The Chronicles of Barsetshire

by Anthony Trollope

  And then, too, there would be the greatest difficulty in wording her request to the doctor; and Lady Arabella was sufficiently conscious of her own weakness to know that she was not always very good at words. But the doctor, when hard pressed, was never at fault: he could say the bitterest things in the quietest tone, and Lady Arabella had a great dread of these bitter things. What, also, if he should desert her himself; withdraw from her his skill and knowledge of her bodily wants and ailments now that he was so necessary to her? She had once before taken that measure of sending to Barchester for Dr. Fillgrave, but it had answered with her hardly better than with Sir Roger and Lady Scatcherd.

  When, therefore, Lady Arabella found herself alone with the doctor, and called upon to say out her say in what best language she could select for the occasion, she did not feel to be very much at her ease. There was that about the man before her which cowed her, in spite of her being the wife of the squire, the sister of an earl, a person quite acknowledged to be of the great world, and the mother of the very important young man whose affections were now about to be called in question. Nevertheless, there was the task to be done, and with a mother’s courage she essayed it.

  “Dr. Thorne,” said she, as soon as their medical conference was at an end, “I am very glad you came over to-day, for I had something special which I wanted to say to you:” so far she got, and then stopped; but, as the doctor did not seem inclined to give her any assistance, she was forced to flounder on as best she could.

  “Something very particular indeed. You know what a respect and esteem, and I may say affection, we all have for you,”—here the doctor made a low bow—”and I may say for Mary also;” here the doctor bowed himself again. “We have done what little we could to be pleasant neighbours, and I think you’ll believe me when I say that I am a true friend to you and dear Mary—”

  The doctor knew that something very unpleasant was coming, but he could not at all guess what might be its nature. He felt, however, that he must say something; so he expressed a hope that he was duly sensible of all the acts of kindness he had ever received from the squire and the family at large.

  “I hope, therefore, my dear doctor, you won’t take amiss what I am going to say.”

  “Well, Lady Arabella, I’ll endeavour not to do so.”

  “I am sure I would not give any pain if I could help it, much less to you. But there are occasions, doctor, in which duty must be paramount; paramount to all other considerations, you know, and, certainly, this occasion is one of them.”

  “But what is the occasion, Lady Arabella?”

  “I’ll tell you, doctor. You know what Frank’s position is?”

  “Frank’s position! as regards what?”

  “Why, his position in life; an only son, you know.”

  “Oh, yes; I know his position in that respect; an only son, and his father’s heir; and a very fine fellow, he is. You have but one son, Lady Arabella, and you may well be proud of him.”

  Lady Arabella sighed. She did not wish at the present moment to express herself as being in any way proud of Frank. She was desirous rather, on the other hand, of showing that she was a good deal ashamed of him; only not quite so much ashamed of him as it behoved the doctor to be of his niece.

  “Well, perhaps so; yes,” said Lady Arabella, “he is, I believe, a very good young man, with an excellent disposition; but, doctor, his position is very precarious; and he is just at that time of life when every caution is necessary.”

  To the doctor’s ears, Lady Arabella was now talking of her son as a mother might of her infant when whooping-cough was abroad or croup imminent. “There is nothing on earth the matter with him, I should say,” said the doctor. “He has every possible sign of perfect health.”

  “Oh yes; his health! Yes, thank God, his health is good; that is a great blessing.” And Lady Arabella thought of her four flowerets that had already faded. “I am sure I am most thankful to see him growing up so strong. But it is not that I mean, doctor.”

  “Then what is it, Lady Arabella?”

  “Why, doctor, you know the squire’s position with regard to money matters?”

  Now the doctor undoubtedly did know the squire’s position with regard to money matters—knew it much better than did Lady Arabella; but he was by no means inclined to talk on that subject to her ladyship. He remained quite silent, therefore, although Lady Arabella’s last speech had taken the form of a question. Lady Arabella was a little offended at this want of freedom on his part, and become somewhat sterner in her tone—a thought less condescending in her manner.

  “The squire has unfortunately embarrassed the property, and Frank must look forward to inherit it with very heavy encumbrances; I fear very heavy indeed, though of what exact nature I am kept in ignorance.”

  Looking at the doctor’s face, she perceived that there was no probability whatever that her ignorance would be enlightened by him.

  “And, therefore, it is highly necessary that Frank should be very careful.”

  “As to his private expenditure, you mean?” said the doctor.

  “No; not exactly that: though of course he must be careful as to that, too; that’s of course. But that is not what I mean, doctor; his only hope of retrieving his circumstances is by marrying money.”

  “With every other conjugal blessing that a man can have, I hope he may have that also.” So the doctor replied with imperturbable face; but not the less did he begin to have a shade of suspicion of what might be the coming subject of the conference. It would be untrue to say that he had ever thought it probable that the young heir should fall in love with his niece; that he had ever looked forward to such a chance, either with complacency or with fear; nevertheless, the idea had of late passed through his mind. Some word had fallen from Mary, some closely watched expression of her eye, or some quiver in her lip when Frank’s name was mentioned, had of late made him involuntarily think that such might not be impossible; and then, when the chance of Mary becoming the heiress to so large a fortune had been forced upon his consideration, he had been unable to prevent himself from building happy castles in the air, as he rode slowly home from Boxall Hill. But not a whit the more on that account was he prepared to be untrue to the squire’s interest or to encourage a feeling which must be distasteful to all the squire’s friends.

  “Yes, doctor; he must marry money.”

  “And worth, Lady Arabella; and a pure feminine heart; and youth and beauty. I hope he will marry them all.”

  Could it be possible, that in speaking of a pure feminine heart, and youth and beauty, and such like gewgaws, the doctor was thinking of his niece? Could it be that he had absolutely made up his mind to foster and encourage this odious match?

  The bare idea made Lady Arabella wrathful, and her wrath gave her courage. “He must marry money, or he will be a ruined man. Now, doctor, I am informed that things—words that is—have passed between him and Mary which never ought to have been allowed.”

  And now also the doctor was wrathful. “What things? what words?” said he, appearing to Lady Arabella as though he rose in his anger nearly a foot in altitude before her eyes. “What has passed between them? and who says so?”

  “Doctor, there have been love-makings, you may take my word for it; love-makings of a very, very, very advanced description.”

  This, the doctor could not stand. No, not for Greshamsbury and its heir; not for the squire and all his misfortunes; not for Lady Arabella and the blood of all the De Courcys could he stand quiet and hear Mary thus accused. He sprang up another foot in height, and expanded equally in width as he flung back the insinuation.

  “Who says so? Whoever says so, whoever speaks of Miss Thorne in such language, says what is not true. I will pledge my word—”

  “My dear doctor, my dear doctor, what took place was quite clearly heard; there was no mistake about it, indeed.”

  “What took place? What was heard?”

  “Well, then, I don’t want, you know, to ma
ke more of it than can be helped. The thing must be stopped, that is all.”

  “What thing? Speak out, Lady Arabella. I will not have Mary’s conduct impugned by innuendoes. What is it that the eavesdroppers have heard?”

  “Dr. Thorne, there have been no eavesdroppers.”

  “And no talebearers either? Will you ladyship oblige me by letting me know what is the accusation which you bring against my niece?”

  “There has been most positively an offer made, Dr. Thorne.”

  “And who made it?”

  “Oh, of course I am not going to say but what Frank must have been very imprudent. Of course he has been to blame. There has been fault on both sides, no doubt.”

  “I utterly deny it. I positively deny it. I know nothing of the circumstances; have heard nothing about it—”

  “Then of course you can’t say,” said Lady Arabella.

  “I know nothing of the circumstance; have heard nothing about it,” continued Dr. Thorne; “but I do know my niece, and am ready to assert that there has not been fault on both sides. Whether there has been any fault on any side, that I do not yet know.”

  “I can assure you, Dr. Thorne, that an offer was made by Frank; such an offer cannot be without its allurements to a young lady circumstanced like your niece.”

  “Allurements!” almost shouted the doctor, and, as he did so, Lady Arabella stepped back a pace or two, retreating from the fire which shot out of his eyes. “But the truth is, Lady Arabella, you do not know my niece. If you will have the goodness to let me understand what it is that you desire I will tell you whether I can comply with your wishes.”

  “Of course it will be very inexpedient that the young people should be thrown together again—for the present, I mean.”

  “Well!”

  “Frank has now gone to Courcy Castle; and he talks of going from thence to Cambridge. But he will doubtless be here, backwards and forwards; and perhaps it will be better for all parties—safer, that is, doctor—if Miss Thorne were to discontinue her visits to Greshamsbury for a while.”

  “Very well!” thundered out the doctor. “Her visits to Greshamsbury shall be discontinued.”

  “Of course, doctor, this won’t change the intercourse between us; between you and the family.”

  “Not change it!” said he. “Do you think that I will break bread in a house from whence she has been ignominiously banished? Do you think that I can sit down in friendship with those who have spoken of her as you have now spoken? You have many daughters; what would you say if I accused them one of them as you have accused her?”

  “Accused, doctor! No, I don’t accuse her. But prudence, you know, does sometimes require us—”

  “Very well; prudence requires you to look after those who belong to you; and prudence requires me to look after my one lamb. Good morning, Lady Arabella.”

  “But, doctor, you are not going to quarrel with us? You will come when we want you; eh! won’t you?”

  Quarrel! quarrel with Greshamsbury! Angry as he was, the doctor felt that he could ill bear to quarrel with Greshamsbury. A man past fifty cannot easily throw over the ties that have taken twenty years to form, and wrench himself away from the various close ligatures with which, in such a period, he has become bound. He could not quarrel with the squire; he could ill bear to quarrel with Frank; though he now began to conceive that Frank had used him badly, he could not do so; he could not quarrel with the children, who had almost been born into his arms; nor even with the very walls, and trees, and grassy knolls with which he was so dearly intimate. He could not proclaim himself an enemy to Greshamsbury; and yet he felt that fealty to Mary required of him that, for the present, he should put on an enemy’s guise.

  “If you want me, Lady Arabella, and send for me, I will come to you; otherwise I will, if you please, share the sentence which has been passed on Mary. I will now wish you good morning.” And then bowing low to her, he left the room and the house, and sauntered slowly away to his own home.

  What was he to say to Mary? He walked very slowly down the Greshamsbury avenue, with his hands clasped behind his back, thinking over the whole matter; thinking of it, or rather trying to think of it. When a man’s heart is warmly concerned in any matter, it is almost useless for him to endeavour to think of it. Instead of thinking, he gives play to his feelings, and feeds his passion by indulging it. “Allurements!” he said to himself, repeating Lady Arabella’s words. “A girl circumstanced like my niece! How utterly incapable is such a woman as that to understand the mind, and heart, and soul of such a one as Mary Thorne!” And then his thoughts recurred to Frank. “It has been ill done of him; ill done of him: young as he is, he should have had feeling enough to have spared me this. A thoughtless word has been spoken which will now make her miserable!” And then, as he walked on, he could not divest his mind of the remembrance of what had passed between him and Sir Roger. What, if after all, Mary should become the heiress to all that money? What, if she should become, in fact, the owner of Greshamsbury? for, indeed it seemed too possible that Sir Roger’s heir would be the owner of Greshamsbury.

  The idea was one which he disliked to entertain, but it would recur to him again and again. It might be, that a marriage between his niece and the nominal heir to the estate might be of all the matches the best for young Gresham to make. How sweet would be the revenge, how glorious the retaliation on Lady Arabella, if, after what had now been said, it should come to pass that all the difficulties of Greshamsbury should be made smooth by Mary’s love, and Mary’s hand! It was a dangerous subject on which to ponder; and, as he sauntered down the road, the doctor did his best to banish it from his mind—not altogether successfully.

  But as he went he again encountered Beatrice. “Tell Mary I went to her to-day,” said she, “and that I expect her up here to-morrow. If she does not come, I shall be savage.”

  “Do not be savage,” said he, putting out his hand, “even though she should not come.”

  Beatrice immediately saw that his manner with her was not playful, and that his face was serious. “I was only in joke,” said she; “of course I was only joking. But is anything the matter? Is Mary ill?”

  “Oh, no; not ill at all; but she will not be here to-morrow, nor probably for some time. But, Miss Gresham, you must not be savage with her.”

  Beatrice tried to interrogate him, but he would not wait to answer her questions. While she was speaking he bowed to her in his usual old-fashioned courteous way, and passed on out of hearing. “She will not come up for some time,” said Beatrice to herself. “Then mamma must have quarrelled with her.” And at once in her heart she acquitted her friend of all blame in the matter, whatever it might be, and condemned her mother unheard.

  The doctor, when he arrived at his own house, had in nowise made up his mind as to the manner in which he would break the matter to Mary; but by the time that he had reached the drawing-room, he had made up his mind to this, that he would put off the evil hour till the morrow. He would sleep on the matter—lie awake on it, more probably—and then at breakfast, as best he could, tell her what had been said of her.

  Mary that evening was more than usually inclined to be playful. She had not been quite certain till the morning, whether Frank had absolutely left Greshamsbury, and had, therefore, preferred the company of Miss Oriel to going up to the house. There was a peculiar cheerfulness about her friend Patience, a feeling of satisfaction with the world and those in it, which Mary always shared with her; and now she had brought home to the doctor’s fireside, in spite of her young troubles, a smiling face, if not a heart altogether happy.

  “Uncle,” she said at last, “what makes you so sombre? Shall I read to you?”

  “No; not to-night, dearest.”

  “Why, uncle; what is the matter?”

  “Nothing, nothing.”

  “Ah, but it is something, and you shall tell me;” getting up, she came over to his arm-chair, and leant over his shoulder.

  He looked at her
for a minute in silence, and then, getting up from his chair, passed his arm round her waist, and pressed her closely to his heart.

  “My darling!” he said, almost convulsively. “My best own, truest darling!” and Mary, looking up into his face, saw that big tears were running down his cheeks.

  But still he told her nothing that night.

  CHAPTER XV

  Courcy

  When Frank Gresham expressed to his father an opinion that Courcy Castle was dull, the squire, as may be remembered, did not pretend to differ from him. To men such as the squire, and such as the squire’s son, Courcy Castle was dull. To what class of men it would not be dull the author is not prepared to say; but it may be presumed that the De Courcys found it to their liking, or they would have made it other than it was.

  The castle itself was a huge brick pile, built in the days of William III, which, though they were grand for days of the construction of the Constitution, were not very grand for architecture of a more material description. It had, no doubt, a perfect right to be called a castle, as it was entered by a castle-gate which led into a court, the porter’s lodge for which was built as it were into the wall; there were attached to it also two round, stumpy adjuncts, which were, perhaps properly, called towers, though they did not do much in the way of towering; and, moreover, along one side of the house, over what would otherwise have been the cornice, there ran a castellated parapet, through the assistance of which, the imagination no doubt was intended to supply the muzzles of defiant artillery. But any artillery which would have so presented its muzzle must have been very small, and it may be doubted whether even a bowman could have obtained shelter there.