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

to the Bar. I am sure I

could earn my own living. Earn it! of course I could, why not I as

well as others? I should like of all things to be a barrister.”

 

There was much more of the same kind, in which Frank said all that he

could think of to lessen his father’s regrets. In their conversation

not a word was spoken about Mary Thorne. Frank was not aware whether

or no his father had been told of the great family danger which was

dreaded in that quarter. That he had been told, we may surmise, as

Lady Arabella was not wont to confine the family dangers to her own

bosom. Moreover, Mary’s presence had, of course, been missed. The

truth was, that the squire had been told, with great bitterness, of

what had come to pass, and all the evil had been laid at his door.

He it had been who had encouraged Mary to be regarded almost as a

daughter of the house of Greshamsbury; he it was who taught that

odious doctor—odious in all but his aptitude for good doctoring—to

think himself a fit match for the aristocracy of the county. It had

been his fault, this great necessity that Frank should marry money;

and now it was his fault that Frank was absolutely talking of

marrying a pauper.

 

By no means in quiescence did the squire hear these charges brought

against him. The Lady Arabella, in each attack, got quite as much as

she gave, and, at last, was driven to retreat in a state of headache,

which she declared to be chronic; and which, so she assured her

daughter Augusta, must prevent her from having any more lengthened

conversations with her lord—at any rate for the next three months.

But though the squire may be said to have come off on the whole as

victor in these combats, they did not perhaps have, on that account,

the less effect upon him. He knew it was true that he had done much

towards ruining his son; and he also could think of no other remedy

than matrimony. It was Frank’s doom, pronounced even by the voice of

his father, that he must marry money.

 

And so, Frank went off again to Cambridge, feeling himself, as he

went, to be a much lesser man in Greshamsbury estimation than he had

been some two months earlier, when his birthday had been celebrated.

Once during his short stay at Greshamsbury he had seen the doctor;

but the meeting had been anything but pleasant. He had been afraid

to ask after Mary; and the doctor had been too diffident of himself

to speak of her. They had met casually on the road, and, though each

in his heart loved the other, the meeting had been anything but

pleasant.

 

And so Frank went back to Cambridge; and, as he did so, he stoutly

resolved that nothing should make him untrue to Mary Thorne.

“Beatrice,” said he, on the morning he went away, when she came into

his room to superintend his packing—“Beatrice, if she ever talks

about me—”

 

“Oh, Frank, my darling Frank, don’t think of it—it is madness; she

knows it is madness.”

 

“Never mind; if she ever talks about me, tell her that the last word

I said was, that I would never forget her. She can do as she likes.”

 

Beatrice made no promise, never hinted that she would give the

message; but it may be taken for granted that she had not been long

in company with Mary Thorne before she did give it.

 

And then there were other troubles at Greshamsbury. It had been

decided that Augusta’s marriage was to take place in September; but

Mr Moffat had, unfortunately, been obliged to postpone the happy day.

He himself had told Augusta—not, of course, without protestations

as to his regret—and had written to this effect to Mr Gresham,

“Electioneering matters, and other troubles had,” he said, “made this

peculiarly painful postponement absolutely necessary.”

 

Augusta seemed to bear her misfortune with more equanimity than is,

we believe, usual with young ladies under such circumstances. She

spoke of it to her mother in a very matter-of-fact way, and seemed

almost contented at the idea of remaining at Greshamsbury till

February; which was the time now named for the marriage. But Lady

Arabella was not equally well satisfied, nor was the squire.

 

“I half believe that fellow is not honest,” he had once said out loud

before Frank, and this set Frank a-thinking of what dishonesty in the

matter it was probable that Mr Moffat might be guilty, and what would

be the fitting punishment for such a crime. Nor did he think on the

subject in vain; especially after a conference on the matter which he

had with his friend Harry Baker. This conference took place during

the Christmas vacation.

 

It should be mentioned, that the time spent by Frank at Courcy Castle

had not done much to assist him in his views as to an early degree,

and that it had at last been settled that he should stay up at

Cambridge another year. When he came home at Christmas he found that

the house was not peculiarly lively. Mary was absent on a visit with

Miss Oriel. Both these young ladies were staying with Miss Oriel’s

aunt, in the neighbourhood of London; and Frank soon learnt that

there was no chance that either of them would be home before his

return. No message had been left for him by Mary—none at least had

been left with Beatrice; and he began in his heart to accuse her of

coldness and perfidy;—not, certainly, with much justice, seeing that

she had never given him the slightest encouragement.

 

The absence of Patience Oriel added to the dullness of the place. It

was certainly hard upon Frank that all the attraction of the village

should be removed to make way and prepare for his return—harder,

perhaps, on them; for, to tell the truth, Miss Oriel’s visit had been

entirely planned to enable her to give Mary a comfortable way of

leaving Greshamsbury during the time that Frank should remain at

home. Frank thought himself cruelly used. But what did Mr Oriel think

when doomed to eat his Christmas pudding alone, because the young

squire would be unreasonable in his love? What did the doctor think,

as he sat solitary by his deserted hearth—the doctor, who no

longer permitted himself to enjoy the comforts of the Greshamsbury

dining-table? Frank hinted and grumbled; talked to Beatrice of the

determined constancy of his love, and occasionally consoled himself

by a stray smile from some of the neighbouring belles. The black

horse was made perfect; the old grey pony was by no means discarded;

and much that was satisfactory was done in the sporting line. But

still the house was dull, and Frank felt that he was the cause of

its being so. Of the doctor he saw but little: he never came to

Greshamsbury unless to see Lady Arabella as doctor, or to be closeted

with the squire. There were no social evenings with him; no animated

confabulations at the doctor’s house; no discourses between them,

as there had wont to be, about the merits of the different covers,

and the capacities of the different hounds. These were dull days on

the whole for Frank; and sad enough, we may say, for our friend the

doctor.

 

In February, Frank again went back to college; having settled with

Harry Baker certain affairs which weighed on his mind. He went back

to Cambridge, promising to be home on the 20th of the month, so as to

be present at his sister’s wedding. A cold and chilling time had been

named for these hymeneal joys, but one not altogether unsuited to the

feelings of the happy pair. February is certainly not a warm month;

but with the rich it is generally a cosy, comfortable time. Good

fires, winter cheer, groaning tables, and warm blankets, make a

fictitious summer, which, to some tastes, is more delightful than

the long days and the hot sun. And some marriages are especially

winter matches. They depend for their charm on the same substantial

attractions: instead of heart beating to heart in sympathetic unison,

purse chinks to purse. The rich new furniture of the new abode is

looked to instead of the rapture of a pure embrace. The new carriage

is depended on rather than the new heart’s companion; and the first

bright gloss, prepared by the upholsterer’s hands, stands in lieu of

the rosy tints which young love lends to his true votaries.

 

Mr Moffat had not spent his Christmas at Greshamsbury. That eternal

election petition, those eternal lawyers, the eternal care of his

well-managed wealth, forbade him the enjoyment of any such pleasures.

He could not come to Greshamsbury for Christmas, nor yet for the

festivities of the new year; but now and then he wrote prettily

worded notes, sending occasionally a silver-gilt pencil-case, or a

small brooch, and informed Lady Arabella that he looked forward to

the 20th of February with great satisfaction. But, in the meanwhile,

the squire became anxious, and at last went up to London; and Frank,

who was at Cambridge, bought the heaviest cutting whip to be found in

that town, and wrote a confidential letter to Harry Baker.

 

Poor Mr Moffat! It is well known that none but the brave deserve the

fair; but thou, without much excuse for bravery, had secured for

thyself one who, at any rate, was fair enough for thee. Would it

not have been well hadst thou looked into thyself to see what real

bravery might be in thee, before thou hadst prepared to desert this

fair one thou hadst already won? That last achievement, one may say,

did require some special courage.

 

Poor Mr Moffat! It is wonderful that as he sat in that gig, going to

Gatherum Castle, planning how he would be off with Miss Gresham and

afterwards on with Miss Dunstable, it is wonderful that he should not

then have cast his eye behind him, and looked at that stalwart pair

of shoulders which were so close to his own back. As he afterwards

pondered on his scheme while sipping the duke’s claret, it is odd

that he should not have observed the fiery pride of purpose and power

of wrath which was so plainly written on that young man’s brow: or,

when he matured, and finished, and carried out his purpose, that he

did not think of that keen grasp which had already squeezed his own

hand with somewhat too warm a vigour, even in the way of friendship.

 

Poor Mr Moffat! it is probable that he forgot to think of Frank at

all as connected with his promised bride; it is probable that he

looked forward only to the squire’s violence and the enmity of the

house of Courcy; and that he found from enquiry at his heart’s

pulses, that he was man enough to meet these. Could he have guessed

what a whip Frank Gresham would have bought at Cambridge—could he

have divined what a letter would have been written to Harry Baker—it

is probable, nay, we think we may say certain, that Miss Gresham

would have become Mrs Moffat.

 

Miss Gresham, however, never did become Mrs Moffat. About two days

after Frank’s departure for Cambridge—it is just possible that Mr

Moffat was so prudent as to make himself aware of the fact—but just

two days after Frank’s departure, a very long, elaborate, and clearly

explanatory letter was received at Greshamsbury. Mr Moffat was quite

sure that Miss Gresham and her very excellent parents would do him

the justice to believe that he was not actuated, &c., &c., &c.

The long and the short of this was, that Mr Moffat signified