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

that that earl’s daughter was

the cousin of the Miss Greshams. And yet the Lady Alexandrina hardly

knew what other construction to put on the words she had just heard.

 

It was at any rate clear to her that it was not becoming that she

should just then stay any longer in that room. Whether she intended

to be pert or not, Miss Mary Thorne was, to say the least, very free.

The de Courcy ladies knew what was due to them—no ladies better;

and, therefore, the Lady Alexandrina made up her mind at once to go

to her own bedroom.

 

“Augusta,” she said, rising slowly from her chair with much stately

composure, “it is nearly time to dress; will you come with me? We

have a great deal to settle, you know.”

 

So she swam out of the room, and Augusta, telling Mary that she would

see her again at dinner, swam—no, tried to swim—after her. Miss

Gresham had had great advantages; but she had not been absolutely

brought up at Courcy Castle, and could not as yet quite assume the

Courcy style of swimming.

 

“There,” said Mary, as the door closed behind the rustling muslins

of the ladies. “There, I have made an enemy for ever, perhaps two;

that’s satisfactory.”

 

“And why have you done it, Mary? When I am fighting your battles

behind your back, why do you come and upset it all by making the

whole family of the de Courcys dislike you? In such a matter as that,

they’ll all go together.”

 

“I am sure they will,” said Mary; “whether they would be equally

unanimous in a case of love and charity, that, indeed, is another

question.”

 

“But why should you try to make my cousin angry; you that ought to

have so much sense? Don’t you remember what you were saying yourself

the other day, of the absurdity of combatting pretences which the

world sanctions?”

 

“I do, Trichy, I do; don’t scold me now. It is so much easier to

preach than to practise. I do so wish I was a clergyman.”

 

“But you have done so much harm, Mary.”

 

“Have I?” said Mary, kneeling down on the ground at her friend’s

feet. “If I humble myself very low; if I kneel through the whole

evening in a corner; if I put my neck down and let all your cousins

trample on it, and then your aunt, would not that make atonement? I

would not object to wearing sackcloth, either; and I’d eat a little

ashes—or, at any rate, I’d try.”

 

“I know you’re clever, Mary; but still I think you’re a fool. I do,

indeed.”

 

“I am a fool, Trichy, I do confess it; and am not a bit clever; but

don’t scold me; you see how humble I am; not only humble but umble,

which I look upon to be the comparative, or, indeed, superlative

degree. Or perhaps there are four degrees; humble, umble, stumble,

tumble; and then, when one is absolutely in the dirt at their feet,

perhaps these big people won’t wish one to stoop any further.”

 

“Oh, Mary!”

 

“And, oh, Trichy! you don’t mean to say I mayn’t speak out before

you. There, perhaps you’d like to put your foot on my neck.” And then

she put her head down to the footstool and kissed Beatrice’s feet.

 

“I’d like, if I dared, to put my hand on your cheek and give you a

good slap for being such a goose.”

 

“Do; do, Trichy: you shall tread on me, or slap me, or kiss me;

whichever you like.”

 

“I can’t tell you how vexed I am,” said Beatrice; “I wanted to

arrange something.”

 

“Arrange something! What? arrange what? I love arranging. I fancy

myself qualified to be an arranger-general in female matters. I

mean pots and pans, and such like. Of course I don’t allude to

extraordinary people and extraordinary circumstances that require

tact, and delicacy, and drawbacks, and that sort of thing.”

 

“Very well, Mary.”

 

“But it’s not very well; it’s very bad if you look like that. Well,

my pet, there I won’t. I won’t allude to the noble blood of your

noble relatives either in joke or in earnest. What is it you want to

arrange, Trichy?”

 

“I want you to be one of Augusta’s bridesmaids.”

 

“Good heavens, Beatrice! Are you mad? What! Put me, even for a

morning, into the same category of finery as the noble blood from

Courcy Castle!”

 

“Patience is to be one.”

 

“But that is no reason why Impatience should be another, and I should

be very impatient under such honours. No, Trichy; joking apart, do

not think of it. Even if Augusta wished it I should refuse. I should

be obliged to refuse. I, too, suffer from pride; a pride quite as

unpardonable as that of others: I could not stand with your four

lady-cousins behind your sister at the altar. In such a galaxy they

would be the stars and I—”

 

“Why, Mary, all the world knows that you are prettier than any of

them!”

 

“I am all the world’s very humble servant. But, Trichy, I should

not object if I were as ugly as the veiled prophet and they all as

beautiful as Zuleika. The glory of that galaxy will be held to depend

not on its beauty, but on its birth. You know how they would look at

me; how they would scorn me; and there, in church, at the altar, with

all that is solemn round us, I could not return their scorn as I

might do elsewhere. In a room I’m not a bit afraid of them all.” And

Mary was again allowing herself to be absorbed by that feeling of

indomitable pride, of antagonism to the pride of others, which she

herself in her cooler moments was the first to blame.

 

“You often say, Mary, that that sort of arrogance should be despised

and passed over without notice.”

 

“So it should, Trichy. I tell you that as a clergyman tells you to

hate riches. But though the clergyman tells you so, he is not the

less anxious to be rich himself.”

 

“I particularly wish you to be one of Augusta’s bridesmaids.”

 

“And I particularly wish to decline the honour; which honour has

not been, and will not be, offered to me. No, Trichy. I will not be

Augusta’s bridesmaid, but—but—but—”

 

“But what, dearest?”

 

“But, Trichy, when some one else is married, when the new wing has

been built to a house that you know of—”

 

“Now, Mary, hold your tongue, or you know you’ll make me angry.”

 

“I do so like to see you angry. And when that time comes, when that

wedding does take place, then I will be a bridesmaid, Trichy. Yes!

even though I am not invited. Yes! though all the de Courcys in

Barsetshire should tread upon me and obliterate me. Though I should

be as dust among the stars, though I should creep up in calico among

their satins and lace, I will nevertheless be there; close, close to

the bride; to hold something for her, to touch her dress, to feel

that I am near to her, to—to—to—” and she threw her arms round her

companion, and kissed her over and over again. “No, Trichy; I won’t

be Augusta’s bridesmaid; I’ll bide my time for bridesmaiding.”

 

What protestations Beatrice made against the probability of such an

event as foreshadowed in her friend’s promise we will not repeat. The

afternoon was advancing, and the ladies also had to dress for dinner,

to do honour to the young heir.