Doctor Thorne - Anthony Trollope (e novels to read TXT) 📗

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 Frank’s love for her would be, must be, unfortunate; could not lead to happiness. But, nevertheless, it did make her happy. She had before his return made up her mind to be forgotten, and it was so sweet to find that he had been so far from forgetting her. A girl may scold a man in words for rashness in his love, but her heart never scolds him for such an offence as that. She had not been slighted, and her heart, therefore, still rose buoyant within her breast.

The doctor entered the room. As the squire’s visit had been expected by him, he had of course not been out of the house. “And now I suppose I must go,” said Mary; “for I know you are going to talk about business. But, uncle, Mr. Gresham says I’m looking very well. Why have you not been able to find that out?”

“She’s a dear, good girl,” said the squire, as the door shut behind her; “a dear good girl;” and the doctor could not fail to see that his eyes were filled with tears.

“I think she is,” said he, quietly. And then they both sat silent, as though each was waiting to hear whether the other had anything more to say on that subject. The doctor, at any rate, had nothing more to say.

“I have come here specially to speak to you about her,” said the squire.

“About Mary?”

“Yes, doctor; about her and Frank: something must be done, some arrangement made: if not for our sakes, at least for theirs.”

“What arrangement, squire?”

“Ah! that is the question. I take it for granted that either Frank or Mary has told you that they have engaged themselves to each other.”

“Frank told me so twelve months since.”

“And has not Mary told you?”

“Not exactly that. But, never mind; she has, I believe, no secret from me. Though I have said but little to her, I think I know it all.”

“Well, what then?”

The doctor shook his head and put up his hands. He had nothing to say; no proposition to make; no arrangement to suggest. The thing was so, and he seemed to say that, as far as he was concerned, there was an end of it.

The squire sat looking at him, hardly knowing how to proceed. It seemed to him, that the fact of a young man and a young lady being in love with each other was not a thing to be left to arrange itself, particularly, seeing the rank of life in which they were placed. But the doctor seemed to be of a different opinion.

“But, Dr. Thorne, there is no man on God’s earth who knows my affairs as well as you do; and in knowing mine, you know Frank’s. Do you think it possible that they should marry each other?”

“Possible; yes, it is possible. You mean, will it be prudent?”

“Well, take it in that way; would it not be most imprudent?”

“At present, it certainly would be. I have never spoken to either of them on the subject; but I presume they do not think of such a thing for the present.”

“But, doctor⁠—” The squire was certainly taken aback by the coolness of the doctor’s manner. After all, he, the squire, was Mr. Gresham of Greshamsbury, generally acknowledged to be the first commoner in Barsetshire; after all, Frank was his heir, and, in process of time, he would be Mr. Gresham of Greshamsbury. Crippled as the estate was, there would be something left, and the rank at any rate remained. But as to Mary, she was not even the doctor’s daughter. She was