Doctor Thorne - Anthony Trollope (historical books to read .txt) 📗
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house, sauntering into the drawing-room for the purpose, as I am sure
he thought, of talking to Lady Arabella, and then of sauntering home
again, having usually found an opportunity for saying a few words to
Beatrice during the visit. This went on all through the feud up to
the period of Lady Arabella’s illness; and then one morning, about
a month before the date fixed for Frank’s return, Mr Oriel found
himself engaged to Miss Beatrice Gresham.
From the day that Miss Gushing heard of it—which was not however
for some considerable time after this—she became an Independent
Methodist. She could no longer, she said at first, have any faith in
any religion; and for an hour or so she was almost tempted to swear
that she could no longer have any faith in any man. She had nearly
completed a worked cover for a credence-table when the news reached
her, as to which, in the young enthusiasm of her heart, she had not
been able to remain silent; it had already been promised to Mr Oriel;
that promise she swore should not be kept. He was an apostate, she
said, from his principles; an utter pervert; a false, designing man,
with whom she would never have trusted herself alone on dark mornings
had she known that he had such grovelling, worldly inclinations. So
Miss Gushing became an Independent Methodist; the credence-table
covering was cut up into slippers for the preacher’s feet; and the
young thing herself, more happy in this direction than she had been
in the other, became the arbiter of that preacher’s domestic
happiness.
But this little history of Miss Gushing’s future life is premature.
Mr Oriel became engaged demurely, nay, almost silently, to Beatrice,
and no one out of their own immediate families was at the time
informed of the matter. It was arranged very differently from those
two other matches—embryo, or not embryo, those, namely, of Augusta
with Mr Moffat, and Frank with Mary Thorne. All Barsetshire had heard
of them; but that of Beatrice and Mr Oriel was managed in a much more
private manner.
“I do think you are a happy girl,” said Patience to her one morning.
“Indeed I am.”
“He is so good. You don’t know how good he is as yet; he never thinks
of himself, and thinks so much of those he loves.”
Beatrice took her friend’s hand in her own and kissed it. She was
full of joy. When a girl is about to be married, when she may
lawfully talk of her love, there is no music in her ears so sweet as
the praises of her lover.
“I made up my mind from the first that he should marry you.”
“Nonsense, Patience.”
“I did, indeed. I made up my mind that he should marry; and there
were only two to choose from.”
“Me and Miss Gushing,” said Beatrice, laughing.
“No; not exactly Miss Gushing. I had not many fears for Caleb there.”
“I declare she’s very pretty,” said Beatrice, who could afford to be
good-natured. Now Miss Gushing certainly was pretty; and would have
been very pretty had her nose not turned up so much, and could she
have parted her hair in the centre.
“Well, I am very glad you chose me;—if it was you who chose,” said
Beatrice, modestly; having, however, in her own mind a strong opinion
that Mr Oriel had chosen for himself, and had never had any doubt in
the matter. “And who was the other?”
“Can’t you guess?”
“I won’t guess any more; perhaps Mrs Green.”
“Oh, no; certainly not a widow. I don’t like widows marrying. But of
course you could guess if you would; of course it was Mary Thorne.
But I soon saw Mary would not do, for two reasons; Caleb would never
have liked her well enough nor would she ever have liked him.”
“Not like him! oh I hope she will; I do so love Mary Thorne.”
“So do I, dearly; and so does Caleb; but he could never have loved
her as he loves you.”
“But, Patience, have you told Mary?”
“No, I have told no one, and shall not without your leave.”
“Ah, you must tell her. Tell it her with my best, and kindest,
warmest love. Tell her how happy I am, and how I long to talk to
her. Tell that I will have her for my bridesmaid. Oh! I do hope that
before that all this horrid quarrel will be settled.”
Patience undertook the commission, and did tell Mary; did give her
also the message which Beatrice had sent. And Mary was rejoiced to
hear it; for though, as Patience had said of her, she had never
herself felt any inclination to fall in love with Mr Oriel, she
believed him to be one in whose hands her friend’s happiness would be
secure. Then, by degrees, the conversation changed from the loves of
Mr Oriel and Beatrice to the troubles of Frank Gresham and herself.
“She says, that let what will happen you shall be one of her
bridesmaids.”
“Ah, yes, dear Trichy! that was settled between us in auld lang syne;
but those settlements are all unsettled now, must all be broken. No,
I cannot be her bridesmaid; but I shall yet hope to see her once
before her marriage.”
“And why not be her bridesmaid? Lady Arabella will hardly object to
that.”
“Lady Arabella!” said Mary, curling her lip with deep scorn. “I do
not care that for Lady Arabella,” and she let her silver thimble fall
from her fingers on to the table. “If Beatrice invited me to her
wedding, she might manage as to that; I should ask no question as to
Lady Arabella.”
“Then why not come to it?”
She remained silent for a while, and then boldly answered. “Though I
do not care for Lady Arabella, I do care for Mr Gresham:—and I do
care for his son.”
“But the squire always loved you.”
“Yes, and therefore I will not be there to vex his sight. I will tell
you the truth, Patience. I can never be in that house again till
Frank Gresham is a married man, or till I am about to be a married
woman. I do not think they have treated me well, but I will not treat
them ill.”
“I am sure you will not do that,” said Miss Oriel.
“I will endeavour not to do so; and, therefore, will go to none of
their fêtes! No, Patience.” And then she turned her head to the arm
of the sofa, and silently, without audible sobs, hiding her face, she
endeavoured to get rid of her tears unseen. For one moment she had
all but resolved to pour out the whole truth of her love into her
friend’s ears; but suddenly she changed her mind. Why should she talk
of her own unhappiness? Why should she speak of her own love when she
was fully determined not to speak of Frank’s promises.
“Mary, dear Mary.”
“Anything but pity, Patience; anything but that,” said she,
convulsively, swallowing down her sobs, and rubbing away her tears.
“I cannot bear that. Tell Beatrice from me, that I wish her every
happiness; and, with such a husband, I am sure she will be happy. I
wish her every joy; give her my kindest love; but tell her I cannot
be at her marriage. Oh, I should so like to see her; not there, you
know, but here, in my own room, where I still have liberty to speak.”
“But why should you decide now? She is not to be married yet, you
know.”
“Now, or this day twelvemonth, can make no difference. I will not go
into that house again, unless—but never mind; I will not go into it
all; never, never again. If I could forgive her for myself, I could
not forgive her for my uncle. But tell me, Patience, might not
Beatrice now come here? It is so dreadful to see her every Sunday in
church and never to speak to her, never to kiss her. She seems to
look away from me as though she too had chosen to quarrel with me.”
Miss Oriel promised to do her best. She could not imagine, she said,
that such a visit could be objected to on such an occasion. She would
not advise Beatrice to come without telling her mother; but she
could not think that Lady Arabella would be so cruel as to make any
objection, knowing, as she could not but know, that her daughter,
when married, would be at liberty to choose her own friends.
“Good-bye, Mary,” said Patience. “I wish I knew how to say more to
comfort you.”
“Oh, comfort! I don’t want comfort. I want to be let alone.”
“That’s just it: you are so ferocious in your scorn, so unbending, so
determined to take all the punishment that comes in your way.”
“What I do take, I’ll take without complaint,” said Mary; and then
they kissed each other and parted.
A Morning Visit
It must be remembered that Mary, among her miseries, had to suffer
this: that since Frank’s departure, now nearly twelve months ago, she
had not heard a word about him; or rather, she had only heard that he
was very much in love with some lady in London. This news reached her
in a manner so circuitous, and from such a doubtful source; it seemed
to her to savour so strongly of Lady Arabella’s precautions, that
she attributed it at once to malice, and blew it to the winds. It
might not improbably be the case that Frank was untrue to her; but
she would not take it for granted because she was now told so. It
was more than probable that he should amuse himself with some one;
flirting was his prevailing sin; and if he did flirt, the most would
of course be made of it.
But she found it to be very desolate to be thus left alone without
a word of comfort or a word of love; without being able to speak to
any one of what filled her heart; doubting, nay, more than doubting,
being all but sure that her passion must terminate in misery. Why had
she not obeyed her conscience and her better instinct in that moment
when the necessity for deciding had come upon her? Why had she
allowed him to understand that he was master of her heart? Did she
not know that there was everything against such a marriage as that
which he proposed? Had she not done wrong, very wrong, even to think
of it? Had she not sinned deeply, against Mr Gresham, who had ever
been so kind to her? Could she hope, was it possible, that a boy like
Frank should be true to his first love? And, if he were true, if he
were ready to go to the altar with her to-morrow, ought she to allow
him to degrade himself by such a marriage?
There was, alas! some truth about the London lady. Frank had taken
his degree, as arranged, and had then gone abroad for the winter,
doing the fashionable things, going up the Nile, crossing over to
Mount Sinai, thence over the long desert to Jerusalem, and home by
Damascus, Beyrout, and Constantinople, bringing back a long beard, a
red cap, and a chibook, just as our fathers used to go through Italy
and Switzerland, and our grandfathers to spend a season in Paris. He
had then remained for a couple of months in London, going through
all
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