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

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Sir Louis, however, came with four, and very arrogant he looked,

leaning back in the barouche belonging to the George and Dragon,

and wrapped up in fur, although it was now midsummer. And up in the

dicky behind was a servant, more arrogant, if possible, than his

master—the baronet’s own man, who was the object of Dr Thorne’s

special detestation and disgust. He was a little fellow, chosen

originally on account of his light weight on horseback; but if that

may be considered a merit, it was the only one he had. His out-door

show dress was a little tight frock-coat, round which a polished

strap was always buckled tightly, a stiff white choker, leather

breeches, top-boots, and a hat, with a cockade, stuck on one side

of his head. His name was Jonah, which his master and his master’s

friends shortened into Joe; none, however, but those who were very

intimate with his master were allowed to do so with impunity.

 

This Joe was Dr Thorne’s special aversion. In his anxiety to take

every possible step to keep Sir Louis from poisoning himself, he had

at first attempted to enlist the baronet’s “own man” in the cause.

Joe had promised fairly, but had betrayed the doctor at once, and

had become the worst instrument of his master’s dissipation. When,

therefore, his hat and the cockade were seen, as the carriage dashed

up to the door, the doctor’s contentment was by no means increased.

 

Sir Louis was now twenty-three years old, and was a great deal too

knowing to allow himself to be kept under the doctor’s thumb. It

had, indeed, become his plan to rebel against his guardian in almost

everything. He had at first been decently submissive, with the view

of obtaining increased supplies of ready money; but he had been sharp

enough to perceive that, let his conduct be what it would, the doctor

would keep him out of debt; but that the doing so took so large a sum

that he could not hope for any further advances. In this respect Sir

Louis was perhaps more keen-witted than Dr Thorne.

 

Mary, when she saw the carriage, at once ran up to her own bedroom.

The doctor, who had been with her in the drawing-room, went down to

meet his ward, but as soon as he saw the cockade he darted almost

involuntarily into his shop and shut the door. This protection,

however, lasted only for a moment; he felt that decency required him

to meet his guest, and so he went forth and faced the enemy.

 

“I say,” said Joe, speaking to Janet, who stood curtsying at the

gate, with Bridget, the other maid, behind her, “I say, are there

any chaps about the place to take these things—eh? come, look sharp

here.”

 

It so happened that the doctor’s groom was not on the spot, and

“other chaps” the doctor had none.

 

“Take those things, Bridget,” he said, coming forward and offering

his hand to the baronet. Sir Louis, when he saw his host, roused

himself slowly from the back of his carriage. “How do, doctor?” said

he. “What terrible bad roads you have here! and, upon my word, it’s

as cold as winter:” and, so saying, he slowly proceeded to descend.

 

Sir Louis was a year older than when we last saw him, and, in his

generation, a year wiser. He had then been somewhat humble before the

doctor; but now he was determined to let his guardian see that he

knew how to act the baronet; that he had acquired the manners of a

great man; and that he was not to be put upon. He had learnt some

lessons from Jenkins, in London, and other friends of the same sort,

and he was about to profit by them.

 

The doctor showed him to his room, and then proceeded to ask after

his health. “Oh, I’m right enough,” said Sir Louis. “You mustn’t

believe all that fellow Greyson tells you: he wants me to take salts

and senna, opodeldoc, and all that sort of stuff; looks after his

bill, you know—eh? like all the rest of you. But I won’t have

it;—not at any price; and then he writes to you.”

 

“I’m glad to see you able to travel,” said Dr Thorne, who could not

force himself to tell his guest that he was glad to see him at

Greshamsbury.

 

“Oh, travel; yes, I can travel well enough. But I wish you had some

better sort of trap down in these country parts. I’m shaken to bits.

And, doctor, would you tell your people to send that fellow of mine

up here with hot water.”

 

So dismissed, the doctor went his way, and met Joe swaggering in one

of the passages, while Janet and her colleague dragged along between

them a heavy article of baggage.

 

“Janet,” said he, “go downstairs and get Sir Louis some hot water,

and Joe, do you take hold of your master’s portmanteau.”

 

Joe sulkily did as he was bid. “Seems to me,” said he, turning to

the girl, and speaking before the doctor was out of hearing, “seems

to me, my dear, you be rather short-handed here; lots of work and

nothing to get; that’s about the ticket, ain’t it?” Bridget was too

demurely modest to make any answer upon so short an acquaintance; so,

putting her end of the burden down at the strange gentleman’s door,

she retreated into the kitchen.

 

Sir Louis, in answer to the doctor’s inquiries, had declared himself

to be all right; but his appearance was anything but all right.

Twelve months since, a life of dissipation, or rather, perhaps, a

life of drinking, had not had upon him so strong an effect but that

some of the salt of youth was still left; some of the freshness of

young years might still be seen in his face. But this was now all

gone; his eyes were sunken and watery, his cheeks were hollow and

wan, his mouth was drawn and his lips dry; his back was even bent,

and his legs were unsteady under him, so that he had been forced to

step down from his carriage as an old man would do. Alas, alas! he

had no further chance now of ever being all right again.

 

Mary had secluded herself in her bedroom as soon as the carriage had

driven up to the door, and there she remained till dinner-time. But

she could not shut herself up altogether. It would be necessary that

she should appear at dinner; and, therefore, a few minutes before the

hour, she crept out into the drawing-room. As she opened the door,

she looked in timidly, expecting Sir Louis to be there; but when

she saw that her uncle was the only occupant of the room, her brow

cleared, and she entered with a quick step.

 

“He’ll come down to dinner; won’t he, uncle?”

 

“Oh, I suppose so.”

 

“What’s he doing now?”

 

“Dressing, I suppose; he’s been at it this hour.”

 

“But, uncle—”

 

“Well?”

 

“Will he come up after dinner, do you think?”

 

Mary spoke of him as though he were some wild beast, whom her uncle

insisted on having in his house.

 

“Goodness knows what he will do! Come up? Yes. He will not stay in

the dining-room all night.”

 

“But, dear uncle, do be serious.”

 

“Serious!”

 

“Yes; serious. Don’t you think that I might go to bed, instead of

waiting?”

 

The doctor was saved the trouble of answering by the entrance of the

baronet. He was dressed in what he considered the most fashionable

style of the day. He had on a new dress-coat lined with satin,

new dress-trousers, a silk waistcoat covered with chains, a white

cravat, polished pumps, and silk stockings, and he carried a scented

handkerchief in his hand; he had rings on his fingers, and carbuncle

studs in his shirt, and he smelt as sweet as patchouli could make

him. But he could hardly do more than shuffle into the room, and

seemed almost to drag one of his legs behind him.

 

Mary, in spite of her aversion, was shocked and distressed when she

saw him. He, however, seemed to think himself perfect, and was no

whit abashed by the unfavourable reception which twelve months since

had been paid to his suit. Mary came up and shook hands with him, and

he received her with a compliment which no doubt he thought must be

acceptable. “Upon my word, Miss Thorne, every place seems to agree

with you; one better than another. You were looking charming at

Boxall Hill; but, upon my word, charming isn’t half strong enough

now.”

 

Mary sat down quietly, and the doctor assumed a face of unutterable

disgust. This was the creature for whom all his sympathies had been

demanded, all his best energies put in requisition; on whose behalf

he was to quarrel with his oldest friends, lose his peace and

quietness of life, and exercise all the functions of a loving friend!

This was his self-invited guest, whom he was bound to foster, and

whom he could not turn from his door.

 

Then dinner came, and Mary had to put her hand upon his arm. She

certainly did not lean upon him, and once or twice felt inclined to

give him some support. They reached the dining-room, however, the

doctor following them, and then sat down, Janet waiting in the room,

as was usual.

 

“I say, doctor,” said the baronet, “hadn’t my man better come in

and help? He’s got nothing to do, you know. We should be more cosy,

shouldn’t we?”

 

“Janet will manage pretty well,” said the doctor.

 

“Oh, you’d better have Joe; there’s nothing like a good servant at

table. I say, Janet, just send that fellow in, will you?”

 

“We shall do very well without him,” said the doctor, becoming rather

red about the cheek-bones, and with a slight gleam of determination

about the eye. Janet, who saw how matters stood, made no attempt to

obey the baronet’s order.

 

“Oh, nonsense, doctor; you think he’s an uppish sort of fellow, I

know, and you don’t like to trouble him; but when I’m near him, he’s

all right; just send him in, will you?”

 

“Sir Louis,” said the doctor, “I’m accustomed to none but my own old

woman here in my own house, and if you will allow me, I’ll keep my

old ways. I shall be sorry if you are not comfortable.” The baronet

said nothing more, and the dinner passed off slowly and wearily

enough.

 

When Mary had eaten her fruit and escaped, the doctor got into one

arm-chair and the baronet into another, and the latter began the only

work of existence of which he knew anything.

 

“That’s good port,” said he; “very fair port.”

 

The doctor loved his port wine, and thawed a little in his manner. He

loved it not as a toper, but as a collector loves his pet pictures.

He liked to talk about it, and think about it; to praise it, and hear

it praised; to look at it turned towards the light, and to count over

the years it had lain in his cellar.

 

“Yes,” said he, “it’s pretty fair wine. It was, at least, when I got

it, twenty years ago, and I don’t suppose time has hurt it;” and he

held the glass up to the window, and looked at the evening light

through the ruby tint of the liquid. “Ah, dear, there’s not much of

it left; more’s the pity.”

 

“A good thing won’t last for ever. I’ll tell you what now; I wish

I’d brought down a dozen or two of claret. I’ve some prime stuff in