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

when I was his age.”

 

“You had the advantage of hard work.”

 

“That’s it. Sometimes I wish that Louis had not a shilling in the

world; that he had to trudge about with an apron round his waist as I

did. But it’s too late now to think of that. If he would only marry,

doctor.”

 

Dr Thorne again expressed an opinion that no step would be so likely

to reform the habits of the young heir as marriage; and repeated his

advice to the father to implore his son to take a wife.

 

“I’ll tell you what, Thorne,” said he. And then, after a pause, he

went on. “I have not half told you as yet what is on my mind; and I’m

nearly afraid to tell it; though, indeed, I don’t know why I should

be.”

 

“I never knew you afraid of anything yet,” said the doctor, smiling

gently.

 

“Well, then, I’ll not end by turning coward. Now, doctor, tell the

truth to me; what do you expect me to do for that girl of yours that

we were talking of—Mary’s child?”

 

There was a pause for a moment, for Thorne was slow to answer him.

 

“You would not let me see her, you know, though she is my niece as

truly as she is yours.”

 

“Nothing,” at last said the doctor, slowly. “I expect nothing. I

would not let you see her, and therefore, I expect nothing.”

 

“She will have it all if poor Louis should die,” said Sir Roger.

 

“If you intend it so you should put her name into the will,” said the

other. “Not that I ask you or wish you to do so. Mary, thank God, can

do without wealth.”

 

“Thorne, on one condition I will put her name into it. I will alter

it all on one condition. Let the two cousins be man and wife—let

Louis marry poor Mary’s child.”

 

The proposition for a moment took away the doctor’s breath, and he

was unable to answer. Not for all the wealth of India would he have

given up his lamb to that young wolf, even though he had had the

power to do so. But that lamb—lamb though she was—had, as he well

knew, a will of her own on such a matter. What alliance could be more

impossible, thought he to himself, than one between Mary Thorne and

Louis Scatcherd?

 

“I will alter it all if you will give me your hand upon it that you

will do your best to bring about this marriage. Everything shall be

his on the day he marries her; and should he die unmarried, it shall

all then be hers by name. Say the word, Thorne, and she shall come

here at once. I shall yet have time to see her.”

 

But Dr Thorne did not say the word; just at the moment he said

nothing, but he slowly shook his head.

 

“Why not, Thorne?”

 

“My friend, it is impossible.”

 

“Why impossible?”

 

“Her hand is not mine to dispose of, nor is her heart.”

 

“Then let her come over herself.”

 

“What! Scatcherd, that the son might make love to her while the

father is so dangerously ill! Bid her come to look for a rich

husband! That would not be seemly, would it?”

 

“No; not for that: let her come merely that I may see her; that we

may all know her. I will leave the matter then in your hands if you

will promise me to do your best.”

 

“But, my friend, in this matter I cannot do my best. I can do

nothing. And, indeed, I may say at once, that it is altogether out of

the question. I know—”

 

“What do you know?” said the baronet, turning on him almost angrily.

“What can you know to make you say that it is impossible? Is she a

pearl of such price that a man may not win her?”

 

“She is a pearl of great price.”

 

“Believe me, doctor, money goes far in winning such pearls.”

 

“Perhaps so; I know little about it. But this I do know, that money

will not win her. Let us talk of something else; believe me it is

useless for us to think of this.”

 

“Yes; if you set your face against it obstinately. You must think

very poorly of Louis if you suppose that no girl can fancy him.”

 

“I have not said so, Scatcherd.”

 

“To have the spending of ten thousand a year, and be a baronet’s

lady! Why, doctor, what is it you expect for this girl?”

 

“Not much, indeed; not much. A quiet heart and a quiet home; not much

more.”

 

“Thorne, if you will be ruled by me in this, she shall be the most

topping woman in this county.”

 

“My friend, my friend, why thus grieve me? Why should you thus harass

yourself? I tell you it is impossible. They have never seen each

other; they have nothing, and can have nothing in common; their

tastes, and wishes, and pursuits are different. Besides, Scatcherd,

marriages never answer that are so made; believe me, it is

impossible.”

 

The contractor threw himself back on his bed, and lay for some ten

minutes perfectly quiet; so much so that the doctor began to think

that he was sleeping. So thinking, and wearied by the watching,

Dr Thorne was beginning to creep quietly from the room, when his

companion again roused himself, almost with vehemence.

 

“You won’t do this thing for me, then?” said he.

 

“Do it! It is not for you or me to do such things as that. Such

things must be left to those concerned themselves.”

 

“You will not even help me?”

 

“Not in this thing, Sir Roger.”

 

“Then, by –-, she shall not under any circumstances ever have a

shilling of mine. Give me some of that stuff there,” and he again

pointed to the brandy bottle which stood ever within his sight.

 

The doctor poured out and handed to him another small modicum of

spirit.

 

“Nonsense, man; fill the glass. I’ll stand no nonsense now. I’ll be

master in my own house to the last. Give it here, I tell you. Ten

thousand devils are tearing me within. You—you could have comforted

me; but you would not. Fill the glass I tell you.”

 

“I should be killing you were I to do it.”

 

“Killing me! killing me! you are always talking of killing me. Do you

suppose that I am afraid to die? Do not I know how soon it is coming?

Give me the brandy, I say, or I will be out across the room to fetch

it.”

 

“No, Scatcherd. I cannot give it to you; not while I am here. Do you

remember how you were engaged this morning?”—he had that morning

taken the sacrament from the parish clergyman—“you would not wish to

make me guilty of murder, would you?”

 

“Nonsense! You are talking nonsense; habit is second nature. I tell

you I shall sink without it. Why, you know I always get it directly

your back is turned. Come, I will not be bullied in my own house;

give me that bottle, I say!”—and Sir Roger essayed, vainly enough,

to raise himself from the bed.

 

“Stop, Scatcherd; I will give it you—I will help you. It may be

that habit is second nature.” Sir Roger in his determined energy

had swallowed, without thinking of it, the small quantity which the

doctor had before poured out for him, and still held the empty glass

within his hand. This the doctor now took and filled nearly to the

brim.

 

“Come, Thorne, a bumper; a bumper for this once. ‘Whatever the drink,

it a bumper must be.’ You stingy fellow! I would not treat you so.

Well—well.”

 

“It’s as full as you can hold it, Scatcherd.”

 

“Try me; try me! my hand is a rock; at least at holding liquor.” And

then he drained the contents of the glass, which were sufficient in

quantity to have taken away the breath from any ordinary man.

 

“Ah, I’m better now. But, Thorne, I do love a full glass, ha! ha!

ha!”

 

There was something frightful, almost sickening, in the peculiar

hoarse guttural tone of his voice. The sounds came from him as

though steeped in brandy, and told, all too plainly, the havoc which

the alcohol had made. There was a fire too about his eyes which

contrasted with his sunken cheeks: his hanging jaw, unshorn beard,

and haggard face were terrible to look at. His hands and arms were

hot and clammy, but so thin and wasted! Of his lower limbs the lost

use had not returned to him, so that in all his efforts at vehemence

he was controlled by his own want of vitality. When he supported

himself, half-sitting against the pillows, he was in a continual

tremor; and yet, as he boasted, he could still lift his glass

steadily to his mouth. Such now was the hero of whom that ready

compiler of memoirs had just finished his correct and succinct

account.

 

After he had had his brandy, he sat glaring a while at vacancy, as

though he was dead to all around him, and was thinking—thinking—

thinking of things in the infinite distance of the past.

 

“Shall I go now,” said the doctor, “and send Lady Scatcherd to you?”

 

“Wait a while, doctor; just one minute longer. So you will do nothing

for Louis, then?”

 

“I will do everything for him that I can do.”

 

“Ah, yes! everything but the one thing that will save him. Well, I

will not ask you again. But remember, Thorne, I shall alter my will

to-morrow.”

 

“Do so by all means; you may well alter it for the better. If I

may advise you, you will have down your own business attorney from

London. If you will let me send he will be here before to-morrow

night.”

 

“Thank you for nothing, Thorne: I can manage that matter myself. Now

leave me; but remember, you have ruined that girl’s fortune.”

 

The doctor did leave him, and went not altogether happy to his room.

He could not but confess to himself that he had, despite himself as

it were, fed himself with hope that Mary’s future might be made more

secure, aye, and brighter too, by some small unheeded fraction broken

off from the huge mass of her uncle’s wealth. Such hope, if it had

amounted to hope, was now all gone. But this was not all, nor was

this the worst of it. That he had done right in utterly repudiating

all idea of a marriage between Mary and her cousin—of that he was

certain enough; that no earthly consideration would have induced Mary

to plight her troth to such a man—that, with him, was as certain as

doom. But how far had he done right in keeping her from the sight of

her uncle? How could he justify it to himself if he had thus robbed

her of her inheritance, seeing that he had done so from a selfish

fear lest she, who was now all his own, should be known to the world

as belonging to others rather than to him? He had taken upon him on

her behalf to reject wealth as valueless; and yet he had no sooner

done so than he began to consume his hours with reflecting how great

to her would be the value of wealth. And thus, when Sir Roger told

him, as he left the room, that he had ruined Mary’s fortune, he was

hardly able to bear the taunt with equanimity.

 

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