Doctor Thorne - Anthony Trollope (historical books to read .txt) 📗
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skirmishes which had been so customary between Lady Arabella and
the squire. Things had so fallen out, that they neither of them had
much spirit for a contest; and, moreover, on that point which at
the present moment was most thought of by both of them, they were
strangely in unison. For each of them was anxious to prevent the
threatened marriage of their only son.
It must, moreover, be remembered, that Lady Arabella had carried a
great point in ousting Mr Yates Umbleby and putting the management of
the estate into the hands of her own partisan. But then the squire
had not done less in getting rid of Fillgrave and reinstating Dr
Thorne in possession of the family invalids. The losses, therefore,
had been equal; the victories equal; and there was a mutual object.
And it must be confessed, also, that Lady Arabella’s taste for
grandeur was on the decline. Misfortune was coming too near to her to
leave her much anxiety for the gaieties of a London season. Things
were not faring well with her. When her eldest daughter was going to
marry a man of fortune, and a member of Parliament, she had thought
nothing of demanding a thousand pounds or so for the extraordinary
expenses incident to such an occasion. But now, Beatrice was to
become the wife of a parish parson, and even that was thought to be
a fortunate event; she had, therefore, no heart for splendour.
“The quieter we can do it the better,” she wrote to her
countess-sister. “Her father wanted to give him at least a thousand
pounds; but Mr Gazebee has told me confidentially that it literally
cannot be done at the present moment! Ah, my dear Rosina! how things
have been managed! If one or two of the girls will come over, we
shall all take it as a favour. Beatrice would think it very kind of
them. But I don’t think of asking you or Amelia.” Amelia was always
the grandest of the de Courcy family, being almost on an equality
with—nay, in some respect superior to—the countess herself. But
this, of course, was before the days of the nice place in Surrey.
Such, and so humble being the present temper of the lady of
Greshamsbury, it will not be thought surprising that she and Mr
Gresham should at last come together in their efforts to reclaim
their son.
At first Lady Arabella urged upon the squire the duty of being very
peremptory and very angry. “Do as other fathers do in such cases.
Make him understand that he will have no allowance to live on.” “He
understands that well enough,” said Mr Gresham.
“Threaten to cut him off with a shilling,” said her ladyship, with
spirit. “I haven’t a shilling to cut him off with,” answered the
squire, bitterly.
But Lady Arabella herself soon perceived, that this line would not
do. As Mr Gresham himself confessed, his own sins against his son had
been too great to allow of his taking a high hand with him. Besides,
Mr Gresham was not a man who could ever be severe with a son whose
individual conduct had been so good as Frank’s. This marriage was, in
his view, a misfortune to be averted if possible,—to be averted by
any possible means; but, as far as Frank was concerned, it was to be
regarded rather as a monomania than a crime.
“I did feel so certain that he would have succeeded with Miss
Dunstable,” said the mother, almost crying.
“I thought it impossible but that at his age a twelvemonth’s knocking
about the world would cure him,” said the father.
“I never heard of a boy being so obstinate about a girl,” said the
mother. “I’m sure he didn’t get it from the de Courcys:” and then,
again, they talked it over in all its bearings.
“But what are they to live upon?” said Lady Arabella, appealing, as
it were, to some impersonation of reason. “That’s what I want him to
tell me. What are they to live upon?”
“I wonder whether de Courcy could get him into some embassy?” said
the father. “He does talk of a profession.”
“What! with the girl and all?” asked Lady Arabella with horror,
alarmed at the idea of such an appeal being made to her noble
brother.
“No; but before he marries. He might be broken of it that way.”
“Nothing will break him,” said the wretched mother;
“nothing—nothing. For my part, I think that he is possessed. Why was
she brought here? Oh, dear! oh, dear! Why was she ever brought into
this house?”
This last question Mr Gresham did not think it necessary to answer.
That evil had been done, and it would be useless to dispute it. “I’ll
tell you what I’ll do,” said he. “I’ll speak to the doctor himself.”
“It’s not the slightest use,” said Lady Arabella. “He will not assist
us. Indeed, I firmly believe it’s all his own doing.”
“Oh, nonsense! that really is nonsense, my love.”
“Very well, Mr Gresham. What I say is always nonsense, I know; you
have always told me so. But yet, see how things have turned out. I
knew how it would be when she was first brought into the house.” This
assertion was rather a stretch on the part of Lady Arabella.
“Well, it is nonsense to say that Frank is in love with the girl at
the doctor’s bidding.”
“I think you know, Mr Gresham, that I don’t mean that. What I say is
this, that Dr Thorne, finding what an easy fool Frank is—”
“I don’t think he’s at all easy, my love; and certainly is not a
fool.”
“Very well, have it your own way. I’ll not say a word more. I’m
struggling to do my best, and I’m browbeaten on every side. God knows
I am not in a state of health to bear it!” And Lady Arabella bowed
her head into her pocket-handkerchief.
“I think, my dear, if you were to see Mary herself it might do some
good,” said the squire, when the violence of his wife’s grief had
somewhat subsided.
“What! go and call upon this girl?”
“Yes; you can send Beatrice to give her notice, you know. She never
was unreasonable, and I do not think that you would find her so. You
should tell her, you know—”
“Oh, I should know very well what to tell her, Mr Gresham.”
“Yes, my love; I’m sure you would; nobody better. But what I mean is,
that if you are to do any good, you should be kind in your manner.
Mary Thorne has a spirit that you cannot break. You may perhaps lead,
but nobody can drive her.”
As this scheme originated with her husband, Lady Arabella could not,
of course, confess that there was much in it. But, nevertheless,
she determined to attempt it, thinking that if anything could be
efficacious for good in their present misfortunes, it would be her
own diplomatic powers. It was, therefore, at last settled between
them, that he should endeavour to talk over the doctor, and that she
would do the same with Mary.
“And then I will speak to Frank,” said Lady Arabella. “As yet he has
never had the audacity to open his mouth to me about Mary Thorne,
though I believe he declares his love openly to every one else in the
house.”
“And I will get Oriel to speak to him,” said the squire.
“I think Patience might do more good. I did once think he was getting
fond of Patience, and I was quite unhappy about it then. Ah, dear! I
should be almost pleased at that now.”
And thus it was arranged that all the artillery of Greshamsbury was
to be brought to bear at once on Frank’s love, so as to crush it, as
it were, by the very weight of metal.
It may be imagined that the squire would have less scruple in
addressing the doctor on this matter than his wife would feel; and
that his part of their present joint undertaking was less difficult
than hers. For he and the doctor had ever been friends at heart. But,
nevertheless, he did feel much scruple, as, with his stick in hand,
he walked down to the little gate which opened out near the doctor’s
house.
This feeling was so strong, that he walked on beyond this door to the
entrance, thinking of what he was going to do, and then back again.
It seemed to be his fate to be depending always on the clemency or
consideration of Dr Thorne. At this moment the doctor was imposing
the only obstacle which was offered to the sale of a great part of
his estate. Sir Louis, through his lawyer, was pressing the doctor to
sell, and the lawyer was loudly accusing the doctor of delaying to do
so. “He has the management of your property,” said Mr Finnie; “but he
manages it in the interest of his own friend. It is quite clear, and
we will expose it.” “By all means,” said Sir Louis. “It is a d–-d
shame, and it shall be exposed.” Of all this the squire was aware.
When he reached the doctor’s house, he was shown into the
drawing-room, and found Mary there alone. It had always been his
habit to kiss her forehead when he chanced to meet her about the
house at Greshamsbury. She had been younger and more childish then;
but even now she was but a child to him, so he kissed her as he had
been wont to do. She blushed slightly as she looked up into his face,
and said: “Oh, Mr Gresham, I am so glad to see you here again.”
As he looked at her he could not but acknowledge that it was natural
that Frank should love her. He had never before seen that she was
attractive;—had never had an opinion about it. She had grown up
as a child under his eye; and as she had not had the name of being
especially a pretty child, he had never thought on the subject. Now
he saw before him a woman whose every feature was full of spirit and
animation; whose eye sparkled with more than mere brilliancy; whose
face was full of intelligence; whose very smile was eloquent. Was it
to be wondered at that Frank should have learned to love her?
Miss Thorne wanted but one attribute which many consider essential
to feminine beauty. She had no brilliancy of complexion, no pearly
whiteness, no vivid carnation; nor, indeed, did she possess the dark
brilliance of a brunette. But there was a speaking earnestness in her
face; an expression of mental faculty which the squire now for the
first time perceived to be charming.
And then he knew how good she was. He knew well what was her nature;
how generous, how open, how affectionate, and yet how proud! Her
pride was her fault; but even that was not a fault in his eyes. Out
of his own family there was no one whom he had loved, and could love,
as he loved her. He felt, and acknowledged that no man could have a
better wife. And yet he was there with the express object of rescuing
his son from such a marriage!
“You are looking very well, Mary,” he said, almost involuntarily.
“Am I?” she answered, smiling. “It’s very nice at any rate to be
complimented. Uncle never pays me any compliments of that sort.”
In truth, she was looking well. She would say to herself over
and over again, from morning to night, that
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