Barchester Towers - Anthony Trollope (ebook reader below 3000 .txt) 📗

“I suppose it is Bertie.”

“Bid him come here,” said the father. But Bertie, who was close to the door and heard the call, required no further bidding, but walked in with a perfectly unconcerned and cheerful air. It was this peculiar insouciance which angered Dr. Stanhope, even more than his son’s extravagance.

“Well, sir?” said the doctor.

“And how did you get home, sir, with your fair companion?” said Bertie. “I suppose she is not upstairs, Charlotte?”

“Bertie,” said Charlotte, “Papa is in no humour for joking. He is very angry with you.”

“Angry!” said Bertie, raising his eyebrows as though he had never yet given his parent cause for a single moment’s uneasiness.

“Sit down, if you please, sir,” said Dr. Stanhope very sternly but not now very loudly. “And I’ll trouble you to sit down, too, Charlotte. Your mother can wait for her tea a few minutes.”

Charlotte sat down on the chair nearest to the door in somewhat of a perverse sort of manner, as much as though she would say⁠—“Well, here I am; you shan’t say I don’t do what I am bid; but I’ll be whipped if I give way to you.” And she was determined not to give way. She too was angry with Bertie, but she was not the less ready on that account to defend him from his father. Bertie also sat down. He drew his chair close to the library-table, upon which he put his elbow, and then resting his face comfortably on one hand, he began drawing little pictures on a sheet of paper with the other. Before the scene was over he had completed admirable figures of Miss Thorne, Mrs. Proudie, and Lady De Courcy, and begun a family piece to comprise the whole set of the Lookalofts.

“Would it suit you, sir,” said the father, “to give me some idea as to what your present intentions are? What way of living you propose to yourself?”

“I’ll do anything you can suggest, sir,” replied Bertie.

“No, I shall suggest nothing further. My time for suggesting has gone by. I have only one order to give, and that is that you leave my house.”

“Tonight?” said Bertie, and the simple tone of the question left the doctor without any adequately dignified method of reply.

“Papa does not quite mean tonight,” said Charlotte; “at least I suppose not.”

“Tomorrow, perhaps,” suggested Bertie.

“Yes, sir, tomorrow,” said the doctor. “You shall leave this tomorrow.”

“Very well, sir. Will the 4:30 p.m. train be soon enough?” and Bertie, as he asked, put the finishing touch to Miss Thorne’s high-heeled boots.

“You may go how and when and where you please, so that you leave my house tomorrow. You have disgraced me, sir; you have disgraced yourself, and me, and your sisters.”

“I am glad at least, sir, that I have not disgraced my mother,” said Bertie.

Charlotte could hardly keep her countenance, but the doctor’s brow grew still blacker than ever. Bertie was executing his chef d’oeuvre in the delineation of Mrs. Proudie’s nose and mouth.

“You are a heartless reprobate, sir; a heartless, thankless, good-for-nothing reprobate. I have done with you. You are my son⁠—that I cannot help⁠—but you shall have no more part or parcel in me as my child, nor I in you as your father.”

“Oh, Papa, Papa! You must not, shall not say so,” said Charlotte.

“I will say so, and do say so,” said the father, rising from his chair. “And now leave the room, sir.”

“Stop, stop,” said Charlotte. “Why don’t you speak, Bertie? Why don’t you look up and speak? It is your manner that makes Papa so angry.”

“He is perfectly indifferent to all decency, to all propriety,” said the doctor; then he shouted out, “Leave the room, sir! Do you hear what I say?”

“Papa, Papa, I will not let you part so. I know you will be sorry for it.” And then she added, getting up and whispering into his ear, “Is he only to blame? Think of that. We have made our own bed, and, such as it is, we must lie on it. It is no use for us to quarrel among ourselves,” and as she finished her whisper, Bertie finished off the countess’s bustle, which was so well done that it absolutely seemed to be swaying to and fro on the paper with its usual lateral motion.

“My father is angry at the present time,” said Bertie, looking up for a moment from his sketches, “because I am not going to marry Mrs. Bold. What can I say on the matter? It is true that I am not going to marry her. In the first place⁠—”

“That is not true, sir,” said Dr. Stanhope, “but I will not argue with you.”

“You were angry just this moment because I would not speak,” said Bertie, going on with a young Lookaloft.

“Give over drawing,” said Charlotte, going up to him and taking the paper from under his hand. The caricatures, however, she preserved and showed them afterwards to the friends of the Thornes, the Proudies, and De Courcys. Bertie, deprived of his occupation, threw himself back in his chair and waited further orders.

“I think it will certainly be for the best that Bertie should leave this at once; perhaps tomorrow,” said Charlotte; “but pray, Papa, let us arrange some scheme together.”

“If he will leave this tomorrow, I will give him £10, and he shall be paid £5 a month by the banker at Carrara as long as he stays permanently in that place.”

“Well, sir, it won’t be long,” said Bertie, “for I shall be starved to death in about three months.”

“He must have marble to work with,” said Charlotte.

“I have plenty there in the studio to last me three months,” said Bertie. “It will be no use attempting anything large in so limited a time⁠—unless I do my own tombstone.”

Terms, however, were ultimately come to somewhat more liberal than those proposed, and the doctor was induced to shake hands with his son and bid him good night. Dr. Stanhope would not go up to tea, but had it brought to him in his