Doctor Thorne by Anthony Trollope (epub ebook reader .TXT) 📕

his

intention of breaking off the match without offering any intelligible

reason.

 

Augusta again bore her disappointment well: not, indeed, without

sorrow and heartache, and inward, hidden tears; but still well. She

neither raved, nor fainted, nor walked about by moonlight alone. She

wrote no poetry, and never once thought of suicide. When, indeed, she

remembered the rosy-tinted lining, the unfathomable softness of that

Long-acre carriage, her spirit did for one moment give way; but, on

the whole, she bore it as a strong-minded woman and a de Courcy

should do.

 

But both Lady Arabella and the squire were greatly vexed. The former

had made the match, and the latter, having consented to it, had

incurred deeper responsibilities to enable him to bring it about.

The money which was to have been given to Mr Moffat was still to the

fore; but alas! how much, how much that he could ill spare, had been

thrown away on bridal preparations! It is, moreover, an unpleasant

thing for a gentleman to have his daughter jilted; perhaps peculiarly

so to have her jilted by a tailor’s son.

 

Lady Arabella’s woe was really piteous. It seemed to her as though

cruel fate were heaping misery after misery upon the wretched house

of Greshamsbury. A few weeks since things were going so well with

her! Frank then was all but the accepted husband of almost untold

wealth—so, at least, she was informed by her sister-in-law—whereas,

Augusta, was the accepted wife of wealth, not indeed untold, but of

dimensions quite sufficiently respectable to cause much joy in the

telling. Where now were her golden hopes? Where now the splendid

future of her poor duped children? Augusta was left to pine alone;

and Frank, in a still worse plight, insisted on maintaining his love

for a bastard and a pauper.

 

For Frank’s affair she had received some poor consolation by laying

all the blame on the squire’s shoulders. What she had then said

was now repaid to her with interest; for not only had she been the

maker of Augusta’s match, but she had boasted of the deed with all a

mother’s pride.

 

It was from Beatrice that Frank had obtained his tidings. This last

resolve on the part of Mr Moffat had not altogether been unsuspected

by some of the Greshams, though altogether unsuspected by the Lady

Arabella. Frank had spoken of it as a possibility to Beatrice,

and was not quite unprepared when the information reached him. He

consequently bought his big cutting whip, and wrote his confidential

letter to Harry Baker.

 

On the following day Frank and Harry might have been seen, with their

heads nearly close together, leaning over one of the tables in the

large breakfast-room at the Tavistock Hotel in Covent Garden. The

ominous whip, to the handle of which Frank had already made his hand

well accustomed, was lying on the table between them; and ever and

anon Harry Baker would take it up and feel its weight approvingly.

Oh, Mr Moffat! poor Mr Moffat! go not out into the fashionable world

to-day; above all, go not to that club of thine in Pall Mall; but,

oh! especially go not there, as is thy wont to do, at three o’clock

in the afternoon!

 

With much care did those two young generals lay their plans of

attack. Let it not for a moment be thought that it was ever in the

minds of either of them that two men should attack one. But it

was thought that Mr Moffat might be rather coy in coming out from

his seclusion to meet the proffered hand of his once intended

brother-in-law when he should see that hand armed with a heavy whip.

Baker, therefore, was content to act as a decoy duck, and remarked

that he might no doubt make himself useful in restraining the public

mercy, and, probably, in controlling the interference of policemen.

 

“It will be deuced hard if I can’t get five or six shies at him,”

said Frank, again clutching his weapon almost spasmodically. Oh, Mr

Moffat! five or six shies with such a whip, and such an arm! For

myself, I would sooner join in a second Balaclava gallop than

encounter it.

 

At ten minutes before four these two heroes might be seen walking up

Pall Mall, towards the –- Club. Young Baker walked with an eager

disengaged air. Mr Moffat did not know his appearance; he had,

therefore, no anxiety to pass along unnoticed. But Frank had in some

mysterious way drawn his hat very far over his forehead, and had

buttoned his shooting-coat up round his chin. Harry had recommended

to him a great-coat, in order that he might the better conceal his

face; but Frank had found that the great-coat was an encumbrance to

his arm. He put it on, and when thus clothed he had tried the whip,

he found that he cut the air with much less potency than in the

lighter garment. He contented himself, therefore, with looking down

on the pavement as he walked along, letting the long point of the

whip stick up from his pocket, and flattering himself that even Mr

Moffat would not recognise him at the first glance. Poor Mr Moffat!

If he had but had the chance!

 

And now, having arrived at the front of the club, the two friends for

a moment separate: Frank remains standing on the pavement, under the

shade of the high stone area-railing, while Harry jauntily skips up

three steps at a time, and with a very civil word of inquiry of the

hall porter, sends in his card to Mr Moffat—

 

MR HARRY BAKER

 

Mr Moffat, never having heard of such a gentleman in his life,

unwittingly comes out into the hall, and Harry, with the sweetest

smile, addresses him.

 

Now the plan of the campaign had been settled in this wise: Baker

was to send into the club for Mr Moffat, and invite that gentleman

down into the street. It was probable that the invitation might

be declined; and it had been calculated in such case that the two

gentlemen would retire for parley into the strangers’ room, which was

known to be immediately opposite the hall door. Frank was to keep his

eye on the portals, and if he found that Mr Moffat did not appear

as readily as might be desired, he also was to ascend the steps and

hurry into the strangers’ room. Then, whether he met Mr Moffat there

or elsewhere, or wherever he might meet him, he was to greet him with

all the friendly vigour in his power, while Harry disposed of the

club porters.

 

But fortune, who ever favours the brave, specially favoured Frank

Gresham on this occasion. Just as Harry Baker had put his card

into the servant’s hand, Mr Moffat, with his hat on, prepared for

the street, appeared in the hall; Mr Baker addressed him with his

sweetest smile, and begged the pleasure of saying a word or two as

they descended into the street. Had not Mr Moffat been going thither

it would have been very improbable that he should have done so at

Harry’s instance. But, as it was, he merely looked rather solemn

at his visitor—it was his wont to look solemn—and continued the

descent of the steps.

 

Frank, his heart leaping the while, saw his prey, and retreated two

steps behind the area-railing, the dread weapon already well poised

in his hand. Oh! Mr Moffat! Mr Moffat! if there be any goddess to

interfere in thy favour, let her come forward now without delay; let

her now bear thee off on a cloud if there be one to whom thou art

sufficiently dear! But there is no such goddess.

 

Harry smiled blandly till they were well on the pavement, saying some

nothing, and keeping the victim’s face averted from the avenging

angel; and then, when the raised hand was sufficiently nigh, he

withdrew two steps towards the nearest lamp-post. Not for him was the

honour of the interview;—unless, indeed, succouring policemen might

give occasion for some gleam of glory.

 

But succouring policemen were no more to be come by than goddesses.

Where were ye, men, when that savage whip fell about the ears of the

poor ex-legislator? In Scotland Yard, sitting dozing on your benches,

or talking soft nothings to the housemaids round the corner; for ye

were not walking on your beats, nor standing at coign of vantage, to

watch the tumults of the day. But had ye been there what could ye

have done? Had Sir Richard himself been on the spot Frank Gresham

would still, we may say, have had his five shies at that unfortunate

one.

 

When Harry Baker quickly seceded from the way, Mr Moffat at once saw

the fate before him. His hair doubtless stood on end, and his voice

refused to give the loud screech with which he sought to invoke the

club. An ashy paleness suffused his cheeks, and his tottering steps

were unable to bear him away in flight. Once, and twice, the cutting

whip came well down across his back. Had he been wise enough to stand

still and take his thrashing in that attitude, it would have been

well for him. But men so circumstanced have never such prudence.

After two blows he made a dash at the steps, thinking to get back

into the club; but Harry, who had by no means reclined in idleness

against the lamp-post, here stopped him: “You had better go back into

the street,” said Harry; “indeed you had,” giving him a shove from

off the second step.

 

Then of course Frank could not do other than hit him anywhere. When a

gentleman is dancing about with much energy it is hardly possible to

strike him fairly on his back. The blows, therefore, came now on his

legs and now on his head; and Frank unfortunately got more than his

five or six shies before he was interrupted.

 

The interruption however came, all too soon for Frank’s idea of

justice. Though there be no policeman to take part in a London row,

there are always others ready enough to do so; amateur policemen,

who generally sympathise with the wrong side, and, in nine cases

out of ten, expend their generous energy in protecting thieves and

pickpockets. When it was seen with what tremendous ardour that

dread weapon fell about the ears of the poor undefended gentleman,

interference there was at last, in spite of Harry Baker’s best

endeavours, and loudest protestations.

 

“Do not interrupt them, sir,” said he; “pray do not. It is a family

affair, and they will neither of them like it.”

 

In the teeth, however, of these assurances, rude people did

interfere, and after some nine or ten shies Frank found himself

encompassed by the arms, and encumbered by the weight of a very stout

gentleman, who hung affectionately about his neck and shoulders;

whereas, Mr Moffat was already receiving consolation from two

motherly females, sitting in a state of syncope on the good-natured

knees of a fishmonger’s apprentice.

 

Frank was thoroughly out of breath: nothing came from his lips but

half-muttered expletives and unintelligible denunciations of the

iniquity of his foe. But still he struggled to be at him again. We

all know how dangerous is the taste of blood; now cruelty will become

a custom even with the most tender-hearted. Frank felt that he had

hardly fleshed his virgin lash: he thought, almost with despair, that

he had not yet at all succeeded as became a man and a brother; his

memory told him of but one or two of the slightest touches that had

gone well home to the offender. He made a desperate effort to throw

off that incubus round his neck and rush again to the combat.