Doctor Thorne, Anthony Trollope [best book reader .txt] 📗
- Author: Anthony Trollope
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with hardly a gasp of hope in his voice, and he so far carried Mary
with him that she also had hardly a gasp of hope in her heart. There
he paused for a moment, and then looking up into her face, he spoke
but one word more. “But,” said he—and there he stopped. It was
clearly told in that “but.” Thus would he do if Mary would declare
that she did not care for him. If, however, she could not bring
herself so to declare, then was he ready to throw his father and
mother to the winds; then would he stand his ground; then would he
look all other difficulties in the face, sure that they might finally
be overcome. Poor Mary! the whole onus of settling the matter was
thus thrown upon her. She had only to say that he was indifferent to
her;—that was all.
If “all the blood of the Howards” had depended upon it, she could
not have brought herself to utter such a falsehood. Indifferent to
her, as he walked there by her donkey’s side, talking thus earnestly
of his love for her! Was he not to her like some god come from the
heavens to make her blessed? Did not the sun shine upon him with a
halo, so that he was bright as an angel? Indifferent to her! Could
the open unadulterated truth have been practicable for her, she
would have declared her indifference in terms that would truly have
astonished him. As it was, she found it easier to say nothing. She
bit her lips to keep herself from sobbing. She struggled hard, but
in vain, to prevent her hands and feet from trembling. She seemed to
swing upon her donkey as though like to fall, and would have given
much to be upon her own feet upon the sward.
“Si la jeunesse savait …” There is so much in that wicked old
French proverb! Had Frank known more about a woman’s mind—had he,
that is, been forty-two instead of twenty-two—he would at once have
been sure of his game, and have felt that Mary’s silence told him
all he wished to know. But then, had he been forty-two instead of
twenty-two, he would not have been so ready to risk the acres of
Greshamsbury for the smiles of Mary Thorne.
“If you can’t say one word to comfort me, I will go,” said he,
disconsolately. “I made up my mind to tell you this, and so I came
over. I told Lady Scatcherd I should not stay,—not even for dinner.”
“I did not know you were so hurried,” said she, almost in a whisper.
On a sudden he stood still, and pulling the donkey’s rein, caused him
to stand still also. The beast required very little persuasion to be
so guided, and obligingly remained meekly passive.
“Mary, Mary!” said Frank, throwing his arms round her knees as she
sat upon her steed, and pressing his face against her body. “Mary,
you were always honest; be honest now. I love you with all my heart.
Will you be my wife?”
But still Mary said not a word. She no longer bit her lips; she was
beyond that, and was now using all her efforts to prevent her tears
from falling absolutely on her lover’s face. She said nothing. She
could no more rebuke him now and send him from her than she could
encourage him. She could only sit there shaking and crying and
wishing she was on the ground. Frank, on the whole, rather liked the
donkey. It enabled him to approach somewhat nearer to an embrace than
he might have found practicable had they both been on their feet. The
donkey himself was quite at his ease, and looked as though he was
approvingly conscious of what was going on behind his ears.
“I have a right to a word, Mary; say ‘Go,’ and I will leave you at
once.”
But Mary did not say “Go.” Perhaps she would have done so had she
been able; but just at present she could say nothing. This came from
her having failed to make up her mind in due time as to what course
it would best become her to follow.
“One word, Mary; one little word. There, if you will not speak,
here is my hand. If you will have it, let it lie in yours;—if not,
push it away.” So saying, he managed to get the end of his fingers
on to her palm, and there it remained unrepulsed. “La jeunesse”
was beginning to get a lesson; experience when duly sought after
sometimes comes early in life.
In truth Mary had not strength to push the fingers away. “My love,
my own, my own!” said Frank, presuming on this very negative sign of
acquiescence. “My life, my own one, my own Mary!” and then the hand
was caught hold of and was at his lips before an effort could be made
to save it from such treatment.
“Mary, look at me; say one word to me.”
There was a deep sigh, and then came the one word—“Oh, Frank!”
“Mr Gresham, I hope I have the honour of seeing you quite well,”
said a voice close to his ear. “I beg to say that you are welcome to
Boxall Hill.” Frank turned round and instantly found himself shaking
hands with Sir Louis Scatcherd.
How Mary got over her confusion Frank never saw, for he had enough
to do to get over his own. He involuntarily deserted Mary and began
talking very fast to Sir Louis. Sir Louis did not once look at Miss
Thorne, but walked back towards the house with Mr Gresham, sulky
enough in temper, but still making some effort to do the fine
gentleman. Mary, glad to be left alone, merely occupied herself with
sitting on the donkey; and the donkey, when he found that the two
gentlemen went towards the house, for company’s sake and for his
stable’s sake, followed after them.
Frank stayed but three minutes in the house; gave another kiss to
Lady Scatcherd, getting three in return, and thereby infinitely
disgusting Sir Louis, shook hands, anything but warmly, with the
young baronet, and just felt the warmth of Mary’s hand within his
own. He felt also the warmth of her eyes’ last glance, and rode home
a happy man.
Post Prandial
Frank rode home a happy man, cheering himself, as successful lovers
do cheer themselves, with the brilliancy of his late exploit: nor was
it till he had turned the corner into the Greshamsbury stables that
he began to reflect what he would do next. It was all very well to
have induced Mary to allow his three fingers to lie half a minute
in her soft hand; the having done so might certainly be sufficient
evidence that he had overcome one of the lions in his path; but it
could hardly be said that all his difficulties were now smoothed. How
was he to make further progress?
To Mary, also, the same ideas no doubt occurred—with many others.
But, then, it was not for Mary to make any progress in the matter. To
her at least belonged this passive comfort, that at present no act
hostile to the de Courcy interest would be expected from her. All
that she could do would be to tell her uncle so much as it was
fitting that he should know. The doing this would doubtless be in
some degree difficult; but it was not probable that there would be
much difference, much of anything but loving anxiety for each other,
between her and Dr Thorne. One other thing, indeed, she must do;
Frank must be made to understand what her birth had been. “This,” she
said to herself, “will give him an opportunity of retracting what
he has done should he choose to avail himself of it. It is well he
should have such opportunity.”
But Frank had more than this to do. He had told Beatrice that he
would make no secret of his love, and he fully resolved to be as good
as his word. To his father he owed an unreserved confidence; and he
was fully minded to give it. It was, he knew, altogether out of the
question that he should at once marry a portionless girl without his
father’s consent; probably out of the question that he should do so
even with it. But he would, at any rate, tell his father, and then
decide as to what should be done next. So resolving, he put his black
horse into the stable and went in to dinner. After dinner he and his
father would be alone.
Yes; after dinner he and his father would be alone. He dressed
himself hurriedly, for the dinner-bell was almost on the stroke as he
entered the house. He said this to himself once and again; but when
the meats and the puddings, and then the cheese, were borne away,
as the decanters were placed before his father, and Lady Arabella
sipped her one glass of claret, and his sisters ate their portion of
strawberries, his pressing anxiety for the coming interview began to
wax somewhat dull.
His mother and sisters, however, rendered him no assistance by
prolonging their stay. With unwonted assiduity he pressed a second
glass of claret on his mother. But Lady Arabella was not only
temperate in her habits, but also at the present moment very angry
with her son. She thought that he had been to Boxall Hill, and was
only waiting a proper moment to cross-question him sternly on the
subject. Now she departed, taking her train of daughters with her.
“Give me one big gooseberry,” said Nina, as she squeezed herself in
under her brother’s arm, prior to making her retreat. Frank would
willingly have given her a dozen of the biggest, had she wanted them;
but having got the one, she squeezed herself out again and scampered
off.
The squire was very cheery this evening; from what cause cannot now
be said. Perhaps he had succeeded in negotiating a further loan, thus
temporarily sprinkling a drop of water over the ever-rising dust of
his difficulties.
“Well, Frank, what have you been after to-day? Peter told me you had
the black horse out,” said he, pushing the decanter to his son. “Take
my advice, my boy, and don’t give him too much summer road-work. Legs
won’t stand it, let them be ever so good.”
“Why, sir, I was obliged to go out to-day, and therefore, it had to
be either the old mare or the young horse.”
“Why didn’t you take Ramble?” Now Ramble was the squire’s own saddle
hack, used for farm surveying, and occasionally for going to cover.
“I shouldn’t think of doing that, sir.”
“My dear boy, he is quite at your service; for goodness’ sake do let
me have a little wine, Frank—quite at your service; any riding I
have now is after the haymakers, and that’s all on the grass.”
“Thank’ee, sir. Well, perhaps I will take a turn out of Ramble should
I want it.”
“Do, and pray, pray take care of that black horse’s legs. He’s
turning out more of a horse than I took him to be, and I should be
sorry to see him injured. Where have you been to-day?”
“Well, father, I have something to tell you.”
“Something to tell me!” and then the squire’s happy and gay look,
which had been only rendered more happy and more gay by his assumed
anxiety about the black horse, gave place to that heaviness of visage
which acrimony and
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