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

you will be the same:” and then she parted from him also, and went her way.

Nothing was spoken of that evening between Dr. Thorne and his niece excepting Beatrice’s future happiness; nothing, at least, having reference to what had passed that morning. But on the following morning circumstances led to Frank Gresham’s name being mentioned.

At the usual breakfast-hour the doctor entered the parlour with a harassed face. He had an open letter in his hand, and it was at once clear to Mary that he was going to speak on some subject that vexed him.

“That unfortunate fellow is again in trouble. Here is a letter from Greyson.” Greyson was a London apothecary, who had been appointed as medical attendant to Sir Louis Scatcherd, and whose real business consisted in keeping a watch on the baronet, and reporting to Dr. Thorne when anything was very much amiss. “Here is a letter from Greyson; he has been drunk for the last three days, and is now laid up in a terribly nervous state.”

“You won’t go up to town again; will you, uncle?”

“I hardly know what to do. No, I think not. He talks of coming down here to Greshamsbury.”

“Who, Sir Louis?”

“Yes, Sir Louis. Greyson says that he will be down as soon as he can get out of his room.”

“What! to this house?”

“What other house can he come to?”

“Oh, uncle! I hope not. Pray, pray do not let him come here.”

“I cannot prevent it, my dear. I cannot shut my door on him.”

They sat down to breakfast, and Mary gave him his tea in silence. “I am going over to Boxall Hill before dinner,” said he. “Have you any message to send to Lady Scatcherd?”

“Message! no, I have no message; not especially: give her my love, of course,” she said listlessly. And then, as though a thought had suddenly struck her, she spoke with more energy. “But, couldn’t I go to Boxall Hill again? I should be so delighted.”

“What! to run away from Sir Louis? No, dearest, we will have no more running away. He will probably also go to Boxall Hill, and he could annoy you much more there than he can here.”

“But, uncle, Mr. Gresham will be home on the 12th,” she said, blushing.

“What! Frank?”

“Yes. Beatrice said he was to be here on the 12th.”

“And would you run away from him too, Mary?”

“I do not know: I do not know what to do.”

“No; we will have no more running away: I am sorry that you ever did so. It was my fault, altogether my fault; but it was foolish.”

“Uncle, I am not happy here.” As she said this, she put down the cup which she had held, and, leaning her elbows on the table, rested her forehead on her hands.

“And would you be happier at Boxall Hill? It is not the place makes the happiness.”

“No, I know that; it is not the place. I do not look to be happy in any place; but I should be quieter, more tranquil elsewhere than here.”

“I also sometimes think that it will be better for us to take up our staves and walk away out of Greshamsbury;⁠—leave it altogether, and settle elsewhere; miles, miles, miles away from here. Should you like that, dearest?”

Miles, miles, miles away from Greshamsbury! There was something in the sound that fell very cold on Mary’s ears, unhappy as she was. Greshamsbury had been so dear to her; in spite of all that had passed, was still so dear to her! Was she prepared to take up her staff, as her uncle said, and walk forth from the place with the full understanding that she was to return to it no more; with a mind resolved that there should be an inseparable gulf between her and its inhabitants? Such she knew was the proposed nature of the walking away of which her uncle spoke. So she sat there, resting on her arms, and gave no answer to the question that had been asked her.

“No, we will stay a while yet,” said her uncle. “It may come to that, but this is not the time. For one season longer let us face⁠—I will not say our enemies; I cannot call anybody my enemy who bears the name of Gresham.” And then he went on for a moment with his breakfast. “So Frank will be here on the 12th?”

“Yes, uncle.”

“Well, dearest, I have no questions to ask you: no directions to give. I know how good you are, and how prudent; I am anxious only for your happiness; not at all⁠—”

“Happiness, uncle, is out of the question.”

“I hope not. It is never out of the question, never can be out of the question. But, as I was saying, I am quite satisfied your conduct will be good, and, therefore, I have no questions to ask. We will remain here; and, whether good or evil come, we will not be ashamed to show our faces.”

She sat for a while again silent, collecting her courage on the subject that was nearest her heart. She would have given the world that he should ask her questions; but she could not bid him to do so; and she found it impossible to talk openly to him about Frank unless he did so. “Will he come here?” at last she said, in a low-toned voice.

“Who? He, Louis? Yes, I think that in all probability he will.”

“No; but Frank,” she said, in a still lower voice.

“Ah! my darling, that I cannot tell; but will it be well that he should come here?”

“I do not know,” she said. “No, I suppose not. But, uncle, I don’t think he will come.”

She was now sitting on a sofa away from the table, and he got up, sat down beside her, and took her hands in his. “Mary,” said he, “you must be strong now; strong to endure, not to attack. I think you have that strength; but, if not, perhaps it will be better that we should go away.”

“I will be strong,” said