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

CHAPTER XXXI

The Small End of the Wedge

 

Frank Gresham was absent from Greshamsbury twelve months and a day: a

day is always added to the period of such absences, as shown in the

history of Lord Bateman and other noble heroes. We need not detail

all the circumstances of his banishment, all the details of the

compact that was made. One detail of course was this, that there

should be no corresponding; a point to which the squire found some

difficulty in bringing his son to assent.

 

It must not be supposed that Mary Thorne or the doctor were in any

way parties to, or privy to these agreements. By no means. The

agreements were drawn out, and made, and signed, and sealed at

Greshamsbury, and were known of nowhere else. The reader must not

imagine that Lady Arabella was prepared to give up her son, if

only his love could remain constant for one year. Neither did Lady

Arabella consent to any such arrangement, nor did the squire. It was

settled rather in this wise: that Frank should be subjected to no

torturing process, pestered to give no promises, should in no way be

bullied about Mary—that is, not at present—if he would go away for

a year. Then, at the end of the year, the matter should again be

discussed. Agreeing to this, Frank took his departure, and was absent

as per agreement.

 

What were Mary’s fortunes immediately after his departure must be

shortly told, and then we will again join some of our Greshamsbury

friends at a period about a month before Frank’s return.

 

When Sir Louis saw Frank Gresham standing by Mary’s donkey, with

his arms round Mary’s knees, he began to fear that there must be

something in it. He had intended that very day to throw himself

at Mary’s feet, and now it appeared to his inexperienced eyes as

though somebody else had been at the same work before him. This not

unnaturally made him cross; so, after having sullenly wished the

visitor good-bye, he betook himself to his room, and there drank

curaçoa alone, instead of coming down to dinner.

 

This he did for two or three days, and then, taking heart of grace,

he remembered that, after all, he had very many advantages over young

Gresham. In the first place, he was a baronet, and could make his

wife a “lady.” In the next place, Frank’s father was alive and like

to live, whereas his own was dead. He possessed Boxall Hill in his

own right, but his rival had neither house nor land of his own. After

all, might it not be possible for him also to put his arm round

Mary’s knees;—her knees, or her waist, or, perhaps, even her neck?

Faint heart never won fair lady. At any rate, he would try.

 

And he did try. With what result, as regards Mary, need hardly be

told. He certainly did not get nearly so far as putting his hand even

upon her knee before he was made to understand that it “was no go,”

as he graphically described it to his mother. He tried once and

again. On the first time Mary was very civil, though very determined.

On the second, she was more determined, though less civil; and then

she told him, that if he pressed her further he would drive her from

his mother’s house. There was something then about Mary’s eye, a

fixed composure round her mouth, and an authority in her face, which

went far to quell him; and he did not press her again.

 

He immediately left Boxall Hill, and, returning to London, had more

violent recourse to the curaçoa. It was not long before the doctor

heard of him, and was obliged to follow him, and then again occurred

those frightful scenes in which the poor wretch had to expiate,

either in terrible delirium or more terrible prostration of spirits,

the vile sin which his father had so early taught him.

 

Then Mary returned to her uncle’s home. Frank was gone, and she

therefore could resume her place at Greshamsbury. Yes, she came back

to Greshamsbury; but Greshamsbury was by no means the same place that

it was formerly. Almost all intercourse was now over between the

doctor and the Greshamsbury people. He rarely ever saw the squire,

and then only on business. Not that the squire had purposely

quarrelled with him; but Dr Thorne himself had chosen that it should

be so, since Frank had openly proposed for his niece. Frank was now

gone, and Lady Arabella was in arms against him. It should not be

said that he kept up any intimacy for the sake of aiding the lovers

in their love. No one should rightfully accuse him of inveigling the

heir to marry his niece.

 

Mary, therefore, found herself utterly separated from Beatrice. She

was not even able to learn what Beatrice would think, or did think,

of the engagement as it now stood. She could not even explain to

her friend that love had been too strong for her, and endeavour to

get some comfort from that friend’s absolution from her sin. This

estrangement was now carried so far that she and Beatrice did not

even meet on neutral ground. Lady Arabella made it known to Miss

Oriel that her daughter could not meet Mary Thorne, even as strangers

meet; and it was made known to others also. Mrs Yates Umbleby, and

her dear friend Miss Gushing, to whose charming tea-parties none of

the Greshamsbury ladies went above once in a twelvemonth, talked

through the parish of this distressing difficulty. They would have

been so happy to have asked dear Mary Thorne, only the Greshamsbury

ladies did not approve.

 

Mary was thus tabooed from all society in the place in which a

twelvemonth since she had been, of all its denizens, perhaps the

most courted. In those days, no bevy of Greshamsbury young ladies

had fairly represented the Greshamsbury young ladyhood if Mary

Thorne was not there. Now she was excluded from all such bevies.

Patience did not quarrel with her, certainly;—came to see her

frequently;—invited her to walk;—invited her frequently to the

parsonage. But Mary was shy of acceding to such invitations, and at

last frankly told her friend Patience, that she would not again break

bread in Greshamsbury in any house in which she was not thought fit

to meet the other guests who habitually resorted there.

 

In truth, both the doctor and his niece were very sore, but they

were of that temperament that keeps all its soreness to itself. Mary

walked out by herself boldly, looking at least as though she were

indifferent to all the world. She was, indeed, hardly treated. Young

ladies’ engagements are generally matters of profoundest secrecy, and

are hardly known of by their near friends till marriage is a thing

settled. But all the world knew of Mary’s engagement within a month

of that day on which she had neglected to expel Frank’s finger from

her hand; it had been told openly through the country-side that she

had confessed her love for the young squire. Now it is disagreeable

for a young lady to walk about under such circumstances, especially

so when she has no female friend to keep her in countenance,

more especially so when the gentleman is such importance in the

neighbourhood as Frank was in that locality. It was a matter of

moment to every farmer, and every farmer’s wife, which bride Frank

should marry of those bespoken for him; Mary, namely, or Money. Every

yokel about the place had been made to understand that, by some

feminine sleight of hand, the doctor’s niece had managed to trap

Master Frank, and that Master Frank had been sent out of the way so

that he might, if yet possible, break through the trapping. All this

made life rather unpleasant for her.

 

One day, walking solitary in the lanes, she met that sturdy farmer to

whose daughter she had in former days been so serviceable. “God bless

‘ee, Miss Mary,” said he—he always did bid God bless her when he saw

her. “And, Miss Mary, to say my mind out freely, thee be quite gude

enough for un, quite gude enough; so thee be’st tho’f he were ten

squoires.” There may, perhaps, have been something pleasant in the

heartiness of this; but it was not pleasant to have this heart affair

of hers thus publicly scanned and talked over: to have it known to

every one that she had set her heart on marrying Frank Gresham, and

that all the Greshams had set their hearts on preventing it. And yet

she could in nowise help it. No girl could have been more staid and

demure, less demonstrative and boastful about her love. She had never

yet spoken freely, out of her full heart, to one human being. “Oh,

Frank!” All her spoken sin had been contained in that.

 

But Lady Arabella had been very active. It suited her better that it

should be known, far and wide, that a nameless pauper—Lady Arabella

only surmised that her foe was nameless; but she did not scruple to

declare it—was intriguing to catch the heir of Greshamsbury. None of

the Greshams must meet Mary Thorne; that was the edict sent about the

country; and the edict was well understood. Those, therefore, were

bad days for Miss Thorne.

 

She had never yet spoken on the matter freely, out of her full heart

to one human being. Not to one? Not to him? Not to her uncle? No, not

even to him, fully and freely. She had told him that that had passed

between Frank and her which amounted, at any rate on his part, to a

proposal.

 

“Well, dearest, and what was your answer?” said her uncle, drawing

her close to him, and speaking in his kindest voice.

 

“I hardly made any answer, uncle.”

 

“You did not reject him, Mary?”

 

“No, uncle,” and then she paused;—he had never known her tremble as

she now trembled. “But if you say that I ought, I will,” she added,

drawing every word from herself with difficulty.

 

“I say you ought, Mary! Nay; but this question you must answer

yourself.”

 

“Must I?” said she, plaintively. And then she sat for the next

half hour with her head against his shoulder; but nothing more was

said about it. They both acquiesced in the sentence that had been

pronounced against them, and went on together more lovingly than

before.

 

The doctor was quite as weak as his niece; nay, weaker. She hesitated

fearfully as to what she ought to do: whether she should obey her

heart or the dictates of Greshamsbury. But he had other doubts than

hers, which nearly set him wild when he strove to bring his mind to

a decision. He himself was now in possession—of course as a trustee

only—of the title-deeds of the estate; more of the estate, much

more, belonged to the heirs under Sir Roger Scatcherd’s will than to

the squire. It