Doctor Thorne by Anthony Trollope (epub ebook reader .TXT) 📕

misfortune had made so habitual to him. “Something

to tell me!” Any grave words like these always presaged some money

difficulty to the squire’s ears. He loved Frank with the tenderest

love. He would have done so under almost any circumstances; but,

doubtless, that love had been made more palpable to himself by the

fact that Frank had been a good son as regards money—not exigeant

as was Lady Arabella, or selfishly reckless as was his nephew Lord

Porlock. But now Frank must be in difficulty about money. This was

his first idea. “What is it, Frank; you have seldom had anything

to say that has not been pleasant for me to hear?” And then the

heaviness of visage again gave way for a moment as his eye fell upon

his son.

 

“I have been to Boxall Hill, sir.”

 

The tenor of his father’s thoughts was changed in an instant; and the

dread of immediate temporary annoyance gave place to true anxiety for

his son. He, the squire, had been no party to Mary’s exile from his

own domain; and he had seen with pain that she had now a second time

been driven from her home: but he had never hitherto questioned the

expediency of separating his son from Mary Thorne. Alas! it became

too necessary—too necessary through his own default—that Frank

should marry money!

 

“At Boxall Hill, Frank! Has that been prudent? Or, indeed, has it

been generous to Miss Thorne, who has been driven there, as it were,

by your imprudence?”

 

“Father, it is well that we should understand each other about

this—”

 

“Fill your glass, Frank;” Frank mechanically did as he was told, and

passed the bottle.

 

“I should never forgive myself were I to deceive you, or keep

anything from you.”

 

“I believe it is not in your nature to deceive me, Frank.”

 

“The fact is, sir, that I have made up my mind that Mary Thorne shall

be my wife—sooner or later that is, unless, of course, she should

utterly refuse. Hitherto, she has utterly refused me. I believe I may

now say that she has accepted me.”

 

The squire sipped his claret, but at the moment said nothing. There

was a quiet, manly, but yet modest determination about his son

that he had hardly noticed before. Frank had become legally of

age, legally a man, when he was twenty-one. Nature, it seems, had

postponed the ceremony till he was twenty-two. Nature often does

postpone the ceremony even to a much later age;—sometimes,

altogether forgets to accomplish it.

 

The squire continued to sip his claret; he had to think over the

matter a while before he could answer a statement so deliberately

made by his son.

 

“I think I may say so,” continued Frank, with perhaps unnecessary

modesty. “She is so honest that, had she not intended it, she

would have said so honestly. Am I right, father, in thinking that,

as regards Mary, personally, you would not reject her as a

daughter-in-law?”

 

“Personally!” said the squire, glad to have the subject presented to

him in a view that enabled him to speak out. “Oh, no; personally, I

should not object to her, for I love her dearly. She is a good girl.

I do believe she is a good girl in every respect. I have always liked

her; liked to see her about the house. But—”

 

“I know what you would say, father.” This was rather more than the

squire knew himself. “Such a marriage is imprudent.”

 

“It is more than that, Frank; I fear it is impossible.”

 

“Impossible! No, father; it is not impossible.”

 

“It is impossible, Frank, in the usual sense. What are you to live

upon? What would you do with your children? You would not wish to see

your wife distressed and comfortless.”

 

“No, I should not like to see that.”

 

“You would not wish to begin life as an embarrassed man and end it

as a ruined man. If you were now to marry Miss Thorne such would, I

fear, doubtless be your lot.”

 

Frank caught at the word “now.” “I don’t expect to marry immediately.

I know that would be imprudent. But I am pledged, father, and I

certainly cannot go back. And now that I have told you all this, what

is your advice to me?”

 

The father again sat silent, still sipping his wine. There was

nothing in his son that he could be ashamed of, nothing that he could

meet with anger, nothing that he could not love; but how should he

answer him? The fact was, that the son had more in him than the

father; this his mind and spirit were of a calibre not to be opposed

successfully by the mind and spirit of the squire.

 

“Do you know Mary’s history?” said Mr Gresham, at last; “the history

of her birth?”

 

“Not a word of it,” said Frank. “I did not know she had a history.”

 

“Nor does she know it; at least, I presume not. But you should know

it now. And, Frank, I will tell it you; not to turn you from her—not

with that object, though I think that, to a certain extent, it should

have that effect. Mary’s birth was not such as would become your wife

and be beneficial to your children.”

 

“If so, father, I should have known that sooner. Why was she brought

in here among us?”

 

“True, Frank. The fault is mine; mine and your mother’s.

Circumstances brought it about years ago, when it never occurred to

us that all this would arise. But I will tell you her history. And,

Frank, remember this, though I tell it you as a secret, a secret to

be kept from all the world but one, you are quite at liberty to let

the doctor know that I have told you. Indeed, I shall be careful to

let him know myself should it ever be necessary that he and I should

speak together as to this engagement.” The squire then told his son

the whole story of Mary’s birth, as it is known to the reader.

 

Frank sat silent, looking very blank; he also had, as had every

Gresham, a great love for his pure blood. He had said to his mother

that he hated money, that he hated the estate; but he would have been

very slow to say, even in his warmest opposition to her, that he

hated the roll of the family pedigree. He loved it dearly, though he

seldom spoke of it;—as men of good family seldom do speak of it. It

is one of those possessions which to have is sufficient. A man having

it need not boast of what he has, or show it off before the world.

But on that account he values it more. He had regarded Mary as a

cutting duly taken from the Ullathorne tree; not, indeed, as a

grafting branch, full of flower, just separated from the parent

stalk, but as being not a whit the less truly endowed with the pure

sap of that venerable trunk. When, therefore, he heard her true

history he sat awhile dismayed.

 

“It is a sad story,” said the father.

 

“Yes, sad enough,” said Frank, rising from his chair and standing

with it before him, leaning on the back of it. “Poor Mary, poor Mary!

She will have to learn it some day.”

 

“I fear so, Frank;” and then there was again a few moments’ silence.

 

“To me, father, it is told too late. It can now have no effect on me.

Indeed,” said he, sighing as he spoke, but still relieving himself by

the very sigh, “it could have had no effect had I learned it ever so

soon.”

 

“I should have told you before,” said the father; “certainly I ought

to have done so.”

 

“It would have been no good,” said Frank. “Ah, sir, tell me this: who

were Miss Dunstable’s parents? What was that fellow Moffat’s family?”

 

This was perhaps cruel of Frank. The squire, however, made no answer

to the question. “I have thought it right to tell you,” said he.

“I leave all commentary to yourself. I need not tell you what your

mother will think.”

 

“What did she think of Miss Dunstable’s birth?” said he, again more

bitterly than before. “No, sir,” he continued, after a further pause.

“All that can make no change; none at any rate now. It can’t make my

love less, even if it could have prevented it. Nor, even, could it do

so—which it can’t least, not in the least—but could it do so, it

could not break my engagement. I am now engaged to Mary Thorne.”

 

And then he again repeated his question, asking for his father’s

advice under the present circumstances. The conversation was a very

long one, as long as to disarrange all Lady Arabella’s plans. She

had determined to take her son most stringently to task that very

evening; and with this object had ensconced herself in the small

drawing-room which had formerly been used for a similar purpose by

the august countess herself. Here she now sat, having desired Augusta

and Beatrice, as well as the twins, to beg Frank to go to her as soon

as he should come out of the dining-room. Poor lady! there she waited

till ten o’clock,—tealess. There was not much of the Bluebeard about

the squire; but he had succeeded in making it understood through the

household that he was not to be interrupted by messages from his wife

during the post-prandial hour, which, though no toper, he loved so

well.

 

As a period of twelve months will now have to be passed over, the

upshot of this long conversation must be told in as few words as

possible. The father found it impracticable to talk his son out of

his intended marriage; indeed, he hardly attempted to do so by any

direct persuasion. He explained to him that it was impossible that he

should marry at once, and suggested that he, Frank, was very young.

 

“You married, sir, before you were one-and-twenty,” said Frank. Yes,

and repented before I was two-and-twenty. So did not say the squire.

 

He suggested that Mary should have time to ascertain what would be

her uncle’s wishes, and ended by inducing Frank to promise, that

after taking his degree in October he would go abroad for some

months, and that he would not indeed return to Greshamsbury till he

was three-and-twenty.

 

“He may perhaps forget her,” said the father to himself, as this

agreement was made between them.

 

“He thinks that I shall forget her,” said Frank to himself at the

same time; “but he does not know me.”

 

When Lady Arabella at last got hold of her son she found that the

time for her preaching was utterly gone by. He told her, almost with

sang-froid, what his plans were; and when she came to understand

them, and to understand also what had taken place at Boxall Hill, she

could not blame the squire for what he had done. She also said to

herself, more confidently than the squire had done, that Frank would

quite forget Mary before the year was out. “Lord Buckish,” said she

to herself, rejoicingly, “is now with the ambassador at Paris”—Lord

Buckish was her nephew—“and with him Frank will meet women that are

really beautiful—women of fashion. When with Lord Buckish he will

soon forget Mary Thorne.”

 

But not on this account did she change her resolve to follow up

to the furthest point her hostility to the Thornes. She was fully

enabled now to do so, for Dr Fillgrave was already reinstalled at

Greshamsbury as her medical adviser.

 

One other