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

“Do not speak against my father.”

“No, Frank; I will not⁠—no, I will not; not another word. And now, Frank⁠—”

Before we go on we must say one word further as to Lady Arabella’s character. It will probably be said that she was a consummate hypocrite; but at the present moment she was not hypocritical. She did love her son; was anxious⁠—very, very anxious for him; was proud of him, and almost admired the very obstinacy which so vexed her to her inmost soul. No grief would be to her so great as that of seeing him sink below what she conceived to be his position. She was as genuinely motherly, in wishing that he should marry money, as another woman might be in wishing to see her son a bishop; or as the Spartan matron, who preferred that her offspring should return on his shield, to hearing that he had come back whole in limb but tainted in honour. When Frank spoke of a profession, she instantly thought of what Lord de Courcy might do for him. If he would not marry money, he might, at any rate, be an attaché at an embassy. A profession⁠—hard work, as a doctor, or as an engineer⁠—would, according to her ideas, degrade him; cause him to sink below his proper position; but to dangle at a foreign court, to make small talk at the evening parties of a lady ambassadress, and occasionally, perhaps, to write demi-official notes containing demi-official tittle-tattle; this would be in proper accordance with the high honour of a Gresham of Greshamsbury.

We may not admire the direction taken by Lady Arabella’s energy on behalf of her son, but that energy was not hypocritical.

“And now, Frank⁠—” She looked wistfully into his face as she addressed him, as though half afraid to go on, and begging that he would receive with complaisance whatever she found herself forced to say.

“Well, mother?”

“I was with Mary, yesterday.”

“Yes, yes; what then? I know what your feelings are with regard to her.”

“No, Frank; you wrong me. I have no feelings against her⁠—none, indeed; none but this: that she is not fit to be your wife.”

“I think her fit.”

“Ah, yes; but how fit? Think of your position, Frank, and what means you have of keeping her. Think what you are. Your father’s only son; the heir to Greshamsbury. If Greshamsbury be ever again more than a name, it is you that must redeem it. Of all men living you are the least able to marry a girl like Mary Thorne.”

“Mother, I will not sell myself for what you call my position.”

“Who asks you? I do not ask you; nobody asks you. I do not want you to marry anyone. I did think once⁠—but let that pass. You are now twenty-three. In ten years’ time you will still be a young man. I only ask you to wait. If you marry now, that is, marry such a girl as Mary Thorne⁠—”

“Such a girl! Where shall I find such another?”

“I mean as regards money, Frank; you know I mean that; how are you to live? Where are you to go? And then, her birth. Oh, Frank, Frank!”

“Birth! I hate such pretence. What was⁠—but I won’t talk about it. Mother, I tell you my word is pledged, and on no account will I be induced to break it.”

“Ah, that’s just it; that’s just the point. Now, Frank, listen to me. Pray listen to me patiently for one minute. I do not ask much of you.”

Frank promised that he would listen patiently; but he looked anything but patient as he said so.

“I have seen Mary, as it was certainly my duty to do. You cannot be angry with me for that.”

“Who said that I was angry, mother?”

“Well, I have seen her, and I must own, that though she was not disposed to be courteous to me, personally, she said much that marked her excellent good sense. But the gist of it was this; that as she had made you a promise, nothing should turn her from that promise but your permission.”

“And do you think⁠—”

“Wait a moment, Frank, and listen to me. She confessed that this marriage was one which would necessarily bring distress on all your family; that it was one which would probably be ruinous to yourself; that it was a match which could not be approved of: she did, indeed; she confessed all that. ‘I have nothing,’ she said⁠—those were her own words⁠—‘I have nothing to say in favour of this engagement, except that he wishes it.’ That is what she thinks of it herself. ‘His wishes are not a reason; but a law,’ she said⁠—”

“And, mother, would you have me desert such a girl as that?”

“It is not deserting, Frank: it would not be deserting: you would be doing that which she herself approves of. She feels the impropriety of going on; but she cannot draw back because of her promise to you. She thinks that she cannot do it, even though she wishes it.”

“Wishes it! Oh, mother!”

“I do believe she does, because she has sense to feel the truth of all that your friends say. Oh, Frank, I will go on my knees to you if you will listen to me.”

“Oh, mother! mother! mother!”

“You should think twice, Frank, before you refuse the only request your mother ever made you. And why do I ask you? why do I come to you thus? Is it for my own sake? Oh, my boy! my darling boy! will you lose everything in life, because you love the child with whom you have played as a child?”

“Whose fault is it that we were together as children? She is now more than a child. I look on her already as my wife.”

“But she is not your wife, Frank; and she knows that she ought not to be. It is only because you hold her to it that she consents to be so.”

“Do you mean to say that she does