The Chronicles of Barsetshire (113 page)

“It is my duty,” said Lady Arabella, repeating her words with even a stronger De Courcy intonation; “and your duty also, Dr. Thorne.”

“My duty!” said he, rising from his chair and leaning on the table with the two thigh-bones. “Lady Arabella, pray understand at once, that I repudiate any such duty, and will have nothing whatever to do with it.”

“But you do not mean to say that you will encourage this unfortunate boy to marry your niece?”

“The unfortunate boy, Lady Arabella—whom, by the by, I regard as a very fortunate young man—is your son, not mine. I shall take no steps about his marriage, either one way or the other.”

“You think it right, then, that your niece should throw herself in his way?”

“Throw herself in his way! What would you say if I came up to Greshamsbury, and spoke to you of your daughters in such language? What would my dear friend Mr. Gresham say, if some neighbour’s wife should come and so speak to him? I will tell you what he would say: he would quietly beg her to go back to her own home and meddle only with her own matters.”

This was dreadful to Lady Arabella. Even Dr. Thorne had never before dared thus to lower her to the level of common humanity, and liken her to any other wife in the country-side. Moreover, she was not quite sure whether he, the parish doctor, was not desiring her, the earl’s daughter, to go home and mind her own business. On this first point, however, there seemed to be no room for doubt, of which she gave herself the benefit.

“It would not become me to argue with you, Dr. Thorne,” she said.

“Not at least on this subject,” said he.

“I can only repeat that I mean nothing offensive to our dear Mary; for whom, I think I may say, I have always shown almost a mother’s care.”

“Neither am I, nor is Mary, ungrateful for the kindness she has received at Greshamsbury.”

“But I must do my duty: my own children must be my first consideration.”

“Of course they must, Lady Arabella; that’s of course.”

“And, therefore, I have called on you to say that I think it is imprudent that Beatrice and Mary should be so much together.”

The doctor had been standing during the latter part of this conversation, but now he began to walk about, still holding the two bones like a pair of dumb-bells.

“God bless my soul!” he said; “God bless my soul! Why, Lady Arabella, do you suspect your own daughter as well as your own son? Do you think that Beatrice is assisting Mary in preparing this wicked clandestine marriage? I tell you fairly, Lady Arabella, the present tone of your mind is such that I cannot understand it.”

“I suspect nobody, Dr. Thorne; but young people will be young.”

“And old people must be old, I suppose; the more’s the pity. Lady Arabella, Mary is the same to me as my own daughter, and owes me the obedience of a child; but as I do not disapprove of your daughter Beatrice as an acquaintance for her, but rather, on the other hand, regard with pleasure their friendship, you cannot expect that I should take any steps to put an end to it.”

“But suppose it should lead to renewed intercourse between Frank and Mary?”

“I have no objection. Frank is a very nice young fellow, gentleman-like in his manners, and neighbourly in his disposition.”

“Dr. Thorne—”

“Lady Arabella—”

“I cannot believe that you really intend to express a wish—”

“You are quite right. I have not intended to express any wish; nor do I intend to do so. Mary is at liberty, within certain bounds—which I am sure she will not pass—to choose her own friends. I think she has not chosen badly as regards Miss Beatrice Gresham; and should she even add Frank Gresham to the number—”

“Friends! why they were more than friends; they were declared lovers.”

“I doubt that, Lady Arabella, because I have not heard of it from Mary. But even if it were so, I do not see why I should object.”

“Not object!”

“As I said before, Frank is, to my thinking, an excellent young man. Why should I object?”

“Dr. Thorne!” said her ladyship, now also rising from her chair in a state of too evident perturbation.

“Why should
I
object? It is for you, Lady Arabella, to look after your lambs; for me to see that, if possible, no harm shall come to mine. If you think that Mary is an improper acquaintance for your children, it is for you to guide them; for you and their father. Say what you think fit to your own daughter; but pray understand, once for all, that I will allow no one to interfere with my niece.”

“Interfere!” said Lady Arabella, now absolutely confused by the severity of the doctor’s manner.

“I will allow no one to interfere with her; no one, Lady Arabella. She has suffered very greatly from imputations which you have most unjustly thrown on her. It was, however, your undoubted right to turn her out of your house if you thought fit—though, as a woman who had known her for so many years, you might, I think, have treated her with more forbearance. That, however, was your right, and you exercised it. There your privilege stops; yes, and must stop, Lady Arabella. You shall not persecute her here, on the only spot of ground she can call her own.”

“Persecute her, Dr. Thorne! You do not mean to say that I have persecuted her?”

“Ah! but I do mean to say so. You do persecute her, and would continue to do so did I not defend her. It is not sufficient that she is forbidden to enter your domain—and so forbidden with the knowledge of all the country round—but you must come here also with the hope of interrupting all the innocent pleasures of her life. Fearing lest she should be allowed even to speak of your son, to hear a word of him through his own sister, you would put her in prison, tie her up, keep her from the light of day—”

“Dr. Thorne! how can you—”

But the doctor was not to be interrupted.

“It never occurs to you to tie him up, to put him in prison. No; he is the heir of Greshamsbury; he is your son, an earl’s grandson. It is only natural, after all, that he should throw a few foolish words at the doctor’s niece. But she! it is an offence not to be forgiven on her part that she should, however unwillingly, have been forced to listen to them! Now understand me, Lady Arabella; if any of your family come to my house I shall be delighted to welcome them: if Mary should meet any of them elsewhere I shall be delighted to hear of it. Should she tell me to-morrow that she was engaged to marry Frank, I should talk the matter over with her, quite coolly, solely with a view to her interest, as would be my duty; feeling, at the same time, that Frank would be lucky in having such a wife. Now you know my mind, Lady Arabella. It is so I should do my duty—you can do yours as you may think fit.”

Lady Arabella had by this time perceived that she was not destined on this occasion to gain any great victory. She, however, was angry as well as the doctor. It was not the man’s vehemence that provoked her so much as his evident determination to break down the prestige of her rank, and place her on a footing in no respect superior to his own. He had never before been so audaciously arrogant; and, as she moved towards the door, she determined in her wrath that she would never again have confidential intercourse with him in any relation of life whatsoever.

“Dr. Thorne,” said she. “I think you have forgotten yourself. You must excuse me if I say that after what has passed I—I—I—”

“Certainly,” said he, fully understanding what she meant; and bowing low as he opened first the study-door, then the front-door, then the garden-gate.

And then Lady Arabella stalked off, not without full observation from Mrs. Yates Umbleby and her friend Miss Gushing, who lived close by.

CHAPTER XXVII

Miss Thorne Goes on a Visit

And now began the unpleasant things at Greshamsbury of which we have here told. When Lady Arabella walked away from the doctor’s house she resolved that, let it cost what it might, there should be war to the knife between her and him. She had been insulted by him—so at least she said to herself, and so she was prepared to say to others also—and it was not to be borne that a De Courcy should allow her parish doctor to insult her with impunity. She would tell her husband with all the dignity that she could assume, that it had now become absolutely necessary that he should protect his wife by breaking entirely with his unmannered neighbour; and, as regarded the young members of her family, she would use the authority of a mother, and absolutely forbid them to hold any intercourse with Mary Thorne. So resolving, she walked quickly back to her own house.

The doctor, when left alone, was not quite satisfied with the part he had taken in the interview. He had spoken from impulse rather than from judgement, and, as is generally the case with men who do so speak, he had afterwards to acknowledge to himself that he had been imprudent. He accused himself probably of more violence than he had really used, and was therefore unhappy; but, nevertheless, his indignation was not at rest. He was angry with himself; but not on that account the less angry with Lady Arabella. She was cruel, overbearing, and unreasonable; cruel in the most cruel of manners, so he thought; but not on that account was he justified in forgetting the forbearance due from a gentleman to a lady. Mary, moreover, had owed much to the kindness of this woman, and, therefore, Dr. Thorne felt that he should have forgiven much.

Thus the doctor walked about his room, much disturbed; now accusing himself for having been so angry with Lady Arabella, and then feeding his own anger by thinking of her misconduct.

The only immediate conclusion at which he resolved was this, that it was unnecessary that he should say anything to Mary on the subject of her ladyship’s visit. There was, no doubt, sorrow enough in store for his darling; why should he aggravate it? Lady Arabella would doubtless not stop now in her course; but why should he accelerate the evil which she would doubtless be able to effect?

Lady Arabella, when she returned to the house, allowed no grass to grow under her feet. As she entered the house she desired that Miss Beatrice should be sent to her directly she returned; and she desired also, that as soon as the squire should be in his room a message to that effect might be immediately brought to her.

“Beatrice,” she said, as soon as the young lady appeared before her, and in speaking she assumed her firmest tone of authority, “Beatrice, I am sorry, my dear, to say anything that is unpleasant to you, but I must make it a positive request that you will for the future drop all intercourse with Dr. Thorne’s family.”

Beatrice, who had received Lady Arabella’s message immediately on entering the house, and had run upstairs imagining that some instant haste was required, now stood before her mother rather out of breath, holding her bonnet by the strings.

“Oh, mamma!” she exclaimed, “what on earth has happened?”

“My dear,” said the mother, “I cannot really explain to you what has happened; but I must ask you to give me your positive assurance that you will comply with my request.”

“You don’t mean that I am not to see Mary any more?”

“Yes, I do, my dear; at any rate, for the present. When I tell you that your brother’s interest imperatively demands it, I am sure that you will not refuse me.”

Beatrice did not refuse, but she did not appear too willing to comply. She stood silent, leaning against the end of a sofa and twisting her bonnet-strings in her hand.

“Well, Beatrice—”

“But, mamma, I don’t understand.”

Lady Arabella had said that she could not exactly explain: but she found it necessary to attempt to do so.

“Dr. Thorne has openly declared to me that a marriage between poor Frank and Mary is all he could desire for his niece. After such unparalleled audacity as that, even your father will see the necessity of breaking with him.”

“Dr. Thorne! Oh, mamma, you must have misunderstood him.”

“My dear, I am not apt to misunderstand people; especially when I am so much in earnest as I was in talking to Dr. Thorne.”

“But, mamma, I know so well what Mary herself thinks about it.”

“And I know what Dr. Thorne thinks about it; he, at any rate, has been candid in what he has said; there can be no doubt on earth that he has spoken his true thoughts; there can be no reason to doubt him: of course such a match would be all that he could wish.”

“Mamma, I feel sure that there is some mistake.”

“Very well, my dear. I know that you are infatuated about these people, and that you are always inclined to contradict what I say to you; but, remember, I expect that you will obey me when I tell you not to go to Dr. Thorne’s house any more.”

“But, mamma—”

“I expect you to obey me, Beatrice. Though you are so prone to contradict, you have never disobeyed me; and I fully trust that you will not do so now.”

Lady Arabella had begun by exacting, or trying to exact a promise, but as she found that this was not forthcoming, she thought it better to give up the point without a dispute. It might be that Beatrice would absolutely refuse to pay this respect to her mother’s authority, and then where would she have been?

At this moment a servant came up to say that the squire was in his room, and Lady Arabella was opportunely saved the necessity of discussing the matter further with her daughter. “I am now,” she said, “going to see your father on the same subject; you may be quite sure, Beatrice, that I should not willingly speak to him on any matter relating to Dr. Thorne did I not find it absolutely necessary to do so.”

This Beatrice knew was true, and she did therefore feel convinced that something terrible must have happened.

While Lady Arabella opened her budget the squire sat quite silent, listening to her with apparent respect. She found it necessary that her description to him should be much more elaborate than that which she had vouchsafed to her daughter, and, in telling her grievance, she insisted most especially on the personal insult which had been offered to herself.

“After what has now happened,” said she, not quite able to repress a tone of triumph as she spoke, “I do expect, Mr. Gresham, that you will—will—”

“Will what, my dear?”

“Will at least protect me from the repetition of such treatment.”

“You are not afraid that Dr. Thorne will come here to attack you? As far as I can understand, he never comes near the place, unless when you send for him.”

“No; I do not think that he will come to Greshamsbury any more. I believe I have put a stop to that.”

“Then what is it, my dear, that you want me to do?”

Lady Arabella paused a minute before she replied. The game which she now had to play was not very easy; she knew, or thought she knew, that her husband, in his heart of hearts, much preferred his friend to the wife of his bosom, and that he would, if he could, shuffle out of noticing the doctor’s iniquities. It behoved her, therefore, to put them forward in such a way that they must be noticed.

“I suppose, Mr. Gresham, you do not wish that Frank should marry the girl?”

“I do not think there is the slightest chance of such a thing; and I am quite sure that Dr. Thorne would not encourage it.”

“But I tell you, Mr. Gresham, that he says he will encourage it.”

“Oh, you have misunderstood him.”

“Of course; I always misunderstand everything. I know that. I misunderstood it when I told you how you would distress yourself if you took those nasty hounds.”

“I have had other troubles more expensive than the hounds,” said the poor squire, sighing.

“Oh, yes; I know what you mean; a wife and family are expensive, of course. It is a little too late now to complain of that.”

“My dear, it is always too late to complain of any troubles when they are no longer to be avoided. We need not, therefore, talk any more about the hounds at present.”

“I do not wish to speak of them, Mr. Gresham.”

“Nor I.”

“But I hope you will not think me unreasonable if I am anxious to know what you intend to do about Dr. Thorne.”

“To do?”

“Yes; I suppose you will do something: you do not wish to see your son marry such a girl as Mary Thorne.”

“As far as the girl herself is concerned,” said the squire, turning rather red, “I am not sure that he could do much better. I know nothing whatever against Mary. Frank, however, cannot afford to make such a match. It would be his ruin.”

“Of course it would; utter ruin; he never could hold up his head again. Therefore it is I ask, What do you intend to do?”

The squire was bothered. He had no intention whatever of doing anything, and no belief in his wife’s assertion as to Dr. Thorne’s iniquity. But he did not know how to get her out of the room. She asked him the same question over and over again, and on each occasion urged on him the heinousness of the insult to which she personally had been subjected; so that at last he was driven to ask her what it was she wished him to do.

“Well, then, Mr. Gresham, if you ask me, I must say, that I think you should abstain from any intercourse with Dr. Thorne whatever.”

“Break off all intercourse with him?”

“Yes.”

“What do you mean? He has been turned out of this house, and I’m not to go to see him at his own.”

“I certainly think that you ought to discontinue your visits to Dr. Thorne altogether.”

“Nonsense, my dear; absolute nonsense.”

“Nonsense! Mr. Gresham; it is no nonsense. As you speak in that way, I must let you know plainly what I feel. I am endeavouring to do my duty by my son. As you justly observe, such a marriage as this would be utter ruin to him. When I found that the young people were actually talking of being in love with each other, making vows and all that sort of thing, I did think it time to interfere. I did not, however, turn them out of Greshamsbury as you accuse me of doing. In the kindest possible manner—”

“Well—well—well; I know all that. There, they are gone, and that’s enough. I don’t complain; surely that ought to be enough.”

“Enough! Mr. Gresham. No; it is not enough. I find that, in spite of what has occurred, the closest intimacy exists between the two families; that poor Beatrice, who is so very young, and not so prudent as she should be, is made to act as a go-between; and when I speak to the doctor, hoping that he will assist me in preventing this, he not only tells me that he means to encourage Mary in her plans, but positively insults me to my face, laughs at me for being an earl’s daughter, and tells me—yes, he absolutely told me—to get out of his house.”

Let it be told with some shame as to the squire’s conduct, that his first feeling on hearing this was one of envy—of envy and regret that he could not make the same uncivil request. Not that he wished to turn his wife absolutely out of his house; but he would have been very glad to have had the power of dismissing her summarily from his own room. This, however, was at present impossible; so he was obliged to make some mild reply.

“You must have mistaken him, my dear. He could not have intended to say that.”

“Oh! of course, Mr. Gresham. It is all a mistake, of course. It will be a mistake, only a mistake when you find your son married to Mary Thorne.”

“Well, my dear, I cannot undertake to quarrel with Dr. Thorne.” This was true; for the squire could hardly have quarrelled with Dr. Thorne, even had he wished it.

“Then I think it right to tell you that I shall. And, Mr. Gresham, I did not expect much co-operation from you; but I did think that you would have shown some little anger when you heard that I had been so ill-treated. I shall, however, know how to take care of myself; and I shall continue to do the best I can to protect Frank from these wicked intrigues.”

So saying, her ladyship arose and left the room, having succeeded in destroying the comfort of all our Greshamsbury friends. It was very well for the squire to declare that he would not quarrel with Dr. Thorne, and of course he did not do so. But he, himself, had no wish whatever that his son should marry Mary Thorne; and as a falling drop will hollow a stone, so did the continual harping of his wife on the subject give rise to some amount of suspicion in his own mind. Then as to Beatrice, though she had made no promise that she would not again visit Mary, she was by no means prepared to set her mother’s authority altogether at defiance; and she also was sufficiently uncomfortable.

Dr. Thorne said nothing of the matter to his niece, and she, therefore, would have been absolutely bewildered by Beatrice’s absence, had she not received some tidings of what had taken place at Greshamsbury through Patience Oriel. Beatrice and Patience discussed the matter fully, and it was agreed between them that it would be better that Mary should know what sterner orders respecting her had gone forth from the tyrant at Greshamsbury, and that she might understand that Beatrice’s absence was compulsory. Patience was thus placed in this position, that on one day she walked and talked with Beatrice, and on the next with Mary; and so matters went on for a while at Greshamsbury—not very pleasantly.

Very unpleasantly and very uncomfortably did the months of May and June pass away. Beatrice and Mary occasionally met, drinking tea together at the parsonage, or in some other of the ordinary meetings of country society; but there were no more confidentially distressing confidential discourses, no more whispering of Frank’s name, no more sweet allusions to the inexpediency of a passion, which, according to Beatrice’s views, would have been so delightful had it been expedient.

The squire and the doctor also met constantly; there were unfortunately many subjects on which they were obliged to meet. Louis Philippe—or Sir Louis as we must call him—though he had no power over his own property, was wide awake to all the coming privileges of ownership, and he would constantly point out to his guardian the manner in which, according to his ideas, the most should be made of it. The young baronet’s ideas of good taste were not of the most refined description, and he did not hesitate to tell Dr. Thorne that his, the doctor’s, friendship with Mr. Gresham must be no bar to his, the baronet’s, interest. Sir Louis also had his own lawyer, who gave Dr. Thorne to understand that, according to his ideas, the sum due on Mr. Gresham’s property was too large to be left on its present footing; the title-deeds, he said, should be surrendered or the mortgage foreclosed. All this added to the sadness which now seemed to envelop the village of Greshamsbury.