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

Frank’s love for her

would be, must be, unfortunate; could not lead to happiness. But,

nevertheless, it did make her happy. She had before his return made

up her mind to be forgotten, and it was so sweet to find that he had

been so far from forgetting her. A girl may scold a man in words for

rashness in his love, but her heart never scolds him for such an

offence as that. She had not been slighted, and her heart, therefore,

still rose buoyant within her breast.

 

The doctor entered the room. As the squire’s visit had been expected

by him, he had of course not been out of the house. “And now I

suppose I must go,” said Mary; “for I know you are going to talk

about business. But, uncle, Mr Gresham says I’m looking very well.

Why have you not been able to find that out?”

 

“She’s a dear, good girl,” said the squire, as the door shut behind

her; “a dear good girl;” and the doctor could not fail to see that

his eyes were filled with tears.

 

“I think she is,” said he, quietly. And then they both sat silent, as

though each was waiting to hear whether the other had anything more

to say on that subject. The doctor, at any rate, had nothing more to

say.

 

“I have come here specially to speak to you about her,” said the

squire.

 

“About Mary?”

 

“Yes, doctor; about her and Frank: something must be done, some

arrangement made: if not for our sakes, at least for theirs.”

 

“What arrangement, squire?”

 

“Ah! that is the question. I take it for granted that either Frank or

Mary has told you that they have engaged themselves to each other.”

 

“Frank told me so twelve months since.”

 

“And has not Mary told you?”

 

“Not exactly that. But, never mind; she has, I believe, no secret

from me. Though I have said but little to her, I think I know it

all.”

 

“Well, what then?”

 

The doctor shook his head and put up his hands. He had nothing to

say; no proposition to make; no arrangement to suggest. The thing was

so, and he seemed to say that, as far as he was concerned, there was

an end of it.

 

The squire sat looking at him, hardly knowing how to proceed. It

seemed to him, that the fact of a young man and a young lady being in

love with each other was not a thing to be left to arrange itself,

particularly, seeing the rank of life in which they were placed. But

the doctor seemed to be of a different opinion.

 

“But, Dr Thorne, there is no man on God’s earth who knows my affairs

as well as you do; and in knowing mine, you know Frank’s. Do you

think it possible that they should marry each other?”

 

“Possible; yes, it is possible. You mean, will it be prudent?”

 

“Well, take it in that way; would it not be most imprudent?”

 

“At present, it certainly would be. I have never spoken to either of

them on the subject; but I presume they do not think of such a thing

for the present.”

 

“But, doctor—” The squire was certainly taken aback by the coolness

of the doctor’s manner. After all, he, the squire, was Mr Gresham

of Greshamsbury, generally acknowledged to be the first commoner in

Barsetshire; after all, Frank was his heir, and, in process of time,

he would be Mr Gresham of Greshamsbury. Crippled as the estate was,

there would be something left, and the rank at any rate remained. But

as to Mary, she was not even the doctor’s daughter. She was not only

penniless, but nameless, fatherless, worse than motherless! It was

incredible that Dr Thorne, with his generally exalted ideas as to

family, should speak in this cold way as to a projected marriage

between the heir of Greshamsbury and his brother’s bastard child!

 

“But, doctor,” repeated the squire.

 

The doctor put one leg over the other, and began to rub his calf.

“Squire,” said he. “I think I know all that you would say, all that

you mean. And you don’t like to say it, because you would not wish to

pain me by alluding to Mary’s birth.”

 

“But, independently of that, what would they live on?” said the

squire, energetically. “Birth is a great thing, a very great thing.

You and I think exactly alike about that, so we need have no dispute.

You are quite as proud of Ullathorne as I am of Greshamsbury.”

 

“I might be if it belonged to me.”

 

“But you are. It is no use arguing. But, putting that aside

altogether, what would they live on? If they were to marry, what

would they do? Where would they go? You know what Lady Arabella

thinks of such things; would it be possible that they should live up

at the house with her? Besides, what a life would that be for both of

them! Could they live here? Would that be well for them?”

 

The squire looked at the doctor for an answer; but he still went on

rubbing his calf. Mr Gresham, therefore, was constrained to continue

his expostulation.

 

“When I am dead there will still, I hope, be something;—something

left for the poor fellow. Lady Arabella and the girls would be better

off, perhaps, than now, and I sometimes wish, for Frank’s sake, that

the time had come.”

 

The doctor could not now go on rubbing his leg. He was moved to

speak, and declared that, of all events, that was the one which would

be furthest from Frank’s heart. “I know no son,” said he, “who loves

his father more dearly than he does.”

 

“I do believe it,” said the squire; “I do believe it. But yet, I

cannot but feel that I am in his way.”

 

“No, squire, no; you are in no one’s way. You will find yourself

happy with your son yet, and proud of him. And proud of his wife,

too. I hope so, and I think so: I do, indeed, or I should not say so,

squire; we will have many a happy day yet together, when we shall

talk of all these things over the dining-room fire at Greshamsbury.”

 

The squire felt it kind in the doctor that he should thus endeavour

to comfort him; but he could not understand, and did not inquire, on

what basis these golden hopes was founded. It was necessary, however,

to return to the subject which he had come to discuss. Would the

doctor assist him in preventing this marriage? That was now the one

thing necessary to be kept in view.

 

“But, doctor, about the young people; of course they cannot marry,

you are aware of that.”

 

“I don’t know that exactly.”

 

“Well, doctor, I must say I thought you would feel it.”

 

“Feel what, squire?”

 

“That, situated as they are, they ought not to marry.”

 

“That is quite another question. I have said nothing about that

either to you or to anybody else. The truth is, squire, I have never

interfered in this matter one way or the other; and I have no wish to

do so now.”

 

“But should you not interfere? Is not Mary the same to you as your

own child?”

 

Dr Thorne hardly knew how to answer this. He was aware that his

argument about not interfering was in fact absurd. Mary could not

marry without his interference; and had it been the case that she

was in danger of making an improper marriage, of course he would

interfere. His meaning was, that he would not at the present moment

express any opinion; he would not declare against a match which

might turn out to be in every way desirable; nor, if he spoke in

favour of it, could he give his reasons for doing so. Under these

circumstances, he would have wished to say nothing, could that only

have been possible.

 

But as it was not possible, and as he must say something, he answered

the squire’s last question by asking another. “What is your

objection, squire?”

 

“Objection! Why, what on earth would they live on?”

 

“Then I understand, that if that difficulty were over, you would not

refuse your consent merely because of Mary’s birth?”

 

This was a manner in which the squire had by no means expected to

have the affair presented to him. It seemed so impossible that any

sound-minded man should take any but his view of the case, that he

had not prepared himself for argument. There was every objection to

his son marrying Miss Thorne; but the fact of their having no income

between them, did certainly justify him in alleging that first.

 

“But that difficulty can’t be got over, doctor. You know, however,

that it would be cause of grief to us all to see Frank marry much

beneath his station; that is, I mean, in family. You should not press

me to say this, for you know that I love Mary dearly.”

 

“But, my dear friend, it is necessary. Wounds sometimes must be

opened in order that they may be healed. What I mean is this;—and,

squire, I’m sure I need not say to you that I hope for an honest

answer,—were Mary Thorne an heiress; had she, for instance, such

wealth as that Miss Dunstable that we hear of; in that case would you

object to the match?”

 

When the doctor declared that he expected an honest answer the squire

listened with all his ears; but the question, when finished, seemed

to have no bearing on the present case.

 

“Come, squire, speak your mind faithfully. There was some talk once

of Frank’s marrying Miss Dunstable; did you mean to object to that

match?”

 

“Miss Dunstable was legitimate; at least, I presume so.”

 

“Oh, Mr Gresham! has it come to that? Miss Dunstable, then, would

have satisfied your ideas of high birth?”

 

Mr Gresham was rather posed, and regretted, at the moment, his

allusion to Miss Dunstable’s presumed legitimacy. But he soon

recovered himself. “No,” said he, “it would not. And I am willing

to admit, as I have admitted before, that the undoubted advantages

arising from wealth are taken by the world as atoning for what

otherwise would be a mésalliance. But—”

 

“You admit that, do you? You acknowledge that as your conviction on

the subject?”

 

“Yes. But—” The squire was going on to explain the propriety of this

opinion, but the doctor uncivilly would not hear him.

 

“Then squire, I will not interfere in this matter one way or the

other.”

 

“How on earth can such an opinion—”

 

“Pray excuse me, Mr Gresham; but my mind is now quite made up. It was

very nearly so before. I will do nothing to encourage Frank, nor will

I say anything to discourage Mary.”

 

“That is the most singular resolution that a man of sense like you

ever came to.”

 

“I can’t help it, squire; it is my resolution.”

 

“But what has Miss Dunstable’s fortune to do with it?”

 

“I cannot say that it has anything; but, in this matter, I will not

interfere.”

 

The squire went on for some time, but it was all to no purpose;

and at last he left the house, considerably in dudgeon. The only

conclusion to which he could come was, that Dr Thorne had thought the

chance on his niece’s behalf too good to be thrown away, and had,

therefore, resolved to act in this very singular way.

 

“I would not have believed it of him, though all Barsetshire