“But, independently of that, what would they live on?” said the squire, energetically. “Birth is a great thing, a very great thing. You and I think exactly alike about that, so we need have no dispute. You are quite as proud of Ullathorne as I am of Greshamsbury.”
“I might be if it belonged to me.”
“But you are. It is no use arguing. But, putting that aside altogether, what would they live on? If they were to marry, what would they do? Where would they go? You know what Lady Arabella thinks of such things; would it be possible that they should live up at the house with her? Besides, what a life would that be for both of them! Could they live here? Would that be well for them?”
The squire looked at the doctor for an answer; but he still went on rubbing his calf. Mr. Gresham, therefore, was constrained to continue his expostulation.
“When I am dead there will still, I hope, be something—something left for the poor fellow. Lady Arabella and the girls would be better off, perhaps, than now, and I sometimes wish, for Frank’s sake, that the time had come.”
The doctor could not now go on rubbing his leg. He was moved to speak, and declared that, of all events, that was the one which would be furthest from Frank’s heart. “I know no son,” said he, “who loves his father more dearly than he does.”
“I do believe it,” said the squire; “I do believe it. But yet, I cannot but feel that I am in his way.”
“No, squire, no; you are in no one’s way. You will find yourself happy with your son yet, and proud of him. And proud of his wife, too. I hope so, and I think so: I do, indeed, or I should not say so, squire; we will have many a happy day yet together, when we shall talk of all these things over the dining-room fire at Greshamsbury.”
The squire felt it kind in the doctor that he should thus endeavour to comfort him; but he could not understand, and did not inquire, on what basis these golden hopes was founded. It was necessary, however, to return to the subject which he had come to discuss. Would the doctor assist him in preventing this marriage? That was now the one thing necessary to be kept in view.
“But, doctor, about the young people; of course they cannot marry, you are aware of that.”
“I don’t know that exactly.”
“Well, doctor, I must say I thought you would feel it.”
“Feel what, squire?”
“That, situated as they are, they ought not to marry.”
“That is quite another question. I have said nothing about that either to you or to anybody else. The truth is, squire, I have never interfered in this matter one way or the other; and I have no wish to do so now.”
“But should you not interfere? Is not Mary the same to you as your own child?”
Dr. Thorne hardly knew how to answer this. He was aware that his argument about not interfering was in fact absurd. Mary could not marry without his interference; and had it been the case that she was in danger of making an improper marriage, of course he would interfere. His meaning was, that he would not at the present moment express any opinion; he would not declare against a match which might turn out to be in every way desirable; nor, if he spoke in favour of it, could he give his reasons for doing so. Under these circumstances, he would have wished to say nothing, could that only have been possible.
But as it was not possible, and as he must say something, he answered the squire’s last question by asking another. “What is your objection, squire?”
“Objection! Why, what on earth would they live on?”
“Then I understand, that if that difficulty were over, you would not refuse your consent merely because of Mary’s birth?”
This was a manner in which the squire had by no means expected to have the affair presented to him. It seemed so impossible that any sound-minded man should take any but his view of the case, that he had not prepared himself for argument. There was every objection to his son marrying Miss Thorne; but the fact of their having no income between them, did certainly justify him in alleging that first.
“But that difficulty can’t be got over, doctor. You know, however, that it would be cause of grief to us all to see Frank marry much beneath his station; that is, I mean, in family. You should not press me to say this, for you know that I love Mary dearly.”
“But, my dear friend, it is necessary. Wounds sometimes must be opened in order that they may be healed. What I mean is this—and, squire, I’m sure I need not say to you that I hope for an honest answer—were Mary Thorne an heiress; had she, for instance, such wealth as that Miss Dunstable that we hear of; in that case would you object to the match?”
When the doctor declared that he expected an honest answer the squire listened with all his ears; but the question, when finished, seemed to have no bearing on the present case.
“Come, squire, speak your mind faithfully. There was some talk once of Frank’s marrying Miss Dunstable; did you mean to object to that match?”
“Miss Dunstable was legitimate; at least, I presume so.”
“Oh, Mr. Gresham! has it come to that? Miss Dunstable, then, would have satisfied your ideas of high birth?”
Mr. Gresham was rather posed, and regretted, at the moment, his allusion to Miss Dunstable’s presumed legitimacy. But he soon recovered himself. “No,” said he, “it would not. And I am willing to admit, as I have admitted before, that the undoubted advantages arising from wealth are taken by the world as atoning for what otherwise would be a
mésalliance
. But—”
“You admit that, do you? You acknowledge that as your conviction on the subject?”
“Yes. But—” The squire was going on to explain the propriety of this opinion, but the doctor uncivilly would not hear him.
“Then squire, I will not interfere in this matter one way or the other.”
“How on earth can such an opinion—”
“Pray excuse me, Mr. Gresham; but my mind is now quite made up. It was very nearly so before. I will do nothing to encourage Frank, nor will I say anything to discourage Mary.”
“That is the most singular resolution that a man of sense like you ever came to.”
“I can’t help it, squire; it is my resolution.”
“But what has Miss Dunstable’s fortune to do with it?”
“I cannot say that it has anything; but, in this matter, I will not interfere.”
The squire went on for some time, but it was all to no purpose; and at last he left the house, considerably in dudgeon. The only conclusion to which he could come was, that Dr. Thorne had thought the chance on his niece’s behalf too good to be thrown away, and had, therefore, resolved to act in this very singular way.
“I would not have believed it of him, though all Barsetshire had told me,” he said to himself as he entered the great gates; and he went on repeating the same words till he found himself in his own room. “No, not if all Barsetshire had told me!”
He did not, however, communicate the ill result of his visit to the Lady Arabella.
CHAPTER XLII
What Can You Give in Return?
In spite of the family troubles, these were happy days for Beatrice. It so seldom happens that young ladies on the eve of their marriage have their future husbands living near them. This happiness was hers, and Mr. Oriel made the most of it. She was constantly being coaxed down to the parsonage by Patience, in order that she might give her opinion, in private, as to some domestic arrangement, some piece of furniture, or some new carpet; but this privacy was always invaded. What Mr. Oriel’s parishioners did in these halcyon days, I will not ask. His morning services, however, had been altogether given up, and he had provided himself with a very excellent curate.
But one grief did weigh heavily on Beatrice. She continually heard her mother say things which made her feel that it would be more than ever impossible that Mary should be at her wedding; and yet she had promised her brother to ask her. Frank had also repeated his threat, that if Mary were not present, he would absent himself.
Beatrice did what most girls do in such a case; what all would do who are worth anything; she asked her lover’s advice.
“Oh! but Frank can’t be in earnest,” said the lover. “Of course he’ll be at our wedding.”
“You don’t know him, Caleb. He is so changed that no one hardly would know him. You can’t conceive how much in earnest he is, how determined and resolute. And then, I should like to have Mary so much if mamma would let her come.”
“Ask Lady Arabella,” said Caleb.
“Well, I suppose I must do that; but I know what she’ll say, and Frank will never believe that I have done my best.” Mr. Oriel comforted her with such little whispered consolations as he was able to afford, and then she went away on her errand to her mother.
She was indeed surprised at the manner in which her prayer was received. She could hardly falter forth her petition; but when she had done so, Lady Arabella answered in this wise—
“Well my dear, I have no objection, none the least; that is, of course, if Mary is disposed to behave herself properly.”
“Oh, mamma! of course she will,” said Beatrice; “she always did and always does.”
“I hope she will, my love. But, Beatrice, when I say that I shall be glad to see her, of course I mean under certain conditions. I never disliked Mary Thorne, and if she would only let Frank understand that she will not listen to his mad proposals, I should be delighted to see her at Greshamsbury just as she used to be.”
Beatrice could say nothing in answer to this; but she felt very sure that Mary, let her intention be what it might, would not undertake to make Frank understand anything at anybody’s bidding.
“I will tell you what I will do, my dear,” continued Lady Arabella; “I will call on Mary myself.”
“What! at Dr. Thorne’s house?”
“Yes; why not? I have been at Dr. Thorne’s house before now.” And Lady Arabella could not but think of her last visit thither, and the strong feeling she had, as she came out, that she would never again enter those doors. She was, however, prepared to do anything on behalf of her rebellious son.
“Oh, yes! I know that, mamma.”
“I will call upon her, and if I can possibly manage it, I will ask her myself to make one of your party. If so, you can go to her afterwards and make your own arrangements. Just write her a note, my dear, and say that I will call to-morrow at twelve. It might fluster her if I were to go in without notice.”
Beatrice did as she was bid, but with a presentiment that no good would come of it. The note was certainly unnecessary for the purpose assigned by Lady Arabella, as Mary was not given to be flustered by such occurrences; but, perhaps, it was as well that it was written, as it enabled her to make up her mind steadily as to what information should be given, and what should not be given to her coming visitor.
On the next morning, at the appointed hour, Lady Arabella walked down to the doctor’s house. She never walked about the village without making some little disturbance among the inhabitants. With the squire, himself, they were quite familiar, and he could appear and reappear without creating any sensation; but her ladyship had not made herself equally common in men’s sight. Therefore, when she went in at the doctor’s little gate, the fact was known through all Greshamsbury in ten minutes, and before she had left the house, Mrs. Umbleby and Miss Gushing had quite settled between them what was the exact cause of the very singular event.
The doctor, when he had heard what was going to happen, carefully kept out of the way: Mary, therefore, had the pleasure of receiving Lady Arabella alone. Nothing could exceed her ladyship’s affability. Mary thought that it perhaps might have savoured less of condescension; but then, on this subject, Mary was probably prejudiced. Lady Arabella smiled and simpered, and asked after the doctor, and the cat, and Janet, and said everything that could have been desired by anyone less unreasonable than Mary Thorne.
“And now, Mary, I’ll tell you why I have called.” Mary bowed her head slightly, as much to say, that she would be glad to receive any information that Lady Arabella could give her on that subject. “Of course you know that Beatrice is going to be married very shortly.”
Mary acknowledged that she had heard so much.
“Yes: we think it will be in September—early in September—and that is coming very soon now. The poor girl is anxious that you should be at her wedding.” Mary turned slightly red; but she merely said, and that somewhat too coldly, that she was much indebted to Beatrice for her kindness.
“I can assure you, Mary, that she is very fond of you, as much so as ever; and so, indeed, am I, and all of us are so. You know that Mr. Gresham was always your friend.”
“Yes, he always was, and I am grateful to Mr. Gresham,” answered Mary. It was well for Lady Arabella that she had her temper under command, for had she spoken her mind out there would have been very little chance left for reconciliation between her and Mary.
“Yes, indeed he was; and I think we all did what little we could to make you welcome at Greshamsbury, Mary, till those unpleasant occurrences took place.”
“What occurrences, Lady Arabella?”
“And Beatrice is so very anxious on this point,” said her ladyship, ignoring for the moment Mary’s question. “You two have been so much together, that she feels she cannot be quite happy if you are not near her when she is being married.”
“Dear Beatrice!” said Mary, warmed for the moment to an expression of genuine feeling.
“She came to me yesterday, begging that I would waive any objection I might have to your being there. I have made her no answer yet. What answer do you think I ought to make her?”
Mary was astounded at this question, and hesitated in her reply. “What answer ought you to make her?” she said.
“Yes, Mary. What answer do you think I ought to give? I wish to ask you the question, as you are the person the most concerned.”
Mary considered for a while, and then did give her opinion on the matter in a firm voice. “I think you should tell Beatrice, that as you cannot at present receive me cordially in your house, it will be better that you should not be called on to receive me at all.”
This was certainly not the sort of answer that Lady Arabella expected, and she was now somewhat astounded in her turn. “But, Mary,” she said, “I should be delighted to receive you cordially if I could do so.”
“But it seems you cannot, Lady Arabella; and so there must be an end of it.”
“Oh, but I do not know that:” and she smiled her sweetest smile. “I do not know that. I want to put an end to all this ill-feeling if I can. It all depends upon one thing, you know.”
“Does it, Lady Arabella?”
“Yes, upon one thing. You won’t be angry if I ask you another question—eh, Mary?”
“No; at least I don’t think I will.”
“Is there any truth in what we hear about your being engaged to Frank?”
Mary made no immediate answer to this, but sat quite silent, looking Lady Arabella in the face; not but that she had made up her mind as to what answer she would give, but the exact words failed her at the moment.
“Of course you must have heard of such a rumour,” continued Lady Arabella.
“Oh, yes, I have heard of it.”
“Yes, and you have noticed it, and I must say very properly. When you went to Boxall Hill, and before that with Miss Oriel to her aunt’s, I thought you behaved extremely well.” Mary felt herself glow with indignation, and began to prepare words that should be sharp and decisive. “But, nevertheless, people talk; and Frank, who is still quite a boy” (Mary’s indignation was not softened by this allusion to Frank’s folly), “seems to have got some nonsense in his head. I grieve to say it, but I feel myself in justice bound to do so, that in this matter he has not acted as well as you have done. Now, therefore, I merely ask you whether there is any truth in the report. If you tell me that there is none, I shall be quite contented.”
“But it is altogether true, Lady Arabella; I am engaged to Frank Gresham.”
“Engaged to be married to him?”
“Yes; engaged to be married to him.”
What was to say or do now? Nothing could be more plain, more decided, or less embarrassed with doubt than Mary’s declaration. And as she made it she looked her visitor full in the face, blushing indeed, for her cheeks were now suffused as well as her forehead; but boldly, and, as it were, with defiance.
“And you tell me so to my face, Miss Thorne?”
“And why not? Did you not ask me the question; and would you have me answer you with a falsehood? I am engaged to him. As you would put the question to me, what other answer could I make? The truth is, that I am engaged to him.”
The decisive abruptness with which Mary declared her own iniquity almost took away her ladyship’s breath. She had certainly believed that they were engaged, and had hardly hoped that Mary would deny it; but she had not expected that the crime would be acknowledged, or, at any rate, if acknowledged, that the confession would be made without some show of shame. On this Lady Arabella could have worked; but there was no such expression, nor was there the slightest hesitation. “I am engaged to Frank Gresham,” and having so said, Mary looked her visitor full in the face.
“Then it is indeed impossible that you should be received at Greshamsbury.”
“At present, quite so, no doubt: in saying so, Lady Arabella, you only repeat the answer I made to your first question. I can now go to Greshamsbury only in one light: that of Mr. Gresham’s accepted daughter-in-law.”
“And that is perfectly out of the question; altogether out of the question, now and for ever.”
“I will not dispute with you about that; but, as I said before, my being at Beatrice’s wedding is not to be thought of.”
Lady Arabella sat for a while silent, that she might meditate, if possible, calmly as to what line of argument she had now better take. It would be foolish in her, she thought, to return home, having merely expressed her anger. She had now an opportunity of talking to Mary which might not again occur: the difficulty was in deciding in what special way she should use the opportunity. Should she threaten, or should she entreat? To do her justice, it should be stated, that she did actually believe that the marriage was all but impossible; she did not think that it could take place. But the engagement might be the ruin of her son’s prospects, seeing how he had before him one imperative, one immediate duty—that of marrying money.
Having considered all this as well as her hurry would allow her, she determined first to reason, then to entreat, and lastly, if necessary, to threaten.
“I am astonished! you cannot be surprised at that, Miss Thorne: I am astonished at hearing so singular a confession made.”
“Do you think my confession singular, or is it the fact of my being engaged to your son?”
“We will pass over that for the present. But do let me ask you, do you think it possible, I say possible, that you and Frank should be married?”
“Oh, certainly; quite possible.”
“Of course you know that he has not a shilling in the world.”
“Nor have I, Lady Arabella.”
“Nor will he have were he to do anything so utterly hostile to his father’s wishes. The property, you are aware, is altogether at Mr. Gresham’s disposal.”
“I am aware of nothing about the property, and can say nothing about it except this, that it has not been, and will not be inquired after by me in this matter. If I marry Frank Gresham, it will not be for the property. I am sorry to make such an apparent boast, but you force me to do it.”
“On what then are you to live? You are too old for love in a cottage, I suppose?”
“Not at all too old; Frank, you know is ‘still quite a boy.’”
Impudent hussy! forward, ill-conditioned saucy minx! such were the epithets which rose to Lady Arabella’s mind; but she politely suppressed them.
“Miss Thorne, this subject is of course to me very serious; very ill-adapted for jesting. I look upon such a marriage as absolutely impossible.”
“I do not know what you mean by impossible, Lady Arabella.”
“I mean, in the first place, that you two could not get yourselves married.”
“Oh, yes; Mr. Oriel would manage that for us. We are his parishioners, and he would be bound to do it.”
“I beg your pardon; I believe that under all the circumstances it would be illegal.”
Mary smiled; but she said nothing. “You may laugh, Miss Thorne, but I think you will find that I am right. There are still laws to prevent such fearful distress as would be brought about by such a marriage.”
“I hope that nothing I shall do will bring distress on the family.”
“Ah, but it would; don’t you know that it would? Think of it, Miss Thorne. Think of Frank’s state, and of his father’s state. You know enough of that, I am sure, to be well aware that Frank is not in a condition to marry without money. Think of the position which Mr. Gresham’s only son should hold in the county; think of the old name, and the pride we have in it; you have lived among us enough to understand all this; think of these things, and then say whether it is possible such a marriage should take place without family distress of the deepest kind. Think of Mr. Gresham; if you truly love my son, you could not wish to bring on him all this misery and ruin.”