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

months, and I have done so. It has made no difference, you

see. As to our means of living, I am quite willing to do anything

that may be best and most prudent. I was thinking, sir, of taking a

farm somewhere near here, and living on that.”

 

The squire sat quite silent for some moments after this communication

had been made to him. Frank’s conduct, as a son, had been such that

he could not find fault with it; and, in this special matter of his

love, how was it possible for him to find fault? He himself was

almost as fond of Mary as of a daughter; and, though he too would

have been desirous that his son should relieve the estate from its

embarrassments by a rich marriage, he did not at all share Lady

Arabella’s feelings on the subject. No Countess de Courcy had ever

engraved it on the tablets of his mind that the world would come to

ruin if Frank did not marry money. Ruin there was, and would be, but

it had been brought about by no sin of Frank’s.

 

“Do you remember about her birth, Frank?” he said, at last.

 

“Yes, sir; everything. She told me all she knew; and Dr Thorne

finished the story.”

 

“And what do you think of it?”

 

“It is a pity, and a misfortune. It might, perhaps, have been a

reason why you or my mother should not have had Mary in the house

many years ago; but it cannot make any difference now.”

 

Frank had not meant to lean so heavily on his father; but he did do

so. The story had never been told to Lady Arabella; was not even

known to her now, positively, and on good authority. But Mr Gresham

had always known it. If Mary’s birth was so great a stain upon her,

why had he brought her into his house among his children?

 

“It is a misfortune, Frank; a very great misfortune. It will not

do for you and me to ignore birth; too much of the value of one’s

position depends upon it.”

 

“But what was Mr Moffat’s birth?” said Frank, almost with scorn; “or

what Miss Dunstable’s?” he would have added, had it not been that his

father had not been concerned in that sin of wedding him to the oil

of Lebanon.

 

“True, Frank. But yet, what you would mean to say is not true. We

must take the world as we find it. Were you to marry a rich heiress,

were her birth even as low as that of poor Mary—”

 

“Don’t call her poor Mary, father; she is not poor. My wife will have

a right to take rank in the world, however she was born.”

 

“Well,—poor in that way. But were she an heiress, the world would

forgive her birth on account of her wealth.”

 

“The world is very complaisant, sir.”

 

“You must take it as you find it, Frank. I only say that such is the

fact. If Porlock were to marry the daughter of a shoeblack, without a

farthing, he would make a mésalliance; but if the daughter of the

shoeblack had half a million of money, nobody would dream of saying

so. I am stating no opinion of my own: I am only giving you the

world’s opinion.”

 

“I don’t give a straw for the world.”

 

“That is a mistake, my boy; you do care for it, and would be very

foolish if you did not. What you mean is, that, on this particular

point, you value your love more than the world’s opinion.”

 

“Well, yes, that is what I mean.”

 

But the squire, though he had been very lucid in his definition, had

not got no nearer to his object; had not even yet ascertained what

his own object was. This marriage would be ruinous to Greshamsbury;

and yet, what was he to say against it, seeing that the ruin had been

his fault, and not his son’s?

 

“You could let me have a farm; could you not, sir? I was thinking

of about six or seven hundred acres. I suppose it could be managed

somehow?”

 

“A farm?” said the father, abstractedly.

 

“Yes, sir. I must do something for my living. I should make less of

a mess of that than of anything else. Besides, it would take such a

time to be an attorney, or a doctor, or anything of that sort.”

 

Do something for his living! And was the heir of Greshamsbury come to

this—the heir and only son? Whereas, he, the squire, had succeeded

at an earlier age than Frank’s to an unembarrassed income of fourteen

thousand pounds a year! The reflection was very hard to bear.

 

“Yes: I dare say you could have a farm:” and then he threw himself

back in his chair, closing his eyes. Then, after a while, rose again,

and walked hurriedly about the room. “Frank,” he said, at last,

standing opposite to his son, “I wonder what you think of me?”

 

“Think of you, sir?” ejaculated Frank.

 

“Yes; what do you think of me, for having thus ruined you. I wonder

whether you hate me?”

 

Frank, jumping up from his chair, threw his arms round his father’s

neck. “Hate you, sir? How can you speak so cruelly? You know well

that I love you. And, father, do not trouble yourself about the

estate for my sake. I do not care for it; I can be just as happy

without it. Let the girls have what is left, and I will make my own

way in the world, somehow. I will go to Australia; yes, sir, that

will be best. I and Mary will both go. Nobody will care about her

birth there. But, father, never say, never think, that I do not love

you!”

 

The squire was too much moved to speak at once, so he sat down again,

and covered his face with his hands. Frank went on pacing the room,

till, gradually, his first idea recovered possession of his mind, and

the remembrance of his father’s grief faded away. “May I tell Mary,”

he said at last, “that you consent to our marriage? It will make her

so happy.”

 

But the squire was not prepared to say this. He was pledged to his

wife to do all that he could to oppose it; and he himself thought,

that if anything could consummate the family ruin, it would be this

marriage.

 

“I cannot say that, Frank; I cannot say that. What would you both

live on? It would be madness.”

 

“We would go to Australia,” answered he, bitterly. “I have just said

so.”

 

“Oh, no, my boy; you cannot do that. You must not throw the old place

up altogether. There is no other one but you, Frank; and we have

lived here now for so many, many years.”

 

“But if we cannot live here any longer, father?”

 

“But for this scheme of yours, we might do so. I will give up

everything to you, the management of the estate, the park, all the

land we have in hand, if you will give up this fatal scheme. For,

Frank, it is fatal. You are only twenty-three; why should you be in

such a hurry to marry?”

 

“You married at twenty-one, sir.”

 

Frank was again severe on his father, but unwittingly. “Yes, I did,”

said Mr Gresham; “and see what has come of it! Had I waited ten years

longer, how different would everything have been! No, Frank, I cannot

consent to such a marriage; nor will your mother.”

 

“It is your consent I ask, sir; and I am asking for nothing but your

consent.”

 

“It would be sheer madness; madness for you both. My own Frank, my

dear, dear boy, do not drive me to distraction! Give it up for four

years.”

 

“Four years!”

 

“Yes; for four years. I ask it as a personal favour; as an obligation

to myself, in order that we may be saved from ruin; you, your mother,

and sisters, your family name, and the old house. I do not talk about

myself; but were such a marriage to take place, I should be driven to

despair.”

 

Frank found it very hard to resist his father, who now had hold of

his hand and arm, and was thus half retaining him, and half embracing

him. “Frank, say that you will forget this for four years—say for

three years.”

 

But Frank would not say so. To postpone his marriage for four years,

or for three, seemed to him to be tantamount to giving up Mary

altogether; and he would not acknowledge that any one had the right

to demand of him to do that.

 

“My word is pledged, sir,” he said.

 

“Pledged! Pledged to whom?”

 

“To Miss Thorne.”

 

“But I will see her, Frank;—and her uncle. She was always

reasonable. I am sure she will not wish to bring ruin on her old

friends at Greshamsbury.”

 

“Her old friends at Greshamsbury have done but little lately to

deserve her consideration. She has been treated shamefully. I know

it has not been by you, sir; but I must say so. She has already been

treated shamefully; but I will not treat her falsely.”

 

“Well, Frank, I can say no more to you. I have destroyed the estate

which should have been yours, and I have no right to expect you

should regard what I say.”

 

Frank was greatly distressed. He had not any feeling of animosity

against his father with reference to the property, and would have

done anything to make the squire understand this, short of giving up

his engagement to Mary. His feeling rather was, that, as each had a

case against the other, they should cry quits; that he should forgive

his father for his bad management, on condition that he himself was

to be forgiven with regard to his determined marriage. Not that he

put it exactly in that shape, even to himself; but could he have

unravelled his own thoughts, he would have found that such was the

web on which they were based.

 

“Father, I do regard what you say; but you would not have me be

false. Had you doubled the property instead of lessening it, I could

not regard what you say any more.”

 

“I should be able to speak in a very different tone; I feel that,

Frank.”

 

“Do not feel it any more, sir; say what you wish, as you would have

said it under any other circumstances; and pray believe this, the

idea never occurs to me, that I have ground of complaint as regards

the property; never. Whatever troubles we may have, do not let that

trouble you.”

 

Soon after this Frank left him. What more was there that could be

said between them? They could not be of one accord; but even yet it

might not be necessary that they should quarrel. He went out, and

roamed by himself through the grounds, rather more in meditation than

was his wont.

 

If he did marry, how was he to live? He talked of a profession; but

had he meant to do as others do, who make their way in professions,

he should have thought of that a year or two ago!—or, rather, have

done more than think of it. He spoke also of a farm, but even that

could not be had in a moment; nor, if it could, would it produce a

living. Where was his capital? Where his skill? and he might have

asked also, where the industry so necessary for such a trade? He

might set his father at defiance, and