The Complete Chronicles of Barsetshire: (The Warden + Barchester Towers + Doctor Thorne + Framley Parsonage + The Small House at Allington + The Last Chronicle of Barset). Anthony Trollope
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a reprobate.”
“Oh, Papa!”
“A heartless reprobate! Tell me now where he is and what he is going to do. I have allowed myself to be fooled between you. Marriage, indeed! Who on earth that has money, or credit, or respect in the world to lose would marry him?”
“It is no use your scolding me, Papa. I have done the best I could for him and you.”
“And Madeline is nearly as bad,” said the prebendary, who was in truth very, very angry.
“Oh, I suppose we are all bad,” replied Charlotte.
The old man emitted a huge, leonine sigh. If they were all bad, who had made them so? If they were unprincipled, selfish, and disreputable, who was to be blamed for the education which had had so injurious an effect?
“I know you’ll ruin me among you,” said he.
“Why, Papa, what nonsense that is. You are living within your income this minute, and if there are any new debts, I don’t know of them. I am sure there ought to be none, for we are dull enough here.”
“Are those bills of Madeline’s paid?”
“No, they are not. Who was to pay them?”
“Her husband may pay them.”
“Her husband! Would you wish me to tell her you say so? Do you wish to turn her out of your house?”
“I wish she would know how to behave herself.”
“Why, what on earth has she done now? Poor Madeline! To-day is only the second time she has gone out since we came to this vile town.”
He then sat silent for a time, thinking in what shape he would declare his resolve. “Well, Papa,” said Charlotte, “shall I stay here, or may I go upstairs and give Mamma her tea?”
“You are in your brother’s confidence. Tell me what he is going to do.”
“Nothing, that I am aware of.”
“Nothing — nothing! Nothing but eat and drink and spend every shilling of my money he can lay his hands upon. I have made up my mind, Charlotte. He shall eat and drink no more in this house.”
“Very well. Then I suppose he must go back to Italy.”
“He may go where he pleases.”
“That’s easily said, Papa, but what does it mean? You can’t let him —”
“It means this?” said the doctor, speaking more loudly than was his wont and with wrath flashing from his eyes; “that as sure as God rules in heaven I will not maintain him any longer in idleness.”
“Oh, ruling in heaven!” said Charlotte. “It is no use talking about that. You must rule him here on earth; and the question is, how can you do it. You can’t turn him out of the house penniless, to beg about the street.”
“He may beg where he likes.”
“He must go back to Carrara. That is the cheapest place he can live at, and nobody there will give him credit for above two or three hundred pauls. But you must let him have the means of going.”
“As sure as —”
“Oh, Papa, don’t swear. You know you must do it. You were ready to pay two hundred pounds for him if this marriage came off. Half that will start him to Carrara.”
“What? Give him a hundred pounds?”
“You know we are all in the dark, Papa,” said she, thinking it expedient to change the conversation. “For anything we know he may be at this moment engaged to Mrs. Bold.”
“Fiddlestick,” said the father, who had seen the way in which Mrs. Bold had got into the carriage while his son stood apart without even offering her his hand.
“Well, then, he must go to Carrara,” said Charlotte.
Just at this moment the lock of the front door was heard, and Charlotte’s quick ears detected her brother’s catlike step in the hall. She said nothing, feeling that for the present Bertie had better keep out of her father’s way. But Dr. Stanhope also heard the sound of the lock.
“Who’s that?” he demanded. Charlotte made no reply, and he asked again, “Who is that that has just come in? Open the door. Who is it?”
“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.”
“To-night?” said Bertie, and the simple tone of the question left the doctor without any adequately dignified method of reply.
“Papa does not quite mean to-night,” said Charlotte; “at least I suppose not.”
“To-morrow, 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