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

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,”