Doctor Thorne - Anthony Trollope (historical books to read .txt) 📗
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which is begotten between fear and respect. Anything was better than
quarrelling with her cousin Amelia.
And Mr Mortimer Gazebee did not altogether make a bad bargain. He
never received a shilling of dowry, but that he had not expected.
Nor did he want it. His troubles arose from the overstrained economy
of his noble wife. She would have it, that as she had married a
poor man—Mr Gazebee, however, was not a poor man—it behoved
her to manage her house with great care. Such a match as that
she had made—this she told in confidence to Augusta—had its
responsibilities as well as its privileges.
But, on the whole, Mr Gazebee did not repent his bargain; when he
asked his friends to dine, he could tell them that Lady Amelia would
be very glad to see them; his marriage gave him some éclat at his
club, and some additional weight in the firm to which he belonged;
he gets his share of the Courcy shooting, and is asked about to
Greshamsbury and other Barsetshire houses, not only “to dine at table
and all that,” but to take his part in whatever delights country
society there has to offer. He lives with the great hope that
his noble father-in-law may some day be able to bring him into
Parliament.
What the World Says about Blood
“Beatrice,” said Frank, rushing suddenly into his sister’s room, “I
want you to do me one especial favour.” This was three or four days
after Frank had seen Mary Thorne. Since that time he had spoken to
none of his family on the subject; but he was only postponing from
day to day the task of telling his father. He had now completed his
round of visits to the kennel, master huntsman, and stables of the
county hunt, and was at liberty to attend to his own affairs. So he
had decided on speaking to the squire that very day; but he first
made his request to his sister.
“I want you to do me one especial favour.” The day for Beatrice’s
marriage had now been fixed, and it was not to be very distant.
Mr Oriel had urged that their honeymoon trip would lose half its
delights if they did not take advantage of the fine weather; and
Beatrice had nothing to allege in answer. The day had just been
fixed, and when Frank ran into her room with his special request,
she was not in a humour to refuse him anything.
“If you wish me to be at your wedding, you must do it,” said he.
“Wish you to be there! You must be there, of course. Oh, Frank! what
do you mean? I’ll do anything you ask; if it is not to go to the
moon, or anything of that sort.”
Frank was too much in earnest to joke. “You must have Mary for one of
your bridesmaids,” he said. “Now, mind; there may be some difficulty,
but you must insist on it. I know what has been going on; but it is
not to be borne that she should be excluded on such a day as that.
You that have been like sisters all your lives till a year ago!”
“But, Frank—”
“Now, Beatrice, don’t have any buts; say that you will do it, and it
will be done: I am sure Oriel will approve, and so will my father.”
“But, Frank, you won’t hear me.”
“Not if you make objections; I have set my heart on your doing it.”
“But I had set my heart on the same thing.”
“Well?”
“And I went to Mary on purpose; and told her just as you tell me now,
that she must come. I meant to make mamma understand that I could not
be happy unless it were so; but Mary positively refused.”
“Refused! What did she say?”
“I could not tell you what she said; indeed, it would not be right if
I could; but she positively declined. She seemed to feel, that after
all that had happened, she never could come to Greshamsbury again.”
“Fiddlestick!”
“But, Frank, those are her feelings; and, to tell the truth, I could
not combat them. I know she is not happy; but time will cure that.
And, to tell you the truth, Frank—”
“It was before I came back that you asked her, was it not?”
“Yes; just the day before you came, I think.”
“Well, it’s all altered now. I have seen her since that.”
“Have you Frank?”
“What do you take me for? Of course, I have. The very first day I
went to her. And now, Beatrice, you may believe me or not, as you
like; but if I ever marry, I shall marry Mary Thorne; and if ever she
marries, I think I may say, she will marry me. At any rate, I have
her promise. And now, you cannot be surprised that I should wish
her to be at your wedding; or that I should declare, that if she is
absent, I will be absent. I don’t want any secrets, and you may tell
my mother if you like it—and all the de Courcys too, for anything I
care.”
Frank had ever been used to command his sisters: and they, especially
Beatrice, had ever been used to obey. On this occasion, she was well
inclined to do so, if she only knew how. She again remembered how
Mary had once sworn to be at her wedding, to be near her, and to
touch her—even though all the blood of the de Courcys should be
crowded before the altar railings.
“I should be so happy that she should be there; but what am I to do,
Frank, if she refuses? I have asked her, and she has refused.”
“Go to her again; you need not have any scruples with her. Do
not I tell you she will be your sister? Not come here again to
Greshamsbury! Why, I tell you that she will be living here while you
are living there at the parsonage, for years and years to come.”
Beatrice promised that she would go to Mary again, and that she would
endeavour to talk her mother over if Mary would consent to come. But
she could not yet make herself believe that Mary Thorne would ever
be mistress of Greshamsbury. It was so indispensably necessary that
Frank should marry money! Besides, what were those horrid rumours
which were now becoming rife as to Mary’s birth; rumours more horrid
than any which had yet been heard?
Augusta had said hardly more than the truth when she spoke of her
father being broken-hearted by his debts. His troubles were becoming
almost too many for him; and Mr Gazebee, though no doubt he was an
excellent man of business, did not seem to lessen them. Mr Gazebee,
indeed, was continually pointing out how much he owed, and in what
a quagmire of difficulties he had entangled himself. Now, to do Mr
Yates Umbleby justice, he had never made himself disagreeable in this
manner.
Mr Gazebee had been doubtless right, when he declared that Sir Louis
Scatcherd had not himself the power to take any steps hostile to the
squire; but Sir Louis had also been right, when he boasted that,
in spite of his father’s will, he could cause others to move in
the matter. Others did move, and were moving, and it began to be
understood that a moiety, at least, of the remaining Greshamsbury
property must be sold. Even this, however, would by no means leave
the squire in undisturbed possession of the other moiety. And thus,
Mr Gresham was nearly broken-hearted.
Frank had now been at home a week, and his father had not as yet
spoken to him about the family troubles; nor had a word as yet been
said between them as to Mary Thorne. It had been agreed that Frank
should go away for twelve months, in order that he might forget her.
He had been away the twelvemonth, and had now returned, not having
forgotten her.
It generally happens, that in every household, one subject of
importance occupies it at a time. The subject of importance now
mostly thought of in the Greshamsbury household, was the marriage of
Beatrice. Lady Arabella had to supply the trousseau for her daughter;
the squire had to supply the money for the trousseau; Mr Gazebee had
the task of obtaining the money for the squire. While this was going
on, Mr Gresham was not anxious to talk to his son, either about his
own debts or his son’s love. There would be time for these things
when the marriage-feast should be over.
So thought the father, but the matter was precipitated by Frank. He
also had put off the declaration which he had to make, partly from
a wish to spare the squire, but partly also with a view to spare
himself. We have all some of that cowardice which induces us to
postpone an inevitably evil day. At this time the discussions as
to Beatrice’s wedding were frequent in the house, and at one of
them Frank had heard his mother repeat the names of the proposed
bridesmaids. Mary’s name was not among them, and hence had arisen his
attack on his sister.
Lady Arabella had had her reason for naming the list before her son;
but she overshot her mark. She wished to show him how totally Mary
was forgotten at Greshamsbury; but she only inspired him with a
resolve that she should not be forgotten. He accordingly went to his
sister; and then, the subject being full on his mind, he resolved at
once to discuss it with his father.
“Sir, are you at leisure for five minutes?” he said, entering the
room in which the squire was accustomed to sit majestically, to
receive his tenants, scold his dependants, and in which, in former
happy days, he had always arranged the meets of the Barsetshire hunt.
Mr Gresham was quite at leisure: when was he not so? But had he been
immersed in the deepest business of which he was capable, he would
gladly have put it aside at his son’s instance.
“I don’t like to have any secret from you, sir,” said Frank; “nor,
for the matter of that, from anybody else”—the anybody else was
intended to have reference to his mother—“and, therefore, I would
rather tell you at once what I have made up my mind to do.”
Frank’s address was very abrupt, and he felt it was so. He was rather
red in the face, and his manner was fluttered. He had quite made up
his mind to break the whole affair to his father; but he had hardly
made up his mind as to the best mode of doing so.
“Good heavens, Frank! what do you mean? you are not going to do
anything rash? What is it you mean, Frank?”
“I don’t think it is rash,” said Frank.
“Sit down, my boy; sit down. What is it that you say you are going to
do?”
“Nothing immediately, sir,” said he, rather abashed; “but as I have
made up my mind about Mary Thorne,—quite made up my mind, I think it
right to tell you.”
“Oh, about Mary,” said the squire, almost relieved.
And then Frank, in voluble language, which he hardly, however, had
quite under his command, told his father all that had passed between
him and Mary. “You see, sir,” said he, “that it is fixed now, and
cannot be altered. Nor must it be altered. You asked me to go away
for twelve
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