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

the society which the de Courcys were able to open to him. And

it was true that a certain belle of the season, of that season and

some others, had been captivated—for the tenth time—by the silken

sheen of his long beard. Frank had probably been more demonstrative,

perhaps even more susceptible, than he should have been; and

hence the rumour, which had all too willingly been forwarded to

Greshamsbury.

 

But young Gresham had also met another lady in London, namely Miss

Dunstable. Mary would indeed have been grateful to Miss Dunstable,

could she have known all that lady did for her. Frank’s love was

never allowed to flag. When he spoke of the difficulties in his way,

she twitted him by being overcome by straws; and told him that no

one was worth having who was afraid of every lion that he met in his

path. When he spoke of money, she bade him earn it; and always ended

by offering to smooth for him any real difficulty which want of means

might put in his way.

 

“No,” Frank used to say to himself, when these offers were made, “I

never intended to take her and her money together; and, therefore, I

certainly will never take the money alone.”

 

A day or two after Miss Oriel’s visit, Mary received the following

note from Beatrice.

 

DEAREST, DEAREST MARY,

 

I shall be so happy to see you, and will come to-morrow at

twelve. I have asked mamma, and she says that, for once,

she has no objection. You know it is not my fault that

I have never been with you; don’t you? Frank comes home

on the 12th. Mr Oriel wants the wedding to be on the 1st

of September; but that seems to be so very, very soon;

doesn’t it? However, mamma and papa are all on his side.

I won’t write about this, though, for we shall have such a

delicious talk. Oh, Mary! I have been so unhappy without

you.

 

Ever your own affectionate,

 

TRICHY

 

Monday.

 

Though Mary was delighted at the idea of once more having her friend

in her arms, there was, nevertheless, something in this letter which

oppressed her. She could not put up with the idea that Beatrice

should have permission given to come to her—just for once. She

hardly wished to be seen by permission. Nevertheless, she did not

refuse the proffered visit, and the first sight of Beatrice’s face,

the first touch of the first embrace, dissipated for the moment all

her anger.

 

And then Beatrice fully enjoyed the delicious talk which she had

promised herself. Mary let her have her way, and for two hours

all the delights and all the duties, all the comforts and all the

responsibilities of a parson’s wife were discussed with almost equal

ardour on both sides. The duties and responsibilities were not

exactly those which too often fall to the lot of the mistress of

an English vicarage. Beatrice was not doomed to make her husband

comfortable, to educate her children, dress herself like a lady, and

exercise open-handed charity on an income of two hundred pounds a

year. Her duties and responsibilities would have to spread themselves

over seven or eight times that amount of worldly burden. Living also

close to Greshamsbury, and not far from Courcy Castle, she would have

the full advantages and all the privileges of county society. In

fact, it was all couleur de rose, and so she chatted deliciously

with her friend.

 

But it was impossible that they should separate without something

having been said as to Mary’s own lot. It would, perhaps, have been

better that they should do so; but this was hardly within the compass

of human nature.

 

“And Mary, you know, I shall be able to see you as often as I

like;—you and Dr Thorne, too, when I have a house of my own.”

 

Mary said nothing, but essayed to smile. It was but a ghastly

attempt.

 

“You know how happy that will make me,” continued Beatrice. “Of

course mamma won’t expect me to be led by her then: if he likes it,

there can be no objection; and he will like it, you may be sure of

that.”

 

“You are very kind, Trichy,” said Mary; but she spoke in a tone very

different from that she would have used eighteen months ago.

 

“Why, what is the matter, Mary? Shan’t you be glad to come to see

us?”

 

“I do not know, dearest; that must depend on circumstances. To see

you, you yourself, your own dear, sweet, loving face must always be

pleasant to me.”

 

“And shan’t you be glad to see him?”

 

“Yes, certainly, if he loves you.”

 

“Of course he loves me.”

 

“All that alone would be pleasant enough, Trichy. But what if there

should be circumstances which should still make us enemies; should

make your friends and my friends—friend, I should say, for I have

only one—should make them opposed to each other?”

 

“Circumstances! What circumstances?”

 

“You are going to be married, Trichy, to the man you love; are you

not?”

 

“Indeed, I am!”

 

“And it is not pleasant? is it not a happy feeling?”

 

“Pleasant! happy! yes, very pleasant; very happy. But, Mary, I am not

at all in such a hurry as he is,” said Beatrice, naturally thinking

of her own little affairs.

 

“And, suppose I should wish to be married to the man that I love?”

Mary said this slowly and gravely, and as she spoke she looked her

friend full in the face.

 

Beatrice was somewhat astonished, and for the moment hardly

understood. “I am sure I hope you will, some day.”

 

“No, Trichy; no, you hope the other way. I love your brother; I love

Frank Gresham; I love him quite as well, quite as warmly, as you love

Caleb Oriel.”

 

“Do you?” said Beatrice, staring with all her eyes, and giving one

long sigh, as this new subject for sorrow was so distinctly put

before her.

 

“It that so odd?” said Mary. “You love Mr Oriel, though you have been

intimate with him hardly more than two years. Is it so odd that I

should love your brother, whom I have known almost all my life?”

 

“But, Mary, I thought it was always understood between us

that—that—I mean that you were not to care about him; not in the

way of loving him, you know—I thought you always said so—I have

always told mamma so as if it came from yourself.”

 

“Beatrice, do not tell anything to Lady Arabella as though it came

from me; I do not want anything to be told to her, either of me or

from me. Say what you like to me yourself; whatever you say will not

anger me. Indeed, I know what you would say—and yet I love you. Oh,

I love you, Trichy—Trichy, I do love you so much! Don’t turn away

from me!”

 

There was such a mixture in Mary’s manner of tenderness and almost

ferocity, that poor Beatrice could hardly follow her. “Turn away from

you, Mary! no never; but this does make me unhappy.”

 

“It is better that you should know it all, and then you will not be

led into fighting my battles again. You cannot fight them so that I

should win; I do love your brother; love him truly, fondly, tenderly.

I would wish to have him for my husband as you wish to have Mr

Oriel.”

 

“But, Mary, you cannot marry him!”

 

“Why not?” said she, in a loud voice. “Why can I not marry him? If

the priest says a blessing over us, shall we not be married as well

as you and your husband?”

 

“But you know he cannot marry unless his wife shall have money.”

 

“Money—money; and he is to sell himself for money? Oh, Trichy! do

not you talk about money. It is horrible. But, Trichy, I will grant

it—I cannot marry him; but still, I love him. He has a name, a place

in the world, and fortune, family, high blood, position, everything.

He has all this, and I have nothing. Of course I cannot marry him.

But yet I do love him.”

 

“Are you engaged to him, Mary?”

 

“He is not engaged to me; but I am to him.”

 

“Oh, Mary, that is impossible!”

 

“It is not impossible: it is the case—I am pledged to him; but he is

not pledged to me.”

 

“But, Mary, don’t look at me in that way. I do not quite understand

you. What is the good of your being engaged if you cannot marry him?”

 

“Good! there is no good. But can I help it, if I love him? Can I make

myself not love him by just wishing it? Oh, I would do it if I could.

But now you will understand why I shake my head when you talk of my

coming to your house. Your ways and my ways must be different.”

 

Beatrice was startled, and, for a time, silenced. What Mary said of

the difference of their ways was quite true. Beatrice had dearly

loved her friend, and had thought of her with affection through all

this long period in which they had been separated; but she had given

her love and her thoughts on the understanding, as it were, that they

were in unison as to the impropriety of Frank’s conduct.

 

She had always spoken, with a grave face, of Frank and his love as of

a great misfortune, even to Mary herself; and her pity for Mary had

been founded on the conviction of her innocence. Now all those ideas

had to be altered. Mary owned her fault, confessed herself to be

guilty of all that Lady Arabella so frequently laid to her charge,

and confessed herself anxious to commit every crime as to which

Beatrice had been ever so ready to defend her.

 

Had Beatrice up to this dreamed that Mary was in love with Frank,

she would doubtless have sympathised with her more or less, sooner

or later. As it was, is was beyond all doubt that she would soon

sympathise with her. But, at the moment, the suddenness of the

declaration seemed to harden her heart, and she forgot, as it were,

to speak tenderly to her friend.

 

She was silent, therefore, and dismayed; and looked as though she

thought that her ways and Mary’s ways must be different.

 

Mary saw all that was passing in the other’s mind: no, not all; all

the hostility, the disappointment, the disapproval, the unhappiness,

she did see; but not the under-current of love, which was strong

enough to well up and drown all these, if only time could be allowed

for it to do so.

 

“I am glad I have told you,” said Mary, curbing herself, “for deceit

and hypocrisy are detestable.”

 

“It was a misunderstanding, not deceit,” said Beatrice.

 

“Well, now we understand each other; now you know that I have a heart

within me, which like those of some others has not always been under

my own control. Lady Arabella believes that I am intriguing to be the

mistress of Greshamsbury. You, at any rate, will not think that of

me. If it could be discovered to-morrow that Frank were not the heir,

I might have some chance of happiness.”

 

“But, Mary—”

 

“Well?”

 

“You say you love him.”

 

“Yes; I do say so.”

 

“But if he does not love you, will you cease to do so?”

 

“If I have a fever, I will get rid of it if I can; in such case I

must do so, or die.”