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

a pause⁠—slightly blushing⁠—“I have not the slightest objection even to meet him if chance brings him in my way. Let them look to that. My undertaking goes no further than this, that I 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 much wanted the assistance of such a friend as Miss Oriel.

After an absence of some six weeks, Frank, as we have seen, returned home. Nothing was said to him, except by Beatrice, as to these new Greshamsbury arrangements; and he, when he found Mary was not at the place, went boldly to the doctor’s house to seek her. But it has been seen, also, that she discreetly kept out of his way. This she had thought fit to do when the time came, although she had been so ready with her boast that she had no objection on earth to meet him.

After that there had been the Christmas vacation, and Mary had again found discretion to be the better part of valour. This was doubtless disagreeable enough. She had no particular wish to spend her Christmas with Miss Oriel’s aunt instead of at her uncle’s fireside. Indeed, her Christmas festivities had hitherto been kept at Greshamsbury, the doctor and herself having made a part of the family circle there assembled. This was out of the question now; and perhaps the absolute change to old Miss Oriel’s house was better for her than the lesser change to her uncle’s drawing-room. Besides, how could she have demeaned herself when she met Frank in their parish church? All this had been fully understood by Patience, and, therefore, had this Christmas visit been planned.

And then this affair of Frank and Mary Thorne ceased for a while to be talked of at Greshamsbury, for that other affair of Mr. Moffat and Augusta 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 soon the news arrived of Frank’s exploit in Pall Mall; and then the Greshamsburyites forgot to think much more of Augusta, being fully occupied in thinking of what Frank had done.

The tale, as it was first told, declared that Frank had followed Mr. Moffat up into his club; had dragged him thence into the middle of Pall Mall, and had then slaughtered him on the spot. This was by degrees modified till a sobered fiction became generally prevalent, that Mr. Moffat was lying somewhere, still alive, but with all his bones in a general state of compound fracture. This adventure again brought Frank into the ascendant, and restored to Mary her former position 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. One might 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 does these things. I like your brother for what he has done, and I say so frankly⁠—though I suppose I ought to eat my tongue out before I should 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 in that⁠—if that were all.”

“Wouldn’t there?” said Mary, in a low tone of bantering satire; “that is so kind, Trichy, coming from you⁠—from one of the family, you know.”

“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 you could have your way I should be admitted into heaven again; shouldn’t I? Only with this proviso, that if a stray angel should ever whisper to me with bated breath, mistaking me, perchance, for one of his own class, I should be bound to close my ears to his whispering, and remind him humbly that I was only a poor mortal. You would trust me so far, wouldn’t you, Trichy?”

“I would trust you in any way, Mary. But I think you are unkind in saying such things to me.”

“Into whatever heaven I am admitted, I will go only on this understanding: that I am to be as good an angel as any of those around me.”

“But, Mary dear, why do you say this to me?”

“Because⁠—because⁠—because⁠—ah me! Why, indeed, but because I have no one 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 help being sore? Trichy, you hardly realise my position; you hardly see how I am treated; how I am forced to allow myself to be treated without a sign of complaint. You don’t see it all. If you did, you would not wonder that I should be sore.”

Beatrice did not quite see it all; but she saw enough of it to know that Mary was to be pitied; so, instead of scolding her friend for being cross, she threw her arms round her and kissed her affectionately.

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 lamb had been ill treated; he could not even have the pleasure of openly quarrelling with Lady Arabella; but not the less did he feel it to be most cruel that Mary should have to live before the world as an outcast, because it had pleased Frank Gresham to fall in love with her.

But his bitterness was