Doctor Thorne - Anthony Trollope (historical books to read .txt) 📗

it was a match which could not be approved of: she did, indeed;

she confessed all that. ‘I have nothing’, she said—those were her

own words—‘I have nothing to say in favour of this engagement,

except that he wishes it.’ That is what she thinks of it herself.

‘His wishes are not a reason; but a law,’ she said—”

 

“And, mother, would you have me desert such a girl as that?”

 

“It is not deserting, Frank: it would not be deserting: you would be

doing that which she herself approves of. She feels the impropriety

of going on; but she cannot draw back because of her promise to you.

She thinks that she cannot do it, even though she wishes it.”

 

“Wishes it! Oh, mother!”

 

“I do believe she does, because she has sense to feel the truth of

all that your friends say. Oh, Frank, I will go on my knees to you if

you will listen to me.”

 

“Oh, mother! mother! mother!”

 

“You should think twice, Frank, before you refuse the only request

your mother ever made you. And why do I ask you? why do I come to you

thus? Is it for my own sake? Oh, my boy! my darling boy! will you

lose everything in life, because you love the child with whom you

have played as a child?”

 

“Whose fault is it that we were together as children? She is now more

than a child. I look on her already as my wife.”

 

“But she is not your wife, Frank; and she knows that she ought not to

be. It is only because you hold her to it that she consents to be

so.”

 

“Do you mean to say that she does not love me?”

 

Lady Arabella would probably have said this, also, had she dared;

but she felt, that in doing so, she would be going too far. It was

useless for her to say anything that would be utterly contradicted by

an appeal to Mary herself.

 

“No, Frank; I do not mean to say that you do not love her. What

I do mean is this: that it is not becoming in you to give up

everything—not only yourself, but all your family—for such a love

as this; and that she, Mary herself, acknowledges this. Every one is

of the same opinion. Ask your father: I need not say that he would

agree with you about everything if he could. I will not say the de

Courcys.”

 

“Oh, the de Courcys!”

 

“Yes, they are my relations; I know that.” Lady Arabella could not

quite drop the tone of bitterness which was natural to her in saying

this. “But ask your sisters; ask Mr Oriel, whom you esteem so much;

ask your friend Harry Baker.”

 

Frank sat silent for a moment or two while his mother, with a look

almost of agony, gazed into his face. “I will ask no one,” at last he

said.

 

“Oh, my boy! my boy!”

 

“No one but myself can know my own heart.”

 

“And you will sacrifice all to such a love as that, all; her, also,

whom you say that you so love? What happiness can you give her as

your wife? Oh, Frank! is that the only answer you will make your

mother on her knees?

 

“Oh, mother! mother!”

 

“No, Frank, I will not let you ruin yourself; I will not let you

destroy yourself. Promise this, at least, that you will think of what

I have said.”

 

“Think of it! I do think of it.”

 

“Ah, but think of it in earnest. You will be absent now in London;

you will have the business of the estate to manage; you will have

heavy cares upon your hands. Think of it as a man, and not as a boy.”

 

“I will see her to-morrow before I go.”

 

“No, Frank, no; grant me that trifle, at any rate. Think upon this

without seeing her. Do not proclaim yourself so weak that you cannot

trust yourself to think over what your mother says to you without

asking her leave. Though you be in love, do not be childish with it.

What I have told you as coming from her is true, word for word; if it

were not, you would soon learn so. Think now of what I have said, and

of what she says, and when you come back from London, then you can

decide.”

 

To so much Frank consented after some further parley; namely, that he

would proceed to London on the following Monday morning without again

seeing Mary. And in the meantime, she was waiting with sore heart for

his answer to that letter that was lying, and was still to lie for so

many hours, in the safe protection of the Silverbridge postmistress.

 

It may seem strange; but, in truth, his mother’s eloquence had more

effect on Frank than that of his father: and yet, with his father he

had always sympathised. But his mother had been energetic; whereas,

his father, if not lukewarm, had, at any rate, been timid. “I will

ask no one,” Frank had said in the strong determination of his heart;

and yet the words were hardly out of his mouth before he bethought

himself that he would talk the thing over with Harry Baker. “Not,”

said he to himself, “that I have any doubt; I have no doubt; but I

hate to have all the world against me. My mother wishes me to ask

Harry Baker. Harry is a good fellow, and I will ask him.” And with

this resolve he betook himself to bed.

 

The following day was Sunday. After breakfast Frank went with the

family to church, as was usual; and there, as usual, he saw Mary in

Dr Thorne’s pew. She, as she looked at him, could not but wonder why

he had not answered the letter which was still at Silverbridge; and

he endeavoured to read in her face whether it was true, as his mother

had told him, that she was quite ready to give him up. The prayers of

both of them were disturbed, as is so often the case with the prayers

of other anxious people.

 

There was a separate door opening from the Greshamsbury pew out into

the Greshamsbury grounds, so that the family were not forced into

unseemly community with the village multitude in going to and from

their prayers; for the front door of the church led out into a road

which had no connexion with the private path. It was not unusual with

Frank and his father to go round, after the service, to the chief

entrance, so that they might speak to their neighbours, and get rid

of some of the exclusiveness which was intended for them. On this

morning the squire did so; but Frank walked home with his mother and

sisters, so that Mary saw no more of him.

 

I have said that he walked home with his mother and his sisters;

but he rather followed in their path. He was not inclined to talk

much, at least, not to them; and he continued asking himself the

question—whether it could be possible that he was wrong in remaining

true to his promise? Could it be that he owed more to his father and

his mother, and what they chose to call his position, than he did to

Mary?

 

After church, Mr Gazebee tried to get hold of him, for there was much

still to be said, and many hints to be given, as to how Frank should

speak, and, more especially, as to how he should hold his tongue

among the learned pundits in and about Chancery Lane. “You must be

very wide awake with Messrs Slow & Bideawhile,” said Mr Gazebee. But

Frank would not hearken to him just at that moment. He was going to

ride over to Harry Baker, so he put Mr Gazebee off till the half-hour

before dinner,—or else the half-hour after tea.

 

On the previous day he had received a letter from Miss Dunstable,

which he had hitherto read but once. His mother had interrupted him

as he was about to refer to it; and now, as his father’s nag was

being saddled—he was still prudent in saving the black horse—he

again took it out.

 

Miss Dunstable had written in an excellent humour. She was in great

distress about the oil of Lebanon, she said. “I have been trying to

get a purchaser for the last two years; but my lawyer won’t let me

sell it, because the would-be purchasers offer a thousand pounds or

so less than the value. I would give ten to be rid of the bore; but I

am as little able to act myself as Sancho was in his government. The

oil of Lebanon! Did you hear anything of it when you were in those

parts? I thought of changing the name to ‘London particular;’ but my

lawyer says the brewers would bring an action against me.

 

“I was going down to your neighbourhood—to your friend the duke’s,

at least. But I am prevented by my poor doctor, who is so weak that

I must take him to Malvern. It is a great bore; but I have the

satisfaction that I do my duty by him!

 

“Your cousin George is to be married at last. So I hear, at least.

He loves wisely, if not well; for his widow has the name of being

prudent and fairly well to do in the world. She has got over the

caprices of her youth. Dear Aunt de Courcy will be so delighted. I

might perhaps have met her at Gatherum Castle. I do so regret it.

 

“Mr Moffat has turned up again. We all thought you had finally

extinguished him. He left a card the other day, and I have told the

servant always to say that I am at home, and that you are with me. He

is going to stand for some borough in the west of Ireland. He’s used

to shillelaghs by this time.

 

“By the by, I have a cadeau for a friend of yours. I won’t tell you

what it is, nor permit you to communicate the fact. But when you tell

me that in sending it I may fairly congratulate her on having so

devoted a slave as you, it shall be sent.

 

“If you have nothing better to do at present, do come and see my

invalid at Malvern. Perhaps you might have a mind to treat for the

oil of Lebanon. I’ll give you all the assistance I can in cheating my

lawyers.”

 

There was not much about Mary in this; but still, the little that was

said made him again declare that neither father nor mother should

move him from his resolution. “I will write to her and say that she

may send her present when she pleases. Or I will run down to Malvern

for a day. It will do me good to see her.” And so resolved, he rode

away to Mill Hill, thinking, as he went, how he would put the matter

to Harry Baker.

 

Harry was at home; but we need not describe the whole interview. Had

Frank been asked beforehand, he would have declared, that on no

possible subject could he have had the slightest hesitation in asking

Harry any question, or communicating to him any tidings. But when the

time came, he found that he did hesitate much. He did not want to ask

his friend if he should be wise to marry Mary Thorne. Wise or not, he

was determined to do that. But he wished to be quite sure that his

mother was wrong in saying that all the