The Chronicles of Barsetshire

by Anthony Trollope

  “Such a girl! Where shall I find such another?”

  “I mean as regards money, Frank; you know I mean that; how are you to live? Where are you to go? And then, her birth. Oh, Frank, Frank!”

  “Birth! I hate such pretence. What was—but I won’t talk about it. Mother, I tell you my word is pledged, and on no account will I be induced to break it.”

  “Ah, that’s just it; that’s just the point. Now, Frank, listen to me. Pray listen to me patiently for one minute. I do not ask much of you.”

  Frank promised that he would listen patiently; but he looked anything but patient as he said so.

  “I have seen Mary, as it was certainly my duty to do. You cannot be angry with me for that.”

  “Who said that I was angry, mother?”

  “Well, I have seen her, and I must own, that though she was not disposed to be courteous to me, personally, she said much that marked her excellent good sense. But the gist of it was this; that as she had made you a promise, nothing should turn her from that promise but your permission.”

  “And do you think—”

  “Wait a moment, Frank, and listen to me. She confessed that this marriage was one which would necessarily bring distress on all your family; that it was one which would probably be ruinous to yourself; that it was a match which could not be approved of: she did, indeed; she confessed all that. ‘I have nothing’, she said—those were her own words—’I have nothing to say in favour of this engagement, except that he wishes it.’ That is what she thinks of it herself. ‘His wishes are not a reason; but a law,’ she said—”

  “And, mother, would you have me desert such a girl as that?”

  “It is not deserting, Frank: it would not be deserting: you would be doing that which she herself approves of. She feels the impropriety of going on; but she cannot draw back because of her promise to you. She thinks that she cannot do it, even though she wishes it.”

  “Wishes it! Oh, mother!”

  “I do believe she does, because she has sense to feel the truth of all that your friends say. Oh, Frank, I will go on my knees to you if you will listen to me.”

  “Oh, mother! mother! mother!”

  “You should think twice, Frank, before you refuse the only request your mother ever made you. And why do I ask you? why do I come to you thus? Is it for my own sake? Oh, my boy! my darling boy! will you lose everything in life, because you love the child with whom you have played as a child?”

  “Whose fault is it that we were together as children? She is now more than a child. I look on her already as my wife.”

  “But she is not your wife, Frank; and she knows that she ought not to be. It is only because you hold her to it that she consents to be so.”

  “Do you mean to say that she does not love me?”

  Lady Arabella would probably have said this, also, had she dared; but she felt, that in so doing, she would be going too far. It was useless for her to say anything that would be utterly contradicted by an appeal to Mary herself.

  “No, Frank; I do not mean to say that you do not love her. What I do mean is this: that it is not becoming in you to give up everything—not only yourself, but all your family—for such a love as this; and that she, Mary herself, acknowledges this. Everyone is of the same opinion. Ask your father: I need not say that he would agree with you about everything if he could. I will not say the De Courcys.”

  “Oh, the De Courcys!”

  “Yes, they are my relations; I know that.” Lady Arabella could not quite drop the tone of bitterness which was natural to her in saying this. “But ask your sisters; ask Mr. Oriel, whom you esteem so much; ask your friend Harry Baker.”

  Frank sat silent for a moment or two while his mother, with a look almost of agony, gazed into his face. “I will ask no one,” at last he said.

  “Oh, my boy! my boy!”

  “No one but myself can know my own heart.”

  “And you will sacrifice all to such a love as that, all; her, also, whom you say that you so love? What happiness can you give her as your wife? Oh, Frank! is that the only answer you will make your mother on her knees?

  “Oh, mother! mother!”

  “No, Frank, I will not let you ruin yourself; I will not let you destroy yourself. Promise this, at least, that you will think of what I have said.”

  “Think of it! I do think of it.”

  “Ah, but think of it in earnest. You will be absent now in London; you will have the business of the estate to manage; you will have heavy cares upon your hands. Think of it as a man, and not as a boy.”

  “I will see her to-morrow before I go.”

  “No, Frank, no; grant me that trifle, at any rate. Think upon this without seeing her. Do not proclaim yourself so weak that you cannot trust yourself to think over what your mother says to you without asking her leave. Though you be in love, do not be childish with it. What I have told you as coming from her is true, word for word; if it were not, you would soon learn so. Think now of what I have said, and of what she says, and when you come back from London, then you can decide.”

  To so much Frank consented after some further parley; namely, that he would proceed to London on the following Monday morning without again seeing Mary. And in the meantime, she was waiting with sore heart for his answer to that letter that was lying, and was still to lie for so many hours, in the safe protection of the Silverbridge postmistress.

  It may seem strange; but, in truth, his mother’s eloquence had more effect on Frank than that of his father: and yet, with his father he had always sympathised. But his mother had been energetic; whereas, his father, if not lukewarm, had, at any rate, been timid. “I will ask no one,” Frank had said in the strong determination of his heart; and yet the words were hardly out of his mouth before he bethought himself that he would talk the thing over with Harry Baker. “Not,” said he to himself, “that I have any doubt; I have no doubt; but I hate to have all the world against me. My mother wishes me to ask Harry Baker. Harry is a good fellow, and I will ask him.” And with this resolve he betook himself to bed.

  The following day was Sunday. After breakfast Frank went with the family to church, as was usual; and there, as usual, he saw Mary in Dr. Thorne’s pew. She, as she looked at him, could not but wonder why he had not answered the letter which was still at Silverbridge; and he endeavoured to read in her face whether it was true, as his mother had told him, that she was quite ready to give him up. The prayers of both of them were disturbed, as is so often the case with the prayers of other anxious people.

  There was a separate door opening from the Greshamsbury pew out into the Greshamsbury grounds, so that the family were not forced into unseemly community with the village multitude in going to and from their prayers; for the front door of the church led out into a road which had no connexion with the private path. It was not unusual with Frank and his father to go round, after the service, to the chief entrance, so that they might speak to their neighbours, and get rid of some of the exclusiveness which was intended for them. On this morning the squire did so; but Frank walked home with his mother and sisters, so that Mary saw no more of him.

  I have said that he walked home with his mother and his sisters; but he rather followed in their path. He was not inclined to talk much, at least, not to them; and he continued asking himself the question—whether it could be possible that he was wrong in remaining true to his promise? Could it be that he owed more to his father and his mother, and what they chose to call his position, than he did to Mary?

  After church, Mr. Gazebee tried to get hold of him, for there was much still to be said, and many hints to be given, as to how Frank should speak, and, more especially, as to how he should hold his tongue among the learned pundits in and about Chancery Lane. “You must be very wide awake with Messrs. Slow & Bideawhile,” said Mr. Gazebee. But Frank would not hearken to him just at that moment. He was going to ride over to Harry Baker, so he put Mr. Gazebee off till the half-hour before dinner—or else the ha
lf-hour after tea.

  On the previous day he had received a letter from Miss Dunstable, which he had hitherto read but once. His mother had interrupted him as he was about to refer to it; and now, as his father’s nag was being saddled—he was still prudent in saving the black horse—he again took it out.

  Miss Dunstable had written in an excellent humour. She was in great distress about the oil of Lebanon, she said. “I have been trying to get a purchaser for the last two years; but my lawyer won’t let me sell it, because the would-be purchasers offer a thousand pounds or so less than the value. I would give ten to be rid of the bore; but I am as little able to act myself as Sancho was in his government. The oil of Lebanon! Did you hear anything of it when you were in those parts? I thought of changing the name to ‘London particular;’ but my lawyer says the brewers would bring an action against me.

  “I was going down to your neighbourhood—to your friend the duke’s, at least. But I am prevented by my poor doctor, who is so weak that I must take him to Malvern. It is a great bore; but I have the satisfaction that I do my duty by him!

  “Your cousin George is to be married at last. So I hear, at least. He loves wisely, if not well; for his widow has the name of being prudent and fairly well to do in the world. She has got over the caprices of her youth. Dear Aunt de Courcy will be so delighted. I might perhaps have met her at Gatherum Castle. I do so regret it.

  “Mr. Moffat has turned up again. We all thought you had finally extinguished him. He left a card the other day, and I have told the servant always to say that I am at home, and that you are with me. He is going to stand for some borough in the west of Ireland. He’s used to shillelaghs by this time.

  “By the by, I have a cadeau for a friend of yours. I won’t tell you what it is, nor permit you to communicate the fact. But when you tell me that in sending it I may fairly congratulate her on having so devoted a slave as you, it shall be sent.

  “If you have nothing better to do at present, do come and see my invalid at Malvern. Perhaps you might have a mind to treat for the oil of Lebanon. I’ll give you all the assistance I can in cheating my lawyers.”

  There was not much about Mary in this; but still, the little that was said made him again declare that neither father nor mother should move him from his resolution. “I will write to her and say that she may send her present when she pleases. Or I will run down to Malvern for a day. It will do me good to see her.” And so resolved, he rode away to Mill Hill, thinking, as he went, how he would put the matter to Harry Baker.

  Harry was at home; but we need not describe the whole interview. Had Frank been asked beforehand, he would have declared, that on no possible subject could he have had the slightest hesitation in asking Harry any question, or communicating to him any tidings. But when the time came, he found that he did hesitate much. He did not want to ask his friend if he should be wise to marry Mary Thorne. Wise or not, he was determined to do that. But he wished to be quite sure that his mother was wrong in saying that all the world would dissuade him from it. Miss Dunstable, at any rate, did not do so.

  At last, seated on a stile at the back of the Mill Hill stables, while Harry stood close before him with both his hands in his pockets, he did get his story told. It was by no means the first time that Harry Baker had heard about Mary Thorne, and he was not, therefore, so surprised as he might have been, had the affair been new to him. And thus, standing there in the position we have described, did Mr. Baker, junior, give utterance to such wisdom as was in him on this subject.

  “You see, Frank, there are two sides to every question; and, as I take it, fellows are so apt to go wrong because they are so fond of one side, they won’t look at the other. There’s no doubt about it, Lady Arabella is a very clever woman, and knows what’s what; and there’s no doubt about this either, that you have a very ticklish hand of cards to play.”

  “I’ll play it straightforward; that’s my game” said Frank.

  “Well and good, my dear fellow. That’s the best game always. But what is straightforward? Between you and me, I fear there’s no doubt that your father’s property has got into a deuce of a mess.”

  “I don’t see that that has anything to do with it.”

  “Yes, but it has. If the estate was all right, and your father could give you a thousand a year to live on without feeling it, and if your eldest child would be cock-sure of Greshamsbury, it might be very well that you should please yourself as to marrying at once. But that’s not the case; and yet Greshamsbury is too good a card to be flung away.”

  “I could fling it away to-morrow,” said Frank.

  “Ah! you think so,” said Harry the Wise. “But if you were to hear to-morrow that Sir Louis Scatcherd were master of the whole place, and be d—— to him, you would feel very uncomfortable.” Had Harry known how near Sir Louis was to his last struggle, he would not have spoken of him in this manner. “That’s all very fine talk, but it won’t bear wear and tear. You do care for Greshamsbury if you are the fellow I take you to be: care for it very much; and you care too for your father being Gresham of Greshamsbury.”

  “This won’t affect my father at all.”

  “Ah, but it will affect him very much. If you were to marry Miss Thorne to-morrow, there would at once be an end to any hope of your saving the property.”

  “And do you mean to say I’m to be a liar to her for such reasons as that? Why, Harry, I should be as bad as Moffat. Only it would be ten times more cowardly, as she has no brother.”

  “I must differ from you there altogether; but mind, I don’t mean to say anything. Tell me that you have made up your mind to marry her, and I’ll stick to you through thick and thin. But if you ask my advice, why, I must give it. It is quite a different affair to that of Moffat’s. He had lots of tin, everything he could want, and there could be no reason why he should not marry—except that he was a snob, of whom your sister was well quit. But this is very different. If I, as your friend, were to put it to Miss Thorne, what do you think she would say herself?”

  “She would say whatever she thought best for me.”

  “Exactly: because she is a trump. And I say the same. There can be no doubt about it, Frank, my boy: such a marriage would be very foolish for you both; very foolish. Nobody can admire Miss Thorne more than I do; but you oughtn’t to be a marrying man for the next ten years, unless you get a fortune. If you tell her the truth, and if she’s the girl I take her to be, she’ll not accuse you of being false. She’ll peak for a while; and so will you, old chap. But others have had to do that before you. They have got over it, and so will you.”

  Such was the spoken wisdom of Harry Baker, and who can say that he was wrong? Frank sat a while on his rustle seat, paring his nails with his penknife, and then looking up, he thus thanked his friend—”I’m sure you mean well, Harry; and I’m much obliged to you. I dare say you’re right too. But, somehow, it doesn’t come home to me. And what is more, after what has passed, I could not tell her that I wish to part from her. I could not do it. And besides, I have that sort of feeling, that if I heard she was to marry anyone else, I am sure I should blow his brains out. Either his or my own.”

  “Well, Frank, you may count on me for anything, except the last proposition:” and so they shook hands, and Frank rode back to Greshamsbury.

  CHAPTER XLV

  Law Business in London

  On the Monday morning at six o’clock, Mr. Oriel and Frank started together; but early as it was, Beatrice was up to give them a cup of coffee, Mr. Oriel having slept that night in the house. Whether Frank would have received his coffee from his sister’s fair hands had not Mr. Oriel been there, may be doubted. He, however, loudly asserted that he should not have done so, when she laid claim to great merit for rising in his behalf.

  Mr. Oriel had been specially instigated by Lady Arabella to use the opportunity of their joint journey, for pointing out to Frank the iniquity as well as madness of the course he was pursuing; and he had promised to obey her ladyshi
p’s behests. But Mr. Oriel was perhaps not an enterprising man, and was certainly not a presumptuous one. He did intend to do as he was bid; but when he began, with the object of leading up to the subject of Frank’s engagement, he always softened down into some much easier enthusiasm in the matter of his own engagement with Beatrice. He had not that perspicuous, but not over-sensitive strength of mind which had enabled Harry Baker to express his opinion out at once; and boldly as he did it, yet to do so without offence.

  Four times before the train arrived in London, he made some little attempt; but four times he failed. As the subject was matrimony, it was his easiest course to begin about himself; but he never could get any further.

  “No man was ever more fortunate in a wife than I shall be,” he said, with a soft, euphuistic self-complacency, which would have been silly had it been adopted to any other person than the bride’s brother. His intention, however, was very good, for he meant to show, that in his case marriage was prudent and wise, because his case differed so widely from that of Frank.

  “Yes,” said Frank. “She is an excellent good girl:” he had said it three times before, and was not very energetic.

  “Yes, and so exactly suited to me; indeed, all that I could have dreamed of. How very well she looked this morning! Some girls only look well at night. I should not like that at all.”

  “You mustn’t expect her to look like that always at six o’clock a.m.,” said Frank, laughing. “Young ladies only take that trouble on very particular occasions. She wouldn’t have come down like that if my father or I had been going alone. No, and she won’t do so for you in a couple of years’ time.”

  “Oh, but she’s always nice. I have seen her at home as much almost as you could do; and then she’s so sincerely religious.”

  “Oh, yes, of course; that is, I am sure she is,” said Frank, looking solemn as became him.

  “She’s made to be a clergyman’s wife.”