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

we have most of us an idea that the little end is the difficulty. That pill had been the little end of Lady Arabella’s wedge. Up to that period she had been struggling in vain to make a severance between her husband and her enemy. That pill should do the business. She well knew how to make the most of it; to have it published in Greshamsbury that the squire had put his gouty toe into Dr. Fillgrave’s hands; how to let it be known⁠—especially at that humble house in the corner of the street⁠—that Fillgrave’s prescriptions now ran current through the whole establishment. Dr. Thorne did hear of it, and did suffer. He had been a true friend to the squire, and he thought the squire should have stood to him more staunchly.

“After all,” said he himself, “perhaps it’s as well⁠—perhaps it will be best that I should leave this place altogether.” And then he thought of Sir Roger and his will, and of Mary and her lover. And then of Mary’s birth, and of his own theoretical doctrines as to pure blood. And so his troubles multiplied, and he saw no present daylight through them.

Such had been the way in which Lady Arabella had got in the little end of the wedge. And she would have triumphed joyfully had not her increased doubts and fears as to herself then come in to check her triumph and destroy her joy. She had not yet confessed to anyone her secret regret for the friend she had driven away. She hardly yet acknowledged to herself that she did regret him; but she was uneasy, frightened, and in low spirits.

“My dear,” said the squire, sitting down by her bedside, “I want to tell you what Sir Omicron said as he went away.”

“Well?” said her ladyship, sitting up and looking frightened.

“I don’t know how you may take it, Bell; but I think it very good news:” the squire never called his wife Bell, except when he wanted her to be on particularly good terms with him.

“Well?” said she again. She was not overanxious to be gracious, and did not reciprocate his familiarity.

“Sir Omicron says that you should have Thorne back again, and upon my honour, I cannot but agree with him. Now, Thorne is a clever man, a very clever man; nobody denies that; and then, you know⁠—”

“Why did not Sir Omicron say that to me?” said her ladyship, sharply, all her disposition in Dr. Thorne’s favour becoming wonderfully damped by her husband’s advocacy.

“I suppose he thought it better to say it to me,” said the squire, rather curtly.

“He should have spoken to myself,” said Lady Arabella, who, though she did not absolutely doubt her husband’s word, gave him credit for having induced and led on Sir Omicron to the uttering of this opinion. “Doctor Thorne has behaved to me in so gross, so indecent a manner! And then, as I understand, he is absolutely encouraging that girl⁠—”

“Now, Bell, you are quite wrong⁠—”

“Of course I am; I always am quite wrong.”

“Quite wrong in mixing up two things; Doctor Thorne as an acquaintance, and Dr. Thorne as a doctor.”

“It is dreadful to have him here, even standing in the room with me. How can one talk to one’s doctor openly and confidentially when one looks upon him as one’s worst enemy?” And Lady Arabella, softening, almost melted into tears.

“My dear, you cannot wonder that I should be anxious for you.”

Lady Arabella gave a little snuffle, which might be taken as a not very eloquent expression of thanks for the squire’s solicitude, or as an ironical jeer at his want of sincerity.

“And, therefore, I have not lost a moment in telling you what Sir Omicron said. ‘You should have Thorne back here;’ those were his very words. You can think it over, my dear. And remember this, Bell; if he is to do any good no time should be lost.”

And then the squire left the room, and Lady Arabella remained alone, perplexed by many doubts.

XXXII Mr. Oriel

I must now, shortly⁠—as shortly as it is in my power to do it⁠—introduce a new character to my reader. Mention has been made of the rectory of Greshamsbury; but, hitherto, no opportunity has offered itself for the Rev. Caleb Oriel to come upon the boards.

Mr. Oriel was a man of family and fortune, who, having gone to Oxford with the usual views of such men, had become inoculated there with very High-Church principles, and had gone into orders influenced by a feeling of enthusiastic love for the priesthood. He was by no means an ascetic⁠—such men, indeed, seldom are⁠—nor was he a devotee. He was a man well able, and certainly willing, to do the work of a parish clergyman; and when he became one, he was efficacious in his profession. But it may perhaps be said of him, without speaking slanderously, that his original calling, as a young man, was rather to the outward and visible signs of religion than to its inward and spiritual graces.

He delighted in lecterns and credence-tables, in services at dark hours of winter mornings when no one would attend, in high waistcoats and narrow white neckties, in chanted services and intoned prayers, and in all the paraphernalia of Anglican formalities which have given such offence to those of our brethren who live in daily fear of the scarlet lady. Many of his friends declared that Mr. Oriel would sooner or later deliver himself over body and soul to that lady; but there was no need to fear for him: for though sufficiently enthusiastic to get out of bed at five a.m. on winter mornings⁠—he did so, at least, all through his first winter at Greshamsbury⁠—he was not made of that stuff which is necessary for a staunch, burning, self-denying convert. It was not in him to change his very sleek black coat for a Capuchin’s filthy cassock, nor his pleasant parsonage for some dirty hole in Rome. And it was better so both