Doctor Thorne - Anthony Trollope (historical books to read .txt) 📗

CHAPTER XXXVII

Sir Louis Leaves Greshamsbury

 

Janet had been sedulous in her attentions to Sir Louis, and had not

troubled her mistress; but she had not had an easy time of it. Her

orders had been, that either she or Thomas should remain in the room

the whole day, and those orders had been obeyed.

 

Immediately after breakfast, the baronet had inquired after his own

servant. “His confounded nose must be right by this time, I suppose?”

 

“It was very bad, Sir Louis,” said the old woman, who imagined that

it might be difficult to induce Jonah to come into the house again.

 

“A man in such a place as his has no business to be laid up,” said

the master, with a whine. “I’ll see and get a man who won’t break his

nose.”

 

Thomas was sent to the inn three or four times, but in vain. The man

was sitting up, well enough, in the tap-room; but the middle of his

face was covered with streaks of plaster, and he could not bring

himself to expose his wounds before his conqueror.

 

Sir Louis began by ordering the woman to bring him chasse-café. She

offered him coffee, as much as he would; but no chasse. “A glass of

port wine,” she said, “at twelve o’clock, and another at three had

been ordered for him.”

 

“I don’t care a –- for the orders,” said Sir Louis; “send me my

own man.” The man was again sent for; but would not come. “There’s

a bottle of that stuff that I take, in that portmanteau, in the

left-hand corner—just hand it to me.”

 

But Janet was not to be done. She would give him no stuff, except

what the doctor had ordered, till the doctor came back. The doctor

would then, no doubt, give him anything that was proper.

 

Sir Louis swore a good deal, and stormed as much as he could. He

drank, however, his two glasses of wine, and he got no more. Once or

twice he essayed to get out of bed and dress; but, at every effort,

he found that he could not do it without Joe: and there he was, still

under the clothes when the doctor returned.

 

“I’ll tell you what it is,” said he, as soon as his guardian entered

the room, “I’m not going to be made a prisoner of here.”

 

“A prisoner! no, surely not.”

 

“It seems very much like it at present. Your servant here—that

old woman—takes it upon her to say she’ll do nothing without your

orders.”

 

“Well; she’s right there.”

 

“Right! I don’t know what you call right; but I won’t stand it. You

are not going to make a child of me, Dr Thorne; so you need not think

it.”

 

And then there was a long quarrel between them, and but an

indifferent reconciliation. The baronet said that he would go to

Boxall Hill, and was vehement in his intention to do so because the

doctor opposed it. He had not, however, as yet ferreted out the

squire, or given a bit of his mind to Mr Gazebee, and it behoved him

to do this before he took himself off to his own country mansion. He

ended, therefore, by deciding to go on the next day but one.

 

“Let it be so, if you are well enough,” said the doctor.

 

“Well enough!” said the other, with a sneer. “There’s nothing to make

me ill that I know of. It certainly won’t be drinking too much here.”

 

On the next day, Sir Louis was in a different mood, and in one more

distressing for the doctor to bear. His compelled abstinence from

intemperate drinking had, no doubt, been good for him; but his mind

had so much sunk under the pain of the privation, that his state was

piteous to behold. He had cried for his servant, as a child cries

for its nurse, till at last the doctor, moved to pity, had himself

gone out and brought the man in from the public-house. But when he

did come, Joe was of but little service to his master, as he was

altogether prevented from bringing him either wine or spirits; and

when he searched for the liqueur-case, he found that even that had

been carried away.

 

“I believe you want me to die,” he said, as the doctor, sitting

by his bedside, was trying, for the hundredth time, to make him

understand that he had but one chance of living.

 

The doctor was not the least irritated. It would have been as wise to

be irritated by the want of reason in a dog.

 

“I am doing what I can to save your life,” he said calmly; “but, as

you said just now, I have no power over you. As long as you are able

to move and remain in my house, you certainly shall not have the

means of destroying yourself. You will be very wise to stay here

for a week or ten days: a week or ten days of healthy living might,

perhaps, bring you round.”

 

Sir Louis again declared that the doctor wished him to die, and spoke

of sending for his attorney, Finnie, to come to Greshamsbury to look

after him.

 

“Send for him if you choose,” said the doctor. “His coming will cost

you three or four pounds, but can do no other harm.”

 

“And I will send for Fillgrave,” threatened the baronet. “I’m not

going to die here like a dog.”

 

It was certainly hard upon Dr Thorne that he should be obliged to

entertain such a guest in the house;—to entertain him, and foster

him, and care for him, almost as though he were a son. But he had no

alternative; he had accepted the charge from Sir Roger, and he must

go through with it. His conscience, moreover, allowed him no rest in

this matter: it harassed him day and night, driving him on sometimes

to great wretchedness. He could not love this incubus that was on his

shoulders; he could not do other than be very far from loving him. Of

what use or value was he to any one? What could the world make of him

that would be good, or he of the world? Was not an early death his

certain fate? The earlier it might be, would it not be the better?

 

Were he to linger on yet for two years longer—and such a space of

life was possible for him—how great would be the mischief that he

might do; nay, certainly would do! Farewell then to all hopes for

Greshamsbury, as far as Mary was concerned. Farewell then to that

dear scheme which lay deep in the doctor’s heart, that hope that he

might, in his niece’s name, give back to the son the lost property of

the father. And might not one year—six months be as fatal. Frank,

they all said, must marry money; and even he—he the doctor himself,

much as he despised the idea for money’s sake—even he could not but

confess that Frank, as the heir to an old, but grievously embarrassed

property, had no right to marry, at his early age, a girl without

a shilling. Mary, his niece, his own child, would probably be the

heiress of this immense wealth; but he could not tell this to Frank;

no, nor to Frank’s father while Sir Louis was yet alive. What, if by

so doing he should achieve this marriage for his niece, and that then

Sir Louis should live to dispose of his own? How then would he face

the anger of Lady Arabella?

 

“I will never hanker after a dead man’s shoes, neither for myself nor

for another,” he had said to himself a hundred times; and as often

did he accuse himself of doing so. One path, however, was plainly

open before him. He would keep his peace as to the will; and would

use such efforts as he might use for a son of his own loins to

preserve the life that was so valueless. His wishes, his hopes,

his thoughts, he could not control; but his conduct was at his own

disposal.

 

“I say, doctor, you don’t really think that I’m going to die?” Sir

Louis said, when Dr Thorne again visited him.

 

“I don’t think at all; I am sure you will kill yourself if you

continue to live as you have lately done.”

 

“But suppose I go all right for a while, and live—live just as you

tell me, you know?”

 

“All of us are in God’s hands, Sir Louis. By so doing you will, at

any rate, give yourself the best chance.”

 

“Best chance? Why, d–-n, doctor! there are fellows have done ten

times worse than I; and they are not going to kick. Come, now, I know

you are trying to frighten me; ain’t you, now?”

 

“I am trying to do the best I can for you.”

 

“It’s very hard on a fellow like me; I have nobody to say a kind word

to me; no, not one.” And Sir Louis, in his wretchedness, began to

weep. “Come, doctor; if you’ll put me once more on my legs, I’ll let

you draw on the estate for five hundred pounds; by G–-, I will.”

 

The doctor went away to his dinner, and the baronet also had his in

bed. He could not eat much, but he was allowed two glasses of wine,

and also a little brandy in his coffee. This somewhat invigorated

him, and when Dr Thorne again went to him, in the evening, he did not

find him so utterly prostrated in spirit. He had, indeed, made up his

mind to a great resolve; and thus unfolded his final scheme for his

own reformation:—

 

“Doctor,” he began again, “I believe you are an honest fellow; I do

indeed.”

 

Dr Thorne could not but thank him for his good opinion.

 

“You ain’t annoyed at what I