Doctor Thorne by Anthony Trollope (interesting books to read TXT) 📖

>have so long been the heritage of the Greshams.”

 

“We need not talk about that now, Dr Thorne,” said Frank, in an

almost angry tone.

 

“But I must, Frank, for one moment, to justify myself. I could not

have excused myself in letting Mary think that she could become your

wife if I had not hoped that good might come of it.”

 

“Well; good will come of it,” said Frank, who did not quite

understand at what the doctor was driving.

 

“I hope so. I have had much doubt about this, and have been sorely

perplexed; but now I do hope so. Frank—Mr Gresham—” and then Dr

Thorne rose from his chair; but was, for a moment, unable to go on

with his tale.

 

“We will hope that it is all for the best,” said the squire.

 

“I am sure it is,” said Frank.

 

“Yes; I hope it is. I do think it is; I am sure it is, Frank. Mary

will not come to you empty-handed. I wish for your sake—yes, and for

hers too—that her birth were equal to her fortune, as her worth is

superior to both. Mr Gresham, this marriage will, at any rate, put an

end to your pecuniary embarrassments—unless, indeed, Frank should

prove a hard creditor. My niece is Sir Roger Scatcherd’s heir.”

 

The doctor, as soon as he made the announcement, began to employ

himself sedulously about the papers on the table; which, in the

confusion caused by his own emotion, he transferred hither and

thither in such a manner as to upset all his previous arrangements.

“And now,” he said, “I might as well explain, as well as I can, of

what that fortune consists. Here, this is—no—”

 

“But, Dr Thorne,” said the squire, now perfectly pale, and almost

gasping for breath, “what is it you mean?”

 

“There’s not a shadow of doubt,” said the doctor. “I’ve had Sir

Abraham Haphazard, and Sir Rickety Giggs, and old Neversaye Die, and

Mr Snilam; and they are all of the same opinion. There is not the

smallest doubt about it. Of course, she must administer, and all

that; and I’m afraid there’ll be a very heavy sum to pay for the tax;

for she cannot inherit as a niece, you know. Mr Snilam pointed that

out particularly. But, after all that, there’ll be—I’ve got it down

on a piece of paper, somewhere—three grains of blue pill. I’m really

so bothered, squire, with all these papers, and all those lawyers,

that I don’t know whether I’m sitting or standing. There’s ready

money enough to pay all the tax and all the debts. I know that, at

any rate.”

 

“You don’t mean to say that Mary Thorne is now possessed of all Sir

Roger Scatcherd’s wealth?” at last ejaculated the squire.

 

“But that’s exactly what I do mean to say,” said the doctor, looking

up from his papers with a tear in his eye, and a smile on his

mouth; “and what is more, squire, you owe her at the present moment

exactly—I’ve got that down too, somewhere, only I am so bothered

with all these papers. Come, squire, when do you mean to pay her?

She’s in a great hurry, as young ladies are when they want to get

married.”

 

The doctor was inclined to joke if possible, so as to carry off, as

it were, some of the great weight of obligation which it might seem

that he was throwing on the father and son; but the squire was by no

means in a state to understand a joke: hardly as yet in a state to

comprehend what was so very serious in this matter.

 

“Do you mean that Mary is the owner of Boxall Hill?” said he.

 

“Indeed, I do,” said the doctor; and he was just going to add, “and

of Greshamsbury also,” but he stopped himself.

 

“What, the whole property there?”

 

“That’s only a small portion,” said the doctor. “I almost wish it

were all, for then I should not be so bothered. Look here; these are

the Boxall Hill title-deeds; that’s the simplest part of the whole

affair; and Frank may go and settle himself there to-morrow if he

pleases.”

 

“Stop a moment, Dr Thorne,” said Frank. These were the only words

which he had yet uttered since the tidings had been conveyed to him.

 

“And these, squire, are the Greshamsbury papers:” and the doctor,

with considerable ceremony, withdrew the covering newspapers. “Look

at them; there they all are once again. When I suggested to Mr Snilam

that I supposed they might now all go back to the Greshamsbury

muniment room, I thought he would have fainted. As I cannot return

them to you, you will have to wait till Frank shall give them up.”

 

“But, Dr Thorne,” said Frank.

 

“Well, my boy.”

 

“Does Mary know all about this?”

 

“Not a word of it. I mean that you shall tell her.”

 

“Perhaps, under such very altered circumstances—”

 

“Eh?”

 

“The change is so great and so sudden, so immense in its effects,

that Mary may perhaps wish—”

 

“Wish! wish what? Wish not to be told of it at all?”

 

“I shall not think of holding her to her engagement—that is, if—I

mean to say, she should have time at any rate for consideration.”

 

“Oh, I understand,” said the doctor. “She shall have time for

consideration. How much shall we give her, squire? three minutes? Go

up to her Frank: she is in the drawing-room.”

 

Frank went to the door, and then hesitated, and returned. “I could

not do it,” said he. “I don’t think that I understand it all yet. I

am so bewildered that I could not tell her;” and he sat down at the

table, and began to sob with emotion.

 

“And she knows nothing of it?” said the squire.

 

“Not a word. I thought that I would keep the pleasure of telling her

for Frank.”

 

“She should not be left in suspense,” said the squire.

 

“Come, Frank, go up to her,” again urged the doctor. “You’ve been

ready enough with your visits when you knew that you ought to stay

away.”

 

“I cannot do it,” said Frank, after a pause of some moments; “nor is

it right that I should. It would be taking advantage of her.”

 

“Go to her yourself, doctor; it is you that should do it,” said the

squire.

 

After some further slight delay, the doctor got up, and did go

upstairs. He, even, was half afraid of the task. “It must be done,”

he said to himself, as his heavy steps mounted the stairs. “But how

to tell it?”

 

When he entered, Mary was standing half-way up the room, as though

she had risen to meet him. Her face was troubled, and her eyes were

almost wild. The emotion, the hopes, the fears of that morning had

almost been too much for her. She had heard the murmuring of the

voices in the room below, and had known that one of them was that

of her lover. Whether that discussion was to be for her good or ill

she did not know; but she felt that further suspense would almost

kill her. “I could wait for years,” she said to herself, “if I did

but know. If I lost him, I suppose I should bear it, if I did but

know.”—Well; she was going to know.

 

Her uncle met her in the middle of the room. His face was serious,

though not sad; too serious to confirm her hopes at that moment of

doubt. “What is it, uncle?” she said, taking one of his hands between

both of her own. “What is it? Tell me.” And as she looked up into his

face with her wild eyes, she almost frightened him.

 

“Mary,” he said gravely, “you have heard much, I know, of Sir Roger

Scatcherd’s great fortune.”

 

“Yes, yes, yes!”

 

“Now that poor Sir Louis is dead—”

 

“Well, uncle, well?”

 

“It has been left—”

 

“To Frank! to Mr Gresham, to the squire!” exclaimed Mary, who felt,

with an agony of doubt, that this sudden accession of immense wealth

might separate her still further from her lover.

 

“No, Mary, not to the Greshams; but to yourself.”

 

“To me!” she cried, and putting both her hands to her forehead, she

seemed to be holding her temples together. “To me!”

 

“Yes, Mary; it is all your own now. To do as you like best with it

all—all. May God, in His mercy, enable you to bear the burden, and

lighten for you the temptation!”

 

She had so far moved as to find the nearest chair, and there she

was now seated, staring at her uncle with fixed eyes. “Uncle,” she

said, “what does it mean?” Then he came, and sitting beside her, he

explained, as best he could, the story of her birth, and her kinship

with the Scatcherds. “And where is he, uncle?” she said. “Why does he

not come to me?”

 

“I wanted him to come, but her refused. They are both there now, the

father and son; shall I fetch them?”

 

“Fetch them! whom? The squire? No, uncle; but may we go to them?”

 

“Surely, Mary.”

 

“But, uncle—”

 

“Yes, dearest.”

 

“Is it true? are you sure? For his sake, you know; not for my own.

The squire, you know—Oh, uncle! I cannot go.”

 

“They shall come to you.”

 

“No—no. I have gone to him such hundreds of times; I will never

allow that he shall be sent to me. But, uncle, is it true?”

 

The doctor, as he went downstairs, muttered something about Sir

Abraham Haphazard, and Sir Rickety Giggs; but these great names were

much thrown away upon poor Mary. The doctor entered the room first,

and the heiress followed him with downcast eyes and timid steps. She

was at first afraid to advance, but when she did look up, and saw

Frank standing alone by the window, her lover restored her courage,

and rushing up to him, she threw herself into his arms. “Oh, Frank;

my own Frank! my own Frank! we shall never be separated now.”