still
be time to arrange that Mary should be at the wedding. “It shall be
settled then,” he said to himself; “and if it be settled, my mother
will hardly venture to exclude my affianced bride from the house.”
It was now the beginning of August, and it wanted yet a month to the
Oriel wedding.
But though he said nothing to his mother or to Beatrice, he did say
much to his father. In the first place, he showed him Mary’s letter.
“If your heart be not made of stone it will be softened by that,” he
said. Mr Gresham’s heart was not of stone, and he did acknowledge
that the letter was a very sweet letter. But we know how the drop of
water hollows stone. It was not by the violence of his appeal that
Frank succeeded in obtaining from his father a sort of half-consent
that he would no longer oppose the match; but by the assiduity with
which the appeal was repeated. Frank, as we have said, had more
stubbornness of will than his father; and so, before the fortnight
was over, the squire had been talked over, and promised to attend at
the doctor’s bidding.
“I suppose you had better take the Hazlehurst farm,” said he to his
son, with a sigh. “It joins the park and the home-fields, and I will
give you up them also. God knows, I don’t care about farming any
more—or about anything else either.”
“Don’t say that, father.”
“Well, well! But, Frank, where will you live? The old house is big
enough for us all. But how would Mary get on with your mother?”
At the end of his fortnight, true to his time, the doctor returned to
the village. He was a bad correspondent; and though he had written
some short notes to Mary, he had said no word to her about his
business. It was late in the evening when he got home, and it was
understood by Frank and the squire that they were to be with him on
the following morning. Not a word had been said to Lady Arabella on
the subject.
It was late in the evening when he got home, and Mary waited for him
with a heart almost sick with expectation. As soon as the fly had
stopped at the little gate she heard his voice, and heard at once
that it was quick, joyful, and telling much of inward satisfaction.
He had a good-natured word for Janet, and called Thomas an old
blunder-head in a manner that made Bridget laugh outright.
“He’ll have his nose put out of joint some day; won’t he?” said the
doctor. Bridget blushed and laughed again, and made a sign to Thomas
that he had better look to his face.
Mary was in his arms before he was yet within the door. “My darling,”
said he, tenderly kissing her. “You are my own darling yet
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