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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imagined that they had been well received. The other things were to
follow; an Arab pony, for instance,—and the kisses probably with it;
and then all these difficulties would be smoothed.
But he did not for a moment conceive that there would be any
difficulty with the uncle. How should there be? Was he not a baronet
with ten thousand a year coming to him? Had he not everything which
fathers want for portionless daughters, and uncles for dependant
nieces? Might he not well inform the doctor that he had something to
tell him for his advantage?
And yet, to tell the truth, the doctor did not seem to be overjoyed
when the announcement was first made to him. He was by no means
overjoyed. On the contrary, even Sir Louis could perceive his
guardian’s surprise was altogether unmixed with delight.
What a question was this that was asked him! What would he think of
a marriage between Mary Thorne—his Mary and Sir Louis Scatcherd?
Between the alpha of the whole alphabet, and him whom he could not
but regard as the omega! Think of it! Why he would think of it as
though a lamb and a wolf were to stand at the altar together. Had Sir
Louis been a Hottentot, or an Esquimaux, the proposal could not have
astonished him more. The two persons were so totally of a different
class, that the idea of the one falling in love with the other had
never occurred to him. “What would you think of Miss Mary Thorne?”
Sir Louis had asked; and the doctor, instead of answering him
with ready and pleased alacrity, stood silent, thunderstruck with
amazement.
“Well, wouldn’t she be a good wife?” said Sir Louis, rather in a tone
of disgust at the evident disapproval shown at his choice. “I thought
you’d have been so delighted.”
“Mary Thorne!” ejaculated the doctor at last. “Have you spoken to my
niece about this, Sir Louis?”
“Well, I have and yet I haven’t; I haven’t, and yet in a manner I
have.”
“I don’t understand you,” said the doctor.
“Why, you see, I haven’t exactly popped to her yet; but I have been
doing the civil; and if she’s up to snuff, as I take her to be, she
knows very well what I’m after by this time.”
Up to snuff! Mary Thorne, his Mary Thorne, up to snuff! To snuff too
of such a very disagreeable description!
“I think, Sir Louis, that you are in mistake about this. I think you
will find that Mary will not be disposed to avail herself of the
great advantages—for great they undoubtedly are—which you are able
to offer to your intended wife. If you will take my advice, you will
give up thinking of Mary. She would not suit you.”
“Not suit me! Oh, but I think she just would. She’s got no money, you
mean?”
“No, I did not mean that. It will not signify to you whether your
wife has money or not. You need not look for money. But you should
think of some one more nearly of your own temperament. I am quite
sure that my niece would refuse you.”
These last words the doctor uttered with much emphasis. His intention
was to make the baronet understand that the matter was quite
hopeless, and to induce him if possible to drop it on the spot. But
he did not know Sir Louis; he ranked him too low in the scale of
human beings, and gave him no credit for any strength of character.
Sir Louis in his way did love Mary Thorne; and could not bring
himself to believe that Mary did not, or at any rate, would not soon
return his passion. He was, moreover, sufficiently obstinate, firm we
ought perhaps to say,—for his pursuit in this case was certainly not
an evil one,—and he at once made up his mind to succeed in spite of
the uncle.
“If she consents, however, you will do so too?” asked he.
“It is impossible she should consent,” said the doctor.
“Impossible! I don’t see anything at all impossible. But if she
does?”
“But she won’t.”
“Very well,—that’s to be seen. But just tell me this, if she does,
will you consent?”
“The stars would fall first. It’s all nonsense. Give it up, my dear
friend; believe me you are only preparing unhappiness for yourself;”
and the doctor put his hand kindly on the young man’s arm. “She will
not, cannot accept such an offer.”
“Will not! cannot!” said the baronet, thinking over all the reasons
which in his estimation could possibly be inducing the doctor to be
so hostile to his views, and shaking the hand off his arm. “Will not!
cannot! But come, doctor, answer my question fairly. If she’ll have
me for better or worse, you won’t say aught against it; will you?”
“But she won’t have you; why should you give her and yourself the
pain of a refusal?”
“Oh, as for that, I must stand my chances like another. And as for
her, why d–-, doctor, you wouldn’t have me believe that any young
lady thinks it so very dreadful to have a baronet with ten thousand
pounds a year at her feet, specially when that same baronet ain’t
very old, nor yet particularly ugly. I ain’t so green as that,
doctor.”
“I suppose she must go through it, then,” said the doctor, musing.
“But, Dr Thorne, I did look for a kinder answer from you, considering
all that you so often say about your great friendship with my father.
I did think you’d at any rate answer me when I asked you a question.”
But the doctor did not want to answer that special question. Could
it be possible that Mary should wish to marry this odious man, could
such a state of things be imagined to be the case, he would not
refuse his consent, infinitely as he would be disgusted by her
choice. But he would not give Sir Louis any excuse for telling Mary
that her uncle approved of so odious a match.
“I cannot say that in any case I should approve of such a marriage,
Sir Louis. I cannot bring myself to say so; for I know it would make
you both miserable. But on that matter my niece will choose wholly
for herself.”
“And about the money, doctor?”
“If you marry a decent woman you shall not want the means of
supporting her decently,” and so saying the doctor walked away,
leaving Sir Louis to his meditations.
The Donkey Ride
Sir Louis, when left to himself, was slightly dismayed and somewhat
discouraged; but he was not induced to give up his object. The first
effort of his mind was made in conjecturing what private motive
Dr Thorne could possibly have in wishing to debar his niece from
marrying a rich young baronet. That the objection was personal to
himself, Sir Louis did not for a moment imagine. Could it be that the
doctor did not wish that his niece should be richer, and grander, and
altogether bigger than himself? Or was it possible that his guardian
was anxious to prevent him from marrying from some view of the
reversion of the large fortune? That there was some such reason, Sir
Louis was well sure; but let it be what it might, he would get the
better of the doctor. “He knew,” so he said to himself, “what stuff
girls were made of. Baronets did not grow like blackberries.” And so,
assuring himself with such philosophy, he determined to make his
offer.
The time he selected for doing this was the hour before dinner; but
on the day on which his conversation with the doctor had taken place,
he was deterred by the presence of a strange visitor. To account for
this strange visit it will be necessary that we should return to
Greshamsbury for a few minutes.
Frank, when he returned home for his summer vacation, found that
Mary had again flown; and the very fact of her absence added fuel to
the fire of his love, more perhaps than even her presence might have
done. For the flight of the quarry ever adds eagerness to the pursuit
of the huntsman. Lady Arabella, moreover, had a bitter enemy; a
foe, utterly opposed to her side in the contest, where she had once
fondly looked for her staunchest ally. Frank was now in the habit
of corresponding with Miss Dunstable, and received from her most
energetic admonitions to be true to the love which he had sworn. True
to it he resolved to be; and therefore, when he found that Mary was
flown, he resolved to fly after her.
He did not, however, do this till he had been in a measure provoked
to it by it by the sharp-tongued cautions and blunted irony of his
mother. It was not enough for her that she had banished Mary out of
the parish, and made Dr Thorne’s life miserable; not enough that
she harassed her husband with harangues on the constant subject of
Frank’s marrying money, and dismayed Beatrice with invectives against
the iniquity of her friend. The snake was so but scotched; to kill it
outright she must induce Frank utterly to renounce Miss Thorne.
This task she essayed, but not exactly with success. “Well, mother,”
said Frank, at last turning very red, partly with shame, and partly
with indignation, as he made the frank avowal, “since you press me
about it, I tell you fairly that my mind is made up to marry Mary
sooner or later, if—”
“Oh, Frank! good heavens! you wicked boy; you are saying this
purposely to drive me distracted.”
“If,” continued Frank, not attending to his mother’s interjections,
“if she will consent.”
“Consent!” said Lady Arabella. “Oh, heavens!” and falling into the
corner of the sofa, she buried her face in her handkerchief.
“Yes, mother, if she will consent. And now that I have told you so
much, it is only just that I should tell you this also; that as far
as I can see at present I have no reason to hope that she will do
so.”
“Oh, Frank, the girl is doing all she can to catch you,” said Lady
Arabella,—not prudently.
“No, mother; there you wrong her altogether; wrong her most cruelly.”
“You ungracious, wicked boy! you call me cruel!”
“I don’t call you cruel; but you wrong her cruelly, most cruelly.
When I have spoken to her about this—for I have spoken to her—she
has behaved exactly as you would have wanted her to do; but not at
all as I wished her. She has given me no encouragement. You have
turned her out among you”—Frank was beginning to be very bitter
now—“but she has done nothing to deserve it. If there has been any
fault it has been mine. But it is well that we should all understand
each other. My intention is to marry Mary if I can.” And, so
speaking, certainly without due filial respect, he turned towards the
door.
“Frank,” said his mother, raising herself up with energy to make one
last appeal. “Frank, do you wish to see me die of a broken heart?”
“You know, mother, I would wish to make you happy, if I could.”
“If you wish to see me ever happy again, if you do not wish to see
me sink broken-hearted to my grave, you must give up this mad idea,
Frank,”—and now all Lady Arabella’s energy came out. “Frank there is
but one course left open to
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