Doctor Thorne by Anthony Trollope (interesting books to read TXT) đź“–
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of the softer feelings as young gentlemen are. Now Frank Gresham was
handsome, amiable, by no means a fool in intellect, excellent in
heart; and he was, moreover, a gentleman, being the son of Mr Gresham
of Greshamsbury. Mary had been, as it were, brought up to love him.
Had aught but good happened to him, she would have cried as for a
brother. It must not therefore be supposed that when Frank Gresham
told her that he loved her, she had heard it altogether unconcerned.
He had not, perhaps, made his declaration with that propriety of
language in which such scenes are generally described as being
carried on. Ladies may perhaps think that Mary should have been
deterred, by the very boyishness of his manner, from thinking at all
seriously on the subject. His “will you, won’t you—do you, don’t
you?” does not sound like the poetic raptures of a highly inspired
lover. But, nevertheless, there had been warmth, and a reality in it
not in itself repulsive; and Mary’s anger—anger? no, not anger—her
objections to the declarations were probably not based on the
absurdity of her lover’s language.
We are inclined to think that these matters are not always discussed
by mortal lovers in the poetically passionate phraseology which is
generally thought to be appropriate for their description. A man
cannot well describe that which he has never seen nor heard; but
the absolute words and acts of one such scene did once come to the
author’s knowledge. The couple were by no means plebeian, or below
the proper standard of high bearing and high breeding; they were
a handsome pair, living among educated people, sufficiently given
to mental pursuits, and in every way what a pair of polite lovers
ought to be. The all-important conversation passed in this wise. The
site of the passionate scene was the sea-shore, on which they were
walking, in autumn.
Gentleman. “Well, Miss –-, the long and short of it is this: here
I am; you can take me or leave me.”
Lady—scratching a gutter on the sand with her parasol, so as to
allow a little salt water to run out of one hole into another. “Of
course, I know that’s all nonsense.”
Gentleman. “Nonsense! By Jove, it isn’t nonsense at all: come, Jane;
here I am: come, at any rate you can say something.”
Lady. “Yes, I suppose I can say something.”
Gentleman. “Well, which is it to be; take me or leave me?”
Lady—very slowly, and with a voice perhaps hardly articulate,
carrying on, at the same time, her engineering works on a wider
scale. “Well, I don’t exactly want to leave you.”
And so the matter was settled: settled with much propriety and
satisfaction; and both the lady and gentleman would have thought, had
they ever thought about the matter at all, that this, the sweetest
moment of their lives, had been graced by all the poetry by which
such moments ought to be hallowed.
When Mary had, as she thought, properly subdued young Frank, the
offer of whose love she, at any rate, knew was, at such a period of
his life, an utter absurdity, then she found it necessary to subdue
herself. What happiness on earth could be greater than the possession
of such a love, had the true possession been justly and honestly
within her reach? What man could be more lovable than such a man as
would grow from such a boy? And then, did she not love him,—love him
already, without waiting for any change? Did she not feel that there
was that about him, about him and about herself, too, which might so
well fit them for each other? It would be so sweet to be the sister
of Beatrice, the daughter of the squire, to belong to Greshamsbury as
a part and parcel of itself.
But though she could not restrain these thoughts, it never for a
moment occurred to her to take Frank’s offer in earnest. Though she
was a grown woman, he was still a boy. He would have to see the world
before he settled in it, and would change his mind about woman half a
score of times before he married. Then, too, though she did not like
the Lady Arabella, she felt that she owed something, if not to her
kindness, at least to her forbearance; and she knew, felt inwardly
certain, that she would be doing wrong, that the world would say
she was doing wrong, that her uncle would think her wrong, if she
endeavoured to take advantage of what had passed.
She had not for an instant doubted; not for a moment had she
contemplated it as possible that she should ever become Mrs Gresham
because Frank had offered to make her so; but, nevertheless, she
could not help thinking of what had occurred—of thinking of it, most
probably much more than Frank did himself.
A day or two afterwards, on the evening before Frank’s birthday, she
was alone with her uncle, walking in the garden behind their house,
and she then essayed to question him, with the object of learning if
she were fitted by her birth to be the wife of such a one as Frank
Gresham. They were in the habit of walking there together when he
happened to be at home of a summer’s evening. This was not often the
case, for his hours of labour extended much beyond those usual to the
upper working world, the hours, namely, between breakfast and dinner;
but those minutes that they did thus pass together, the doctor
regarded as perhaps the pleasantest of his life.
“Uncle,” said she, after a while, “what do you think of this marriage
of Miss Gresham’s?”
“Well, Minnie”—such was his name of endearment for her—“I can’t say
I have thought much about it, and I don’t suppose anybody else has
either.”
“She must think about it, of course; and so must he, I suppose.”
“I’m not so sure of that. Some folks would never get married if they
had to trouble themselves with thinking about it.”
“I suppose that’s why you never got married, uncle?”
“Either that, or thinking of it too much. One is as bad as the
other.”
Mary had not contrived to get at all near her point as yet; so she
had to draw off, and after a while begin again.
“Well, I have been thinking about it, at any rate, uncle.”
“That’s very good of you; that will save me the trouble; and perhaps
save Miss Gresham too. If you have thought it over thoroughly, that
will do for all.”
“I believe Mr Moffat is a man of no family.”
“He’ll mend in that point, no doubt, when he has got a wife.”
“Uncle, you’re a goose; and what is worse, a very provoking goose.”
“Niece, you’re a gander; and what is worse, a very silly gander. What
is Mr Moffat’s family to you and me? Mr Moffat has that which ranks
above family honours. He is a very rich man.”
“Yes,” said Mary, “I know he is rich; and a rich man I suppose can
buy anything—except a woman that is worth having.”
“A rich man can buy anything,” said the doctor; “not that I meant to
say that Mr Moffat has bought Miss Gresham. I have no doubt that they
will suit each other very well,” he added with an air of decisive
authority, as though he had finished the subject.
But his niece was determined not to let him pass so. “Now, uncle,”
said she, “you know you are pretending to a great deal of worldly
wisdom, which, after all, is not wisdom at all in your eyes.”
“Am I?”
“You know you are: and as for the impropriety of discussing Miss
Gresham’s marriage—”
“I did not say it was improper.”
“Oh, yes, you did; of course such things must be discussed. How is
one to have an opinion if one does not get it by looking at the
things which happen around us?”
“Now I am going to be blown up,” said Dr Thorne.
“Dear uncle, do be serious with me.”
“Well, then, seriously, I hope Miss Gresham will be very happy as Mrs
Moffat.”
“Of course you do: so do I. I hope it as much as I can hope what I
don’t at all see ground for expecting.”
“People constantly hope without any such ground.”
“Well, then, I’ll hope in this case. But, uncle—”
“Well, my dear?”
“I want your opinion, truly and really. If you were a girl—”
“I am perfectly unable to give any opinion founded on so strange an
hypothesis.”
“Well; but if you were a marrying man.”
“The hypothesis is quite as much out of my way.”
“But, uncle, I am a girl, and perhaps I may marry;—or at any rate
think of marrying some day.”
“The latter alternative is certainly possible enough.”
“Therefore, in seeing a friend taking such a step, I cannot but
speculate on the matter as though I were myself in her place. If I
were Miss Gresham, should I be right?”
“But, Minnie, you are not Miss Gresham.”
“No, I am Mary Thorne; it is a very different thing, I know. I
suppose I might marry any one without degrading myself.”
It was almost ill-natured of her to say this; but she had not meant
to say it in the sense which the sounds seemed to bear. She had
failed in being able to bring her uncle to the point she wished
by the road she had planned, and in seeking another road, she had
abruptly fallen into unpleasant places.
“I should be very sorry that my niece should think so,” said he; “and
am sorry, too, that she should say so. But, Mary, to tell the truth,
I hardly know at what you are driving. You are, I think, not so clear
minded—certainly, not so clear worded—as is usual with you.”
“I will tell you, uncle;” and, instead of looking up into his face,
she turned her eyes down on the green lawn beneath her feet.
“Well, Minnie, what is it?” and he took both her hands in his.
“I think that Miss Gresham should not marry Mr Moffat. I think so
because her family is high and noble, and because he is low and
ignoble. When one has an opinion on such matters, one cannot but
apply it to things and people around one; and having applied my
opinion to her, the next step naturally is to apply it to myself.
Were I Miss Gresham, I would not marry Mr Moffat though he rolled
in gold. I know where to rank Miss Gresham. What I want to know is,
where I ought to rank myself?”
They had been standing when she commenced her last speech; but as
she finished it, the doctor moved on again, and she moved with him.
He walked on slowly without answering her; and she, out of her full
mind, pursued aloud the tenor of her thoughts.
“If a woman feels that she would not lower herself by marrying in
a rank beneath herself, she ought also to feel that she would not
lower a man that she might love by allowing him to marry into a rank
beneath his own—that is, to marry her.”
“That does not follow,” said the doctor quickly. “A man raises a
woman to his own standard, but a woman must take that of the man she
marries.”
Again they were silent, and again they walked on, Mary holding her
uncle’s arm
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