Doctor Thorne by Anthony Trollope (interesting books to read TXT) 📖

on that account

was it the less fitting that her virtue should be acknowledged,

eulogised, nay, all but worshipped.

 

How the party at the doctor’s got itself broken up, I am not prepared

to say. Frank, I know, stayed and dined there, and his poor mother,

who would not retire to rest till she had kissed him, and blessed

him, and thanked him for all he was doing for the family, was kept

waiting in her dressing-room till a very unreasonable hour of the

night.

 

It was the squire who brought the news up to the house. “Arabella,”

he said, in a low, but somewhat solemn voice, “you will be surprised

at the news I bring you. Mary Thorne is the heiress to all the

Scatcherd property!”

 

“Oh, heavens! Mr Gresham.”

 

“Yes, indeed,” continued the squire. “So it is; it is very, very—”

But Lady Arabella had fainted. She was a woman who generally had her

feelings and her emotions much under her own control; but what she

now heard was too much for her. When she came to her senses, the

first words that escaped her lips were, “Dear Mary!”

 

But the household had to sleep on the news before it could be fully

realised. The squire was not by nature a mercenary man. If I have at

all succeeded in putting his character before the reader, he will be

recognised as one not over attached to money for money’s sake. But

things had gone so hard with him, the world had become so rough, so

ungracious, so full of thorns, the want of means had become an evil

so keenly felt in every hour, that it cannot be wondered at that his

dreams that night should be of a golden elysium. The wealth was not

coming to him. True. But his chief sorrow had been for his son. Now

that son would be his only creditor. It was as though mountains of

marble had been taken from off his bosom.

 

But Lady Arabella’s dreams flew away at once into the seventh heaven.

Sordid as they certainly were, they were not absolutely selfish.

Frank would now certainly be the first commoner in Barsetshire; of

course he would represent the county; of course there would be the

house in town; it wouldn’t be her house, but she was contented that

the grandeur should be that of her child. He would have heaven

knows what to spend per annum. And that it should come through Mary

Thorne! What a blessing she had allowed Mary to be brought into the

Greshamsbury nursery! Dear Mary!

 

“She will of course be one now,” said Beatrice to her sister. With

her, at the present moment, “one” of course meant one of the bevy

that was to attend her at the altar. “Oh dear! how nice! I shan’t

know what to say to her to-morrow. But I know one thing.”

 

“What is that?” asked Augusta.

 

“She will be as mild and as meek as a little dove. If she and the

doctor had lost every shilling in the world, she would have been as

proud as an eagle.” It must be acknowledged that Beatrice had had the

wit to read Mary’s character aright.

 

But Augusta was not quite pleased with the whole affair. Not that

she begrudged her brother his luck, or Mary her happiness. But her

ideas of right and wrong—perhaps we should rather say Lady Amelia’s

ideas—would not be fairly carried out.

 

“After all, Beatrice, this does not alter her birth. I know it is

useless saying anything to Frank.”

 

“Why, you wouldn’t break both their hearts now?”

 

“I don’t want to break their hearts, certainly. But there are those

who put their dearest and warmest feelings under restraint rather

than deviate from what they know to be proper.” Poor Augusta! she was

the stern professor of the order of this philosophy; the last in the

family who practised with unflinching courage its cruel behests; the

last, always excepting the Lady Amelia.

 

And how slept Frank that night? With him, at least, let us hope, nay,

let us say boldly, that his happiest thoughts were not of the wealth

which he was to acquire. But yet it would be something to restore

Boxall Hill to Greshamsbury; something to give back to his father

those rumpled vellum documents, since the departure of which the

squire had never had a happy day; nay, something to come forth again

to his friends as a gay, young country squire, instead of as a

farmer, clod-compelling for his bread. We would not have him thought

to be better than he was, nor would we wish him to make him of other

stuff than nature generally uses. His heart did exult at Mary’s

wealth; but it leaped higher still when he thought of purer joys.

 

And what shall we say of Mary’s dreams? With her, it was altogether

what she should give, not at all what she should get. Frank had loved

her so truly when she was so poor, such an utter castaway; Frank, who

had ever been the heir of Greshamsbury! Frank, who with his beauty,

and spirit, and his talents might have won the smiles of the richest,

the grandest, the noblest! What lady’s heart would not have rejoiced

to be allowed to love her Frank? But he had been true to her through

everything. Ah! how often she thought of that hour, when suddenly

appearing before her, he had strained her to his breast, just as she

had resolved how best to bear the death-like chill of his supposed

estrangements! She was always thinking of that time. She fed her love

by recurring over and over to the altered feeling of that moment. Any

now she could pay him for his goodness. Pay him! No, that would be a

base word, a base thought. Her payment must be made, if God would so

grant it, in many, many years to come. But her store, such as it was,

should be emptied into his lap. It was soothing to her pride that she

would not hurt him by her love, that she would bring no injury to the

old house. “Dear, dear Frank” she murmured, as her waking dreams,

conquered at last by sleep, gave way to those of the fairy world.

 

But she thought not only of Frank; dreamed not only of him. What had

he not done for her, that uncle of hers, who had been more loving to

her than any father! How was he, too, to be paid? Paid, indeed! Love

can only be paid in its own coin: it knows of no other legal tender.

Well, if her home was to be Greshamsbury, at any rate she would not

be separated from him.

 

What the doctor dreamed of that, neither he or any one ever knew.

“Why, uncle, I think you’ve been asleep,” said Mary to him that

evening as he moved for a moment uneasily on the sofa. He had been

asleep for the last three-quarters of an hour;—but Frank, his guest,

had felt no offence. “No, I’ve not been exactly asleep,” said he;

“but I’m very tired. I wouldn’t do it all again, Frank, to double the

money. You haven’t got any more tea, have you, Mary?”

 

On the following morning, Beatrice was of course with her friend.

There was no awkwardness between them in meeting. Beatrice had loved

her when she was poor, and though they had not lately thought alike

on one very important subject, Mary was too gracious to impute that

to Beatrice as a crime.

 

“You will be one now, Mary; of course you will.”

 

“If Lady Arabella will let me come.”

 

“Oh, Mary; let you! Do you remember what you said once about coming,

and being near me? I have so often thought of it. And now, Mary, I

must tell you about Caleb;” and the young lady settled herself on the

sofa, so as to have a comfortable long talk. Beatrice had been quite

right. Mary was as meek with her, and as mild as a dove.

 

And then Patience Oriel came. “My fine, young, darling, magnificent,

overgrown heiress,” said Patience, embracing her. “My breath deserted

me, and I was nearly stunned when I heard of it. How small we shall

all be, my dear! I am quite prepared to toady to you immensely; but

pray be a little gracious to me, for the sake of auld lang syne.”

 

Mary gave a long, long kiss. “Yes, for auld lang syne, Patience; when

you took me away under your wing to Richmond.” Patience also had

loved her when she was in her trouble, and that love, too, should

never be forgotten.

 

But the great difficulty was Lady Arabella’s first meeting with her.

“I think I’ll go down to her after breakfast,” said her ladyship to

Beatrice, as the two were talking over the matter while the mother

was finishing her toilet.

 

“I am sure she will come up if you like it, mamma.”

 

“She is entitled to every courtesy—as Frank’s accepted bride, you

know,” said Lady Arabella. “I would not for worlds fail in any

respect to her for his sake.”

 

“He will be glad enough for her to come, I am sure,” said Beatrice.

“I was talking with Caleb this morning, and he says—”

 

The matter was of importance, and Lady Arabella gave it her most

mature consideration. The manner of receiving into one’s family an

heiress whose wealth is to cure all one’s difficulties, disperse

all one’s troubles, give a balm to all the wounds of misfortune,

must, under any circumstances, be worthy of much care. But when that

heiress has been already treated as Mary had been treated!

 

“I must see her, at any rate, before I go to Courcy.” said Lady

Arabella.

 

“Are you going to Courcy, mamma?”

 

“Oh, certainly; yes, I must see my sister-in-law now. You don’t seem

to realise the importance, my dear, of Frank’s marriage. He will be

in a great hurry about it, and, indeed, I cannot blame him. I expect

that they will all come here.”

 

“Who, mamma? the de Courcys?”

 

“Yes, of course. I shall be very much surprised if the earl does not

come now. And I must consult my sister-in-law as to asking the Duke

of Omnium.”

 

Poor Mary!

 

“And I think it will perhaps be better,” continued Lady Arabella,

“that we should have a larger party than we intended at your affair.

The countess, I’m sure, would come now. We couldn’t put it off for

ten days; could we, dear?”

 

“Put it off ten days!”

 

“Yes; it would be convenient.”

 

“I don’t think Mr Oriel would like that at all, mamma. You know he

has made all his arrangements for his Sundays—”

 

Pshaw! The idea of the parson’s Sundays being allowed to have any

bearing on such a matter as Frank’s wedding would now become! Why,

they would have—how much? Between twelve and fourteen thousand a

year! Lady Arabella, who had made her calculations a dozen times

during the night, had never found it to be much less than the larger

sum. Mr Oriel’s Sundays, indeed!

 

After much doubt, Lady Arabella acceded to her daughter’s suggestion,

that Mary should be received at Greshamsbury instead of being called

on at the doctor’s house. “If you think she won’t mind the coming

up first,” said her ladyship. “I certainly could receive her better

here. I should be more—more—more able, you know, to express what I

feel. We had better go into the big drawing-room to-day, Beatrice.

Will you remember to tell Mrs Richards?”

 

“Oh, certainly,” was Mary’s answer when Beatrice, with a voice a

little trembling, proposed to her to walk up