Dr Thorne (40 page)

‘Ha! ha! ha! Well, I suppose we must be charitable, and say that he is quite as good, at any rate, as many others there are here –' and Mr Athill, as he spoke, whispered into Frank's ear, ‘You see there's Finnie here, another Barchester attorney. Now, I really think where Finnie goes Bolus may go too.'

‘The more the merrier, I suppose,' said Frank.

‘Well, something a little like that. I wonder why Thorne is not here? I'm sure he was asked.'

‘Perhaps he did not particularly wish to meet Finnie and Bolus. Do you know, Mr Athill, I think he was quite right not to come. As for myself, I wish I was anywhere else.'

‘Ha! ha! ha! You don't know the duke's ways yet; and what's more, you're young, you happy fellow! But Thorne should have more sense; he ought to show himself here.'

The gormandising was now going on at a tremendous rate. Though the volubility of their tongues had been for a while stopped by the first shock of the duke's presence, the guests seemed to feel no such constraint upon their teeth. They fed, one may almost say, rabidly, and gave their orders to the servants in an eager manner; much more impressive than that usual at smaller parties. Mr Apjohn, who sat immediately opposite to Frank, had, by some well-planned manoeuvre, contrived to get before him the jowl of a salmon; but, unfortunately, he was not for a while equally successful in the article of sauce. A very limited portion – so at least thought Mr Apjohn – had been put on his plate; and a servant, with a huge sauce tureen, absolutely passed behind his back inattentive to his audible requests. Poor Mr Apjohn in his despair turned round to arrest the man by his coat-tails; but he was a moment too late, and all but fell backwards on the floor. As he righted himself he muttered an anathema, and looked with a face of mute anguish at his plate.

‘Anything the matter, Apjohn?' said Mr Fothergill, kindly, seeing the utter despair written on the poor man's countenance; ‘can I get anything for you?'

‘The sauce!' said Mr Apjohn, in a voice that would have melted a hermit; and as he looked at Mr Fothergill, he pointed at the now distant sinner, who was dispensing his melted ambrosia at least ten heads upwards, away from the unfortunate supplicant.

Mr Fothergill, however, knew where to look for balm for such
wounds, and in a minute or two Mr Apjohn was employed quite to his heart's content.

‘Well,' said Frank to his neighbour, ‘it may be very well once in a way; but I think that on the whole Dr Thorne is right.'

‘My dear Mr Gresham, see the world on all sides,' said Mr Athill, who had also been somewhat intent on the gratification of his own appetite, though with an energy less evident than that of the gentleman opposite. ‘See the world on all sides if you have an opportunity; and, believe me, a good dinner now and then is a very good thing.'

‘Yes; but I don't like eating it with hogs.'

‘Whish-h! softly, softly, Mr Gresham, or you'll disturb Mr Apjohn's digestion. Upon my word, he'll want it all before he has done. Now, I like this kind of thing once in a way.'

‘Do you?' said Frank, in a tone that was almost savage.

‘Yes; indeed I do. One sees so much character. And after all, what harm does it do?'

‘My idea is that people should live with those whose society is pleasant to them.'

‘Live – yes, Mr Gresham – I agree with you there. It wouldn't do for me to live with the Duke of Omnium; I shouldn't understand, or probably approve, his ways. Nor should I, perhaps, much like the constant presence of Mr Apjohn. But now and then – once in a year or so – I do own I like to see them both. Here's the cup; now whatever you do, Mr Gresham, don't pass the cup without tasting it.'

And so the dinner passed on, slowly enough as Frank thought, but all too quickly for Mr Apjohn. It passed away, and the wine came circulating freely. The tongues again were loosed, the teeth being released from their labours, and under the influence of the claret the duke's presence was forgotten.

But very speedily the coffee was brought. ‘This will soon be over now,' said Frank, to himself, thankfully; for, though he by no means despised good claret, he had lost his temper too completely to enjoy it at the present moment. But he was much mistaken; the farce as yet was only at its commencement. The duke took his cup of coffee, and so did the few friends who sat close to him; but the beverage did not seem to be in great request with the majority of the guests. When the duke had taken his modicum, he rose up and
silently retired, saying no word and making no sign. And then the farce commenced.

‘Now, gentlemen,' said Mr Fothergill, cheerily, ‘we are all right. Apjohn, is there claret there? Mr Bolus, I know you stick to the Madeira; you are quite right, for there isn't much of it left, and my belief is there'll never be more like it.'

And so the duke's hospitality went on, and the duke's guests drank merrily for the next two hours.

‘Shan't we see any more of him?' asked Frank.

‘Any more of whom?' said Mr Athill.

‘Of the duke?'

‘Oh, no; you'll see no more of him. He always goes when the coffee comes. It's brought in as an excuse. We've had enough of the light of his countenance to last till next year. The duke and I are excellent friends; have been so these fifteen years; but I never see more of him than that.'

‘I shall go away,' said Frank.

‘Nonsense. Mr de Courcy and your other friend won't stir for this hour yet.'

‘I don't care. I shall walk on, and they may catch me. I may be wrong; but it seems to me that a man insults me when he asks me to dine with him and never speaks to me. I don't care if he be ten times Duke of Omnium; he can't be more than a gentleman, and as such I am his equal.' And then, having thus given vent to his feelings in somewhat high-flown language, he walked forth and trudged away along the road towards Courcy.

Frank Gresham had been born and bred a Conservative, whereas the Duke of Omnium was well known as a consistent Whig. There is no one so devoutly resolved to admit of no superior as your Conservative, born and bred, no one so inclined to high domestic despotism as your thoroughgoing consistent old Whig.

When he had proceeded about six miles, Frank was picked up by his friends; but even then his anger had hardly cooled.

‘Was the duke as civil as ever when you took your leave of him?' said he to his cousin George, as he took his seat on the drag.

‘The juke has jeuced jude wine – lem me tell you that, old fella,' hiccuped out the Honourable George, as he touched up the leader under the flank.

A
ND
now the departures from Courcy Castle came rapidly one after another, and there remained but one more evening before Miss Dunstable's carriage was to be packed. The countess, in the early moments of Frank's courtship, had controlled his ardour and checked the rapidity of his amorous professions; but as days, and at last weeks, wore away, she found that it was necessary to stir the fire which she had before endeavoured to slacken.

‘There will be nobody here tonight but our own circle,' said she to him, ‘and I really think you should tell Miss Dunstable what your intentions are. She will have fair ground to complain of you if you do not.'

Frank began to feel that he was in a dilemma. He had commenced making love to Miss Dunstable partly because he liked the amusement, and partly from a satirical propensity to quiz his aunt by appearing to fall into her scheme. But he had overshot the mark, and did not know what answer to give when he was thus called upon to make a downright proposal. And then, although he did not care two rushes about Miss Dunstable in the way of love, he nevertheless experienced a sort of jealousy when he found that she appeared to be indifferent to him, and that she corresponded the meanwhile with his cousin George. Though all their flirtations had been carried on on both sides palpably by way of fun, though Frank had told himself ten times a day that his heart was true to Mary Thorne, yet he had an undefined feeling that it behoved Miss Dunstable to be a little in love with him. He was not quite at ease in that she was not a little melancholy now that his departure was so nigh; and, above all, he was anxious to know what were the real facts about that letter. He had in his own breast threatened Miss Dunstable with a heartache; and now, when the time for
their separation came, he found that his own heart was the more likely to ache of the two.

‘I suppose I must say something to her, or my aunt will never be satisfied,' said he to himself as he sauntered into the little drawing-room on that last evening. But at the very time he was ashamed of himself, for he knew that he was going to ask badly.

His sister and one of his cousins were in the room, but his aunt, who was quite on the alert, soon got them out of it, and Frank and Miss Dunstable were alone.

‘So all our fun and all our laughter is come to an end,' said she, beginning the conversation. ‘I don't know how you feel, but for myself I really am a little melancholy at the idea of parting'; and she looked up at him with her laughing black eyes, as though she never had, and never could have a care in the world.

‘Melancholy! oh, yes; you look so,' said Frank, who really did feel somewhat lackadaisically sentimental.

‘But how thoroughly glad the countess must be that we are both going,' continued she. ‘I declare we have treated her most infamously. Ever since we've been here we've had all the amusement to ourselves. I've sometimes thought she would turn me out of the house.'

‘I wish with all my heart she had.'

‘Oh, you cruel barbarian! why on earth should you wish that?'

‘That I might have joined you in your exile. I hate Courcy Castle, and should have rejoiced to leave – and – and –'

‘And what?'

‘And I love Miss Dunstable, and should have doubly, trebly rejoiced to leave it with her.'

Frank's voice quivered a little as he made this gallant profession; but still Miss Dunstable only laughed the louder. ‘Upon my word, of all my knights you are by far the best behaved,' said she, ‘and say much the prettiest things.' Frank became rather red in the face, and felt that he did so. Miss Dunstable was treating him like a boy. While she pretended to be so fond of him she was only laughing at him, and corresponding the while with his cousin George. Now Frank Gresham already entertained a sort of contempt for his cousin, which increased the bitterness of his feelings. Could it really be possible that George had succeeded while he had utterly failed; that his stupid cousin had touched the heart of the heiress while she was playing with him as with a boy?

‘Of all your knights! Is that the way you talk to me when we are going to part? When was it, Miss Dunstable, that George de Courcy became one of them?'

Miss Dunstable for a while looked serious enough. ‘What makes you ask that?' said she. ‘What makes you inquire about Mr de Courcy?'

‘Oh, I have eyes, you know, and can't help seeing. Not that I see, or have seen anything that I could possibly help.'

‘And what have you seen, Mr Gresham?'

‘Why I know you have been writing to him.'

‘Did he tell you so?'

‘No; he did not tell me; but I know it.'

For a moment she sat silent, and then her face again resumed its usual happy smile. ‘Come, Mr Gresham, you are not going to quarrel with me, I hope, even if I did write a letter to your cousin. Why should I not write to him? I correspond with all manner of people. I'll write to you some of these days if you'll let me, and will promise to answer my letters.'

Frank threw himself back on the sofa on which he was sitting, and, in doing so, brought himself somewhat nearer to his companion than he had been; he then drew his hand slowly across his forehead, pushing back his thick hair, and as he did so he sighed somewhat plaintively.

‘I do not care,' said he, ‘for the privilege of correspondence on such terms. If my cousin George is to be a correspondent of yours also, I will give up my claim.'

And then he sighed again, so that it was piteous to hear him. He was certainly an arrant puppy, and an egregious ass into the bargain; but then, it must be remembered in his favour that he was only twenty-one, and that much had been done to spoil him. Miss Dunstable did remember this, and therefore abstained from laughing at him.

‘Why, Mr Gresham, what on earth do you mean? In all human probability I shall never write another line to Mr de Courcy; but, if I did, what possible harm could it do you?'

‘Oh, Miss Dunstable! you do not in the least understand what my feelings are.'

‘Don't I? Then I hope I never shall. I thought I did. I thought they were the feelings of a good, true-hearted friend; feelings that I
could sometimes look back upon with pleasure as being honest when so much that one meets is false. I have become very fond of you, Mr Gresham, and I should be sorry to think that I did not understand your feelings.'