Doctor Thorne

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER XXX

  Post Prandial

  Frank rode home a happy man, cheering himself, as successful loversdo cheer themselves, with the brilliancy of his late exploit: nor wasit till he had turned the corner into the Greshamsbury stables thathe began to reflect what he would do next. It was all very well tohave induced Mary to allow his three fingers to lie half a minutein her soft hand; the having done so might certainly be sufficientevidence that he had overcome one of the lions in his path; but itcould hardly be said that all his difficulties were now smoothed. Howwas he to make further progress?

  To Mary, also, the same ideas no doubt occurred--with many others.But, then, it was not for Mary to make any progress in the matter. Toher at least belonged this passive comfort, that at present no acthostile to the de Courcy interest would be expected from her. Allthat she could do would be to tell her uncle so much as it wasfitting that he should know. The doing this would doubtless be insome degree difficult; but it was not probable that there would bemuch difference, much of anything but loving anxiety for each other,between her and Dr Thorne. One other thing, indeed, she must do;Frank must be made to understand what her birth had been. "This," shesaid to herself, "will give him an opportunity of retracting whathe has done should he choose to avail himself of it. It is well heshould have such opportunity."

  But Frank had more than this to do. He had told Beatrice that hewould make no secret of his love, and he fully resolved to be as goodas his word. To his father he owed an unreserved confidence; and hewas fully minded to give it. It was, he knew, altogether out of thequestion that he should at once marry a portionless girl without hisfather's consent; probably out of the question that he should do soeven with it. But he would, at any rate, tell his father, and thendecide as to what should be done next. So resolving, he put his blackhorse into the stable and went in to dinner. After dinner he and hisfather would be alone.

  Yes; after dinner he and his father would be alone. He dressedhimself hurriedly, for the dinner-bell was almost on the stroke as heentered the house. He said this to himself once and again; but whenthe meats and the puddings, and then the cheese, were borne away,as the decanters were placed before his father, and Lady Arabellasipped her one glass of claret, and his sisters ate their portion ofstrawberries, his pressing anxiety for the coming interview began towax somewhat dull.

  His mother and sisters, however, rendered him no assistance byprolonging their stay. With unwonted assiduity he pressed a secondglass of claret on his mother. But Lady Arabella was not onlytemperate in her habits, but also at the present moment very angrywith her son. She thought that he had been to Boxall Hill, and wasonly waiting a proper moment to cross-question him sternly on thesubject. Now she departed, taking her train of daughters with her.

  "Give me one big gooseberry," said Nina, as she squeezed herself inunder her brother's arm, prior to making her retreat. Frank wouldwillingly have given her a dozen of the biggest, had she wanted them;but having got the one, she squeezed herself out again and scamperedoff.

  The squire was very cheery this evening; from what cause cannot nowbe said. Perhaps he had succeeded in negotiating a further loan, thustemporarily sprinkling a drop of water over the ever-rising dust ofhis difficulties.

  "Well, Frank, what have you been after to-day? Peter told me you hadthe black horse out," said he, pushing the decanter to his son. "Takemy advice, my boy, and don't give him too much summer road-work. Legswon't stand it, let them be ever so good."

  "Why, sir, I was obliged to go out to-day, and therefore, it had tobe either the old mare or the young horse."

  "Why didn't you take Ramble?" Now Ramble was the squire's own saddlehack, used for farm surveying, and occasionally for going to cover.

  "I shouldn't think of doing that, sir."

  "My dear boy, he is quite at your service; for goodness' sake do letme have a little wine, Frank--quite at your service; any riding Ihave now is after the haymakers, and that's all on the grass."

  "Thank'ee, sir. Well, perhaps I will take a turn out of Ramble shouldI want it."

  "Do, and pray, pray take care of that black horse's legs. He'sturning out more of a horse than I took him to be, and I should besorry to see him injured. Where have you been to-day?"

  "Well, father, I have something to tell you."

  "Something to tell me!" and then the squire's happy and gay look,which had been only rendered more happy and more gay by his assumedanxiety about the black horse, gave place to that heaviness of visagewhich acrimony and misfortune had made so habitual to him. "Somethingto tell me!" Any grave words like these always presaged some moneydifficulty to the squire's ears. He loved Frank with the tenderestlove. He would have done so under almost any circumstances; but,doubtless, that love had been made more palpable to himself by thefact that Frank had been a good son as regards money--not exigeantas was Lady Arabella, or selfishly reckless as was his nephew LordPorlock. But now Frank must be in difficulty about money. This washis first idea. "What is it, Frank; you have seldom had anythingto say that has not been pleasant for me to hear?" And then theheaviness of visage again gave way for a moment as his eye fell uponhis son.

  "I have been to Boxall Hill, sir."

  The tenor of his father's thoughts was changed in an instant; and thedread of immediate temporary annoyance gave place to true anxiety forhis son. He, the squire, had been no party to Mary's exile from hisown domain; and he had seen with pain that she had now a second timebeen driven from her home: but he had never hitherto questioned theexpediency of separating his son from Mary Thorne. Alas! it becametoo necessary--too necessary through his own default--that Frankshould marry money!

  "At Boxall Hill, Frank! Has that been prudent? Or, indeed, has itbeen generous to Miss Thorne, who has been driven there, as it were,by your imprudence?"

  "Father, it is well that we should understand each other aboutthis--"

  "Fill your glass, Frank;" Frank mechanically did as he was told, andpassed the bottle.

  "I should never forgive myself were I to deceive you, or keepanything from you."

  "I believe it is not in your nature to deceive me, Frank."

  "The fact is, sir, that I have made up my mind that Mary Thorne shallbe my wife--sooner or later that is, unless, of course, she shouldutterly refuse. Hitherto, she has utterly refused me. I believe I maynow say that she has accepted me."

  The squire sipped his claret, but at the moment said nothing. Therewas a quiet, manly, but yet modest determination about his sonthat he had hardly noticed before. Frank had become legally ofage, legally a man, when he was twenty-one. Nature, it seems, hadpostponed the ceremony till he was twenty-two. Nature often doespostpone the ceremony even to a much later age;--sometimes,altogether forgets to accomplish it.

  The squire continued to sip his claret; he had to think over thematter a while before he could answer a statement so deliberatelymade by his son.

  "I think I may say so," continued Frank, with perhaps unnecessarymodesty. "She is so honest that, had she not intended it, shewould have said so honestly. Am I right, father, in thinking that,as regards Mary, personally, you would not reject her as adaughter-in-law?"

  "Personally!" said the squire, glad to have the subject presented tohim in a view that enabled him to speak out. "Oh, no; personally, Ishould not object to her, for I love her dearly. She is a good girl.I do believe she is a good girl in every respect. I have always likedher; liked to see her about the house. But--"

  "I know what you would say, father." This was rather more than thesquire knew himself. "Such a marriage is imprudent."

  "It is more than that, Frank; I fear it is impossible."

  "Impossible! No, father; it is not impossible."

  "It is impossible, Frank, in the usual sense. What are you to liveupon? What would you do with your children? You would not wish to seeyour wife distressed and comfortless."

  "No, I should not like to see that."

  "You would not wish to begin life as an embarrassed man and end ita
s a ruined man. If you were now to marry Miss Thorne such would, Ifear, doubtless be your lot."

  Frank caught at the word "now." "I don't expect to marry immediately.I know that would be imprudent. But I am pledged, father, and Icertainly cannot go back. And now that I have told you all this, whatis your advice to me?"

  The father again sat silent, still sipping his wine. There wasnothing in his son that he could be ashamed of, nothing that he couldmeet with anger, nothing that he could not love; but how should heanswer him? The fact was, that the son had more in him than thefather; this his mind and spirit were of a calibre not to be opposedsuccessfully by the mind and spirit of the squire.

  "Do you know Mary's history?" said Mr Gresham, at last; "the historyof her birth?"

  "Not a word of it," said Frank. "I did not know she had a history."

  "Nor does she know it; at least, I presume not. But you should knowit now. And, Frank, I will tell it you; not to turn you from her--notwith that object, though I think that, to a certain extent, it shouldhave that effect. Mary's birth was not such as would become your wifeand be beneficial to your children."

  "If so, father, I should have known that sooner. Why was she broughtin here among us?"

  "True, Frank. The fault is mine; mine and your mother's.Circumstances brought it about years ago, when it never occurred tous that all this would arise. But I will tell you her history. And,Frank, remember this, though I tell it you as a secret, a secret tobe kept from all the world but one, you are quite at liberty to letthe doctor know that I have told you. Indeed, I shall be careful tolet him know myself should it ever be necessary that he and I shouldspeak together as to this engagement." The squire then told his sonthe whole story of Mary's birth, as it is known to the reader.

  Frank sat silent, looking very blank; he also had, as had everyGresham, a great love for his pure blood. He had said to his motherthat he hated money, that he hated the estate; but he would have beenvery slow to say, even in his warmest opposition to her, that hehated the roll of the family pedigree. He loved it dearly, though heseldom spoke of it;--as men of good family seldom do speak of it. Itis one of those possessions which to have is sufficient. A man havingit need not boast of what he has, or show it off before the world.But on that account he values it more. He had regarded Mary as acutting duly taken from the Ullathorne tree; not, indeed, as agrafting branch, full of flower, just separated from the parentstalk, but as being not a whit the less truly endowed with the puresap of that venerable trunk. When, therefore, he heard her truehistory he sat awhile dismayed.

  "It is a sad story," said the father.

  "Yes, sad enough," said Frank, rising from his chair and standingwith it before him, leaning on the back of it. "Poor Mary, poor Mary!She will have to learn it some day."

  "I fear so, Frank;" and then there was again a few moments' silence.

  "To me, father, it is told too late. It can now have no effect on me.Indeed," said he, sighing as he spoke, but still relieving himself bythe very sigh, "it could have had no effect had I learned it ever sosoon."

  "I should have told you before," said the father; "certainly I oughtto have done so."

  "It would have been no good," said Frank. "Ah, sir, tell me this: whowere Miss Dunstable's parents? What was that fellow Moffat's family?"

  This was perhaps cruel of Frank. The squire, however, made no answerto the question. "I have thought it right to tell you," said he."I leave all commentary to yourself. I need not tell you what yourmother will think."

  "What did she think of Miss Dunstable's birth?" said he, again morebitterly than before. "No, sir," he continued, after a further pause."All that can make no change; none at any rate now. It can't make mylove less, even if it could have prevented it. Nor, even, could it doso--which it can't the least, not in the least--but could it do so,it could not break my engagement. I am now engaged to Mary Thorne."

  And then he again repeated his question, asking for his father'sadvice under the present circumstances. The conversation was a verylong one, as long as to disarrange all Lady Arabella's plans. Shehad determined to take her son most stringently to task that veryevening; and with this object had ensconced herself in the smalldrawing-room which had formerly been used for a similar purpose bythe august countess herself. Here she now sat, having desired Augustaand Beatrice, as well as the twins, to beg Frank to go to her as soonas he should come out of the dining-room. Poor lady! there she waitedtill ten o'clock,--tealess. There was not much of the Bluebeard aboutthe squire; but he had succeeded in making it understood through thehousehold that he was not to be interrupted by messages from his wifeduring the post-prandial hour, which, though no toper, he loved sowell.

  As a period of twelve months will now have to be passed over, theupshot of this long conversation must be told in as few words aspossible. The father found it impracticable to talk his son out ofhis intended marriage; indeed, he hardly attempted to do so by anydirect persuasion. He explained to him that it was impossible that heshould marry at once, and suggested that he, Frank, was very young.

  "You married, sir, before you were one-and-twenty," said Frank. Yes,and repented before I was two-and-twenty. So did not say the squire.

  He suggested that Mary should have time to ascertain what would beher uncle's wishes, and ended by inducing Frank to promise, thatafter taking his degree in October he would go abroad for somemonths, and that he would not indeed return to Greshamsbury till hewas three-and-twenty.

  "He may perhaps forget her," said the father to himself, as thisagreement was made between them.

  "He thinks that I shall forget her," said Frank to himself at thesame time; "but he does not know me."

  When Lady Arabella at last got hold of her son she found that thetime for her preaching was utterly gone by. He told her, almost with_sang-froid_, what his plans were; and when she came to understandthem, and to understand also what had taken place at Boxall Hill, shecould not blame the squire for what he had done. She also said toherself, more confidently than the squire had done, that Frank wouldquite forget Mary before the year was out. "Lord Buckish," said sheto herself, rejoicingly, "is now with the ambassador at Paris"--LordBuckish was her nephew--"and with him Frank will meet women that arereally beautiful--women of fashion. When with Lord Buckish he willsoon forget Mary Thorne."

  But not on this account did she change her resolve to follow upto the furthest point her hostility to the Thornes. She was fullyenabled now to do so, for Dr Fillgrave was already reinstalled atGreshamsbury as her medical adviser.

  One other short visit did Frank pay to Boxall Hill, and one interviewhad he with Dr Thorne. Mary told him all she knew of her own sadhistory, and was answered only by a kiss,--a kiss absolutely not inany way by her to be avoided; the first, the only one, that had everyet reached her lips from his. And then he went away.

  The doctor told him all the story. "Yes," said Frank, "I knew it allbefore. Dear Mary, dearest Mary! Don't you, doctor, teach yourself tobelieve that I shall forget her." And then also he went his way fromhim--went his way also from Greshamsbury, and was absent for the fullperiod of his allotted banishment--twelve months, namely, and a day.