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

> 

“I fear,” continued Beatrice, “you hardly know, perhaps do not think,

what is Frank’s real character. He is not made to settle down early

in life; even now, I believe he is attached to some lady in London,

whom, of course, he cannot marry.”

 

Beatrice said this in perfect trueness of heart. She had heard of

Frank’s new love-affair, and believing what she had heard, thought

it best to tell the truth. But the information was not of a kind to

quiet Mary’s spirit.

 

“Very well,” said she, “let it be so. I have nothing to say against

it.”

 

“But are you not preparing wretchedness and unhappiness for

yourself?”

 

“Very likely.”

 

“Oh, Mary, do not be so cold with me! you know how delighted I should

be to have you for a sister-in-law, if only it were possible.”

 

“Yes, Trichy; but it is impossible, is it not? Impossible that

Francis Gresham of Greshamsbury should disgrace himself by marrying

such a poor creature as I am. Of course, I know it; of course, I am

prepared for unhappiness and misery. He can amuse himself as he likes

with me or others—with anybody. It is his privilege. It is quite

enough to say that he is not made for settling down. I know my own

position;—and yet I love him.”

 

“But, Mary, has he asked you to be his wife? If so—”

 

“You ask home-questions, Beatrice. Let me ask you one; has he ever

told you that he has done so?”

 

At this moment Beatrice was not disposed to repeat all that Frank had

said. A year ago, before he went away, he had told his sister a score

of times that he meant to marry Mary Thorne if she would have him;

but Beatrice now looked on all that as idle, boyish vapouring. The

pity was, that Mary should have looked on it differently.

 

“We will each keep our secret,” said Mary. “Only remember this:

should Frank marry to-morrow, I shall have no ground for blaming him.

He is free as far I as am concerned. He can take the London lady if

he likes. You may tell him so from me. But, Trichy, what else I have

told you, I have told you only.”

 

“Oh, yes!” said Beatrice, sadly; “I shall say nothing of it to

anybody. It is very sad, very, very; I was so happy when I came here,

and now I am so wretched.” This was the end of that delicious talk to

which she had looked forward with so much eagerness.

 

“Don’t be wretched about me, dearest; I shall get through it. I

sometimes think I was born to be unhappy, and that unhappiness agrees

with me best. Kiss me now, Trichy, and don’t be wretched any more.

You owe it to Mr Oriel to be as happy as the day is long.”

 

And then they parted.

 

Beatrice, as she went out, saw Dr Thorne in his little shop on the

right-hand side of the passage, deeply engaged in some derogatory

branch of an apothecary’s mechanical trade; mixing a dose, perhaps,

for a little child. She would have passed him without speaking if she

could have been sure of doing so without notice, for her heart was

full, and her eyes were red with tears; but it was so long since she

had been in his house that she was more than ordinarily anxious not

to appear uncourteous or unkind to him.

 

“Good morning, doctor,” she said, changing her countenance as best

she might, and attempting a smile.

 

“Ah, my fairy!” said he, leaving his villainous compounds, and coming

out to her; “and you, too, are about to become a steady old lady.”

 

“Indeed, I am not, doctor; I don’t mean to be either steady or old

for the next ten years. But who has told you? I suppose Mary has been

a traitor.”

 

“Well, I will confess, Mary was the traitor. But hadn’t I a right

to be told, seeing how often I have brought you sugar-plums in my

pocket? But I wish you joy with all my heart,—with all my heart.

Oriel is an excellent, good fellow.”

 

“Is he not, doctor?”

 

“An excellent, good fellow. I never heard but of one fault that he

had.”

 

“What was that one fault, Doctor Thorne?”

 

“He thought that clergymen should not marry. But you have cured that,

and now he’s perfect.”

 

“Thank you, doctor. I declare that you say the prettiest things of

all my friends.”

 

“And none of your friends wish prettier things for you. I do

congratulate you, Beatrice, and hope you may be happy with the man

you have chosen;” and taking both her hands in his, he pressed them

warmly, and bade God bless her.

 

“Oh, doctor! I do so hope the time will come when we shall all be

friends again.”

 

“I hope it as well, my dear. But let it come, or let it not come, my

regard for you will be the same:” and then she parted from him also,

and went her way.

 

Nothing was spoken of that evening between Dr Thorne and his niece

excepting Beatrice’s future happiness; nothing, at least, having

reference to what had passed that morning. But on the following

morning circumstances led to Frank Gresham’s name being mentioned.

 

At the usual breakfast-hour the doctor entered the parlour with a

harassed face. He had an open letter in his hand, and it was at once

clear to Mary that he was going to speak on some subject that vexed

him.

 

“That unfortunate fellow is again in trouble. Here is a letter from

Greyson.” Greyson was a London apothecary, who had been appointed as

medical attendant to Sir Louis Scatcherd, and whose real business

consisted in keeping a watch on the baronet, and reporting to Dr

Thorne when anything was very much amiss. “Here is a letter from

Greyson; he has been drunk for the last three days, and is now laid

up in a terribly nervous state.”

 

“You won’t go up to town again; will you, uncle?”

 

“I hardly know what to do. No, I think not. He talks of coming down

here to Greshamsbury.”

 

“Who, Sir Louis?”

 

“Yes, Sir Louis. Greyson says that he will be down as soon as he can

get out of his room.”

 

“What! to this house?”

 

“What other house can he come to?”

 

“Oh, uncle! I hope not. Pray, pray do not let him come here.”

 

“I cannot prevent it, my dear. I cannot shut my door on him.”

 

They sat down to breakfast, and Mary gave him his tea in silence. “I

am going over to Boxall Hill before dinner,” said he. “Have you any

message to send to Lady Scatcherd?”

 

“Message! no, I have no message; not especially: give her my love,

of course,” she said listlessly. And then, as though a thought had

suddenly struck her, she spoke with more energy. “But, couldn’t I go

to Boxall Hill again? I should be so delighted.”

 

“What! to run away from Sir Louis? No, dearest, we will have no more

running away. He will probably also go to Boxall Hill, and he could

annoy you much more there than he can here.”

 

“But, uncle, Mr Gresham will be home on the 12th,” she said,

blushing.

 

“What! Frank?”

 

“Yes. Beatrice said he was to be here on the 12th.”

 

“And would you run away from him too, Mary?”

 

“I do not know: I do not know what to do.”

 

“No; we will have no more running away: I am sorry that you ever did

so. It was my fault, altogether my fault; but it was foolish.”

 

“Uncle, I am not happy here.” As she said this, she put down the cup

which she had held, and, leaning her elbows on the table, rested her

forehead on her hands.

 

“And would you be happier at Boxall Hill? It is not the place makes

the happiness.”

 

“No, I know that; it is not the place. I do not look to be happy in

any place; but I should be quieter, more tranquil elsewhere than

here.”

 

“I also sometimes think that it will be better for us to take up our

staves and walk away out of Greshamsbury;—leave it altogether, and

settle elsewhere; miles, miles, miles away from here. Should you like

that, dearest?”

 

Miles, miles, miles away from Greshamsbury! There was something in

the sound that fell very cold on Mary’s ears, unhappy as she was.

Greshamsbury had been so dear to her; in spite of all that had

passed, was still so dear to her! Was she prepared to take up her

staff, as her uncle said, and walk forth from the place with the

full understanding that she was to return to it no more; with a mind

resolved that there should be an inseparable gulf between her and its

inhabitants? Such she knew was the proposed nature of the walking

away of which her uncle spoke. So she sat there, resting on her arms,

and gave no answer to the question that had been asked her.

 

“No, we will stay a while yet,” said her uncle. “It may come to

that, but this is not the time. For one season longer let us face—I

will not say our enemies; I cannot call anybody my enemy who bears

the name of Gresham.” And then he went on for a moment with his

breakfast. “So Frank will be here on the 12th?”

 

“Yes, uncle.”

 

“Well, dearest, I have no questions to ask you: no directions to

give. I know how good you are, and how prudent; I am anxious only for

your happiness; not at all—”

 

“Happiness, uncle, is out of the question.”

 

“I hope not. It is never out of the question, never can be out of the

question. But, as I was saying, I am quite satisfied your conduct

will be good, and, therefore, I have no questions to ask. We will

remain here; and, whether good or evil come, we will not be ashamed

to show our faces.”

 

She sat for a while again silent, collecting her courage on the

subject that was nearest her heart. She would have given the world

that he should ask her questions; but she could not bid him to do so;

and she found it impossible to talk openly to him about Frank unless

he did so. “Will he come here?” at last she said, in a low-toned

voice.

 

“Who? He, Louis? Yes, I think that in all probability he will.”

 

“No; but Frank,” she said, in a still lower voice.

 

“Ah! my darling, that I cannot tell; but will it be well that he

should come here?”

 

“I do not know,” she said. “No, I suppose not. But, uncle, I don’t

think he will come.”

 

She was now sitting on a sofa away from the table, and he got up, sat

down beside her, and took her hands in his. “Mary,” said he, “you

must be strong now; strong to endure, not to attack. I think you have

that strength; but, if not, perhaps it will be better that we should

go away.”

 

“I will be strong,” said she, rising up and going towards the door.

“Never mind me, uncle; don’t follow me; I will be strong. It will be

base, cowardly, mean, to run away; very base in me to make you do

so.”

 

“No, dearest, not so; it will be the same to me.”

 

“No,” said she, “I will not run away from Lady Arabella. And, as for

him—if he loves this