Doctor Thorne by Anthony Trollope
CHAPTER XXIII
Retrospective
It was declared in the early pages of this work that Dr Thorne was tobe our hero; but it would appear very much as though he had latterlybeen forgotten. Since that evening when he retired to rest withoutletting Mary share the grievous weight which was on his mind, we haveneither seen nor heard aught of him.
It was then full midsummer, and it is now early spring: and during theintervening months the doctor had not had a happy time of it. On thatnight, as we have before told, he took his niece to his heart; buthe could not then bring himself to tell her that which it was soimperative that she should know. Like a coward, he would put offthe evil hour till the next morning, and thus robbed himself of hisnight's sleep.
But when the morning came the duty could not be postponed. LadyArabella had given him to understand that his niece would no longerbe a guest at Greshamsbury; and it was quite out of the question thatMary, after this, should be allowed to put her foot within the gateof the domain without having learnt what Lady Arabella had said. Sohe told it her before breakfast, walking round their little garden,she with her hand in his.
He was perfectly thunderstruck by the collected--nay, cool way inwhich she received his tidings. She turned pale, indeed; he felt alsothat her hand somewhat trembled in his own, and he perceived thatfor a moment her voice shook; but no angry word escaped her lip, nordid she even deign to repudiate the charge, which was, as it were,conveyed in Lady Arabella's request. The doctor knew, or thought heknew--nay, he did know--that Mary was wholly blameless in the matter:that she had at least given no encouragement to any love on the partof the young heir; but, nevertheless, he had expected that she wouldavouch her own innocence. This, however, she by no means did.
"Lady Arabella is quite right," she said, "quite right; if she hasany fear of that kind, she cannot be too careful."
"She is a selfish, proud woman," said the doctor; "quite indifferentto the feelings of others; quite careless how deeply she may hurt herneighbours, if, in doing so, she may possibly benefit herself."
"She will not hurt me, uncle, nor yet you. I can live without goingto Greshamsbury."
"But it is not to be endured that she should dare to cast animputation on my darling."
"On me, uncle? She casts no imputation on me. Frank has been foolish:I have said nothing of it, for it was not worth while to trouble you.But as Lady Arabella chooses to interfere, I have no right to blameher. He has said what he should not have said; he has been foolish.Uncle, you know I could not prevent it."
"Let her send him away then, not you; let her banish him."
"Uncle, he is her son. A mother can hardly send her son away soeasily: could you send me away, uncle?"
He merely answered her by twining his arm round her waist andpressing her to his side. He was well sure that she was badlytreated; and yet now that she so unaccountably took Lady Arabella'spart, he hardly knew how to make this out plainly to be the case.
"Besides, uncle, Greshamsbury is in a manner his own; how can he bebanished from his father's house? No, uncle; there is an end of myvisits there. They shall find that I will not thrust myself in theirway."
And then Mary, with a calm brow and steady gait, went in and made thetea.
And what might be the feelings of her heart when she so sententiouslytold her uncle that Frank had been foolish? She was of the same agewith him; as impressionable, though more powerful in hiding suchimpressions,--as all women should be; her heart was as warm, herblood as full of life, her innate desire for the companionship ofsome much-loved object as strong as his. Frank had been foolish inavowing his passion. No such folly as that could be laid at her door.But had she been proof against the other folly? Had she been able towalk heart-whole by his side, while he chatted his commonplaces aboutlove? Yes, they are commonplaces when we read of them in novels;common enough, too, to some of us when we write them; but they are byno means commonplace when first heard by a young girl in the rich,balmy fragrance of a July evening stroll.
Nor are they commonplaces when so uttered for the first or secondtime at least, or perhaps the third. 'Tis a pity that so heavenly apleasure should pall upon the senses.
If it was so that Frank's folly had been listened to with a certainamount of pleasure, Mary did not even admit so much to herself. Butwhy should it have been otherwise? Why should she have been lessprone to love than he was? Had he not everything which girls do love?which girls should love? which God created noble, beautiful, all butgodlike, in order that women, all but goddesslike, might love? Tolove thoroughly, truly, heartily, with her whole body, soul, heart,and strength; should not that be counted for a merit in a woman? Andyet we are wont to make a disgrace of it. We do so most unnaturally,most unreasonably; for we expect our daughters to get themselvesmarried off our hands. When the period of that step comes, then loveis proper enough; but up to that--before that--as regards all thosepreliminary passages which must, we suppose, be necessary--in allthose it becomes a young lady to be icy-hearted as a river-god inwinter.
O whistle and I'll come to you, my lad! O whistle and I'll come to you, my lad! Tho' father and mither and a' should go mad, O whistle and I'll come to you, my lad!
This is the kind of love which a girl should feel before she puts herhand proudly in that of her lover, and consents that they two shallbe made one flesh.
Mary felt no such love as this. She, too, had some inner perceptionof that dread destiny by which it behoved Frank Gresham to beforewarned. She, too--though she had never heard so much said inwords--had an almost instinctive knowledge that his fate required himto marry money. Thinking over this in her own way, she was not slowto convince herself that it was out of the question that she shouldallow herself to love Frank Gresham. However well her heart mightbe inclined to such a feeling, it was her duty to repress it. Sheresolved, therefore, to do so; and she sometimes flattered herselfthat she had kept her resolution.
These were bad times for the doctor, and bad times for Mary too. Shehad declared that she could live without going to Greshamsbury; butshe did not find it so easy. She had been going to Greshamsbury allher life, and it was as customary with her to be there as at home.Such old customs are not broken without pain. Had she left the placeit would have been far different; but, as it was, she daily passedthe gates, daily saw and spoke to some of the servants, who knew heras well as they did the young ladies of the family--was in hourlycontact, as it were, with Greshamsbury. It was not only that shedid not go there, but that everyone knew that she had suddenlydiscontinued doing so. Yes, she could live without going toGreshamsbury; but for some time she had but a poor life of it. Shefelt, nay, almost heard, that every man and woman, boy and girl, inthe village was telling his and her neighbour that Mary Thorne nolonger went to the house because of Lady Arabella and the youngsquire.
But Beatrice, of course, came to her. What was she to say toBeatrice? The truth! Nay, but it is not always so easy to say thetruth, even to one's dearest friends.
"But you'll come up now he has gone?" said Beatrice.
"No, indeed," said Mary; "that would hardly be pleasant to LadyArabella, nor to me either. No, Trichy, dearest; my visits to dearold Greshamsbury are done, done, done: perhaps in some twenty years'time I may be walking down the lawn with your brother, and discussingour childish days--that is, always, if the then Mrs Gresham shallhave invited me."
"How can Frank have been so wrong, so unkind, so cruel?" saidBeatrice.
This, however, was a light in which Miss Thorne did not take anypleasure in discussing the matter. Her ideas of Frank's fault, andunkindness, and cruelty, were doubtless different from those of hissister. Such cruelty was not unnaturally excused in her eyes by manycircumstances which Beatrice did not fully understand. Mary was quiteready to go hand in hand with Lady Arabella and the rest of theGreshamsbury fold in putting an end, if possible, to Frank's passion:she would give no one a right to accuse her of assisting to ruin theyoung heir; but she could hardly bring herself to admit
And then the squire came to see her, and this was a yet harder trialthan the visit of Beatrice. It was so difficult for her to speak tohim that she could not but wish him away; and yet, had he not come,had he altogether neglected her, she would have felt it to be unkind.She had ever been his pet, had always received kindness from him.
"I am sorry for all this, Mary; very sorry," said he, standing up,and holding both her hands in his.
"It can't be helped, sir," said she, smiling.
"I don't know," said he; "I don't know--it ought to be helpedsomehow--I am quite sure you have not been to blame."
"No," said she, very quietly, as though the position was one quitea matter of course. "I don't think I have been very much to blame.There will be misfortunes sometimes when nobody is to blame."
"I do not quite understand it all," said the squire; "but if Frank--"
"Oh! we will not talk about him," said she, still laughing gently.
"You can understand, Mary, how dear he must be to me; but if--"
"Mr Gresham, I would not for worlds be the cause of anyunpleasantness between you and him."
"But I cannot bear to think that we have banished you, Mary."
"It cannot be helped. Things will all come right in time."
"But you will be so lonely here."
"Oh! I shall get over all that. Here, you know, Mr Gresham, 'I ammonarch of all I survey;' and there is a great deal in that."
The squire did not quite catch her meaning, but a glimmering of itdid reach him. It was competent to Lady Arabella to banish her fromGreshamsbury; it was within the sphere of the squire's duties toprohibit his son from an imprudent match; it was for the Greshams toguard their Greshamsbury treasure as best they could within theirown territories: but let them beware that they did not attack her onhers. In obedience to the first expression of their wishes, she hadsubmitted herself to this public mark of their disapproval becauseshe had seen at once, with her clear intellect, that they were onlydoing that which her conscience must approve. Without a murmur,therefore, she consented to be pointed at as the young lady who hadbeen turned out of Greshamsbury because of the young squire. She hadno help for it. But let them take care that they did not go beyondthat. Outside those Greshamsbury gates she and Frank Gresham, sheand Lady Arabella met on equal terms; let them each fight their ownbattle.
The squire kissed her forehead affectionately and took his leave,feeling, somehow, that he had been excused and pitied, and made muchof; whereas he had called on his young neighbour with the intentionof excusing, and pitying, and making much of her. He was notquite comfortable as he left the house; but, nevertheless, he wassufficiently honest-hearted to own to himself that Mary Thorne was afine girl. Only that it was so absolutely necessary that Frank shouldmarry money--and only, also, that poor Mary was such a birthlessfoundling in the world's esteem--only, but for these things, what awife she would have made for that son of his!
To one person only did she talk freely on the subject, and that onewas Patience Oriel; and even with her the freedom was rather of themind than of the heart. She never said a word of her feeling withreference to Frank, but she said much of her position in the village,and of the necessity she was under to keep out of the way.
"It is very hard," said Patience, "that the offence should be allwith him, and the punishment all with you."
"Oh! as for that," said Mary, laughing, "I will not confess to anyoffence, nor yet to any punishment; certainly not to any punishment."
"It comes to the same thing in the end."
"No, not so, Patience; there is always some little sting of disgracein punishment: now I am not going to hold myself in the leastdisgraced."
"But, Mary, you must meet the Greshams sometimes."
"Meet them! I have not the slightest objection on earth to meet all,or any of them. They are not a whit dangerous to me, my dear. 'TisI that am the wild beast, and 'tis they that must avoid me," andthen she added, after a pause--slightly blushing--"I have not theslightest objection even to meet him if chance brings him in my way.Let them look to that. My undertaking goes no further than this, thatI will not be seen within their gates."
But the girls so far understood each other that Patience undertook,rather than promised, to give Mary what assistance she could; and,despite Mary's bravado, she was in such a position that she muchwanted the assistance of such a friend as Miss Oriel.
After an absence of some six weeks, Frank, as we have seen, returnedhome. Nothing was said to him, except by Beatrice, as to these newGreshamsbury arrangements; and he, when he found Mary was not at theplace, went boldly to the doctor's house to seek her. But it has beenseen, also, that she discreetly kept out of his way. This she hadthought fit to do when the time came, although she had been so readywith her boast that she had no objection on earth to meet him.
After that there had been the Christmas vacation, and Mary had againfound discretion to be the better part of valour. This was doubtlessdisagreeable enough. She had no particular wish to spend herChristmas with Miss Oriel's aunt instead of at her uncle's fireside.Indeed, her Christmas festivities had hitherto been kept atGreshamsbury, the doctor and herself having made a part of the familycircle there assembled. This was out of the question now; and perhapsthe absolute change to old Miss Oriel's house was better for her thanthe lesser change to her uncle's drawing-room. Besides, how could shehave demeaned herself when she met Frank in their parish church? Allthis had been fully understood by Patience, and, therefore, had thisChristmas visit been planned.
And then this affair of Frank and Mary Thorne ceased for a while tobe talked of at Greshamsbury, for that other affair of Mr Moffat andAugusta monopolised the rural attention. Augusta, as we have said,bore it well, and sustained the public gaze without much flinching.Her period of martyrdom, however, did not last long, for soonthe news arrived of Frank's exploit in Pall Mall; and then theGreshamsburyites forgot to think much more of Augusta, being fullyoccupied in thinking of what Frank had done.
The tale, as it was first told, declared that Frank had followed MrMoffat up into his club; had dragged him thence into the middle ofPall Mall, and had then slaughtered him on the spot. This was bydegrees modified till a sobered fiction became generally prevalent,that Mr Moffat was lying somewhere, still alive, but with all hisbones in a general state of compound fracture. This adventure againbrought Frank into the ascendant, and restored to Mary her formerposition as the Greshamsbury heroine.
"One cannot wonder at his being very angry," said Beatrice,discussing the matter with Mary--very imprudently.
"Wonder--no; the wonder would have been if he had not been angry. Onemight have been quite sure that he would have been angry enough."
"I suppose it was not absolutely right for him to beat Mr Moffat,"said Beatrice, apologetically.
"Not right, Trichy? I think he was very right."
"Not to beat him so very much, Mary!"
"Oh, I suppose a man can't exactly stand measuring how much he doesthese things. I like your brother for what he has done, and I sayso frankly--though I suppose I ought to eat my tongue out before Ishould say such a thing, eh, Trichy?"
"I don't know that there's any harm in that," said Beatrice,demurely. "If you both liked each other there would be no harm inthat--if that were all."
"Wouldn't there?" said Mary, in a low tone of bantering satire; "thatis so kind, Trichy, coming from you--from one of the family, youknow."
"You are well aware, Mary, that if I could have my wishes--"
"Yes: I am well aware what a paragon of goodness you are. If youcould have your way I should be admitted into heaven again; shouldn'tI? Only with this proviso, that if a stray angel should ever whisperto me with bated breath, mistaking me, perchance, for one of his ownclass, I should be bound to close my ears to his whispering, andremind him humbly that I was only a poor mortal. You would trust meso far, wouldn't you, Trichy?"
"I would trust you in any way, Mary.
"Into whatever heaven I am admitted, I will go only on thisunderstanding: that I am to be as good an angel as any of thosearound me."
"But, Mary dear, why do you say this to me?"
"Because--because--because--ah me! Why, indeed, but because I have noone else to say it to. Certainly not because you have deserved it."
"It seems as though you were finding fault with me."
"And so I am; how can I do other than find fault? How can I helpbeing sore? Trichy, you hardly realise my position you hardly seehow I am treated; how I am forced to allow myself to be treatedwithout a sign of complaint. You don't see it all. If you did, youwould not wonder that I should be sore."
Beatrice did not quite see it all; but she saw enough of it to knowthat Mary was to be pitied; so, instead of scolding her friendfor being cross, she threw her arms round her and kissed heraffectionately.
But the doctor all this time suffered much more than his niece did.He could not complain out loudly; he could not aver that his pet lambhad been ill treated; he could not even have the pleasure of openlyquarrelling with Lady Arabella; but not the less did he feel it tobe most cruel that Mary should have to live before the world as anoutcast, because it had pleased Frank Gresham to fall in love withher.
But his bitterness was not chiefly against Frank. That Frank had beenvery foolish he could not but acknowledge; but it was a kind of follyfor which the doctor was able to find excuse. For Lady Arabella'scold propriety he could find no excuse.
With the squire he had spoken no word on the subject up to thisperiod of which we are now writing. With her ladyship he had neverspoken on it since that day when she had told him that Mary wasto come no more to Greshamsbury. He never now dined or spent hisevenings at Greshamsbury, and seldom was to be seen at the house,except when called in professionally. The squire, indeed, hefrequently met; but he either did so in the village, or out onhorseback, or at his own house.
When the doctor first heard that Sir Roger had lost his seat, and hadreturned to Boxall Hill, he resolved to go over and see him. But thevisit was postponed from day to day, as visits are postponed whichmay be made any day, and he did not in fact go till he was summonedthere somewhat peremptorily. A message was brought to him one eveningto say that Sir Roger had been struck by paralysis, and that not amoment was to be lost.
"It always happens at night," said Mary, who had more sympathy forthe living uncle whom she did know, than for the other dying unclewhom she did not know.
"What matters?--there--just give me my scarf. In all probability Imay not be home to-night--perhaps not till late to-morrow. God blessyou, Mary!" and away the doctor went on his cold bleak ride to BoxallHill.
"Who will be his heir?" As the doctor rode along, he could not quiterid his mind of this question. The poor man now about to die hadwealth enough to make many heirs. What if his heart should havesoftened towards his sister's child! What if Mary should be found ina few days to be possessed of such wealth that the Greshams should beagain happy to welcome her at Greshamsbury!
The doctor was not a lover of money--and he did his best to get ridof such pernicious thoughts. But his longings, perhaps, were not somuch that Mary should be rich, as that she should have the power ofheaping coals of fire upon the heads of those people who had soinjured her.