Doctor Thorne - Anthony Trollope (historical books to read .txt) 📗
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“Then it is indeed impossible that you should be received at
Greshamsbury.”
“At present, quite so, no doubt: in saying so, Lady Arabella, you
only repeat the answer I made to your first question. I can now go
to Greshamsbury only in one light: that of Mr Gresham’s accepted
daughter-in-law.”
“And that is perfectly out of the question; altogether out of the
question, now and for ever.”
“I will not dispute with you about that; but, as I said before, my
being at Beatrice’s wedding is not to be thought of.”
Lady Arabella sat for a while silent, that she might meditate, if
possible, calmly as to what line of argument she had now better take.
It would be foolish in her, she thought, to return home, having
merely expressed her anger. She had now an opportunity of talking to
Mary which might not again occur: the difficulty was in deciding in
what special way she should use the opportunity. Should she threaten,
or should she entreat? To do her justice, it should be stated, that
she did actually believe that the marriage was all but impossible;
she did not think that it could take place. But the engagement might
be the ruin of her son’s prospects, seeing how he had before him one
imperative, one immediate duty—that of marrying money.
Having considered all this as well as her hurry would allow her,
she determined first to reason, then to entreat, and lastly, if
necessary, to threaten.
“I am astonished! you cannot be surprised at that, Miss Thorne: I am
astonished at hearing so singular a confession made.”
“Do you think my confession singular, or is it the fact of my being
engaged to your son?”
“We will pass over that for the present. But do let me ask you, do
you think it possible, I say possible, that you and Frank should be
married?”
“Oh, certainly; quite possible.”
“Of course you know that he has not a shilling in the world.”
“Nor have I, Lady Arabella.”
“Nor will he have were he to do anything so utterly hostile to his
father’s wishes. The property, you are aware, is altogether at Mr
Gresham’s disposal.”
“I am aware of nothing about the property, and can say nothing about
it except this, that it has not been, and will not be inquired after
by me in this matter. If I marry Frank Gresham, it will not be for
the property. I am sorry to make such an apparent boast, but you
force me to do it.”
“On what then are you to live? You are too old for love in a cottage,
I suppose?”
“Not at all too old; Frank, you know is ‘still quite a boy.’”
Impudent hussy! forward, ill-conditioned saucy minx! such were
the epithets which rose to Lady Arabella’s mind; but she politely
suppressed them.
“Miss Thorne, this subject is of course to me very serious; very
ill-adapted for jesting. I look upon such a marriage as absolutely
impossible.”
“I do not know what you mean by impossible, Lady Arabella.”
“I mean, in the first place, that you two could not get yourselves
married.”
“Oh, yes; Mr Oriel would manage that for us. We are his parishioners,
and he would be bound to do it.”
“I beg your pardon; I believe that under all the circumstances it
would be illegal.”
Mary smiled; but she said nothing. “You may laugh, Miss Thorne, but I
think you will find that I am right. There are still laws to prevent
such fearful distress as would be brought about by such a marriage.”
“I hope that nothing I shall do will bring distress on the family.”
“Ah, but it would; don’t you know that it would? Think of it, Miss
Thorne. Think of Frank’s state, and of his father’s state. You know
enough of that, I am sure, to be well aware that Frank is not in a
condition to marry without money. Think of the position which Mr
Gresham’s only son should hold in the county; think of the old name,
and the pride we have in it; you have lived among us enough to
understand all this; think of these things, and then say whether it
is possible such a marriage should take place without family distress
of the deepest kind. Think of Mr Gresham; if you truly love my son,
you could not wish to bring on him all this misery and ruin.”
Mary now was touched, for there was truth in what Lady Arabella said.
But she had no power of going back; her troth was plighted, and
nothing that any human being could say should shake her from it. If
he, indeed, chose to repent, that would be another thing.
“Lady Arabella,” she said, “I have nothing to say in favour of this
engagement, except that he wishes it.”
“And is that a reason, Mary?”
“To me it is; not only a reason, but a law. I have given him my
promise.”
“And you will keep your promise even to his own ruin?”
“I hope not. Our engagement, unless he shall choose to break it off,
must necessarily be a long one; but the time will come—”
“What! when Mr Gresham is dead?”
“Before that, I hope.”
“There is no probability of it. And because he is headstrong, you,
who have always had credit for so much sense, will hold him to this
mad engagement?”
“No, Lady Arabella; I will not hold him to anything to which he does
not wish to be held. Nothing that you can say shall move me: nothing
that anybody can say shall induce me to break my promise to him. But
a word from himself will do it. One look will be sufficient. Let him
give me to understand, in any way, that his love for me is injurious
to him—that he has learnt to think so—and then I will renounce my
part in this engagement as quickly as you could wish it.”
There was much in this promise, but still not so much as Lady
Arabella wished to get. Mary, she knew, was obstinate, but yet
reasonable; Frank, she thought, was both obstinate and unreasonable.
It might be possible to work on Mary’s reason, but quite impossible
to touch Frank’s irrationality. So she persevered—foolishly.
“Miss Thorne—that, is, Mary, for I still wish to be thought your
friend—”
“I will tell you the truth, Lady Arabella: for some considerable time
past I have not thought you so.”
“Then you have wronged me. But I will go on with what I was saying.
You quite acknowledge that this is a foolish affair?”
“I acknowledge no such thing.”
“Something very much like it. You have not a word in its defence.”
“Not to you: I do not choose to be put on my defence by you.”
“I don’t know who has more right; however, you promise that if Frank
wishes it, you will release him from his engagement.”
“Release him! It is for him to release me, that is, if he wishes it.”
“Very well; at any rate, you give him permission to do so. But will
it not be more honourable for you to begin?”
“No; I think not.”
“Ah, but it would. If he, in his position, should be the first to
speak, the first to suggest that this affair between you is a foolish
one, what would people say?”
“They would say the truth.”
“And what would you yourself say?”
“Nothing.”
“What would he think of himself?”
“Ah, that I do not know. It is according as that may be, that he will
or will not act at your bidding.”
“Exactly; and because you know him to be high-minded, because you
think that he, having so much to give, will not break his word to
you—to you who have nothing to give in return—it is, therefore,
that you say that the first step must be taken by him. Is that
noble?”
Then Mary rose from her seat, for it was no longer possible for her
to speak what it was in her to say, sitting there leisurely on her
sofa. Lady Arabella’s worship of money had not hitherto been so
brought forward in the conversation as to give her unpardonable
offence; but now she felt that she could no longer restrain her
indignation. “To you who have nothing to give in return!” Had she not
given all that she possessed? Had she not emptied his store into his
lap? that heart of hers, beating with such genuine life, capable of
such perfect love, throbbing with so grand a pride; had she not given
that? And was it not that, between him and her, more than twenty
Greshamsburys, nobler than any pedigree? “To you who have nothing to
give,” indeed! This to her who was so ready to give everything!
“Lady Arabella,” she said, “I think that you do not understand me,
and that it is not likely that you should. If so, our further talking
will be worse than useless. I have taken no account of what will be
given between your son and me in your sense of the word giving. But
he has professed to—to love me”—as she spoke, she still looked on
the lady’s face, but her eyelashes for a moment screened her eyes,
and her colour was a little heightened—“and I have acknowledged that
I also love him, and so we are engaged. To me my promise is sacred. I
will not be threatened into breaking it. If, however, he shall wish
to change his mind, he can do so. I will not upbraid him; will not,
if I can help it, think harshly of him. So much you may tell him if
it suits you; but I will not listen to your calculations as to how
much or how little each of us may have to give to the other.”
She was still standing when she finished speaking, and so she
continued to stand. Her eyes were fixed on Lady Arabella, and her
position seemed to say that sufficient words had been spoken, and
that it was time that her ladyship should go; and so Lady Arabella
felt it. Gradually she also rose; slowly, but tacitly, she
acknowledged that she was in the presence of a spirit superior to her
own; and so she took her leave.
“Very well,” she said, in a tone that was intended to be
grandiloquent, but which failed grievously; “I will tell him that he
has your permission to think a second time on this matter. I do not
doubt but that he will do so.” Mary would not condescend to answer,
but curtsied low as her visitor left the room. And so the interview
was over.
The interview was over, and Mary was alone. She remained standing as
long as she heard the footsteps of Frank’s mother on the stairs; not
immediately thinking of what had passed, but still buoying herself up
with her hot indignation, as though her work with Lady Arabella was
not yet finished; but when the footfall was no longer heard, and the
sound of the closing door told her that she was in truth alone, she
sank back in her seat, and, covering her face with her hands, burst
into bitter tears.
All that doctrine about money was horrible to her; that insolent
pretence, that she had caught at Frank because of his worldly
position, made her all but ferocious; but Lady Arabella had not the
less spoken much that was true. She did think of the position which
the heir of Greshamsbury should hold in
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