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

the county, and of the fact

that a marriage would mar that position so vitally; she did think of

the old name, and the old Gresham pride; she did think of the squire

and his deep distress: it was true that she had lived among them

long enough to understand these things, and to know that it was not

possible that this marriage should take place without deep family

sorrow.

 

And then she asked herself whether, in consenting to accept Frank’s

hand, she had adequately considered this; and she was forced to

acknowledge that she had not considered it. She had ridiculed Lady

Arabella for saying that Frank was still a boy; but was it not true

that his offer had been made with a boy’s energy, rather than a man’s

forethought? If so, if she had been wrong to accede to that offer

when made, would she not be doubly wrong to hold him to it now that

she saw their error?

 

It was doubtless true that Frank himself could not be the first to

draw back. What would people say of him? She could now calmly ask

herself the question that had so angered her when asked by Lady

Arabella. If he could not do it, and if, nevertheless, it behoved

them to break off this match, by whom was it to be done if not

by her? Was not Lady Arabella right throughout, right in her

conclusions, though so foully wrong in her manner of drawing them?

 

And then she did think for one moment of herself. “You who have

nothing to give in return!” Such had been Lady Arabella’s main

accusation against her. Was it in fact true that she had nothing to

give? Her maiden love, her feminine pride, her very life, and spirit,

and being—were these things nothing? Were they to be weighed against

pounds sterling per annum? and, when so weighed, were they ever to

kick the beam like feathers? All these things had been nothing to

her when, without reflection, governed wholly by the impulse of the

moment, she had first allowed his daring hand to lie for an instant

in her own. She had thought nothing of these things when that other

suitor came, richer far than Frank, to love whom it was as impossible

to her as it was not to love him.

 

Her love had been pure from all such thoughts; she was conscious

that it ever would be pure from them. Lady Arabella was unable to

comprehend this, and, therefore, was Lady Arabella so utterly

distasteful to her.

 

Frank had once held her close to his warm breast; and her very soul

had thrilled with joy to feel that he so loved her,—with a joy which

she had hardly dared to acknowledge. At that moment, her maidenly

efforts had been made to push him off, but her heart had grown to

his. She had acknowledged him to be master of her spirit; her bosom’s

lord; the man whom she had been born to worship; the human being to

whom it was for her to link her destiny. Frank’s acres had been of no

account; nor had his want of acres. God had brought them two together

that they should love each other; that conviction had satisfied her,

and she had made it a duty to herself that she would love him with

her very soul. And now she was called upon to wrench herself asunder

from him because she had nothing to give in return!

 

Well, she would wrench herself asunder, as far as such wrenching

might be done compatibly with her solemn promise. It might be right

that Frank should have an opportunity offered him, so that he might

escape from his position without disgrace. She would endeavour to

give him this opportunity. So, with one deep sigh, she arose, took

herself pen, ink, and paper, and sat herself down again so that the

wrenching might begin.

 

And then, for a moment, she thought of her uncle. Why had he not

spoken to her of all this? Why had he not warned her? He who had ever

been so good to her, why had he now failed her so grievously? She had

told him everything, had had no secret from him; but he had never

answered her a word. “He also must have known,” she said to herself,

piteously, “he also must have known that I could give nothing in

return.” Such accusation, however, availed her not at all, so she sat

down and slowly wrote her letter.

 

“Dearest Frank,” she began. She had at first written “dear Mr

Gresham;” but her heart revolted against such useless coldness. She

was not going to pretend she did not love him.

 

DEAREST FRANK,

 

Your mother has been here talking to me about our

engagement. I do not generally agree with her about such

matters; but she has said some things to-day which I

cannot but acknowledge to be true. She says, that our

marriage would be distressing to your father, injurious to

all your family, and ruinous to yourself. If this be so,

how can I, who love you, wish for such a marriage?

 

I remember my promise, and have kept it. I would not

yield to your mother when she desired me to disclaim our

engagement. But I do think it will be more prudent if

you will consent to forget all that has passed between

us—not, perhaps, to forget it; that may not be possible

for us—but to let it pass by as though it had never

been. If so, if you think so, dear Frank, do not have any

scruples on my account. What will be best for you, must be

best for me. Think what a reflection it would ever be to

me, to have been the ruin of one that I love so well.

 

Let me have but one word to say that I am released from my

promise, and I will tell my uncle that the matter between

us is over. It will be painful for us at first; those

occasional meetings which must take place will distress

us, but that will wear off. We shall always think well

of each other, and why should we not be friends? This,

doubtless, cannot be done without inward wounds; but such

wounds are in God’s hands, and He can cure them.

 

I know what your first feelings will be on reading this

letter; but do not answer it in obedience to first

feelings. Think over it, think of your father, and all you

owe him, of your old name, your old family, and of what

the world expects from you. [Mary was forced to put her

hand to her eyes, to save her paper from her falling

tears, as she found herself thus repeating, nearly word

for word, the arguments that had been used by Lady

Arabella.] Think of these things, coolly, if you can, but,

at any rate, without passion: and then let me have one

word in answer. One word will suffice.

 

I have but to add this: do not allow yourself to think

that my heart will ever reproach you. It cannot reproach

you for doing that which I myself suggest. [Mary’s logic

in this was very false; but she was not herself aware of

it.] I will never reproach you either in word or thought;

and as for all others, it seems to me that the world

agrees that we have hitherto been wrong. The world, I

hope, will be satisfied when we have obeyed it.

 

God bless you, dearest Frank! I shall never call you

so again; but it would be a pretence were I to write

otherwise in this letter. Think of this, and then let me

have one line.

 

Your affectionate friend,

 

MARY THORNE.

 

P.S.—Of course I cannot be at dear Beatrice’s marriage;

but when they come back to the parsonage, I shall see her.

I am sure they will both be happy, because they are so

good. I need hardly say that I shall think of them on

their wedding day.

 

When she had finished her letter, she addressed it plainly, in her

own somewhat bold handwriting, to Francis N. Gresham, Jun., Esq., and

then took it herself to the little village post-office. There should

be nothing underhand about her correspondence: all the Greshamsbury

world should know of it—that world of which she had spoken in her

letter—if that world so pleased. Having put her penny label on it,

she handed it, with an open brow and an unembarrassed face, to the

baker’s wife, who was Her Majesty’s postmistress at Greshamsbury;

and, having so finished her work, she returned to see the table

prepared for her uncle’s dinner. “I will say nothing to him,” said

she to herself, “till I get the answer. He will not talk to me about

it, so why should I trouble him?”