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

are perhaps quite as susceptible

of the softer feelings as young gentlemen are. Now Frank Gresham was

handsome, amiable, by no means a fool in intellect, excellent in

heart; and he was, moreover, a gentleman, being the son of Mr Gresham

of Greshamsbury. Mary had been, as it were, brought up to love him.

Had aught but good happened to him, she would have cried as for a

brother. It must not therefore be supposed that when Frank Gresham

told her that he loved her, she had heard it altogether unconcerned.

 

He had not, perhaps, made his declaration with that propriety of

language in which such scenes are generally described as being

carried on. Ladies may perhaps think that Mary should have been

deterred, by the very boyishness of his manner, from thinking at all

seriously on the subject. His “will you, won’t you—do you, don’t

you?” does not sound like the poetic raptures of a highly inspired

lover. But, nevertheless, there had been warmth, and a reality in it

not in itself repulsive; and Mary’s anger—anger? no, not anger—her

objections to the declarations were probably not based on the

absurdity of her lover’s language.

 

We are inclined to think that these matters are not always discussed

by mortal lovers in the poetically passionate phraseology which is

generally thought to be appropriate for their description. A man

cannot well describe that which he has never seen nor heard; but

the absolute words and acts of one such scene did once come to the

author’s knowledge. The couple were by no means plebeian, or below

the proper standard of high bearing and high breeding; they were

a handsome pair, living among educated people, sufficiently given

to mental pursuits, and in every way what a pair of polite lovers

ought to be. The all-important conversation passed in this wise. The

site of the passionate scene was the sea-shore, on which they were

walking, in autumn.

 

Gentleman. “Well, Miss –-, the long and short of it is this: here

I am; you can take me or leave me.”

 

Lady—scratching a gutter on the sand with her parasol, so as to

allow a little salt water to run out of one hole into another. “Of

course, I know that’s all nonsense.”

 

Gentleman. “Nonsense! By Jove, it isn’t nonsense at all: come, Jane;

here I am: come, at any rate you can say something.”

 

Lady. “Yes, I suppose I can say something.”

 

Gentleman. “Well, which is it to be; take me or leave me?”

 

Lady—very slowly, and with a voice perhaps hardly articulate,

carrying on, at the same time, her engineering works on a wider

scale. “Well, I don’t exactly want to leave you.”

 

And so the matter was settled: settled with much propriety and

satisfaction; and both the lady and gentleman would have thought, had

they ever thought about the matter at all, that this, the sweetest

moment of their lives, had been graced by all the poetry by which

such moments ought to be hallowed.

 

When Mary had, as she thought, properly subdued young Frank, the

offer of whose love she, at any rate, knew was, at such a period of

his life, an utter absurdity, then she found it necessary to subdue

herself. What happiness on earth could be greater than the possession

of such a love, had the true possession been justly and honestly

within her reach? What man could be more lovable than such a man as

would grow from such a boy? And then, did she not love him,—love him

already, without waiting for any change? Did she not feel that there

was that about him, about him and about herself, too, which might so

well fit them for each other? It would be so sweet to be the sister

of Beatrice, the daughter of the squire, to belong to Greshamsbury as

a part and parcel of itself.

 

But though she could not restrain these thoughts, it never for a

moment occurred to her to take Frank’s offer in earnest. Though she

was a grown woman, he was still a boy. He would have to see the world

before he settled in it, and would change his mind about woman half a

score of times before he married. Then, too, though she did not like

the Lady Arabella, she felt that she owed something, if not to her

kindness, at least to her forbearance; and she knew, felt inwardly

certain, that she would be doing wrong, that the world would say

she was doing wrong, that her uncle would think her wrong, if she

endeavoured to take advantage of what had passed.

 

She had not for an instant doubted; not for a moment had she

contemplated it as possible that she should ever become Mrs Gresham

because Frank had offered to make her so; but, nevertheless, she

could not help thinking of what had occurred—of thinking of it, most

probably much more than Frank did himself.

 

A day or two afterwards, on the evening before Frank’s birthday, she

was alone with her uncle, walking in the garden behind their house,

and she then essayed to question him, with the object of learning if

she were fitted by her birth to be the wife of such a one as Frank

Gresham. They were in the habit of walking there together when he

happened to be at home of a summer’s evening. This was not often the

case, for his hours of labour extended much beyond those usual to the

upper working world, the hours, namely, between breakfast and dinner;

but those minutes that they did thus pass together, the doctor

regarded as perhaps the pleasantest of his life.

 

“Uncle,” said she, after a while, “what do you think of this marriage

of Miss Gresham’s?”

 

“Well, Minnie”—such was his name of endearment for her—“I can’t say

I have thought much about it, and I don’t suppose anybody else has

either.”

 

“She must think about it, of course; and so must he, I suppose.”

 

“I’m not so sure of that. Some folks would never get married if they

had to trouble themselves with thinking about it.”

 

“I suppose that’s why you never got married, uncle?”

 

“Either that, or thinking of it too much. One is as bad as the

other.”

 

Mary had not contrived to get at all near her point as yet; so she

had to draw off, and after a while begin again.

 

“Well, I have been thinking about it, at any rate, uncle.”

 

“That’s very good of you; that will save me the trouble; and perhaps

save Miss Gresham too. If you have thought it over thoroughly, that

will do for all.”

 

“I believe Mr Moffat is a man of no family.”

 

“He’ll mend in that point, no doubt, when he has got a wife.”

 

“Uncle, you’re a goose; and what is worse, a very provoking goose.”

 

“Niece, you’re a gander; and what is worse, a very silly gander. What

is Mr Moffat’s family to you and me? Mr Moffat has that which ranks

above family honours. He is a very rich man.”

 

“Yes,” said Mary, “I know he is rich; and a rich man I suppose can

buy anything—except a woman that is worth having.”

 

“A rich man can buy anything,” said the doctor; “not that I meant to

say that Mr Moffat has bought Miss Gresham. I have no doubt that they

will suit each other very well,” he added with an air of decisive

authority, as though he had finished the subject.

 

But his niece was determined not to let him pass so. “Now, uncle,”

said she, “you know you are pretending to a great deal of worldly

wisdom, which, after all, is not wisdom at all in your eyes.”

 

“Am I?”

 

“You know you are: and as for the impropriety of discussing Miss

Gresham’s marriage—”

 

“I did not say it was improper.”

 

“Oh, yes, you did; of course such things must be discussed. How is

one to have an opinion if one does not get it by looking at the

things which happen around us?”

 

“Now I am going to be blown up,” said Dr Thorne.

 

“Dear uncle, do be serious with me.”

 

“Well, then, seriously, I hope Miss Gresham will be very happy as Mrs

Moffat.”

 

“Of course you do: so do I. I hope it as much as I can hope what I

don’t at all see ground for expecting.”

 

“People constantly hope without any such ground.”

 

“Well, then, I’ll hope in this case. But, uncle—”

 

“Well, my dear?”

 

“I want your opinion, truly and really. If you were a girl—”

 

“I am perfectly unable to give any opinion founded on so strange an

hypothesis.”

 

“Well; but if you were a marrying man.”

 

“The hypothesis is quite as much out of my way.”

 

“But, uncle, I am a girl, and perhaps I may marry;—or at any rate

think of marrying some day.”

 

“The latter alternative is certainly possible enough.”

 

“Therefore, in seeing a friend taking such a step, I cannot but

speculate on the matter as though I were myself in her place. If I

were Miss Gresham, should I be right?”

 

“But, Minnie, you are not Miss Gresham.”

 

“No, I am Mary Thorne; it is a very different thing, I know. I

suppose I might marry any one without degrading myself.”

 

It was almost ill-natured of her to say this; but she had not meant

to say it in the sense which the sounds seemed to bear. She had

failed in being able to bring her uncle to the point she wished

by the road she had planned, and in seeking another road, she had

abruptly fallen into unpleasant places.

 

“I should be very sorry that my niece should think so,” said he; “and

am sorry, too, that she should say so. But, Mary, to tell the truth,

I hardly know at what you are driving. You are, I think, not so clear

minded—certainly, not so clear worded—as is usual with you.”

 

“I will tell you, uncle;” and, instead of looking up into his face,

she turned her eyes down on the green lawn beneath her feet.

 

“Well, Minnie, what is it?” and he took both her hands in his.

 

“I think that Miss Gresham should not marry Mr Moffat. I think so

because her family is high and noble, and because he is low and

ignoble. When one has an opinion on such matters, one cannot but

apply it to things and people around one; and having applied my

opinion to her, the next step naturally is to apply it to myself.

Were I Miss Gresham, I would not marry Mr Moffat though he rolled

in gold. I know where to rank Miss Gresham. What I want to know is,

where I ought to rank myself?”

 

They had been standing when she commenced her last speech; but as

she finished it, the doctor moved on again, and she moved with him.

He walked on slowly without answering her; and she, out of her full

mind, pursued aloud the tenor of her thoughts.

 

“If a woman feels that she would not lower herself by marrying in

a rank beneath herself, she ought also to feel that she would not

lower a man that she might love by allowing him to marry into a rank

beneath his own—that is, to marry her.”

 

“That does not follow,” said the doctor quickly. “A man raises a

woman to his own standard, but a woman must take that of the man she

marries.”

 

Again they were silent, and again they walked on, Mary holding her

uncle’s arm