Doctor Thorne, Anthony Trollope [an ebook reader .TXT] 📗

though she thought that her ways and Mary’s ways must be different.

Mary saw all that was passing in the other’s mind: no, not all; all the hostility, the disappointment, the disapproval, the unhappiness, she did see; but not the undercurrent of love, which was strong enough to well up and drown all these, if only time could be allowed for it to do so.

“I am glad I have told you,” said Mary, curbing herself, “for deceit and hypocrisy are detestable.”

“It was a misunderstanding, not deceit,” said Beatrice.

“Well, now we understand each other; now you know that I have a heart within me, which like those of some others has not always been under my own control. Lady Arabella believes that I am intriguing to be the mistress of Greshamsbury. You, at any rate, will not think that of me. If it could be discovered tomorrow that Frank were not the heir, I might have some chance of happiness.”

“But, Mary⁠—”

“Well?”

“You say you love him.”

“Yes; I do say so.”

“But if he does not love you, will you cease to do so?”

“If I have a fever, I will get rid of it if I can; in such case I must do so, or die.”

“I fear,” continued Beatrice, “you hardly know, perhaps do not think, what is Frank’s real character. He is not made to settle down early in life; even now, I believe he is attached to some lady in London, whom, of course, he cannot marry.”

Beatrice said this in perfect trueness of heart. She had heard of Frank’s new love-affair, and believing what she had heard, thought it best to tell the truth. But the information was not of a kind to quiet Mary’s spirit.

“Very well,” said she, “let it be so. I have nothing to say against it.”

“But are you not preparing wretchedness and unhappiness for yourself?”

“Very likely.”

“Oh, Mary, do not be so cold with me! you know how delighted I should be to have you for a sister-in-law, if only it were possible.”

“Yes, Trichy; but it is impossible, is it not? Impossible that Francis Gresham of Greshamsbury should disgrace himself by marrying such a poor creature as I am. Of course, I know it; of course, I am prepared for unhappiness and misery. He can amuse himself as he likes with me or others⁠—with anybody. It is his privilege. It is quite enough to say that he is not made for settling down. I know my own position;⁠—and yet I love him.”

“But, Mary, has he asked you to be his wife? If so⁠—”

“You ask home-questions, Beatrice. Let me ask you one; has he ever told you that he has done so?”

At this moment Beatrice was not disposed to repeat all that Frank had said. A year ago, before he went away, he had told his sister a score of times that he meant to marry Mary Thorne if she would have him; but Beatrice now looked on all that as idle, boyish vapouring. The pity was, that Mary should have looked on it differently.

“We will each keep our secret,” said Mary. “Only remember this: should Frank marry tomorrow, I shall have no ground for blaming him. He is free as far I as am concerned. He can take the London lady if he likes. You may tell him so from me. But, Trichy, what else I have told you, I have told you only.”

“Oh, yes!” said Beatrice, sadly; “I shall say nothing of it to anybody. It is very sad, very, very; I was so happy when I came here, and now I am so wretched.” This was the end of that delicious talk to which she had looked forward with so much eagerness.

“Don’t be wretched about me, dearest; I shall get through it. I sometimes think I was born to be unhappy, and that unhappiness agrees with me best. Kiss me now, Trichy, and don’t be wretched any more. You owe it to Mr. Oriel to be as happy as the day is long.”

And then they parted.

Beatrice, as she went out, saw Dr. Thorne in his little shop on the right-hand side of the passage, deeply engaged in some derogatory branch of an apothecary’s mechanical trade; mixing a dose, perhaps, for a little child. She would have passed him without speaking if she could have been sure of doing so without notice, for her heart was full, and her eyes were red with tears; but it was so long since she had been in his house that she was more than ordinarily anxious not to appear uncourteous or unkind to him.

“Good morning, doctor,” she said, changing her countenance as best she might, and attempting a smile.

“Ah, my fairy!” said he, leaving his villainous compounds, and coming out to her; “and you, too, are about to become a steady old lady.”

“Indeed, I am not, doctor; I don’t mean to be either steady or old for the next ten years. But who has told you? I suppose Mary has been a traitor.”

“Well, I will confess, Mary was the traitor. But hadn’t I a right to be told, seeing how often I have brought you sugarplums in my pocket? But I wish you joy with all my heart⁠—with all my heart. Oriel is an excellent, good fellow.”

“Is he not, doctor?”

“An excellent, good fellow. I never heard but of one fault that he had.”

“What was that one fault, Doctor Thorne?”

“He thought that clergymen should not marry. But you have cured that, and now he’s perfect.”

“Thank you, doctor. I declare that you say the prettiest things of all my friends.”

“And none of your friends wish prettier things for you. I do congratulate you, Beatrice, and hope you may be happy with the man you have chosen;” and taking both her hands in his, he pressed them warmly, and bade God bless her.

“Oh, doctor! I do so hope the time will come when we shall all be friends again.”

“I hope it as well, my dear. But let it come, or let it not come, my regard for