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

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