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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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the house as was Mr Oriel;

but he hoped to be forgiven by the ladies in consequence of the

severity of the miseries to which he was subjected. He and Mr Oriel

were soon to be seen through the dining-room window, walking about

the grounds with the two eldest Miss Greshams. And Patience Oriel,

who had also been of the party, was also to be seen with the twins.

Frank looked at his father with almost a malicious smile, and began

to think that he too might be better employed out among the walks.

Did he think then of a former summer evening, when he had half broken

Mary’s heart by walking there too lovingly with Patience Oriel?

 

Sir Louis, if he continued his brilliant career of success, would

soon be left the cock of the walk. The squire, to be sure, could

not bolt, nor could the doctor very well; but they might be equally

vanquished, remaining there in their chairs. Dr Thorne, during all

this time, was sitting with tingling ears. Indeed, it may be said

that his whole body tingled. He was in a manner responsible for this

horrid scene; but what could he do to stop it? He could not take Sir

Louis up bodily and carry him away. One idea did occur to him. The

fly had been ordered for ten o’clock. He could rush out and send for

it instantly.

 

“You’re not going to leave me?” said the squire, in a voice of

horror, as he saw the doctor rising from his chair.

 

“Oh, no, no, no,” said the doctor; and then he whispered the purpose

of his mission. “I will be back in two minutes.” The doctor would

have given twenty pounds to have closed the scene at once; but he was

not the man to desert his friend in such a strait as that.

 

“He’s a well-meaning fellow, the doctor,” said Sir Louis, when his

guardian was out of the room, “very; but he’s not up to trap—not at

all.”

 

“Up to trap—well, I should say he was; that is, if I know what trap

means,” said Frank.

 

“Ah, but that’s just the ticket. Do you know? Now I say Dr Thorne’s

not a man of the world.”

 

“He’s about the best man I know, or ever heard of,” said the squire.

“And if any man ever had a good friend, you have got one in him; and

so have I:” and the squire silently drank the doctor’s health.

 

“All very true, I dare say; but yet he’s not up to trap. Now look

here, squire—”

 

“If you don’t mind, sir,” said Frank, “I’ve got something very

particular—perhaps, however—”

 

“Stay till Thorne returns, Frank.”

 

Frank did stay till Thorne returned, and then escaped.

 

“Excuse me, doctor,” said he, “but I’ve something very particular to

say; I’ll explain to-morrow.” And then the three were left alone.

 

Sir Louis was now becoming almost drunk, and was knocking his words

together. The squire had already attempted to stop the bottle; but

the baronet had contrived to get hold of a modicum of Madeira, and

there was no preventing him from helping himself; at least, none at

that moment.

 

“As we were saying about lawyers,” continued Sir Louis. “Let’s see,

what were we saying? Why, squire, it’s just here. Those fellows will

fleece us both if we don’t mind what we are after.”

 

“Never mind about lawyers now,” said Dr Thorne, angrily.

 

“Ah, but I do mind; most particularly. That’s all very well for you,

doctor; you’ve nothing to lose. You’ve no great stake in the matter.

Why, now, what sum of money of mine do you think those d–- doctors

are handling?”

 

“D–- doctors!” said the squire in a tone of dismay.

 

“Lawyers, I mean, of course. Why, now, Gresham; we’re all totted

now, you see; you’re down in my books, I take it, for pretty near a

hundred thousand pounds.”

 

“Hold your tongue, sir,” said the doctor, getting up.

 

“Hold my tongue!” said Sir Louis.

 

“Sir Louis Scatcherd,” said the squire, slowly rising from his chair,

“we will not, if you please, talk about business at the present

moment. Perhaps we had better go to the ladies.”

 

This latter proposition had certainly not come from the squire’s

heart: going to the ladies was the very last thing for which Sir

Louis was now fit. But the squire had said it as being the only

recognised formal way he could think of for breaking up the

symposium.

 

“Oh, very well,” hiccupped the baronet, “I’m always ready for the

ladies,” and he stretched out his hand to the decanter to get a last

glass of Madeira.

 

“No,” said the doctor, rising stoutly, and speaking with a determined

voice. “No; you will have no more wine:” and he took the decanter

from him.

 

“What’s all this about?” said Sir Louis, with a drunken laugh.

 

“Of course he cannot go into the drawing-room, Mr Gresham. If you

will leave him here with me, I will stay with him till the fly

comes. Pray tell Lady Arabella from me, how sorry I am that this has

occurred.”

 

The squire would not leave his friend, and they sat together till the

fly came. It was not long, for the doctor had dispatched his

messenger with much haste.

 

“I am so heartily ashamed of myself,” said the doctor, almost with

tears.

 

The squire took him by the hand affectionately. “I’ve seen a tipsy

man before to-night,” said he.

 

“Yes,” said the doctor, “and so have I, but—” He did not express the

rest of his thoughts.

CHAPTER XXXVI

Will He Come Again?

 

Long before the doctor returned home after the little dinner-party

above described, Mary had learnt that Frank was already at

Greshamsbury. She had heard nothing of him or from him, not a word,

nothing in the shape of a message, for twelve months; and at her age

twelve months is a long period. Would he come and see her in spite of

his mother? Would he send her any tidings of his return, or notice

her in any way? If he did not, what would she do? and if he did, what

then would she do? It was so hard to resolve; so hard to be deserted;

and so hard to dare to wish that she might not be deserted! She

continued to say to herself, that it would be better that they should

be strangers; and she could hardly keep herself from tears in the

fear that they might be so. What chance could there be that he should

care for her, after an absence spent in travelling over the world?

No; she would forget that affair of his hand; and then, immediately

after having so determined, she would confess to herself that it was

a thing not to be forgotten, and impossible of oblivion.

 

On her uncle’s return, she would hear some word about him; and so

she sat alone, with a book before her, of which she could not read

a line. She expected them about eleven, and was, therefore, rather

surprised when the fly stopped at the door before nine.

 

She immediately heard her uncle’s voice, loud and angry, calling

for Thomas. Both Thomas and Bridget were unfortunately out, being,

at this moment, forgetful of all sublunary cares, and seated in

happiness under a beech-tree in the park. Janet flew to the little

gate, and there found Sir Louis insisting that he would be taken at

once to his own mansion at Boxall Hill, and positively swearing that

he would no longer submit to the insult of the doctor’s surveillance.

 

In the absence of Thomas, the doctor was forced to apply for

assistance to the driver of the fly. Between them the baronet was

dragged out of the vehicle, the windows suffered much, and the

doctor’s hat also. In this way, he was taken upstairs, and was at

last put to bed, Janet assisting; nor did the doctor leave the room

till his guest was asleep. Then he went into the drawing-room to

Mary. It may easily be conceived that he was hardly in a humour to

talk much about Frank Gresham.

 

“What am I to do with him?” said he, almost in tears: “what am I to

do with him?”

 

“Can you not send him to Boxall Hill?” asked Mary.

 

“Yes; to kill himself there! But it is no matter; he will kill

himself somewhere. Oh! what that family have done for me!” And then,

suddenly remembering a portion of their doings, he took Mary in his

arms, and kissed and blessed her; and declared that, in spite of all

this, he was a happy man.

 

There was no word about Frank that night. The next morning the doctor

found Sir Louis very weak, and begging for stimulants. He was worse

than weak; he was in such a state of wretched misery and mental

prostration; so low in heart, in such collapse of energy and spirit,

that Dr Thorne thought it prudent to remove his razors from his

reach.

 

“For God’s sake do let me have a little chasse-café; I’m always

used to it; ask Joe if I’m not! You don’t want to kill me, do you?”

And the baronet cried piteously, like a child, and, when the doctor

left him for the breakfast-table, abjectly implored Janet to get him

some curaçoa which he knew was in one of his portmanteaus. Janet,

however, was true to her master.

 

The doctor did give him some wine; and then, having left strict

orders as to his treatment—Bridget and Thomas being now both in the

house—went forth to some of his too much neglected patients.

 

Then Mary was again alone, and her mind flew away to her lover. How

should she be able to compose herself when she should first see him?

See him she must. People cannot live in the same village without

meeting. If she passed him at the church-door, as she often passed

Lady Arabella, what should she do? Lady Arabella always smiled

a peculiar, little, bitter smile, and this, with half a nod of

recognition, carried off the meeting. Should she try the bitter

smile, the half-nod with Frank? Alas! she knew it was not in her to

be so much mistress of her own heart’s blood.

 

As she thus thought, she stood at the drawing-room window, looking

out into her garden; and, as she leant against the sill, her head was

surrounded by the sweet creepers. “At any rate, he won’t come here,”

she said: and so, with a deep sigh, she turned from the window into

the room.

 

There he was, Frank Gresham himself standing there in her immediate

presence, beautiful as Apollo. Her next thought was how she might

escape from out of his arms. How it happened that she had fallen into

them, she never knew.

 

“Mary! my own, own love! my own one! sweetest! dearest! best! Mary!

dear Mary! have you not a word to say to me?”

 

No; she had not a word, though her life had depended on it. The

exertion necessary for not crying was quite enough for her. This,

then, was the bitter smile and the half-nod that was to pass between

them; this was the manner in which estrangement was to grow into

indifference; this was the mode of meeting by which she was to prove

that she was mistress of her conduct, if not her heart! There he held

her close bound to his breast, and she could only protect her face,

and that all ineffectually, with her hands. “He loves another,”

Beatrice had said. “At any rate, he will not love me,”

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