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

Miss Dunstable is coming down to us next week. Now, we

all know that when old Dunstable died last year, he left over two

hundred thousand to his daughter.”

 

“It is a great deal of money, certainly,” said Lady Arabella.

 

“It would pay off everything, and a great deal more,” said the

countess.

 

“It was ointment, was it not, aunt?” said Augusta.

 

“I believe so, my dear; something called the ointment of Lebanon, or

something of that sort: but there’s no doubt about the money.”

 

“But how old is she, Rosina?” asked the anxious mother.

 

“About thirty, I suppose; but I don’t think that much signifies.”

 

“Thirty,” said Lady Arabella, rather dolefully. “And what is she

like? I think that Frank already begins to like girls that are young

and pretty.”

 

“But surely, aunt,” said the Lady Amelia, “now that he has come to

man’s discretion, he will not refuse to consider all that he owes to

his family. A Mr Gresham of Greshamsbury has a position to support.”

The de Courcy scion spoke these last words in the sort of tone that a

parish clergyman would use, in warning some young farmer’s son that

he should not put himself on an equal footing with the ploughboys.

 

It was at last decided that the countess should herself convey to

Frank a special invitation to Courcy Castle, and that when she got

him there, she should do all that lay in her power to prevent his

return to Cambridge, and to further the Dunstable marriage.

 

“We did think of Miss Dunstable for Porlock, once,” she said,

naïvely; “but when we found that it wasn’t much over two hundred

thousand, why, that idea fell to the ground.” The terms on which the

de Courcy blood might be allowed to dilute itself were, it must be

presumed, very high indeed.

 

Augusta was sent off to find her brother, and to send him to the

countess in the small drawing-room. Here the countess was to have

her tea, apart from the outer common world, and here, without

interruption, she was to teach her great lesson to her nephew.

 

Augusta did find her brother, and found him in the worst of bad

society—so at least the stern de Courcys would have thought. Old Mr

Bateson and the governess, Mr Everbeery and his cook’s diluted blood,

and ways paved for revolutions, all presented themselves to Augusta’s

mind when she found her brother walking with no other company than

Mary Thorne, and walking with her, too, in much too close proximity.

 

How he had contrived to be off with the old love and so soon on with

the new, or rather, to be off with the new love and again on with the

old, we will not stop to inquire. Had Lady Arabella, in truth, known

all her son’s doings in this way, could she have guessed how very

nigh he had approached the iniquity of old Mr Bateson, and to the

folly of young Mr Everbeery, she would in truth have been in a hurry

to send him off to Courcy Castle and Miss Dunstable. Some days

before the commencement of our story, young Frank had sworn in sober

earnest—in what he intended for his most sober earnest, his most

earnest sobriety—that he loved Mary Thorne with a love for which

words could find no sufficient expression—with a love that could

never die, never grow dim, never become less, which no opposition on

the part of others could extinguish, which no opposition on her part

could repel; that he might, could, would, and should have her for his

wife, and that if she told him she didn’t love him, he would—

 

“Oh, oh! Mary; do you love me? Don’t you love me? Won’t you love me?

Say you will. Oh, Mary, dearest Mary, will you? won’t you? do you?

don’t you? Come now, you have a right to give a fellow an answer.”

 

With such eloquence had the heir of Greshamsbury, when not yet

twenty-one years of age, attempted to possess himself of the

affections of the doctor’s niece. And yet three days afterwards he

was quite ready to flirt with Miss Oriel.

 

If such things are done in the green wood, what will be done in the

dry?

 

And what had Mary said when these fervent protestations of an undying

love had been thrown at her feet? Mary, it must be remembered, was

very nearly of the same age as Frank; but, as I and others have so

often said before, “Women grow on the sunny side of the wall.” Though

Frank was only a boy, it behoved Mary to be something more than a

girl. Frank might be allowed, without laying himself open to much

just reproach, to throw all of what he believed to be his heart into

a protestation of what he believed to be love; but Mary was in duty

bound to be more thoughtful, more reticent, more aware of the facts

of their position, more careful of her own feelings, and more careful

also of his.

 

And yet she could not put him down as another young lady might put

down another young gentleman. It is very seldom that a young man,

unless he be tipsy, assumes an unwelcome familiarity in his early

acquaintance with any girl; but when acquaintance has been long and

intimate, familiarity must follow as a matter of course. Frank and

Mary had been so much together in his holidays, had so constantly

consorted together as boys and girls, that, as regarded her, he had

not that innate fear of a woman which represses a young man’s tongue;

and she was so used to his good-humour, his fun, and high jovial

spirits, and was, withal, so fond of them and him, that it was very

difficult for her to mark with accurate feeling, and stop with

reserved brow, the shade of change from a boy’s liking to a man’s

love.

 

And Beatrice, too, had done harm in this matter. With a spirit

painfully unequal to that of her grand relatives, she had quizzed

Mary and Frank about their early flirtations. This she had done; but

had instinctively avoided doing so before her mother and sister, and

had thus made a secret of it, as it were, between herself, Mary, and

her brother;—had given currency, as it were, to the idea that there

might be something serious between the two. Not that Beatrice had

ever wished to promote a marriage between them, or had even thought

of such a thing. She was girlish, thoughtless, imprudent, inartistic,

and very unlike a de Courcy. Very unlike a de Courcy she was in all

that; but, nevertheless, she had the de Courcy veneration for blood,

and, more than that, she had the Gresham feeling joined to that of

the de Courcys. The Lady Amelia would not for worlds have had the

de Courcy blood defiled; but gold she thought could not defile.

Now Beatrice was ashamed of her sister’s marriage, and had often

declared, within her own heart, that nothing could have made her

marry a Mr Moffat.

 

She had said so also to Mary, and Mary had told her that she was

right. Mary also was proud of blood, was proud of her uncle’s blood,

and the two girls talked together in all the warmth of girlish

confidence, of the great glories of family traditions and family

honours. Beatrice had talked in utter ignorance as to her friend’s

birth; and Mary, poor Mary, she had talked, being as ignorant; but

not without a strong suspicion that, at some future time, a day of

sorrow would tell her some fearful truth.

 

On one point Mary’s mind was strongly made up. No wealth, no mere

worldly advantage could make any one her superior. If she were born

a gentlewoman, then was she fit to match with any gentleman. Let

the most wealthy man in Europe pour all his wealth at her feet, she

could, if so inclined, give him back at any rate more than that.

That offered at her feet she knew she would never tempt her to yield

up the fortress of her heart, the guardianship of her soul, the

possession of her mind; not that alone, nor that, even, as any

possible slightest fraction of a make-weight.

 

If she were born a gentlewoman! And then came to her mind those

curious questions; what makes a gentleman? what makes a gentlewoman?

What is the inner reality, the spiritualised quintessence of that

privilege in the world which men call rank, which forces the

thousands and hundreds of thousands to bow down before the few elect?

What gives, or can give it, or should give it?

 

And she answered the question. Absolute, intrinsic, acknowledged,

individual merit must give it to its possessor, let him be whom, and

what, and whence he might. So far the spirit of democracy was strong

with her. Beyond this it could be had but by inheritance, received

as it were second-hand, or twenty-second-hand. And so far the spirit

of aristocracy was strong within her. All this she had, as may be

imagined, learnt in early years from her uncle; and all this she was

at great pains to teach Beatrice Gresham, the chosen of her heart.

 

When Frank declared that Mary had a right to give him an answer,

he meant that he had a right to expect one. Mary acknowledged this

right, and gave it to him.

 

“Mr Gresham,” she said.

 

“Oh, Mary; Mr Gresham!”

 

“Yes, Mr Gresham. It must be Mr Gresham after that. And, moreover, it

must be Miss Thorne as well.”

 

“I’ll be shot if it shall, Mary.”

 

“Well; I can’t say that I shall be shot if it be not so; but if it be

not so, if you do not agree that it shall be so, I shall be turned

out of Greshamsbury.”

 

“What! you mean my mother?” said Frank.

 

“Indeed, I mean no such thing,” said Mary, with a flash from her eye

that made Frank almost start. “I mean no such thing. I mean you, not

your mother. I am not in the least afraid of Lady Arabella; but I am

afraid of you.”

 

“Afraid of me, Mary!”

 

“Miss Thorne; pray, pray, remember. It must be Miss Thorne. Do not

turn me out of Greshamsbury. Do not separate me from Beatrice. It

is you that will drive me out; no one else. I could stand my ground

against your mother—I feel I could; but I cannot stand against you

if you treat me otherwise than—than—”

 

“Otherwise than what? I want to treat you as the girl I have chosen

from all the world as my wife.”

 

“I am sorry you should so soon have found it necessary to make a

choice. But, Mr Gresham, we must not joke about this at present. I am

sure you would not willingly injure me; but if you speak to me, or of

me, again in that way, you will injure me, injure me so much that I

shall be forced to leave Greshamsbury in my own defence. I know you

are too generous to drive me to that.”

 

And so the interview had ended. Frank, of course, went upstairs to

see if his new pocket-pistols were all ready, properly cleaned,

loaded, and capped, should he find, after a few days’ experience,

that prolonged existence was unendurable.

 

However, he managed to live through the subsequent period; doubtless

with a view of preventing any disappointment to his father’s guests.