Doctor Thorne - Anthony Trollope (historical books to read .txt) 📗
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was it the less fitting that her virtue should be acknowledged,
eulogised, nay, all but worshipped.
How the party at the doctor’s got itself broken up, I am not prepared
to say. Frank, I know, stayed and dined there, and his poor mother,
who would not retire to rest till she had kissed him, and blessed
him, and thanked him for all he was doing for the family, was kept
waiting in her dressing-room till a very unreasonable hour of the
night.
It was the squire who brought the news up to the house. “Arabella,”
he said, in a low, but somewhat solemn voice, “you will be surprised
at the news I bring you. Mary Thorne is the heiress to all the
Scatcherd property!”
“Oh, heavens! Mr Gresham.”
“Yes, indeed,” continued the squire. “So it is; it is very, very—”
But Lady Arabella had fainted. She was a woman who generally had her
feelings and her emotions much under her own control; but what she
now heard was too much for her. When she came to her senses, the
first words that escaped her lips were, “Dear Mary!”
But the household had to sleep on the news before it could be fully
realised. The squire was not by nature a mercenary man. If I have at
all succeeded in putting his character before the reader, he will be
recognised as one not over attached to money for money’s sake. But
things had gone so hard with him, the world had become so rough, so
ungracious, so full of thorns, the want of means had become an evil
so keenly felt in every hour, that it cannot be wondered at that his
dreams that night should be of a golden elysium. The wealth was not
coming to him. True. But his chief sorrow had been for his son. Now
that son would be his only creditor. It was as though mountains of
marble had been taken from off his bosom.
But Lady Arabella’s dreams flew away at once into the seventh heaven.
Sordid as they certainly were, they were not absolutely selfish.
Frank would now certainly be the first commoner in Barsetshire; of
course he would represent the county; of course there would be the
house in town; it wouldn’t be her house, but she was contented that
the grandeur should be that of her child. He would have heaven
knows what to spend per annum. And that it should come through Mary
Thorne! What a blessing she had allowed Mary to be brought into the
Greshamsbury nursery! Dear Mary!
“She will of course be one now,” said Beatrice to her sister. With
her, at the present moment, “one” of course meant one of the bevy
that was to attend her at the altar. “Oh dear! how nice! I shan’t
know what to say to her to-morrow. But I know one thing.”
“What is that?” asked Augusta.
“She will be as mild and as meek as a little dove. If she and the
doctor had lost every shilling in the world, she would have been as
proud as an eagle.” It must be acknowledged that Beatrice had had the
wit to read Mary’s character aright.
But Augusta was not quite pleased with the whole affair. Not that
she begrudged her brother his luck, or Mary her happiness. But her
ideas of right and wrong—perhaps we should rather say Lady Amelia’s
ideas—would not be fairly carried out.
“After all, Beatrice, this does not alter her birth. I know it is
useless saying anything to Frank.”
“Why, you wouldn’t break both their hearts now?”
“I don’t want to break their hearts, certainly. But there are those
who put their dearest and warmest feelings under restraint rather
than deviate from what they know to be proper.” Poor Augusta! she was
the stern professor of the order of this philosophy; the last in the
family who practised with unflinching courage its cruel behests; the
last, always excepting the Lady Amelia.
And how slept Frank that night? With him, at least, let us hope, nay,
let us say boldly, that his happiest thoughts were not of the wealth
which he was to acquire. But yet it would be something to restore
Boxall Hill to Greshamsbury; something to give back to his father
those rumpled vellum documents, since the departure of which the
squire had never had a happy day; nay, something to come forth again
to his friends as a gay, young country squire, instead of as a
farmer, clod-compelling for his bread. We would not have him thought
to be better than he was, nor would we wish him to make him of other
stuff than nature generally uses. His heart did exult at Mary’s
wealth; but it leaped higher still when he thought of purer joys.
And what shall we say of Mary’s dreams? With her, it was altogether
what she should give, not at all what she should get. Frank had loved
her so truly when she was so poor, such an utter castaway; Frank, who
had ever been the heir of Greshamsbury! Frank, who with his beauty,
and spirit, and his talents might have won the smiles of the richest,
the grandest, the noblest! What lady’s heart would not have rejoiced
to be allowed to love her Frank? But he had been true to her through
everything. Ah! how often she thought of that hour, when suddenly
appearing before her, he had strained her to his breast, just as she
had resolved how best to bear the death-like chill of his supposed
estrangements! She was always thinking of that time. She fed her love
by recurring over and over to the altered feeling of that moment. Any
now she could pay him for his goodness. Pay him! No, that would be a
base word, a base thought. Her payment must be made, if God would so
grant it, in many, many years to come. But her store, such as it was,
should be emptied into his lap. It was soothing to her pride that she
would not hurt him by her love, that she would bring no injury to the
old house. “Dear, dear Frank” she murmured, as her waking dreams,
conquered at last by sleep, gave way to those of the fairy world.
But she thought not only of Frank; dreamed not only of him. What had
he not done for her, that uncle of hers, who had been more loving to
her than any father! How was he, too, to be paid? Paid, indeed! Love
can only be paid in its own coin: it knows of no other legal tender.
Well, if her home was to be Greshamsbury, at any rate she would not
be separated from him.
What the doctor dreamed of that, neither he or any one ever knew.
“Why, uncle, I think you’ve been asleep,” said Mary to him that
evening as he moved for a moment uneasily on the sofa. He had been
asleep for the last three-quarters of an hour;—but Frank, his guest,
had felt no offence. “No, I’ve not been exactly asleep,” said he;
“but I’m very tired. I wouldn’t do it all again, Frank, to double the
money. You haven’t got any more tea, have you, Mary?”
On the following morning, Beatrice was of course with her friend.
There was no awkwardness between them in meeting. Beatrice had loved
her when she was poor, and though they had not lately thought alike
on one very important subject, Mary was too gracious to impute that
to Beatrice as a crime.
“You will be one now, Mary; of course you will.”
“If Lady Arabella will let me come.”
“Oh, Mary; let you! Do you remember what you said once about coming,
and being near me? I have so often thought of it. And now, Mary, I
must tell you about Caleb;” and the young lady settled herself on the
sofa, so as to have a comfortable long talk. Beatrice had been quite
right. Mary was as meek with her, and as mild as a dove.
And then Patience Oriel came. “My fine, young, darling, magnificent,
overgrown heiress,” said Patience, embracing her. “My breath deserted
me, and I was nearly stunned when I heard of it. How small we shall
all be, my dear! I am quite prepared to toady to you immensely; but
pray be a little gracious to me, for the sake of auld lang syne.”
Mary gave a long, long kiss. “Yes, for auld lang syne, Patience; when
you took me away under your wing to Richmond.” Patience also had
loved her when she was in her trouble, and that love, too, should
never be forgotten.
But the great difficulty was Lady Arabella’s first meeting with her.
“I think I’ll go down to her after breakfast,” said her ladyship to
Beatrice, as the two were talking over the matter while the mother
was finishing her toilet.
“I am sure she will come up if you like it, mamma.”
“She is entitled to every courtesy—as Frank’s accepted bride, you
know,” said Lady Arabella. “I would not for worlds fail in any
respect to her for his sake.”
“He will be glad enough for her to come, I am sure,” said Beatrice.
“I was talking with Caleb this morning, and he says—”
The matter was of importance, and Lady Arabella gave it her most
mature consideration. The manner of receiving into one’s family an
heiress whose wealth is to cure all one’s difficulties, disperse
all one’s troubles, give a balm to all the wounds of misfortune,
must, under any circumstances, be worthy of much care. But when that
heiress has been already treated as Mary had been treated!
“I must see her, at any rate, before I go to Courcy.” said Lady
Arabella.
“Are you going to Courcy, mamma?”
“Oh, certainly; yes, I must see my sister-in-law now. You don’t seem
to realise the importance, my dear, of Frank’s marriage. He will be
in a great hurry about it, and, indeed, I cannot blame him. I expect
that they will all come here.”
“Who, mamma? the de Courcys?”
“Yes, of course. I shall be very much surprised if the earl does not
come now. And I must consult my sister-in-law as to asking the Duke
of Omnium.”
Poor Mary!
“And I think it will perhaps be better,” continued Lady Arabella,
“that we should have a larger party than we intended at your affair.
The countess, I’m sure, would come now. We couldn’t put it off for
ten days; could we, dear?”
“Put it off ten days!”
“Yes; it would be convenient.”
“I don’t think Mr Oriel would like that at all, mamma. You know he
has made all his arrangements for his Sundays—”
Pshaw! The idea of the parson’s Sundays being allowed to have any
bearing on such a matter as Frank’s wedding would now become! Why,
they would have—how much? Between twelve and fourteen thousand a
year! Lady Arabella, who had made her calculations a dozen times
during the night, had never found it to be much less than the larger
sum. Mr Oriel’s Sundays, indeed!
After much doubt, Lady Arabella acceded to her daughter’s suggestion,
that Mary should be received at Greshamsbury instead of being called
on at the doctor’s house. “If you think she won’t mind the coming
up first,” said her ladyship. “I certainly could receive her better
here. I should be more—more—more able, you know, to express what I
feel. We had better go into the big drawing-room to-day, Beatrice.
Will you remember to tell Mrs Richards?”
“Oh, certainly,” was Mary’s answer when Beatrice, with a voice a
little trembling, proposed to her to walk up
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