Doctor Thorne

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  A Morning Visit

  It must be remembered that Mary, among her miseries, had to sufferthis: that since Frank's departure, now nearly twelve months ago, shehad not heard a word about him; or rather, she had only heard that hewas very much in love with some lady in London. This news reached herin a manner so circuitous, and from such a doubtful source; it seemedto her to savour so strongly of Lady Arabella's precautions, thatshe attributed it at once to malice, and blew it to the winds. Itmight not improbably be the case that Frank was untrue to her; butshe would not take it for granted because she was now told so. Itwas more than probable that he should amuse himself with some one;flirting was his prevailing sin; and if he did flirt, the most wouldof course be made of it.

  But she found it to be very desolate to be thus left alone withouta word of comfort or a word of love; without being able to speak toany one of what filled her heart; doubting, nay, more than doubting,being all but sure that her passion must terminate in misery. Why hadshe not obeyed her conscience and her better instinct in that momentwhen the necessity for deciding had come upon her? Why had sheallowed him to understand that he was master of her heart? Did shenot know that there was everything against such a marriage as thatwhich he proposed? Had she not done wrong, very wrong, even to thinkof it? Had she not sinned deeply, against Mr Gresham, who had everbeen so kind to her? Could she hope, was it possible, that a boy likeFrank should be true to his first love? And, if he were true, if hewere ready to go to the altar with her to-morrow, ought she to allowhim to degrade himself by such a marriage?

  There was, alas! some truth about the London lady. Frank had takenhis degree, as arranged, and had then gone abroad for the winter,doing the fashionable things, going up the Nile, crossing over toMount Sinai, thence over the long desert to Jerusalem, and home byDamascus, Beyrout, and Constantinople, bringing back a long beard, ared cap, and a chibook, just as our fathers used to go through Italyand Switzerland, and our grandfathers to spend a season in Paris. Hehad then remained for a couple of months in London, going throughall the society which the de Courcys were able to open to him. Andit was true that a certain belle of the season, of that season andsome others, had been captivated--for the tenth time--by the silkensheen of his long beard. Frank had probably been more demonstrative,perhaps even more susceptible, than he should have been; andhence the rumour, which had all too willingly been forwarded toGreshamsbury.

  But young Gresham had also met another lady in London, namely MissDunstable. Mary would indeed have been grateful to Miss Dunstable,could she have known all that lady did for her. Frank's love wasnever allowed to flag. When he spoke of the difficulties in his way,she twitted him by being overcome by straws; and told him that noone was worth having who was afraid of every lion that he met in hispath. When he spoke of money, she bade him earn it; and always endedby offering to smooth for him any real difficulty which want of meansmight put in his way.

  "No," Frank used to say to himself, when these offers were made, "Inever intended to take her and her money together; and, therefore, Icertainly will never take the money alone."

  A day or two after Miss Oriel's visit, Mary received the followingnote from Beatrice.

  DEAREST, DEAREST MARY,

  I shall be so happy to see you, and will come to-morrow at twelve. I have asked mamma, and she says that, for once, she has no objection. You know it is not my fault that I have never been with you; don't you? Frank comes home on the 12th. Mr Oriel wants the wedding to be on the 1st of September; but that seems to be so very, very soon doesn't it? However, mamma and papa are all on his side. I won't write about this, though, for we shall have such a delicious talk. Oh, Mary! I have been so unhappy without you.

  Ever your own affectionate,

  TRICHY

  Monday.

  Though Mary was delighted at the idea of once more having her friendin her arms, there was, nevertheless, something in this letter whichoppressed her. She could not put up with the idea that Beatriceshould have permission given to come to her--just for once. Shehardly wished to be seen by permission. Nevertheless, she did notrefuse the proffered visit, and the first sight of Beatrice's face,the first touch of the first embrace, dissipated for the moment allher anger.

  And then Beatrice fully enjoyed the delicious talk which she hadpromised herself. Mary let her have her way, and for two hoursall the delights and all the duties, all the comforts and all theresponsibilities of a parson's wife were discussed with almost equalardour on both sides. The duties and responsibilities were notexactly those which too often fall to the lot of the mistress ofan English vicarage. Beatrice was not doomed to make her husbandcomfortable, to educate her children, dress herself like a lady, andexercise open-handed charity on an income of two hundred pounds ayear. Her duties and responsibilities would have to spread themselvesover seven or eight times that amount of worldly burden. Living alsoclose to Greshamsbury, and not far from Courcy Castle, she would havethe full advantages and all the privileges of county society. Infact, it was all _couleur de rose_, and so she chatted deliciouslywith her friend.

  But it was impossible that they should separate without somethinghaving been said as to Mary's own lot. It would, perhaps, have beenbetter that they should do so; but this was hardly within the compassof human nature.

  "And Mary, you know, I shall be able to see you as often as Ilike;--you and Dr Thorne, too, when I have a house of my own."

  Mary said nothing, but essayed to smile. It was but a ghastlyattempt.

  "You know how happy that will make me," continued Beatrice. "Ofcourse mamma won't expect me to be led by her then: if he likes it,there can be no objection and he will like it, you may be sure ofthat."

  "You are very kind, Trichy," said Mary; but she spoke in a tone verydifferent from that she would have used eighteen months ago.

  "Why, what is the matter, Mary? Shan't you be glad to come to seeus?"

  "I do not know, dearest; that must depend on circumstances. To seeyou, you yourself, your own dear, sweet, loving face must always bepleasant to me."

  "And shan't you be glad to see him?"

  "Yes, certainly, if he loves you."

  "Of course he loves me."

  "All that alone would be pleasant enough, Trichy. But what if thereshould be circumstances which should still make us enemies; shouldmake your friends and my friends--friend, I should say, for I haveonly one--should make them opposed to each other?"

  "Circumstances! What circumstances?"

  "You are going to be married, Trichy, to the man you love; are younot?"

  "Indeed, I am!"

  "And it is not pleasant? is it not a happy feeling?"

  "Pleasant! happy! yes, very pleasant; very happy. But, Mary, I am notat all in such a hurry as he is," said Beatrice, naturally thinkingof her own little affairs.

  "And, suppose I should wish to be married to the man that I love?"Mary said this slowly and gravely, and as she spoke she looked herfriend full in the face.

  Beatrice was somewhat astonished, and for the moment hardlyunderstood. "I am sure I hope you will, some day."

  "No, Trichy; no, you hope the other way. I love your brother; I loveFrank Gresham; I love him quite as well, quite as warmly, as you loveCaleb Oriel."

  "Do you?" said Beatrice, staring with all her eyes, and giving onelong sigh, as this new subject for sorrow was so distinctly putbefore her.

  "It that so odd?" said Mary. "You love Mr Oriel, though you have beenintimate with him hardly more than two years. Is it so odd that Ishould love your brother, whom I have known almost all my life?"

  "But, Mary, I thought it was always understood between usthat--that--I mean that you were not to care about him; not in theway of loving him, you know--I thought you always said so--I havealways told mamma so as if it came from yourself."

  "Beatrice, do not tell anything to Lady Arabella as though it camefrom me; I do not want anything to be told to her, either of me orfrom me. Say
what you like to me yourself; whatever you say will notanger me. Indeed, I know what you would say--and yet I love you. Oh,I love you, Trichy--Trichy, I do love you so much! Don't turn awayfrom me!"

  There was such a mixture in Mary's manner of tenderness and almostferocity, that poor Beatrice could hardly follow her. "Turn away fromyou, Mary! no never; but this does make me unhappy."

  "It is better that you should know it all, and then you will not beled into fighting my battles again. You cannot fight them so that Ishould win; I do love your brother; love him truly, fondly, tenderly.I would wish to have him for my husband as you wish to have MrOriel."

  "But, Mary, you cannot marry him!"

  "Why not?" said she, in a loud voice. "Why can I not marry him? Ifthe priest says a blessing over us, shall we not be married as wellas you and your husband?"

  "But you know he cannot marry unless his wife shall have money."

  "Money--money; and he is to sell himself for money? Oh, Trichy! donot you talk about money. It is horrible. But, Trichy, I will grantit--I cannot marry him; but still, I love him. He has a name, a placein the world, and fortune, family, high blood, position, everything.He has all this, and I have nothing. Of course I cannot marry him.But yet I do love him."

  "Are you engaged to him, Mary?"

  "He is not engaged to me; but I am to him."

  "Oh, Mary, that is impossible!"

  "It is not impossible: it is the case--I am pledged to him; but he isnot pledged to me."

  "But, Mary, don't look at me in that way. I do not quite understandyou. What is the good of your being engaged if you cannot marry him?"

  "Good! there is no good. But can I help it, if I love him? Can I makemyself not love him by just wishing it? Oh, I would do it if I could.But now you will understand why I shake my head when you talk of mycoming to your house. Your ways and my ways must be different."

  Beatrice was startled, and, for a time, silenced. What Mary said ofthe difference of their ways was quite true. Beatrice had dearlyloved her friend, and had thought of her with affection through allthis long period in which they had been separated; but she had givenher love and her thoughts on the understanding, as it were, that theywere in unison as to the impropriety of Frank's conduct.

  She had always spoken, with a grave face, of Frank and his love as ofa great misfortune, even to Mary herself; and her pity for Mary hadbeen founded on the conviction of her innocence. Now all those ideashad to be altered. Mary owned her fault, confessed herself to beguilty of all that Lady Arabella so frequently laid to her charge,and confessed herself anxious to commit every crime as to whichBeatrice had been ever so ready to defend her.

  Had Beatrice up to this dreamed that Mary was in love with Frank,she would doubtless have sympathised with her more or less, sooneror later. As it was, it was beyond all doubt that she would soonsympathise with her. But, at the moment, the suddenness of thedeclaration seemed to harden her heart, and she forgot, as it were,to speak tenderly to her friend.

  She was silent, therefore, and dismayed; and looked as though shethought that her ways and Mary's ways must be different.

  Mary saw all that was passing in the other's mind: no, not all; allthe hostility, the disappointment, the disapproval, the unhappiness,she did see; but not the under-current of love, which was strongenough to well up and drown all these, if only time could be allowedfor it to do so.

  "I am glad I have told you," said Mary, curbing herself, "for deceitand hypocrisy are detestable."

  "It was a misunderstanding, not deceit," said Beatrice.

  "Well, now we understand each other; now you know that I have a heartwithin me, which like those of some others has not always been undermy own control. Lady Arabella believes that I am intriguing to be themistress of Greshamsbury. You, at any rate, will not think that ofme. If it could be discovered to-morrow that Frank were not the heir,I might have some chance of happiness."

  "But, Mary--"

  "Well?"

  "You say you love him."

  "Yes; I do say so."

  "But if he does not love you, will you cease to do so?"

  "If I have a fever, I will get rid of it if I can; in such case Imust do so, or die."

  "I fear," continued Beatrice, "you hardly know, perhaps do not think,what is Frank's real character. He is not made to settle down earlyin life; even now, I believe he is attached to some lady in London,whom, of course, he cannot marry."

  Beatrice said this in perfect trueness of heart. She had heard ofFrank's new love-affair, and believing what she had heard, thoughtit best to tell the truth. But the information was not of a kind toquiet Mary's spirit.

  "Very well," said she, "let it be so. I have nothing to say againstit."

  "But are you not preparing wretchedness and unhappiness foryourself?"

  "Very likely."

  "Oh, Mary, do not be so cold with me! you know how delighted I shouldbe to have you for a sister-in-law, if only it were possible."

  "Yes, Trichy; but it is impossible, is it not? Impossible thatFrancis Gresham of Greshamsbury should disgrace himself by marryingsuch a poor creature as I am. Of course, I know it; of course, I amprepared for unhappiness and misery. He can amuse himself as he likeswith me or others--with anybody. It is his privilege. It is quiteenough to say that he is not made for settling down. I know my ownposition--and yet I love him."

  "But, Mary, has he asked you to be his wife? If so--"

  "You ask home-questions, Beatrice. Let me ask you one; has he evertold you that he has done so?"

  At this moment Beatrice was not disposed to repeat all that Frank hadsaid. A year ago, before he went away, he had told his sister a scoreof times that he meant to marry Mary Thorne if she would have him;but Beatrice now looked on all that as idle, boyish vapouring. Thepity was, that Mary should have looked on it differently.

  "We will each keep our secret," said Mary. "Only remember this:should Frank marry to-morrow, I shall have no ground for blaming him.He is free as far I as am concerned. He can take the London lady ifhe likes. You may tell him so from me. But, Trichy, what else I havetold you, I have told you only."

  "Oh, yes!" said Beatrice, sadly; "I shall say nothing of it toanybody. It is very sad, very, very; I was so happy when I came here,and now I am so wretched." This was the end of that delicious talk towhich she had looked forward with so much eagerness.

  "Don't be wretched about me, dearest; I shall get through it. Isometimes think I was born to be unhappy, and that unhappiness agreeswith me best. Kiss me now, Trichy, and don't be wretched any more.You owe it to Mr Oriel to be as happy as the day is long."

  And then they parted.

  Beatrice, as she went out, saw Dr Thorne in his little shop on theright-hand side of the passage, deeply engaged in some derogatorybranch of an apothecary's mechanical trade; mixing a dose, perhaps,for a little child. She would have passed him without speaking if shecould have been sure of doing so without notice, for her heart wasfull, and her eyes were red with tears; but it was so long since shehad been in his house that she was more than ordinarily anxious notto appear uncourteous or unkind to him.

  "Good morning, doctor," she said, changing her countenance as bestshe might, and attempting a smile.

  "Ah, my fairy!" said he, leaving his villainous compounds, and comingout to her; "and you, too, are about to become a steady old lady."

  "Indeed, I am not, doctor; I don't mean to be either steady or oldfor the next ten years. But who has told you? I suppose Mary has beena traitor."

  "Well, I will confess, Mary was the traitor. But hadn't I a rightto be told, seeing how often I have brought you sugar-plums in mypocket? But I wish you joy with all my heart,--with all my heart.Oriel is an excellent, good fellow."

  "Is he not, doctor?"

  "An excellent, good fellow. I never heard but of one fault that hehad."

  "What was that one fault, Doctor Thorne?"

  "He thought that clergymen should not marry. But you have cured that,and now he's perfect."

/>   "Thank you, doctor. I declare that you say the prettiest things ofall my friends."

  "And none of your friends wish prettier things for you. I docongratulate you, Beatrice, and hope you may be happy with the manyou have chosen;" and taking both her hands in his, he pressed themwarmly, and bade God bless her.

  "Oh, doctor! I do so hope the time will come when we shall all befriends again."

  "I hope it as well, my dear. But let it come, or let it not come, myregard for you will be the same:" and then she parted from him also,and went her way.

  Nothing was spoken of that evening between Dr Thorne and his nieceexcepting Beatrice's future happiness; nothing, at least, havingreference to what had passed that morning. But on the followingmorning circumstances led to Frank Gresham's name being mentioned.

  At the usual breakfast-hour the doctor entered the parlour with aharassed face. He had an open letter in his hand, and it was at onceclear to Mary that he was going to speak on some subject that vexedhim.

  "That unfortunate fellow is again in trouble. Here is a letter fromGreyson." Greyson was a London apothecary, who had been appointed asmedical attendant to Sir Louis Scatcherd, and whose real businessconsisted in keeping a watch on the baronet, and reporting to DrThorne when anything was very much amiss. "Here is a letter fromGreyson he has been drunk for the last three days, and is now laidup in a terribly nervous state."

  "You won't go up to town again; will you, uncle?"

  "I hardly know what to do. No, I think not. He talks of coming downhere to Greshamsbury."

  "Who, Sir Louis?"

  "Yes, Sir Louis. Greyson says that he will be down as soon as he canget out of his room."

  "What! to this house?"

  "What other house can he come to?"

  "Oh, uncle! I hope not. Pray, pray do not let him come here."

  "I cannot prevent it, my dear. I cannot shut my door on him."

  They sat down to breakfast, and Mary gave him his tea in silence. "Iam going over to Boxall Hill before dinner," said he. "Have you anymessage to send to Lady Scatcherd?"

  "Message! no, I have no message; not especially: give her my love,of course," she said listlessly. And then, as though a thought hadsuddenly struck her, she spoke with more energy. "But, couldn't I goto Boxall Hill again? I should be so delighted."

  "What! to run away from Sir Louis? No, dearest, we will have no morerunning away. He will probably also go to Boxall Hill, and he couldannoy you much more there than he can here."

  "But, uncle, Mr Gresham will be home on the 12th," she said,blushing.

  "What! Frank?"

  "Yes. Beatrice said he was to be here on the 12th."

  "And would you run away from him too, Mary?"

  "I do not know: I do not know what to do."

  "No; we will have no more running away: I am sorry that you ever didso. It was my fault, altogether my fault; but it was foolish."

  "Uncle, I am not happy here." As she said this, she put down the cupwhich she had held, and, leaning her elbows on the table, rested herforehead on her hands.

  "And would you be happier at Boxall Hill? It is not the place makesthe happiness."

  "No, I know that; it is not the place. I do not look to be happy inany place; but I should be quieter, more tranquil elsewhere thanhere."

  "I also sometimes think that it will be better for us to take up ourstaves and walk away out of Greshamsbury;--leave it altogether, andsettle elsewhere; miles, miles, miles away from here. Should you likethat, dearest?"

  Miles, miles, miles away from Greshamsbury! There was something inthe sound that fell very cold on Mary's ears, unhappy as she was.Greshamsbury had been so dear to her; in spite of all that hadpassed, was still so dear to her! Was she prepared to take up herstaff, as her uncle said, and walk forth from the place with thefull understanding that she was to return to it no more; with a mindresolved that there should be an inseparable gulf between her and itsinhabitants? Such she knew was the proposed nature of the walkingaway of which her uncle spoke. So she sat there, resting on her arms,and gave no answer to the question that had been asked her.

  "No, we will stay a while yet," said her uncle. "It may come tothat, but this is not the time. For one season longer let us face--Iwill not say our enemies; I cannot call anybody my enemy who bearsthe name of Gresham." And then he went on for a moment with hisbreakfast. "So Frank will be here on the 12th?"

  "Yes, uncle."

  "Well, dearest, I have no questions to ask you: no directions togive. I know how good you are, and how prudent; I am anxious only foryour happiness; not at all--"

  "Happiness, uncle, is out of the question."

  "I hope not. It is never out of the question, never can be out of thequestion. But, as I was saying, I am quite satisfied your conductwill be good, and, therefore, I have no questions to ask. We willremain here; and, whether good or evil come, we will not be ashamedto show our faces."

  She sat for a while again silent, collecting her courage on thesubject that was nearest her heart. She would have given the worldthat he should ask her questions; but she could not bid him to do so;and she found it impossible to talk openly to him about Frank unlesshe did so. "Will he come here?" at last she said, in a low-tonedvoice.

  "Who? He, Louis? Yes, I think that in all probability he will."

  "No; but Frank," she said, in a still lower voice.

  "Ah! my darling, that I cannot tell; but will it be well that heshould come here?"

  "I do not know," she said. "No, I suppose not. But, uncle, I don'tthink he will come."

  She was now sitting on a sofa away from the table, and he got up, satdown beside her, and took her hands in his. "Mary," said he, "youmust be strong now; strong to endure, not to attack. I think you havethat strength; but, if not, perhaps it will be better that we shouldgo away."

  "I will be strong," said she, rising up and going towards the door."Never mind me, uncle; don't follow me; I will be strong. It will bebase, cowardly, mean, to run away; very base in me to make you doso."

  "No, dearest, not so; it will be the same to me."

  "No," said she, "I will not run away from Lady Arabella. And, as forhim--if he loves this other one, he shall hear no reproach from me.Uncle, I will be strong;" and running back to him, she threw herarms round him and kissed him. And, still restraining her tears, shegot safely to her bedroom. In what way she may there have shown herstrength, it would not be well for us to inquire.