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

“There is no probability of it. And because he is headstrong, you, who have always had credit for so much sense, will hold him to this mad engagement?”

“No, Lady Arabella; I will not hold him to anything to which he does not wish to be held. Nothing that you can say shall move me: nothing that anybody can say shall induce me to break my promise to him. But a word from himself will do it. One look will be sufficient. Let him give me to understand, in any way, that his love for me is injurious to him⁠—that he has learnt to think so⁠—and then I will renounce my part in this engagement as quickly as you could wish it.”

There was much in this promise, but still not so much as Lady Arabella wished to get. Mary, she knew, was obstinate, but yet reasonable; Frank, she thought, was both obstinate and unreasonable. It might be possible to work on Mary’s reason, but quite impossible to touch Frank’s irrationality. So she persevered⁠—foolishly.

“Miss Thorne⁠—that, is, Mary, for I still wish to be thought your friend⁠—”

“I will tell you the truth, Lady Arabella: for some considerable time past I have not thought you so.”

“Then you have wronged me. But I will go on with what I was saying. You quite acknowledge that this is a foolish affair?”

“I acknowledge no such thing.”

“Something very much like it. You have not a word in its defence.”

“Not to you: I do not choose to be put on my defence by you.”

“I don’t know who has more right; however, you promise that if Frank wishes it, you will release him from his engagement.”

“Release him! It is for him to release me, that is, if he wishes it.”

“Very well; at any rate, you give him permission to do so. But will it not be more honourable for you to begin?”

“No; I think not.”

“Ah, but it would. If he, in his position, should be the first to speak, the first to suggest that this affair between you is a foolish one, what would people say?”

“They would say the truth.”

“And what would you yourself say?”

“Nothing.”

“What would he think of himself?”

“Ah, that I do not know. It is according as that may be, that he will or will not act at your bidding.”

“Exactly; and because you know him to be high-minded, because you think that he, having so much to give, will not break his word to you⁠—to you who have nothing to give in return⁠—it is, therefore, that you say that the first step must be taken by him. Is that noble?”

Then Mary rose from her seat, for it was no longer possible for her to speak what it was in her to say, sitting there leisurely on her sofa. Lady Arabella’s worship of money had not hitherto been so brought forward in the conversation as to give her unpardonable offence; but now she felt that she could no longer restrain her indignation. “To you who have nothing to give in return!” Had she not given all that she possessed? Had she not emptied his store into his lap? that heart of hers, beating with such genuine life, capable of such perfect love, throbbing with so grand a pride; had she not given that? And was it not that, between him and her, more than twenty Greshamsburys, nobler than any pedigree? “To you who have nothing to give,” indeed! This to her who was so ready to give everything!

“Lady Arabella,” she said, “I think that you do not understand me, and that it is not likely that you should. If so, our further talking will be worse than useless. I have taken no account of what will be given between your son and me in your sense of the word giving. But he has professed to⁠—to love me”⁠—as she spoke, she still looked on the lady’s face, but her eyelashes for a moment screened her eyes, and her colour was a little heightened⁠—“and I have acknowledged that I also love him, and so we are engaged. To me my promise is sacred. I will not be threatened into breaking it. If, however, he shall wish to change his mind, he can do so. I will not upbraid him; will not, if I can help it, think harshly of him. So much you may tell him if it suits you; but I will not listen to your calculations as to how much or how little each of us may have to give to the other.”

She was still standing when she finished speaking, and so she continued to stand. Her eyes were fixed on Lady Arabella, and her position seemed to say that sufficient words had been spoken, and that it was time that her ladyship should go; and so Lady Arabella felt it. Gradually she also rose; slowly, but tacitly, she acknowledged that she was in the presence of a spirit superior to her own; and so she took her leave.

“Very well,” she said, in a tone that was intended to be grandiloquent, but which failed grievously; “I will tell him that he has your permission to think a second time on this matter. I do not doubt but that he will do so.” Mary would not condescend to answer, but curtsied low as her visitor left the room. And so the interview was over.

The interview was over, and Mary was alone. She remained standing as long as she heard the footsteps of Frank’s mother on the stairs; not immediately thinking of what had passed, but still buoying herself up with her hot indignation, as though her work with Lady Arabella was not yet finished; but when the footfall was no longer heard, and the sound of the closing door told her that she was in truth alone, she sank back in her seat, and, covering her face with her hands, burst into bitter tears.

All that doctrine about money was horrible to her; that insolent pretence, that she had