Dr Thorne (80 page)

And then she asked herself whether, in consenting to accept Frank's hand, she had adequately considered this; and she was forced to acknowledge that she had not considered it. She had ridiculed Lady Arabella for saying that Frank was still a boy; but was it not true that his offer had been made with a boy's energy, rather than a man's forethought? If so, if she had been wrong to accede to that offer when made, would she not be doubly wrong to hold him to it now that she saw their error?

It was doubtless true that Frank himself could not be the first to draw back. What would people say of him? She could now calmly ask herself the question that had so angered her when asked by Lady Arabella. If he could not do it, and if, nevertheless, it behoved them to break off this match, by whom was it to be done if not by her? Was not Lady Arabella right throughout, right in her conclusions, though so foully wrong in her manner of drawing them?

And then she did think for one moment of herself. ‘You who have nothing to give in return!' Such had been Lady Arabella's main accusation against her. Was it in fact true that she had nothing to give? Her maiden love, her feminine pride, her very life, and spirit, and being – were these things nothing? Were they to be weighed against pounds sterling per annum? and, when so weighed, were they ever to kick the beam like feathers? All these things had been nothing to her when, without reflection, governed wholly by the impulse of a moment, she had first allowed his daring hand to lie for an instant in her own. She had thought nothing of these things when that other suitor came, richer far than Frank, to love whom it was as impossible to her as it was not to love him.

Her love had been pure from all such thoughts; she was conscious that it ever would be pure from them. Lady Arabella was unable to comprehend this, and, therefore, was Lady Arabella so utterly distasteful to her.

Frank had once held her close to his warm breast; and her very soul had thrilled with joy to feel that he so loved her – with a joy which she had hardly dared to acknowledge. At that moment, her maidenly efforts had been made to push him off, but her heart had grown to his. She had acknowledged him to be master of her
spirit; her bosom's lord; the man whom she had been born to worship; the human being to whom it was for her to link her destiny. Frank's acres had been of no account; nor had his want of acres. God had brought these two together that they should love each other; that conviction had satisfied her, and she had made it a duty to herself that she would love him with her very soul. And now she was called upon to wrench herself asunder from him because she had nothing to give in return!

Well, she would wrench herself asunder, as far as such wrenching might be done compatibly with her solemn promise. It might be right that Frank should have an opportunity offered him, so that he might escape from his position without disgrace. She would endeavour to give him this opportunity. So, with one deep sigh, she arose, took to herself pen, ink, and paper, and sat herself down again so that the wrenching might begin.

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.

'D
EAREST
F
RANK
,

‘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 today 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 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,

'M
ARY
T
HORNE

‘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?'

I
T
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 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.'