Doctor Thorne, Anthony Trollope [best book reader .txt] 📗

London.

 

This occurred on the very evening of that Friday which had witnessed

the Lady Arabella’s last visit to Dr Thorne’s house. The question of

the squire’s necessary journey to the great fountains of justice was,

of course, discussed between Lady Arabella and Mr Gazebee; and it

occurred to the former, full as she was of Frank’s iniquity and of

Mary’s obstinacy, that if Frank were sent up in lieu of his father,

it would separate them at least for a while. If she could only get

Frank away without seeing his love, she might yet so work upon him,

by means of the message which Mary had sent, as to postpone, if not

break off, this hateful match. It was inconceivable that a youth

of twenty-three, and such a youth as Frank, should be obstinately

constant to a girl possessed of no great beauty—so argued Lady

Arabella to herself—and who had neither wealth, birth, nor fashion

to recommend her.

 

And thus it was at last settled—the squire being a willing party

to the agreement—that Frank should go up and be badgered in lieu

of his father. At his age it was possible to make it appear a

thing desirable, if not necessary—on account of the importance

conveyed—to sit day after day in the chambers of Messrs Slow &

Bideawhile, and hear musty law talk, and finger dusty law parchments.

The squire had made many visits to Messrs Slow & Bideawhile, and he

knew better. Frank had not hitherto been there on his own bottom, and

thus he fell easily into the trap.

 

Mr Oriel was also going to London, and this was another reason for

sending Frank. Mr Oriel had business of great importance, which it

was quite necessary that he should execute before his marriage. How

much of this business consisted in going to his tailor, buying a

wedding-ring, and purchasing some other more costly present for

Beatrice, we need not here inquire. But Mr Oriel was quite on Lady

Arabella’s side with reference to this mad engagement, and as Frank

and he were now fast friends, some good might be done in that way.

“If we all caution him against it, he can hardly withstand us all!”

said Lady Arabella to herself.

 

The matter was broached to Frank on the Saturday evening, and settled

between them all the same night. Nothing, of course, was at that

moment said about Mary; but Lady Arabella was too full of the subject

to let him go to London without telling him that Mary was ready to

recede if only he would allow her to do so. About eleven o’clock,

Frank was sitting in his own room, conning over the difficulties

of the situation—thinking of his father’s troubles, and his own

position—when he was roused from his reverie by a slight tap at the

door.

 

“Come in,” said he, somewhat loudly. He thought it was one of his

sisters, who were apt to visit him at all hours and for all manner

of reasons; and he, though he was usually gentle to them, was not at

present exactly in a humour to be disturbed.

 

The door gently opened, and he saw his mother standing hesitating in

the passage.

 

“Can I come in, Frank?” said she.

 

“Oh, yes, mother; by all means:” and then, with some surprise marked

in his countenance, he prepared a seat for her. Such a visit as this

from Lady Arabella was very unusual; so much so, that he had probably

not seen her in his own room since the day when he first left school.

He had nothing, however, to be ashamed of; nothing to conceal, unless

it were an open letter from Miss Dunstable which he had in his hand

when she entered, and which he somewhat hurriedly thrust into his

pocket.

 

“I wanted to say a few words to you, Frank, before you start for

London about this business.” Frank signified by a gesture, that he

was quite ready to listen to her.

 

“I am so glad to see your father putting the matter into your hands.

You are younger than he is; and then—I don’t know why, but somehow

your father has never been a good man of business—everything has

gone wrong with him.”

 

“Oh, mother! do not say anything against him.”

 

“No, Frank, I will not; I do not wish it. Things have been

unfortunate, certainly. Ah me! I little thought when I married—but I

don’t mean to complain—I have excellent children, and I ought to be

thankful for that.”

 

Frank began to fear that no good could be coming when his mother

spoke in that strain. “I will do the best I can,” said he, “up in

town. I can’t help thinking myself that Mr Gazebee might have done as

well, but—”

 

“Oh, dear no; by no means. In such cases the principal must show

himself. Besides, it is right you should know how matters stand. Who

is so much interested in it as you are? Poor Frank! I so often feel

for you when I think how the property has dwindled.”

 

“Pray do not mind me, mother. Why should you talk of it as my matter

while my father is not yet forty-five? His life, so to speak, is as

good as mine. I can do very well without it; all I want is to be

allowed to settle to something.”

 

“You mean a profession.”

 

“Yes; something of that sort.”

 

“They are so slow, dear Frank. You, who speak French so well—I

should think my brother might get you in as attaché to some embassy.”

 

“That wouldn’t suit me at all,” said Frank.

 

“Well, we’ll talk about that some other time. But I came about

something else, and I do hope you will hear me.”

 

Frank’s brow again grew black, for he knew that his mother was about

to say something which it would be disagreeable for him to hear.

 

“I was with Mary, yesterday.”

 

“Well, mother?”

 

“Don’t be angry with me, Frank; you can’t but know that the fate

of an only son must be a subject of anxiety to a mother.” Ah! how

singularly altered was Lady Arabella’s tone since first she had taken

upon herself to discuss the marriage prospects of her son! Then how

autocratic had she been as she sent him away, bidding him, with full

command, to throw himself into the golden embraces of Miss Dunstable!

But now, how humble, as she came suppliantly to his room, craving

that she might have leave to whisper into his ears a mother’s anxious

fears! Frank had laughed at her stern behests, though he had half

obeyed them; but he was touched to the heart by her humility.

 

He drew his chair nearer to her, and took her by the hand. But she,

disengaging hers, parted the hair from off his forehead, and kissed

his brow. “Oh, Frank,” she said, “I have been so proud of you, am

still so proud of you. It will send me to my grave if I see you sink

below your proper position. Not that it will be your fault. I am sure

it will not be your fault. Only circumstanced as you are, you should

be doubly, trebly, careful. If your father had not—”

 

“Do not speak against my father.”

 

“No, Frank; I will not—no, I will not; not another word. And now,

Frank—”

 

Before we go on we must say one word further as to Lady Arabella’s

character. It will probably be said that she was a consummate

hypocrite; but at the present moment she was not hypocritical. She

did love her son; was anxious—very, very anxious for him; was proud

of him, and almost admired the very obstinacy which so vexed her to

her inmost soul. No grief would be to her so great as that of seeing

him sink below what she conceived to be his position. She was as

genuinely motherly, in wishing that he should marry money, as another

woman might be in wishing to see her son a bishop; or as the Spartan

matron, who preferred that her offspring should return on his shield,

to hearing that he had come back whole in limb but tainted in honour.

When Frank spoke of a profession, she instantly thought of what Lord

de Courcy might do for him. If he would not marry money, he might, at

any rate, be an attaché at an embassy. A profession—hard work, as

a doctor, or as an engineer—would, according to her ideas, degrade

him; cause him to sink below his proper position; but to dangle at

a foreign court, to make small talk at the evening parties of a

lady ambassadress, and occasionally, perhaps, to write demi-official

notes containing demi-official tittle-tattle; this would be in proper

accordance with the high honour of a Gresham of Greshamsbury.

 

We may not admire the direction taken by Lady Arabella’s energy on

behalf of her son, but that energy was not hypocritical.

 

“And now, Frank—” She looked wistfully into his face as she

addressed him, as though half afraid to go on, and begging that he

would receive with complaisance whatever she found herself forced to

say.

 

“Well, mother?”

 

“I was with Mary, yesterday.”

 

“Yes, yes; what then? I know what your feelings are with regard to

her.”

 

“No, Frank; you wrong me. I have no feelings against her—none,

indeed; none but this: that she is not fit to be your wife.”

 

“I think her fit.”

 

“Ah, yes; but how fit? Think of your position, Frank, and what means

you have of keeping her. Think what you are. Your father’s only son;

the heir to Greshamsbury. If Greshamsbury be ever again more than a

name, it is you that must redeem it. Of all men living you are the

least able to marry a girl like Mary Thorne.”

 

“Mother, I will not sell myself for what you call my position.”

 

“Who asks you? I do not ask you; nobody asks you. I do not want you

to marry any one. I did think once—but let that pass. You are now

twenty-three. In ten years’ time you will still be a young man. I

only ask you to wait. If you marry now, that is, marry such a girl as

Mary Thorne—”

 

“Such a girl! Where shall I find such another?”

 

“I mean as regards money, Frank; you know I mean that; how are you to

live? Where are you to go? And then, her birth. Oh, Frank, Frank!”

 

“Birth! I hate such pretence. What was—but I won’t talk about it.

Mother, I tell you my word is pledged, and on no account will I be

induced to break it.”

 

“Ah, that’s just it; that’s just the point. Now, Frank, listen to me.

Pray listen to me patiently for one minute. I do not ask much of

you.”

 

Frank promised that he would listen patiently; but he looked anything

but patient as he said so.

 

“I have seen Mary, as it was certainly my duty to do. You cannot be

angry with me for that.”

 

“Who said that I was angry, mother?”

 

“Well, I have seen her, and I must own, that though she was not

disposed to be courteous to me, personally, she said much that marked

her excellent good sense. But the gist of it was this; that as she

had made you a promise, nothing should turn her from that promise but

your permission.”

 

“And do you think—”

 

“Wait a moment, Frank, and listen to me. She confessed that this

marriage was one which would necessarily bring distress on all your

family; that it was one which would probably be ruinous to yourself;

that