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Read books online » Fiction » Doctor Thorne by Anthony Trollope (interesting books to read TXT) 📖

Book online «Doctor Thorne by Anthony Trollope (interesting books to read TXT) 📖». Author Anthony Trollope



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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 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.

CHAPTER XLVI

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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