And thus Dr Thorne became settled for life in the little village of Greshamsbury. As was then the wont1 with many country practitioners3, and as should be the wont with them all if they consulted their own dignity a little less and the comforts of their customers somewhat more, he added the business of a dispensing4 apothecary5 to that of a physician. In doing so, he was of course much reviled6. Many people around him declared that he could not truly be a doctor, or, at any rate, a doctor to be so called; and his brethren in the art living round him, though they knew that his diplomas, degrees, and certificates were all en regle, rather countenanced8 the report. There was much about this new-comer which did not endear him to his own profession. In the first place he was a new-comer, and, as such, was of course to be regarded by other doctors as being de trop. Greshamsbury was only fifteen miles from Barchester, where there was a regular depot9 of medical skill, and but eight from Silverbridge, where a properly established physician had been in residence for the last forty years. Dr Thorne’s predecessor10 at Greshamsbury had been a humble-minded general practitioner2, gifted with a due respect for the physicians of the county; and he, though he had been allowed to physic the servants, and sometimes the children of Greshamsbury, had never had the presumption11 to put himself on a par12 with his betters.
Then also, Dr Thorne, though a graduated physician, though entitled beyond all dispute to call himself a doctor, according to all the laws of the colleges, made it known to the East Barsetshire world, very soon after he had seated himself at Greshamsbury, that his rate of pay was to be seven-and-sixpence a visit within a circuit of five miles, with a proportionally increased charge at proportionally increased distances. Now there was something low, mean, unprofessional, and democratic in this; so, at least, said the children of AEsculapius gathered together in conclave13 at Barchester. In the first place, it showed that this Thorne was always thinking of his money, like an apothecary, as he was; whereas, it would have behoved him, as a physician, had he had the feelings of a physician under his hat, to have regarded his own pursuits in a purely14 philosophical15 spirit, and to have taken any gain which might have accrued16 as an accidental adjunct to his station in life. A physician should take his fee without letting his left hand know what his right hand was doing; it should be taken without a thought, without a look, without a move of the facial muscles; the true physician should hardly be aware that the last friendly grasp of the hand had been more precious by the touch of gold. Whereas, that fellow Thorne would lug17 out half a crown from his breeches pocket and give it in change for a ten shilling piece. And then it was clear that this man had no appreciation18 of the dignity of a learned profession. He might constantly be seen compounding medicines in the shop, at the left hand of his front door; not making experiments philosophically20 in materials medica for the benefit of coming ages — which, if he did, he should have done in the seclusion21 of his study, far from profane22 eyes — but positively23 putting together common powders for rural bowels24, or spreading vulgar ointments25 for agricultural ailments26.
A man of this sort was not fit for society for Dr Fillgrave of Barchester. That must be admitted. And yet he had been found to be fit society for the old squire27 of Greshamsbury, whose shoe-ribbons Dr Fillgrave would not have objected to tie; so high did the old squire stand in the county just previous to his death. But the spirit of the Lady Arabella was known by the medical profession of Barsetshire, and when that good man died it was felt that Thorne’s short tenure28 of Greshamsbury favour was already over. The Barsetshire regulars were, however, doomed29 to disappointment. Our doctor had already contrived30 to endear himself to the heir; and though there was not even much personal love between him and the Lady Arabella, he kept his place at the great house unmoved, not only in the nursery and in the bedrooms, but also at the squire’s dining-table.
Now there was in this, it must be admitted, quite enough to make him unpopular with his brethren; and this feeling was soon shown in a marked and dignified32 manner. Dr Fillgrave, who had certainly the most respectable professional connexion in the county, who had a reputation to maintain, and who was accustomed to meet, on almost equal terms, the great medical baronets from the metropolis33 at the houses of the nobility — Dr Fillgrave declined to meet Dr Thorne in consultation34. He exceedingly regretted, he said, most exceedingly, the necessity he felt of doing so: he had never before had to perform so painful a duty; but, as a duty which he owed to his profession, he must perform it. With every feeling of respect of Lady —,— a sick guest at Greshamsbury,— and for Mr Gresham, he must decline to attend in conjunction with Dr Thorne. If his services could be made available under any other circumstances, he would go to Greshamsbury as fast as post-horses could carry him.
Then, indeed, there was war in Barsetshire. If there was on Dr Thorne’s cranium one bump more developed than another, it was that of combativeness36. Not that the doctor was a bully37, or even pugnacious38, in the usual sense of the word; he had no disposition39 to provoke a fight, no propense love of quarrelling; but there was that in him which would allow him to yield to no attack. Neither in argument nor in contest would he ever allow himself to be wrong; never at least to anyone but himself; and on behalf of his special hobbies, he was ready to meet the world at large.
It will therefore be understood, that when such a gauntlet was thus thrown in his very teeth by Dr Fillgrave, he was not slow to take it up. He addressed a letter to the Barsetshire Conservative Standard, in which he attacked Dr Fillgrave with some considerable acerbity40. Dr Fillgrave responded in four lines, saying that on mature consideration he had made up his mind not to notice any remarks that might be made on him by Dr Thorne in the public press. The Greshamsbury doctor then wrote another letter, more witty41 and much more severe than the last; and as this was copied into the Bristol, Exeter, and Gloucester papers, Dr Fillgrave found it very difficult to maintain the magnanimity of his reticence42. It is sometimes becoming enough for a Mediterranean43 to wrap himself in the dignified toga of silence, and proclaim himself indifferent to public attacks; but it is a sort of dignity which it is very difficult to maintain. As well might a man, when stung to madness by wasps44, endeavour to sit in his chair without moving a muscle, as endure with patience and without reply the courtesies of a newspaper opponent. Dr Thorne wrote a third letter which was too much for medical flesh and blood to bear. Dr Fillgrave answered it, not, indeed, in his own name, but in that of a brother doctor; and then the war raged merrily. It is hardly too much to say that Dr Fillgrave never knew another happy hour. Had he dreamed of what materials was made that young compounder of doses at Greshamsbury he would have met him in consultation, morning, noon, and night, without objection; but having begun the war, he was constrained45 to go on with it: his brethren would allow him no alternative. Thus he was continually being brought up to the fight, as a prize-fighter may be seen to be, who is carried up round after round, without any hope on his own part, and who, in each round, drops to the ground before the very wind of his opponent’s blows.
But Dr Fillgrave, though thus weak himself, was backed in practice and in countenance7 by nearly all his brethren in the county. The guinea fee, the principle of giving advice and of selling no medicine, the great resolve to keep a distinct barrier between the physician and the apothecary, and, above all, the hatred46 of the contamination of a bill, were strong in the medical mind of Barsetshire. Dr Thorne had the provincial47 medical world against him, and so he appealed to the metropolis. The Lancet took the matter up in his favour, but the Journal of Medical Science was against him; the Weekly Chirurgeon, noted48 for its medical democracy, upheld him as a medical prophet, but the Scalping Knife, a monthly periodical got up in dead opposition49 to the Lancet, showed him no mercy. So the war went on, and our doctor, to a certain extent, became a noted character.
He had, moreover, other difficulties to encounter in his professional career. It was something in his favour that he understood his business; something that he was willing to labour at it with energy; and resolved to labour at it conscientiously50. He had also other gifts, such as conversational51 brilliancy, and aptitude52 for true good fellowship, firmness in friendship, and general honesty of disposition, which stood him in stead as he advanced in life. But, at his first starting, much that belonged to himself personally was against him. Let him enter what house he would, he entered it with a conviction, often expressed to himself, that he was equal as a man to the proprietor54, equal as a human being to the proprietress. To age he would allow deference55, and to special recognized talent — at least so he said; to rank also, he would pay that respect which was its clear and recognized prerogative56; he would let a lord walk out of a room before him if he did not happen to forget it; in speaking to a duke he would address him as His Grace; and he would in no way assume a familiarity with bigger men than himself, allowing to the bigger man the privilege of making the first advances. But beyond this he would admit that no man should walk the earth with his head higher than his own.
He did not talk of these things much; he offended no rank by boasts of his own equality; he did not absolutely tell the Earl de Courcy in words, that the privilege of dining at Courcy Castle was to him no greater than the privilege of dining at Courcy Parsonage; but there was that in his manner that told it. The feeling in itself was perhaps good, and was certainly much justified57 by the manner in which he bore himself to those below him in rank; but there was folly58 in the resolution to run counter to the world’s recognized rules on such matters; and much absurdity59 in his mode of doing so, seeing that at heart he was a thorough Conservative. It is hardly too much to say that he naturally hated a lord at first sight; but, nevertheless, he would have expended60 his means, his blood, and spirit, in fighting for the upper house of Parliament.
Such a disposition, until it was thoroughly61 understood, did not tend to ingratiate him with the wives of the country gentlemen among whom he had to look for practice. And then, also, there was not much in his individual manner to recommend him to the favour of ladies. He was brusque, authoritative62, given to contradiction, rough though never dirty in his personal belongings63, and inclined to indulge in a sort of quiet raillery, which sometimes was not thoroughly understood. People did not always know whether he was laughing at them or with them; and some people were, perhaps, inclined to think that a doctor should not laugh at all when called in to act doctorially.
When he was known, indeed, when the core of the fruit had been reached, when the huge proportion of that loving trusting heart had been learned, and understood, and appreciated, when that honesty had been recognized, that manly64, almost womanly tenderness had been felt, then, indeed, the doctor was acknowledged to be adequate in his profession.
To trifling65 ailments he was too often brusque. Seeing that he accepted money for the cure of such, he should, we may say, have cured them without an offensive manner. So far he is without defence. But to real suffering no one found him brusque; no patient lying painfully on a bed of sickness ever thought him rough.
Another misfortune was, that he was a bachelor. Ladies think, and I, for one, think that ladies are quite right in so thinking, that doctors should be married men. All the world feels that a man when married acquires some of the attributes of the old woman — he becomes, to a certain extent, a motherly sort of being; he acquires a conversance66 with women’s ways and women’s wants, and loses the wilder and offensive sparks of his virility67. It must be easier to talk to such a one about Matilda’s stomach, and the growing pains in Fanny’s legs, than to a young bachelor. This impediment also stood much in Dr Thorne’s way during his first years at Greshamsbury.
But his wants were not at first great; and though his ambition was perhaps high, it was not of an impatient nature. The world was his oyster68; but, circumstanced as he was, he knew that it was not for him to open it with his lancet all at once. He had bread to earn, which he must earn wearily; he had a character to make, which must come slowly; it satisfied his soul, that in addition to his immortal69 hopes, he had a possible future in this world to which he could look forward with clear eyes, and advance with his heart that would know no fainting.
On his first arrival at Greshamsbury he had been put by the squire into a house, which he still occupied when that squire’s grandson came of age. There were two decent, commodious70, private houses in the village — always excepting the rectory, which stood grandly in its own grounds, and, therefore, was considered as ranking above the village residences — of these two Dr Thorne had the smaller. They stood exactly at the angle before described, on the outer side of it, and at right angles to each other. They possessed71 good stables and ample gardens; and it may be as well to specify72, that Mr Umbleby, the agent and lawyer to the estate, occupied the larger one.
Here Dr Thorne lived for eleven or twelve years, all alone; and then for ten or eleven more with his niece, Mary Thorne. Mary was thirteen when she came to take up permanent abode73 as mistress of the establishment — or, at any rate, to act as the only mistress which the establishment possessed. This advent74 greatly changed the tenor75 of the doctor’s ways. He had been before pure bachelor; not a room in his house had been comfortably furnished; he at first commenced in a makeshift sort of way, because he had not at his command the means of commencing otherwise; and he had gone on in the same fashion, because the exact time had never come at which it was imperative76 in him to set his house in order. He had had no fixed77 hour for his meals, no fixed place for his books, no fixed wardrobe for his clothes. He had a few bottles of good wine in his cellar, and occasionally asked a brother bachelor to take a chop with him; but beyond this he had touched very little on the cares of housekeeping. A slop-bowl full of strong tea, together with bread, and butter, and eggs, was produced for him in the morning, and he expected that at whatever hour he might arrive in the evening, some food should be presented to him wherewith to satisfy the cravings of nature; if, in addition to this, he had another slop-bowl of tea in the evening, he got all that he ever required, or all, at least, that he ever demanded.
But when Mary came, or rather, when she was about to come, things were altogether changed at the doctor’s. People had hitherto wondered — and especially Mrs Umbleby — how a gentleman like Dr Thorne could continue to live in so slovenly79 a manner; and how people again wondered, and again especially Mrs Umbleby, how the doctor could possibly think it necessary to put such a lot of furniture into a house because a little chit of a girl of twelve years was coming to live with him.
Mrs Umbleby had great scope for her wonder. The doctor made a thorough revolution in his household, and furnished his house from the ground to the roof completely. He painted — for the first time since the commencement of his tenancy — he papered, he carpeted, as though a Mrs Thorne with a good fortune were coming home tomorrow; and all for a girl of twelve years old. ‘And now,’ said Mrs Umbleby, to her friend Miss Gushing80, ‘how did he find out what to buy?’ as though the doctor had been brought up like a wild beast, ignorant of the nature of tables and chairs, and with no more developed ideas of drawing-room drapery than an hippopotamus81.
To the utter amazement82 of Mrs Umbleby and Miss Gushing, the doctor did it very well. He said nothing about it to any one — he never did say much about such things — but he furnished his house well and discreetly83; and when Mary Thorne came home from her school at Bath, to which she had been taken some six years previously84, she found herself called upon to be the presiding genius of a perfect paradise.
It has been said that the doctor had managed to endear himself to the new squire before the old squire’s death, and that, therefore, the change at Greshamsbury had had no professional ill effects upon him. Such was the case at the time; but, nevertheless, all did not go smoothly85 in the Greshamsbury medical department. There was six or seven years’ difference in age between Mr Gresham and the doctor, and moreover, Mr Gresham was young for his age, and the doctor old; but, nevertheless, there was a very close attachment86 between them early in life. This was never thoroughly sundered87, and, backed by this the doctor did maintain himself for some years before the artillery88 of Lady Arabella’s artillery. But drops falling, if they fall constantly, will bore through a stone.
Dr Thorne’s pretensions89, mixed with his subversive90 professional democratic tendencies, his seven-and-sixpenny visits, added to his utter disregard of Lady Arabella’s airs, were too much for her spirit. He brought Frank through his first troubles, and that at first ingratiated her; he was equally successful with the early dietary of Augusta and Beatrice; but, as his success was obtained in direct opposition to the Courcy Castle nursery principles, this hardly did much in his favour. When the third daughter was born, he at once declared that she was a very weakly flower, and sternly forbade the mother to go to London. The mother, loving her babe, obeyed; but did not the less hate the doctor for the order, which she firmly believed was given at the instance and express dictation of Mr Gresham. Then another little girl came into the world, and the doctor was more imperative than ever as to the nursery rules and the excellence91 of country air. Quarrels were thus engendered92, and Lady Arabella was taught to believe that this doctor of her husband’s was after all no Solomon. In her husband’s absence she sent for Dr Fillgrave, giving very express intimation that he would not have to wound either his eyes or dignity by encountering his enemy; and she found Dr Fillgrave a great comfort to her.
Then Dr Thorne gave Mr Gresham to understand that, under such circumstances, he could not visit professionally at Greshamsbury any longer. The poor squire saw there was no help for it, and though he maintained his friendly connexion with his neighbour, the seven-and-sixpenny visits were at an end. Dr Fillgrave from Barchester, and the gentleman at Silverbridge, divided the responsibility between them, and the nursery principles of Courcy Castle were again in vogue93 at Greshamsbury.
So things went on for years, and those years were years of sorrow. We must not ascribe to our doctor’s enemies the sufferings and sickness, and deaths that occurred. The four frail94 little ones that died would probably have been taken had Lady Arabella been more tolerant of Dr Thorne. But the fact was, that they did die; and that the mother’s heart then got the better of the woman’s pride, and Lady Arabella humbled95 herself before Dr Thorne. She humbled herself, or would have done so, had the doctor permitted her. But he, with his eyes full of tears, stopped the utterance96 of her apology, took her two hands in his, pressed them warmly, and assured her that his joy in returning would be great, for the love that he bore to all that belonged to Greshamsbury. And so the seven-and-sixpenny visits were recommenced; and the great triumph of Dr Fillgrave came to an end.
Great was the joy in the Greshamsbury nursery when the second change took place. Among the doctor’s attributes, not hitherto mentioned, was an aptitude for the society of children. He delighted to talk to children, and to play with them. He would carry them on his back, three or four at a time, roll with them on the ground, race with them in the garden, invent games for them, contrive31 amusements in circumstances which seemed quite adverse97 to all manner of delight; and, above all, his physic was not nearly so nasty as that which came from Silverbridge.
He had a great theory as to the happiness of children; and though he was not disposed altogether to throw over the precepts98 of Solomon — always bargaining that he should, under no circumstances, be himself the executioner — he argued that the principal duty which a parent owed to a child was to make him happy. Not only was the man to be made happy — the future man, if that might be possible — but the existing boy was to be treated with equal favour; and his happiness, so said the doctor, was of much easier attainment99.
‘Why struggle after future advantage at the expense of the present pain, seeing that the results were so very doubtful?’
Many an opponent of the doctor had thought to catch him on the hip53 when so singular a doctrine100 was broached101; but they were not always successful. ‘What!’ said his sensible enemies, ‘is Johnny not to be taught to read because he does not like it?’ ‘Johnny must read by all means,’ would the doctor answer; ‘but is it necessary that he should not like it? If the preceptor have it in him, may not Johnny learn not only to read, but to like to learn to read?’
‘But,’ would say his enemies, ‘children must be controlled.’
‘And so must men also,’ would say the doctor. ‘I must not steal your peaches, nor make love to your wife, nor libel your character. Much as I might wish through my natural depravity to indulge in such vices35, I am debarred from them without pain, and I may almost say without unhappiness.’
And so the argument went on, neither party convincing the other. But, in the meantime, the children of the neighbourhood became very fond of Dr Thorne.
Dr Thorne and the squire were still fast friends, but circumstances had occurred, spreading themselves now over a period of many years, which almost made the poor squire uneasy in the doctor’s company. Mr Gresham owed a large sum of money, and he had, moreover, already sold a portion of his property. Unfortunately it had been the pride of the Greshams that their acres had descended102 from one another without an entail103, so that each possessor of Greshamsbury had had the full power to dispose of the property as he pleased. Any doubt as to its going to the male heir had never hitherto been felt. It had occasionally been encumbered104 by charges for younger children; but these charges had been liquidated105, and the property had come down without any burden to the present squire. Now a portion of this land had been sold, and it had been sold to a certain degree through the agency of Dr Thorne.
This made the squire an unhappy man. No man loved his family name and honour, his old family blazon106 and standing107 more thoroughly than he did; he was every whit108 a Gresham at heart; but his spirit had been weaker than that of his forefathers109; and, in his days, for the first time, the Greshams were going to the wall! Ten years before the beginning of our story it had been necessary to raise a large sum of money to meet and pay off pressing liabilities, and it was found that this could be done with more material advantage by selling a portion of the property than in any other way. A portion of it, about a third of the whole in value, was accordingly sold.
Boxall Hill lay half between Greshamsbury and Barchester, and was known as having the best partridge shooting in the county; as having on it also a celebrated110 fox cover, Boxall Gorse, held in very high repute by Barsetshire sportsmen. There was no residence on the immediate111 estate, and it was altogether divided from the remained of the Greshamsbury property. This, with many inward and outward groans112, Mr Gresham permitted to be sold.
It was sold, and sold well, by private contract to a native of Barchester, who, having risen from the world’s ranks, had made for himself great wealth. Somewhat of this man’s character must hereafter be told; it will suffice to say that he relied for advice in money matters upon Dr Thorne, and that at Dr Thorne’s suggestion he had purchased Boxall Hill, partridge-shooting and gorse cover all included. He had not only bought Boxall Hill, but had subsequently lent the squire large sums of money on mortgage, in all which transactions the doctor had taken part. It had therefore come to pass that Mr Gresham was not infrequently called upon to discuss his money affairs with Dr Thorne, and occasionally to submit to lectures and advice which might perhaps as well have been omitted.
So much for Dr Thorne. A few words must still be said about Miss Mary Thorne before we rush into our story; the crust will then have been broken, and the pie will be open to the guests. Little Miss Mary was kept at a farm-house till she was six; she was then sent to school at Bath, and transplanted to the doctor’s newly furnished house, a little more than six years after that. It must not be supposed that he had lost sight of his charge during her earlier years. He was much too well aware of the nature of the promise which he had made to the departing mother to do that. He had constantly visited his little niece, and long before the first twelve years of her life were over had lost consciousness of his promise, and of his duty to the mother, in the stronger ties of downright personal love for the only creature that belonged to him.
When Mary came home the doctor was like a child in his glee. He prepared surprises for her with as much forethought and trouble as though he were contriving113 mines to blow up an enemy. He took her first into the shop, and then into the kitchen, thence to the dining-rooms, after that to his and her bedrooms, and so on till he came to the full glory of the new drawing-room, enhancing the pleasure by little jokes, and telling her that he should never dare to come into the last paradise without her permission, and not then till he had taken off his boots. Child as she was, she understood the joke, and carried it on like a little queen; and so they soon became the firmest of friends.
But though Mary was queen, it was still necessary that she should be educated. Those were the earlier days in which Lady Arabella had humbled herself, and to show her humility114 she invited Mary to share the music-lessons of Augusta and Beatrice at the great house. A music-master from Barchester came over three times a week, and remained for three hours, and if the doctor chose to send his girl over, she could pick up what was going on without doing any harm. So said the Lady Arabella. The doctor with many thanks and with no hesitation115, accepted the offer, merely adding, that he had perhaps better settle separately with Signor Cantabili, the music-master. He was very much obliged to Lady Arabella for giving his little girl permission to join her lessons to those of the Miss Greshams.
It need hardly be said that the Lady Arabella was on fire at once. Settle with Signor Cantabili! No, indeed; she would do that; there must be no expense whatever incurred116 in such an arrangement on Miss Thorne’s account! But here, as in most things, the doctor carried his point. It being the time of the lady’s humility, she could not make as good a fight as she would otherwise have done; and thus she found, to her great disgust, that Mary Thorne was learning music in her schoolroom on equal terms, as regarded payment, with her own daughters. The arrangement having been made could not be broken, especially as the young lady in nowise made herself disagreeable; and more especially as the Miss Greshams themselves were very fond of her.
And so Mary Thorne learnt music at Greshamsbury, and with her music she learnt other things also; how to behave herself among girls of her own age; how to speak and talk as other young ladies do; how to dress herself, and how to move and walk. All which, she being quick to learn without trouble at the great house. Something also she learnt of French, seeing that the Greshamsbury French governess was always in the room.
And then some few years later, there came a rector, and a rector’s sister; and with the latter Mary studied German and French also. From the doctor himself she learnt much; the choice, namely, of English books for her own reading, and habits of thought somewhat akin19 to his own, though modified by the feminine softness of her individual mind.
And so Mary Thorne grew up and was educated. Of her personal appearance it certainly is my business as an author to say something. She is my heroine, and, as such, must necessarily be very beautiful; but, in truth, her mind and inner qualities are more clearly distinct to my brain than her outward form and features. I know that she was far from being tall, and far from being showy; that her feet and hands were small and delicate; that her eyes were bright when looked at, but not brilliant so as to make their brilliancy palpably visible to all around her; her hair was dark brown, and worn very plainly brushed from her forehead; her lips were thin, and her mouth, perhaps, in general inexpressive, but when she was eager in conversation it would show itself to be animated117 with curves of wondrous118 energy; and, quiet as she was in manner, sober and demure119 as was her usual settled appearance, she could talk, when the fit came on her, with an energy which in truth surprised those who did not know her; aye, and sometimes those who did. Energy! nay120, it was occasionally a concentration of passion, which left her for the moment perfectly121 unconscious of all other cares but solicitude122 for that subject which she might then be advocating.
All her friends, including the doctor, had at times been made unhappy by this vehemence123 of character; but yet it was to that very vehemence that she owed it that all her friends loved her. It had once nearly banished124 her in early years from the Greshamsbury schoolroom; and yet it ended in making her claim to remain there so strong, that Lady Arabella could no longer oppose it, even when she had the wish to do so.
A new French governess had lately come to Greshamsbury, and was, or was to be, a great pet with Lady Arabella, having all the great gifts with which a governess can be endowed, and being also a protege from the castle. The castle, in Greshamsbury parlance125, always meant that of Courcy. Soon after this a valued little locket belonging to Augusta Gresham was missing. The French governess had objected to its being worn in the schoolroom, and it had been sent up to the bedroom by a young servant-girl, the daughter of a small farmer on the estate. The locket was missing, and after a while, a considerable noise in the matter having been made, was found, by the diligence of the governess, somewhere among the belongings of the English servant. Great was the anger of Lady Arabella, loud were the protestations of the girl, mute the woe126 of her father, piteous the tears of her mother, inexorable the judgment127 of the Greshamsbury world. But something occurred, it matters now not what, to separate Mary Thorne in opinion from that world at large. Out she then spoke128, and to her face accused the governess of the robbery. For two days Mary was in disgrace almost as deep as that of the farmer’s daughter. But she was neither quiet or dumb in her disgrace. When Lady Arabella would not hear her, she went to Mr Gresham. She forced her uncle to move in the matter. She gained over to her side, one by one, the potentates129 of the parish, and ended by bringing Mam’selle Larron down on her knees with a confession130 of the facts. From that time Mary Thorne was dear to the tenantry of Greshamsbury; and specially78 dear to one small household, where a rough-spoken father of a family was often heard to declare, that for Miss Mary Thorne he’d face man or magistrate131, duke or devil.
And so Mary Thorne grew up under the doctor’s eye, and at the beginning of our tale she was one of the guests assembled at Greshamsbury on the coming of age of the heir, she herself having then arrived at the same period of her life.
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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practitioner
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| n.实践者，从事者；(医生或律师等)开业者 | |
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practitioners
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| n.习艺者，实习者( practitioner的名词复数 )；从业者（尤指医师） | |
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dispensing
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| v.分配( dispense的现在分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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apothecary
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reviled
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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countenanced
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| v.支持，赞同，批准( countenance的过去式 ) | |
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depot
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| n.仓库，储藏处；公共汽车站；火车站 | |
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predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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13
conclave
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| n.秘密会议，红衣主教团 | |
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14
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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accrued
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| adj.权责已发生的v.增加( accrue的过去式和过去分词 )；（通过自然增长）产生；获得；（使钱款、债务）积累 | |
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17
lug
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| n.柄，突出部，螺帽；(英）耳朵；（俚）笨蛋；vt.拖，拉，用力拖动 | |
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18
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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philosophically
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| adv.哲学上；富有哲理性地；贤明地；冷静地 | |
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21
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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22
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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23
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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24
bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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25
ointments
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| n.软膏( ointment的名词复数 )；扫兴的人；煞风景的事物；药膏 | |
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ailments
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| 疾病（尤指慢性病），不适( ailment的名词复数 ) | |
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27
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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28
tenure
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| n.终身职位；任期；(土地)保有权，保有期 | |
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29
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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30
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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31
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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32
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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33
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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34
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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35
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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36
combativeness
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| n.好战 | |
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37
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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38
pugnacious
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| adj.好斗的 | |
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39
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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40
acerbity
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| n.涩，酸，刻薄 | |
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41
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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42
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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43
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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wasps
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| 黄蜂( wasp的名词复数 )； 胡蜂； 易动怒的人； 刻毒的人 | |
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45
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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46
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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47
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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48
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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49
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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50
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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51
conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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52
aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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53
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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54
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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55
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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56
prerogative
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| n.特权 | |
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57
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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58
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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59
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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60
expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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61
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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62
authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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63
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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64
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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65
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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66
conversance
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| n.熟悉，精通 | |
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67
virility
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| n.雄劲，丈夫气 | |
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68
oyster
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| n.牡蛎；沉默寡言的人 | |
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69
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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70
commodious
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| adj.宽敞的；使用方便的 | |
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71
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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72
specify
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| vt.指定，详细说明 | |
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73
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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74
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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75
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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76
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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78
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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79
slovenly
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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80
gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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81
hippopotamus
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| n.河马 | |
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82
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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83
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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84
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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85
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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86
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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87
sundered
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| v.隔开，分开( sunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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89
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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90
subversive
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| adj.颠覆性的，破坏性的；n.破坏份子，危险份子 | |
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91
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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92
engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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94
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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95
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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96
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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97
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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98
precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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99
attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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100
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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101
broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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102
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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103
entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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104
encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
liquidated
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| v.清算( liquidate的过去式和过去分词 )；清除（某人）；清偿；变卖 | |
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106
blazon
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| n.纹章，装饰；精确描绘；v.广布；宣布 | |
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107
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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108
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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109
forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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110
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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111
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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112
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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113
contriving
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的现在分词 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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114
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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115
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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116
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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117
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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118
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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119
demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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120
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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121
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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122
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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123
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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124
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
parlance
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| n.说法；语调 | |
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126
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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127
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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128
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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129
potentates
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| n.君主，统治者( potentate的名词复数 )；有权势的人 | |
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130
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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131
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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