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

CHAPTER VIII

Matrimonial Prospects

 

It will of course be remembered that Mary’s interview with the other

girls at Greshamsbury took place some two or three days subsequently

to Frank’s generous offer of his hand and heart. Mary had quite made

up her mind that the whole thing was to be regarded as a folly, and

that it was not to be spoken of to any one; but yet her heart was

sore enough. She was full of pride, and yet she knew she must bow her

neck to the pride of others. Being, as she was herself, nameless, she

could not but feel a stern, unflinching antagonism, the antagonism of

a democrat, to the pretensions of others who were blessed with that

of which she had been deprived. She had this feeling; and yet, of

all the things that she coveted, she most coveted that, for glorying

in which, she was determined to heap scorn on others. She said to

herself, proudly, that God’s handiwork was the inner man, the inner

woman, the naked creature animated by a living soul; that all other

adjuncts were but man’s clothing for the creature; all others,

whether stitched by tailors or contrived by kings. Was it not within

her capacity to do as nobly, to love as truly, to worship her God in

heaven with as perfect a faith, and her god on earth with as leal a

troth, as though blood had descended to her purely through scores

of purely born progenitors? So to herself she spoke; and yet, as

she said it, she knew that were she a man, such a man as the heir

of Greshamsbury should be, nothing would tempt her to sully her

children’s blood by mating herself with any one that was base born.

She felt that were she an Augusta Gresham, no Mr Moffat, let his

wealth be what it might, should win her hand unless he too could tell

of family honours and a line of ancestors.

 

And so, with a mind at war with itself, she came forth armed to do

battle against the world’s prejudices, those prejudices she herself

loved so well.

 

And was she to give up her old affections, her feminine loves,

because she found that she was a cousin to nobody? Was she no longer

to pour out her heart to Beatrice Gresham with all the girlish

volubility of an equal? Was she to be severed from Patience Oriel,

and banished—or rather was she to banish herself—from the free

place she had maintained in the various youthful female conclaves

held within that parish of Greshamsbury?

 

Hitherto, what Mary Thorne would say, what Miss Thorne suggested in

such or such a matter, was quite as frequently asked as any opinion

from Augusta Gresham—quite as frequently, unless when it chanced

that any of the de Courcy girls were at the house. Was this to be

given up? These feelings had grown up among them since they were

children, and had not hitherto been questioned among them. Now they

were questioned by Mary Thorne. Was she in fact to find that her

position had been a false one, and must be changed?

 

Such had been her feelings when she protested that she would not be

Augusta Gresham’s bridesmaid, and offered to put her neck beneath

Beatrice’s foot; when she drove the Lady Margaretta out of the room,

and gave her own opinion as to the proper grammatical construction of

the word humble; such also had been her feelings when she kept her

hand so rigidly to herself while Frank held the dining-room door open

for her to pass through.

 

“Patience Oriel,” said she to herself, “can talk to him of her father

and mother: let Patience take his hand; let her talk to him;” and

then, not long afterwards, she saw that Patience did talk to him; and

seeing it, she walked along silent, among some of the old people, and

with much effort did prevent a tear from falling down her cheek.

 

But why was the tear in her eye? Had she not proudly told Frank that

his love-making was nothing but a boy’s silly rhapsody? Had she not

said so while she had yet reason to hope that her blood was as good

as his own? Had she not seen at a glance that his love tirade was

worthy of ridicule, and of no other notice? And yet there was a tear

now in her eye because this boy, whom she had scolded from her, whose

hand, offered in pure friendship, she had just refused, because he,

so rebuffed by her, had carried his fun and gallantry to one who

would be less cross to him!

 

She could hear as she was walking, that while Lady Margaretta was

with them, their voices were loud and merry; and her sharp ear could

also hear, when Lady Margaretta left them, that Frank’s voice became

low and tender. So she walked on, saying nothing, looking straight

before her, and by degrees separating herself from all the others.

 

The Greshamsbury grounds were on one side somewhat too closely hemmed

in by the village. On this side was a path running the length of one

of the streets of the village; and far down the path, near to the

extremity of the gardens, and near also to a wicket-gate which led

out into the village, and which could be opened from the inside, was

a seat, under a big yew-tree, from which, through a breach in the

houses, might be seen the parish church, standing in the park on the

other side. Hither Mary walked alone, and here she seated herself,

determined to get rid of her tears and their traces before she again

showed herself to the world.

 

“I shall never be happy here again,” said she to herself; “never. I

am no longer one of them, and I cannot live among them unless I am

so.” And then an idea came across her mind that she hated Patience

Oriel; and then, instantly another idea followed it—quick as such

thoughts are quick—that she did not hate Patience Oriel at all; that

she liked her, nay, loved her; that Patience Oriel was a sweet girl;

and that she hoped the time would come when she might see her the

lady of Greshamsbury. And then the tear, which had been no whit

controlled, which indeed had now made itself master of her, came to a

head, and, bursting through the floodgates of the eye, came rolling

down, and in its fall, wetted her hand as it lay on her lap. “What a

fool! what an idiot! what an empty-headed cowardly fool I am!” said

she, springing up from the bench on her feet.

 

As she did so, she heard voices close to her, at the little gate.

They were those of her uncle and Frank Gresham.

 

“God bless you, Frank!” said the doctor, as he passed out of the

grounds. “You will excuse a lecture, won’t you, from so old a

friend?—though you are a man now, and discreet, of course, by Act of

Parliament.”

 

“Indeed I will, doctor,” said Frank. “I will excuse a longer lecture

than that from you.”

 

“At any rate it won’t be to-night,” said the doctor, as he

disappeared. “And if you see Mary, tell her that I am obliged to go;

and that I will send Janet down to fetch her.”

 

Now Janet was the doctor’s ancient maid-servant.

 

Mary could not move on without being perceived; she therefore stood

still till she heard the click of the door, and then began walking

rapidly back to the house by the path which had brought her thither.

The moment, however, that she did so, she found that she was

followed; and in a very few moments Frank was alongside of her.

 

“Oh, Mary!” said he, calling to her, but not loudly, before he quite

overtook her, “how odd that I should come across you just when I have

a message for you! and why are you all alone?”

 

Mary’s first impulse was to reiterate her command to him to call her

no more by her Christian name; but her second impulse told her that

such an injunction at the present moment would not be prudent on her

part. The traces of her tears were still there; and she well knew

that a very little, the slightest show of tenderness on his part, the

slightest effort on her own to appear indifferent, would bring down

more than one other such intruder. It would, moreover, be better

for her to drop all outward sign that she remembered what had taken

place. So long, then, as he and she were at Greshamsbury together, he

should call her Mary if he pleased. He would soon be gone; and while

he remained, she would keep out of his way.

 

“Your uncle has been obliged to go away to see an old woman at

Silverbridge.”

 

“At Silverbridge! why, he won’t be back all night. Why could not the

old woman send for Dr Century?”

 

“I suppose she thought two old women could not get on well together.”

 

Mary could not help smiling. She did not like her uncle going off so

late on such a journey; but it was always felt as a triumph when he

was invited into the strongholds of his enemies.

 

“And Janet is to come over for you. However, I told him it was quite

unnecessary to disturb another old woman, for that I should of course

see you home.”

 

“Oh, no, Mr Gresham; indeed you’ll not do that.”

 

“Indeed, and indeed, I shall.”

 

“What! on this great day, when every lady is looking for you, and

talking of you. I suppose you want to set the countess against me for

ever. Think, too, how angry Lady Arabella will be if you are absent

on such an errand as this.”

 

“To hear you talk, Mary, one would think that you were going to

Silverbridge yourself.”

 

“Perhaps I am.”

 

“If I did not go with you, some of the other fellows would. John, or

George—”

 

“Good gracious, Frank! Fancy either of the Mr de Courcys walking home

with me!”

 

She had forgotten herself, and the strict propriety on which she had

resolved, in the impossibility of forgoing her little joke against

the de Courcy grandeur; she had forgotten herself, and had called

him Frank in her old, former, eager, free tone of voice; and then,

remembering she had done so, she drew herself up, but her lips, and

determined to be doubly on her guard in the future.

 

“Well, it shall be either one of them or I,” said Frank: “perhaps you

would prefer my cousin George to me?”