The Chronicles of Barsetshire

by Anthony Trollope

  And then, for a moment, she thought of her uncle. Why had he not spoken to her of all this? Why had he not warned her? He who had ever been so good to her, why had he now failed her so grievously? She had told him everything, had had no secret from him; but he had never answered her a word. “He also must have known,” she said to herself, piteously, “he also must have known that I could give nothing in return.” Such accusation, however, availed her not at all, so she sat down and slowly wrote her letter.

  “Dearest Frank,” she began. She had at first written “dear Mr. Gresham;” but her heart revolted against such useless coldness. She was not going to pretend she did not love him.

  DEAREST FRANK,

  Your mother has been here talking to me about our engagement. I do not generally agree with her about such matters; but she has said some things to-day which I cannot but acknowledge to be true. She says, that our marriage would be distressing to your father, injurious to all your family, and ruinous to yourself. If this be so, how can I, who love you, wish for such a marriage?

  I remember my promise, and have kept it. I would not yield to your mother when she desired me to disclaim our engagement. But I do think it will be more prudent if you will consent to forget all that has passed between us—not, perhaps, to forget it; that may not be possible for us—but to let it pass by as though it had never been. If so, if you think so, dear Frank, do not have any scruples on my account. What will be best for you, must be best for me. Think what a reflection it would ever be to me, to have been the ruin of one that I love so well!

  Let me have but one word to say that I am released from my promise, and I will tell my uncle that the matter between us is over. It will be painful for us at first; those occasional meetings which must take place will distress us, but that will wear off. We shall always think well of each other, and why should we not be friends? This, doubtless, cannot be done without inward wounds; but such wounds are in God’s hands, and He can cure them.

  I know what your first feelings will be on reading this letter; but do not answer it in obedience to first feelings. Think over it, think of your father, and all you owe him, of your old name, your old family, and of what the world expects from you. [Mary was forced to put her hand to her eyes, to save her paper from her falling tears, as she found herself thus repeating, nearly word for word, the arguments that had been used by Lady Arabella.] Think of these things, coolly, if you can, but, at any rate, without passion: and then let me have one word in answer. One word will suffice.

  I have but to add this: do not allow yourself to think that my heart will ever reproach you. It cannot reproach you for doing that which I myself suggest. [Mary’s logic in this was very false; but she was not herself aware of it.] I will never reproach you either in word or thought; and as for all others, it seems to me that the world agrees that we have hitherto been wrong. The world, I hope, will be satisfied when we have obeyed it.

  God bless you, dearest Frank! I shall never call you so again; but it would be a pretence were I to write otherwise in this letter. Think of this, and then let me have one line.

  Your affectionate friend,

  MARY THORNE.

  P.S.—Of course I cannot be at dear Beatrice’s marriage; but when they come back to the parsonage, I shall see her. I am sure they will both be happy, because they are so good. I need hardly say that I shall think of them on their wedding day.

  When she had finished her letter, she addressed it plainly, in her own somewhat bold handwriting, to Francis N. Gresham, Jun., Esq., and then took it herself to the little village post-office. There should be nothing underhand about her correspondence: all the Greshamsbury world should know of it—that world of which she had spoken in her letter—if that world so pleased. Having put her penny label on it, she handed it, with an open brow and an unembarrassed face, to the baker’s wife, who was Her Majesty’s postmistress at Greshamsbury; and, having so finished her work, she returned to see the table prepared for her uncle’s dinner. “I will say nothing to him,” said she to herself, “till I get the answer. He will not talk to me about it, so why should I trouble him?”

  CHAPTER XLIII

  The Race of Scatcherd Becomes Extinct

  It will not be imagined, at any rate by feminine readers, that Mary’s letter was written off at once, without alterations and changes, or the necessity for a fair copy. Letters from one young lady to another are doubtless written in this manner, and even with them it might sometimes be better if more patience had been taken; but with Mary’s first letter to her lover—her first love-letter, if love-letter it can be called—much more care was used. It was copied and re-copied, and when she returned from posting it, it was read and re-read.

  “It is very cold,” she said to herself; “he will think I have no heart, that I have never loved him!” And then she all but resolved to run down to the baker’s wife, and get back her letter, that she might alter it. “But it will be better so,” she said again. “If I touched his feelings now, he would never bring himself to leave me. It is right that I should be cold to him. I should be false to myself if I tried to move his love—I, who have nothing to give him in return for it.” And so she made no further visit to the post-office, and the letter went on its way.

  We will now follow its fortunes for a short while, and explain how it was that Mary received no answer for a week; a week, it may well be imagined, of terrible suspense to her. When she took it to the post-office, she doubtless thought that the baker’s wife had nothing to do but to send it up to the house at Greshamsbury, and that Frank would receive it that evening, or, at latest, early on the following morning. But this was by no means so. The epistle was posted on a Friday afternoon, and it behoved the baker’s wife to send it into Silverbridge—Silverbridge being the post-town—so that all due formalities, as ordered by the Queen’s Government, might there be perfected. Now, unfortunately, the post-boy had taken his departure before Mary reached the shop, and it was not, therefore, dispatched till Saturday. Sunday was always a dies non with the Greshamsbury Mercury, and, consequently, Frank’s letter was not delivered at the house till Monday morning; at which time Mary had for two long days been waiting with weary heart for the expected answer.

  Now Frank had on that morning gone up to London by the early train, with his future brother-in-law, Mr. Oriel. In order to accomplish this, they had left Greshamsbury for Barchester exactly as the post-boy was leaving Silverbridge for Greshamsbury.

  “I should like to wait for my letters,” Mr. Oriel had said, when the journey was being discussed.

  “Nonsense,” Frank had answered. “Who ever got a letter that was worth waiting for?” and so Mary was doomed to a week of misery.

  When the post-bag arrived at the house on Monday morning, it was opened as usual by the squire himself at the breakfast-table. “Here is a letter for Frank,” said he, “posted in the village. You had better send it to him:” and he threw the letter across the table to Beatrice.

  “It’s from Mary,” said Beatrice, out loud, taking the letter up and examining the address. And having said so, she repented what she had done, as she looked first at her father and then at her mother.

  A cloud came over the squire’s brow as for a minute he went on turning over the letters and newspapers. “Oh, from Mary Thorne, is it?” he said. “Well, you had better send it to him.”

  “Frank said that if any letters came they were to be kept,” said his sister Sophy. “He told me so particularly. I don’t think he likes having letters sent after him.”

  “You had better send that one,” said the squire.

  “Mr. Oriel is to have all his letters addressed to Long’s Hotel, Bond Street, and this one can very well be sent with them,” said Beatrice, who knew all about it, and intended herself to make a free use of the address.

  “Yes, you had better send it,” said the squire; and then nothing further was said at the table. But Lady Arabella, though she said nothing, had not failed to mark what had passed. Had
she asked for the letter before the squire, he would probably have taken possession of it himself; but as soon as she was alone with Beatrice, she did demand it. “I shall be writing to Frank myself,” she said, “and will send it to him.” And so, Beatrice, with a heavy heart, gave it up.

  The letter lay before Lady Arabella’s eyes all that day, and many a wistful glance was cast at it. She turned it over and over, and much she desired to know its contents; but she did not dare to break the seal of her son’s letter. All that day it lay upon her desk, and all the next, for she could hardly bring herself to part with it; but on the Wednesday it was sent—sent with these lines from herself—”Dearest, dearest Frank, I send you a letter which has come by the post from Mary Thorne. I do not know what it may contain; but before you correspond with her, pray, pray think of what I said to you. For my sake, for your father’s, for your own, pray think of it.”

  That was all, but it was enough to make her word to Beatrice true. She did send it to Frank enclosed in a letter from herself. We must reserve to the next chapter what had taken place between Frank and his mother; but, for the present, we will return to the doctor’s house.

  Mary said not a word to him about the letter; but, keeping silent on the subject, she felt wretchedly estranged from him. “Is anything the matter, Mary?” he said to her on the Sunday afternoon.

  “No, uncle,” she answered, turning away her head to hide her tears.

  “Ah, but there is something; what is it, dearest?”

  “Nothing—that is, nothing that one can talk about.”

  “What Mary! Be unhappy and not to talk about it to me? That’s something new, is it not?”

  “One has presentiments sometimes, and is unhappy without knowing why. Besides, you know—”

  “I know! What do I know? Do I know anything that will make my pet happier?” and he took her in his arms as they sat together on the sofa. Her tears were now falling fast, and she no longer made an effort to hide them. “Speak to me, Mary; this is more than a presentiment. What is it?”

  “Oh, uncle—”

  “Come, love, speak to me; tell me why you are grieving.”

  “Oh, uncle, why have you not spoken to me? Why have you not told me what to do? Why have you not advised me? Why are you always so silent?”

  “Silent about what?”

  “You know, uncle, you know; silent about him; silent about Frank.”

  Why, indeed? What was he to say to this? It was true that he had never counselled her; never shown her what course she should take; had never even spoken to her about her lover. And it was equally true that he was not now prepared to do so, even in answer to such an appeal as this. He had a hope, a strong hope, more than a hope, that Mary’s love would yet be happy; but he could not express or explain his hope; nor could he even acknowledge to himself a wish that would seem to be based on the death of him whose life he was bound, if possible, to preserve.

  “My love,” he said, “it is a matter in which you must judge for yourself. Did I doubt your conduct, I should interfere; but I do not.”

  “Conduct! Is conduct everything? One may conduct oneself excellently, and yet break one’s heart.”

  This was too much for the doctor; his sternness and firmness instantly deserted him. “Mary,” he said, “I will do anything that you would have me. If you wish it, I will make arrangements for leaving this place at once.”

  “Oh, no,” she said, plaintively.

  “When you tell me of a broken heart, you almost break my own. Come to me, darling; do not leave me so. I will say all that I can say. I have thought, do still think, that circumstances will admit of your marriage with Frank if you both love each other, and can both be patient.”

  “You think so,” said she, unconsciously sliding her hand into his, as though to thank him by its pressure for the comfort he was giving her.

  “I do think so now more than ever. But I only think so; I have been unable to assure you. There, darling, I must not say more; only that I cannot bear to see you grieving, I would not have said this:” and then he left her, and nothing more was spoken on the subject.

  If you can be patient! Why, a patience of ten years would be as nothing to her. Could she but live with the knowledge that she was first in his estimation, dearest in his heart; could it be also granted to her to feel that she was regarded as his equal, she could be patient for ever. What more did she want than to know and feel this? Patient, indeed!

  But what could these circumstances be to which her uncle had alluded? “I do think that circumstances will admit of your marriage.” Such was his opinion, and she had never known him to be wrong. Circumstances! What circumstances? Did he perhaps mean that Mr. Gresham’s affairs were not so bad as they had been thought to be? If so, that alone would hardly alter the matter, for what could she give in return? “I would give him the world for one word of love,” she said to herself, “and never think that he was my debtor. Ah! how beggarly the heart must be that speculates on such gifts as those!”

  But there was her uncle’s opinion: he still thought that they might be married. Oh, why had she sent her letter? and why had she made it so cold? With such a letter as that before him, Frank could not do other than consent to her proposal. And then, why did he not at least answer it?

  On the Sunday afternoon there arrived at Greshamsbury a man and a horse from Boxall Hill, bearing a letter from Lady Scatcherd to Dr. Thorne, earnestly requesting the doctor’s immediate attendance. “I fear everything is over with poor Louis,” wrote the unhappy mother. “It has been very dreadful. Do come to me; I have no other friend, and I am nearly worn through with it. The man from the city”—she meant Dr. Fillgrave—”comes every day, and I dare say he is all very well, but he has never done much good. He has not had spirit enough to keep the bottle from him; and it was that, and that only, that most behoved to be done. I doubt you won’t find him in this world when you arrive here.”

  Dr. Thorne started immediately. Even though he might have to meet Dr. Fillgrave, he could not hesitate, for he went not as a doctor to the dying man, but as the trustee under Sir Roger’s will. Moreover, as Lady Scatcherd had said, he was her only friend, and he could not desert her at such a moment for an army of Fillgraves. He told Mary he should not return that night; and taking with him a small saddle-bag, he started at once for Boxall Hill.

  As he rode up to the hall door, Dr. Fillgrave was getting into his carriage. They had never met so as to speak to each other since that memorable day, when they had their famous passage of arms in the hall of that very house before which they both now stood. But, at the present moment, neither of them was disposed to renew the fight.

  “What news of your patient, Dr. Fillgrave?” said our doctor, still seated on his sweating horse, and putting his hand lightly to his hat.

  Dr. Fillgrave could not refrain from one moment of supercilious disdain: he gave one little chuck to his head, one little twist to his neck, one little squeeze to his lips, and then the man within him overcame the doctor. “Sir Louis is no more,” he said.

  “God’s will be done!” said Dr. Thorne.

  “His death is a release; for his last days have been very frightful. Your coming, Dr. Thorne, will be a comfort to Lady Scatcherd.” And then Dr. Fillgrave, thinking that even the present circumstances required no further condescension, ensconced himself in the carriage.

  “His last days have been very dreadful! Ah, me, poor fellow! Dr. Fillgrave, before you go, allow me to say this: I am quite aware that when he fell into your hands, no medical skill in the world could save him.”

  Dr. Fillgrave bowed low from the carriage, and after this unwonted exchange of courtesies, the two doctors parted, not to meet again—at any rate, in the pages of this novel. Of Dr. Fillgrave, let it now be said, that he grows in dignity as he grows in years, and that he is universally regarded as one of the celebrities of the city of Barchester.

  Lady Scatcherd was found sitting alone in her little room on the ground-floor. Eve
n Hannah was not with her, for Hannah was now occupied upstairs. When the doctor entered the room, which he did unannounced, he found her seated on a chair, with her back against one of the presses, her hands clasped together over her knees, gazing into vacancy. She did not ever hear him or see him as he approached, and his hand had slightly touched her shoulder before she knew that she was not alone. Then, she looked up at him with a face so full of sorrow, so worn with suffering, that his own heart was racked to see her.

  “It is all over, my friend,” said he. “It is better so; much better so.”

  She seemed at first hardly to understand him, but still regarding him with that wan face, shook her head slowly and sadly. One might have thought that she was twenty years older than when Dr. Thorne last saw her.

  He drew a chair to her side, and sitting by her, took her hand in his. “It is better so, Lady Scatcherd; better so,” he repeated. “The poor lad’s doom had been spoken, and it is well for him, and for you, that it should be over.”

  “They are both gone now,” said she, speaking very low; “both gone now. Oh, doctor! To be left alone here, all alone!”

  He said some few words trying to comfort her; but who can comfort a widow bereaved of her child? Who can console a heart that has lost all that it possessed? Sir Roger had not been to her a tender husband; but still he had been the husband of her love. Sir Louis had not been to her an affectionate son; but still he had been her child, her only child. Now they were both gone. Who can wonder that the world should be a blank to her?

  Still the doctor spoke soothing words, and still he held her hand. He knew that his words could not console her; but the sounds of kindness at such desolate moments are, to such minds as hers, some alleviation of grief. She hardly answered him, but sat there staring out before her, leaving her hand passively to him, and swaying her head backwards and forwards as though her grief were too heavy to be borne.