The Chronicles of Barsetshire

by Anthony Trollope

  “Yes; yours was a love match. I declare, Mary, I often think that you are the happiest woman of whom I ever heard; to have it all to give, when you were so sure that you were loved while you yet had nothing.”

  “Yes; I was sure,” and she wiped the sweet tears from her eyes, as she remembered a certain day when a certain youth had come to her, claiming all kinds of privileges in a very determined manner. She had been no heiress then. “Yes; I was sure. But now with you, dear, you can’t make yourself poor again. If you can trust no one—”

  “I can. I can trust him. As regards that I do trust him altogether. But how can I tell that he would care for me?”

  “Do you not know that he likes you?”

  “Ah, yes; and so he does Lady Scatcherd.”

  “Miss Dunstable!”

  “And why not Lady Scatcherd, as well as me? We are of the same kind—come from the same class.”

  “Not quite that, I think.”

  “Yes, from the same class; only I have managed to poke myself up among dukes and duchesses, whereas she has been content to remain where God placed her. Where I beat her in art, she beats me in nature.”

  “You know you are talking nonsense.”

  “I think that we are both doing that—absolute nonsense; such as schoolgirls of eighteen talk to each other. But there is a relief in it; is there not? It would be a terrible curse to have to talk sense always. Well, that’s done; and now let us go out.”

  Mrs. Gresham was sure after this that Miss Dunstable would be a consenting party to the little arrangement which she contemplated. But of that she had felt but little doubt for some considerable time past. The difficulty lay on the other side, and all that she had as yet done was to convince herself that she would be safe in assuring her uncle of success if he could be induced to take the enterprise in hand. He was to come to Boxall Hill that evening, and to remain there for a day or two. If anything could be done in the matter, now would be the time for doing it. So at least thought Mrs. Gresham.

  The doctor did come, and did remain for the allotted time at Boxall Hill; but when he left, Mrs. Gresham had not been successful. Indeed, he did not seem to enjoy his visit as was usual with him; and there was very little of that pleasant friendly intercourse which for some time past had been customary between him and Miss Dunstable. There were no passages of arms between them; no abuse from the doctor against the lady’s London gaiety; no raillery from the lady as to the doctor’s country habits. They were very courteous to each other, and, as Mrs. Gresham thought, too civil by half; nor, as far as she could see, did they ever remain alone in each other’s company for five minutes at a time during the whole period of the doctor’s visit. What, thought Mrs. Gresham to herself—what if she had set these two friends at variance with each other, instead of binding them together in the closest and most durable friendship!

  But still she had an idea that, as she had begun to play this game, she must play it out. She felt conscious that what she had done must do evil, unless she could so carry it on as to make it result in good. Indeed, unless she could so manage, she would have done a manifest injury to Miss Dunstable in forcing her to declare her thoughts and feelings. She had already spoken to her uncle in London, and though he had said nothing to show that he approved of her plan, neither had he said anything to show that he disapproved it. Therefore she had hoped through the whole of those three days that he would make some sign—at any rate to her; that he would in some way declare what were his own thoughts on this matter. But the morning of his departure came, and he had declared nothing.

  “Uncle,” she said, in the last five minutes of his sojourn there, after he had already taken leave of Miss Dunstable and shaken hands with Mrs. Gresham, “have you ever thought of what I said to you up in London?”

  “Yes, Mary; of course I have thought about it. Such an idea as that, when put into a man’s head, will make itself thought about.”

  “Well; and what next? Do talk to me about it. Do not be so hard and unlike yourself.”

  “I have very little to say about it.”

  “I can tell you this for certain, you may if you like.”

  “Mary! Mary!”

  “I would not say so if I were not sure that I should not lead you into trouble.”

  “You are foolish in wishing this, my dear; foolish in trying to tempt an old man into a folly.”

  “Not foolish if I know that it will make you both happier.”

  He made her no further reply, but stooping down that she might kiss him, as was his wont, went his way, leaving her almost miserable in the thought that she had troubled all these waters to no purpose. What would Miss Dunstable think of her? But on that afternoon Miss Dunstable seemed to be as happy and even-tempered as ever.

  CHAPTER XXXIX

  How to Write a Love Letter

  Dr. Thorne, in the few words which he spoke to his niece before he left Boxall Hill, had called himself an old man; but he was as yet on the right side of sixty by five good years, and bore about with him less of the marks of age than most men of fifty-five do bear. One would have said, in looking at him, that there was no reason why he should not marry if he found that such a step seemed good to him; and, looking at the age of the proposed bride, there was nothing unsuitable in that respect.

  But nevertheless he felt almost ashamed of himself, in that he allowed himself even to think of the proposition which his niece had made. He mounted his horse that day at Boxall Hill—for he made all his journeys about the county on horseback—and rode slowly home to Greshamsbury, thinking not so much of the suggested marriage as of his own folly in thinking of it. How could he be such an ass at his time of life as to allow the even course of his way to be disturbed by any such idea? Of course he could not propose to himself such a wife as Miss Dunstable without having some thoughts as to her wealth; and it had been the pride of his life so to live that the world might know that he was indifferent about money. His profession was all in all to him—the air which he breathed as well as the bread which he ate; and how could he follow his profession if he made such a marriage as this? She would expect him to go to London with her; and what would he become, dangling at her heels there, known only to the world as the husband of the richest woman in the town? The kind of life was one which would be unsuitable to him—and yet, as he rode home, he could not resolve to rid himself of the idea. He went on thinking of it, though he still continued to condemn himself for keeping it in his thoughts. That night at home he would make up his mind, so he declared to himself; and would then write to his niece begging her to drop the subject. Having so far come to a resolution he went on meditating what course of life it might be well for him to pursue if he and Miss Dunstable should after all become man and wife.

  There were two ladies whom it behoved him to see on the day of his arrival—whom, indeed, he generally saw every day except when absent from Greshamsbury. The first of these—first in the general consideration of the people of the place—was the wife of the squire, Lady Arabella Gresham, a very old patient of the doctor’s. Her it was his custom to visit early in the afternoon; and then, if he were able to escape the squire’s daily invitation to dinner, he customarily went to the other, Lady Scatcherd, when the rapid meal in his own house was over. Such, at least, was his summer practice.

  “Well, doctor, how are they at Boxall Hill?” said the squire, way-laying him on the gravel sweep before the door. The squire was very hard set for occupation in these summer months.

  “Quite well, I believe.”

  “I don’t know what’s come to Frank. I think he hates this place now. He’s full of the election, I suppose.”

  “Oh, yes; he told me to say he should be over here soon. Of course there’ll be no contest, so he need not trouble himself.”

  “Happy dog, isn’t he, doctor? to have it all before him instead of behind him. Well, well; he’s as good a lad as ever lived—as ever lived. And let me see; Mary’s time—” And then there were a few very important w
ords spoken on that subject.

  “I’ll just step up to Lady Arabella now,” said the doctor.

  “She’s as fretful as possible,” said the squire. “I’ve just left her.”

  “Nothing special the matter, I hope?”

  “No, I think not; nothing in your way, that is; only specially cross, which always comes in my way. You’ll stop and dine to-day, of course?”

  “Not to-day, squire.”

  “Nonsense; you will. I have been quite counting on you. I have a particular reason for wanting to have you to-day—a most particular reason.” But the squire always had his particular reasons.

  “I’m very sorry, but it is impossible to-day. I shall have a letter to write that I must sit down to seriously. Shall I see you when I come down from her ladyship?”

  The squire turned away sulkily, almost without answering him, for he now had no prospect of any alleviation to the tedium of the evening; and the doctor went upstairs to his patient.

  For Lady Arabella, though it cannot be said that she was ill, was always a patient. It must not be supposed that she kept her bed and swallowed daily doses, or was prevented from taking her share in such prosy gaieties as came from time to time in the way of her prosy life; but it suited her turn of mind to be an invalid and to have a doctor; and as the doctor whom her good fates had placed at her elbow thoroughly understood her case, no great harm was done.

  “It frets me dreadfully that I cannot get to see Mary,” Lady Arabella said, as soon as the first ordinary question as to her ailments had been asked and answered.

  “She’s quite well, and will be over to see you before long.”

  “Now I beg that she won’t. She never thinks of coming when there can be no possible objection, and travelling, at the present moment, would be—” Whereupon the Lady Arabella shook her head very gravely. “Only think of the importance of it, doctor,” she said. “Remember the enormous stake there is to be considered.”

  “It would not do her a ha’porth of harm if the stake were twice as large.”

  “Nonsense, doctor, don’t tell me; as if I didn’t know myself. I was very much against her going to London this spring, but of course what I said was overruled. It always is. I do believe Mr. Gresham went over to Boxall Hill, on purpose to induce her to go. But what does he care? He’s fond of Frank; but he never thinks of looking beyond the present day. He never did, as you know well enough, doctor.”

  “The trip did her all the good in the world,” said Dr. Thorne, preferring anything to a conversation respecting the squire’s sins.

  “I very well remember that when I was in that way it wasn’t thought that such trips would do me any good. But, perhaps, things are altered since then.”

  “Yes, they are,” said the doctor. “We don’t interfere so much nowadays.”

  “I know I never asked for such amusements when so much depended on quietness. I remember before Frank was born—and, indeed, when all of them were born— But, as you say, things were different then; and I can easily believe that Mary is a person quite determined to have her own way.”

  “Why, Lady Arabella, she would have stayed at home without wishing to stir if Frank had done so much as hold up his little finger.”

  “So did I always. If Mr. Gresham made the slightest hint I gave way. But I really don’t see what one gets in return for such implicit obedience. Now this year, doctor, of course I should have liked to have been up in London for a week or two. You seemed to think yourself that I might as well see Sir Omicron.”

  “There could be no possible objection, I said.”

  “Well; no; exactly; and as Mr. Gresham knew I wished it, I think he might as well have offered it. I suppose there can be no reason now about money.”

  “But I understood that Mary specially asked you and Augusta?”

  “Yes; Mary was very good. She did ask me. But I know very well that Mary wants all the room she has got in London. The house is not at all too large for herself, And, for the matter of that, my sister, the countess, was very anxious that I should be with her. But one does like to be independent if one can, and for one fortnight I do think that Mr. Gresham might have managed it. When I knew that he was so dreadfully out at elbows I never troubled him about it—though, goodness knows, all that was never my fault.”

  “The squire hates London. A fortnight there in warm weather would nearly be the death of him.”

  “He might at any rate have paid me the compliment of asking me. The chances are ten to one I should not have gone. It is that indifference that cuts me so. He was here just now, and would you believe it?—”

  But the doctor was determined to avoid further complaint for the present day. “I wonder what you would feel, Lady Arabella, if the squire were to take it into his head to go away and amuse himself, leaving you at home. There are worse men than Mr. Gresham, if you will believe me.” All this was an allusion to Earl de Courcy, her ladyship’s brother, as Lady Arabella very well understood; and the argument was one which was very often used to silence her.

  “Upon my word, then, I should like it better than his hanging about here doing nothing but attend to those nasty dogs. I really sometimes think that he has no spirit left.”

  “You are mistaken there, Lady Arabella,” said the doctor, rising with his hat in his hand, and making his escape without further parley.

  As he went home he could not but think that that phase of married life was not a very pleasant one. Mr. Gresham and his wife were supposed by the world to live on the best of terms. They always inhabited the same house, went out together when they did go out, always sat in their respective corners in the family pew, and in their wildest dreams after the happiness of novelty never thought of Sir Cresswell Cresswell. In some respects—with regard, for instance, to the continued duration of their joint domesticity at the family mansion of Greshamsbury—they might have been taken for a pattern couple. But yet, as far as the doctor could see, they did not seem to add much to the happiness of each other. They loved each other, doubtless, and had either of them been in real danger, that danger would have made the other miserable; but yet it might well be a question whether either would not be more comfortable without the other.

  The doctor, as was his custom, dined at five, and at seven he went up to the cottage of his old friend Lady Scatcherd. Lady Scatcherd was not a refined woman, having in her early days been a labourer’s daughter, and having then married a labourer. But her husband had risen in the world—as has been told in those chronicles before mentioned—and his widow was now Lady Scatcherd with a pretty cottage and a good jointure. She was in all things the very opposite to Lady Arabella Gresham; nevertheless, under the doctor’s auspices, the two ladies were in some measure acquainted with each other. Of her married life, also, Dr. Thorne had seen something, and it may be questioned whether the memory of that was more alluring than the reality now existing at Greshamsbury.

  Of the two women Dr. Thorne much preferred his humbler friend, and to her he made his visits not in the guise of a doctor, but as a neighbour. “Well, my lady,” he said, as he sat down by her on a broad garden seat—all the world called Lady Scatcherd “my lady,”—”and how do these long summer days agree with you? Your roses are twice better out than any I see up at the big house.”

  “You may well call them long, doctor. They’re long enough surely.”

  “But not too long. Come, now, I won’t have you complaining. You don’t mean to tell me that you have anything to make you wretched? You had better not, for I won’t believe you.”

  “Eh; well; wretched! I don’t know as I’m wretched. It’d be wicked to say that, and I with such comforts about me.”

  “I think it would, almost.” The doctor did not say this harshly, but in a soft, friendly tone, and pressing her hand gently as he spoke.

  “And I didn’t mean to be wicked. I’m very thankful for everything—leastways, I always try to be. But, doctor, it is so lonely like.”

  “Lonely! not more lonel
y than I am.”

  “Oh, yes; you’re different. You can go everywheres. But what can a lone woman do? I’ll tell you what, doctor; I’d give it all up to have Roger back with his apron on and his pick in his hand. How well I mind his look when he’d come home o’ nights!”

  “And yet it was a hard life you had then, eh, old woman? It would be better for you to be thankful for what you’ve got.”

  “I am thankful. Didn’t I tell you so before?” said she, somewhat crossly. “But it’s a sad life, this living alone. I declares I envy Hannah, ‘cause she’s got Jemima to sit in the kitchen with her. I want her to sit with me sometimes, but she won’t.”

  “Ah! but you shouldn’t ask her. It’s letting yourself down.”

  “What do I care about down or up? It makes no difference, as he’s gone. If he had lived one might have cared about being up, as you call it. Eh, deary; I’ll be going after him before long, and it will be no matter then.”

  “We shall all be going after him, sooner or later; that’s sure enough.”

  “Eh, dear, that’s true surely. It’s only a span long, as Parson Oriel tells us, when he gets romantic in his sermons. But it’s a hard thing, doctor, when two is married, as they can’t have their span, as he calls it, out together. Well I must only put up with it, I suppose, as others does. Now, you’re not going, doctor? You’ll stop and have a dish of tea with me. You never see such cream as Hannah has from the Alderney cow. Do’ey now, doctor.”

  But the doctor had his letter to write, and would not allow himself to be tempted even by the promise of Hannah’s cream. So he went his way, angering Lady Scatcherd by his departure as he had before angered the squire, and thinking as he went which was most unreasonable in her wretchedness, his friend Lady Arabella or his friend Lady Scatcherd. The former was always complaining of an existing husband who never refused her any moderate request; and the other passed her days in murmuring at the loss of a dead husband, who in his life had ever been to her imperious and harsh, and had sometimes been cruel and unjust.