CHAPTER VII
The Doctor's Garden
Mary had contrived to quiet her lover with considerable proprietyof demeanour. Then came on her the somewhat harder task of quietingherself. Young ladies, on the whole, are perhaps quite as susceptibleof the softer feelings as young gentlemen are. Now Frank Gresham washandsome, amiable, by no means a fool in intellect, excellent inheart; and he was, moreover, a gentleman, being the son of Mr Greshamof Greshamsbury. Mary had been, as it were, brought up to love him.Had aught but good happened to him, she would have cried as for abrother. It must not therefore be supposed that when Frank Greshamtold her that he loved her, she had heard it altogether unconcerned.
He had not, perhaps, made his declaration with that propriety oflanguage in which such scenes are generally described as beingcarried on. Ladies may perhaps think that Mary should have beendeterred, by the very boyishness of his manner, from thinking at allseriously on the subject. His "will you, won't you--do you, don'tyou?" does not sound like the poetic raptures of a highly inspiredlover. But, nevertheless, there had been warmth, and a reality in itnot in itself repulsive; and Mary's anger--anger? no, not anger--herobjections to the declarations were probably not based on theabsurdity of her lover's language.
We are inclined to think that these matters are not always discussedby mortal lovers in the poetically passionate phraseology which isgenerally thought to be appropriate for their description. A mancannot well describe that which he has never seen nor heard; butthe absolute words and acts of one such scene did once come to theauthor's knowledge. The couple were by no means plebeian, or belowthe proper standard of high bearing and high breeding; they werea handsome pair, living among educated people, sufficiently givento mental pursuits, and in every way what a pair of polite loversought to be. The all-important conversation passed in this wise. Thesite of the passionate scene was the sea-shore, on which they werewalking, in autumn.
Gentleman. "Well, Miss ----, the long and short of it is this: hereI am; you can take me or leave me."
Lady--scratching a gutter on the sand with her parasol, so as toallow a little salt water to run out of one hole into another. "Ofcourse, I know that's all nonsense."
Gentleman. "Nonsense! By Jove, it isn't nonsense at all: come, Jane;here I am: come, at any rate you can say something."
Lady. "Yes, I suppose I can say something."
Gentleman. "Well, which is it to be; take me or leave me?"
Lady--very slowly, and with a voice perhaps hardly articulate,carrying on, at the same time, her engineering works on a widerscale. "Well, I don't exactly want to leave you."
And so the matter was settled: settled with much propriety andsatisfaction and both the lady and gentleman would have thought, hadthey ever thought about the matter at all, that this, the sweetestmoment of their lives, had been graced by all the poetry by whichsuch moments ought to be hallowed.
When Mary had, as she thought, properly subdued young Frank, theoffer of whose love she, at any rate, knew was, at such a period ofhis life, an utter absurdity, then she found it necessary to subdueherself. What happiness on earth could be greater than the possessionof such a love, had the true possession been justly and honestlywithin her reach? What man could be more lovable than such a man aswould grow from such a boy? And then, did she not love him,--love himalready, without waiting for any change? Did she not feel that therewas that about him, about him and about herself, too, which might sowell fit them for each other? It would be so sweet to be the sisterof Beatrice, the daughter of the squire, to belong to Greshamsbury asa part and parcel of itself.
But though she could not restrain these thoughts, it never for amoment occurred to her to take Frank's offer in earnest. Though shewas a grown woman, he was still a boy. He would have to see the worldbefore he settled in it, and would change his mind about woman half ascore of times before he married. Then, too, though she did not likethe Lady Arabella, she felt that she owed something, if not to herkindness, at least to her forbearance; and she knew, felt inwardlycertain, that she would be doing wrong, that the world would sayshe was doing wrong, that her uncle would think her wrong, if sheendeavoured to take advantage of what had passed.
She had not for an instant doubted; not for a moment had shecontemplated it as possible that she should ever become Mrs Greshambecause Frank had offered to make her so; but, nevertheless, shecould not help thinking of what had occurred--of thinking of it, mostprobably much more than Frank did himself.
A day or two afterwards, on the evening before Frank's birthday, shewas alone with her uncle, walking in the garden behind their house,and she then essayed to question him, with the object of learning ifshe were fitted by her birth to be the wife of such a one as FrankGresham. They were in the habit of walking there together when hehappened to be at home of a summer's evening. This was not often thecase, for his hours of labour extended much beyond those usual to theupper working world, the hours, namely, between breakfast and dinner;but those minutes that they did thus pass together, the doctorregarded as perhaps the pleasantest of his life.
"Uncle," said she, after a while, "what do you think of this marriageof Miss Gresham's?"
"Well, Minnie"--such was his name of endearment for her--"I can't sayI have thought much about it, and I don't suppose anybody else haseither."
"She must think about it, of course; and so must he, I suppose."
"I'm not so sure of that. Some folks would never get married if theyhad to trouble themselves with thinking about it."
"I suppose that's why you never got married, uncle?"
"Either that, or thinking of it too much. One is as bad as theother."
Mary had not contrived to get at all near her point as yet; so shehad to draw off, and after a while begin again.
"Well, I have been thinking about it, at any rate, uncle."
"That's very good of you; that will save me the trouble; and perhapssave Miss Gresham too. If you have thought it over thoroughly, thatwill do for all."
"I believe Mr Moffat is a man of no family."
"He'll mend in that point, no doubt, when he has got a wife."
"Uncle, you're a goose; and what is worse, a very provoking goose."
"Niece, you're a gander; and what is worse, a very silly gander. Whatis Mr Moffat's family to you and me? Mr Moffat has that which ranksabove family honours. He is a very rich man."
"Yes," said Mary, "I know he is rich; and a rich man I suppose canbuy anything--except a woman that is worth having."
"A rich man can buy anything," said the doctor; "not that I meant tosay that Mr Moffat has bought Miss Gresham. I have no doubt that theywill suit each other very well," he added with an air of decisiveauthority, as though he had finished the subject.
But his niece was determined not to let him pass so. "Now, uncle,"said she, "you know you are pretending to a great deal of worldlywisdom, which, after all, is not wisdom at all in your eyes."
"Am I?"
"You know you are: and as for the impropriety of discussing MissGresham's marriage--"
"I did not say it was improper."
"Oh, yes, you did; of course such things must be discussed. How isone to have an opinion if one does not get it by looking at thethings which happen around us?"
"Now I am going to be blown up," said Dr Thorne.
"Dear uncle, do be serious with me."
"Well, then, seriously, I hope Miss Gresham will be very happy as MrsMoffat."
"Of course you do: so do I. I hope it as much as I can hope what Idon't at all see ground for expecting."
"People constantly hope without any such ground."
"Well, then, I'll hope in this case. But, uncle--"
"Well, my dear?"
"I want your opinion, truly and really. If you were a girl--"
"I am perfectly unable to give any opinion founded on so strange anhypothesis."
"Well; but if you were a marrying man."
"The hypothesis is quite as much out of my way."
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sp; "But, uncle, I am a girl, and perhaps I may marry;--or at any ratethink of marrying some day."
"The latter alternative is certainly possible enough."
"Therefore, in seeing a friend taking such a step, I cannot butspeculate on the matter as though I were myself in her place. If Iwere Miss Gresham, should I be right?"
"But, Minnie, you are not Miss Gresham."
"No, I am Mary Thorne; it is a very different thing, I know. Isuppose _I_ might marry any one without degrading myself."
It was almost ill-natured of her to say this; but she had not meantto say it in the sense which the sounds seemed to bear. She hadfailed in being able to bring her uncle to the point she wishedby the road she had planned, and in seeking another road, she hadabruptly fallen into unpleasant places.
"I should be very sorry that my niece should think so," said he; "andam sorry, too, that she should say so. But, Mary, to tell the truth,I hardly know at what you are driving. You are, I think, not so clearminded--certainly, not so clear worded--as is usual with you."
"I will tell you, uncle;" and, instead of looking up into his face,she turned her eyes down on the green lawn beneath her feet.
"Well, Minnie, what is it?" and he took both her hands in his.
"I think that Miss Gresham should not marry Mr Moffat. I think sobecause her family is high and noble, and because he is low andignoble. When one has an opinion on such matters, one cannot butapply it to things and people around one; and having applied myopinion to her, the next step naturally is to apply it to myself.Were I Miss Gresham, I would not marry Mr Moffat though he rolledin gold. I know where to rank Miss Gresham. What I want to know is,where I ought to rank myself?"
They had been standing when she commenced her last speech; but asshe finished it, the doctor moved on again, and she moved with him.He walked on slowly without answering her; and she, out of her fullmind, pursued aloud the tenor of her thoughts.
"If a woman feels that she would not lower herself by marrying ina rank beneath herself, she ought also to feel that she would notlower a man that she might love by allowing him to marry into a rankbeneath his own--that is, to marry her."
"That does not follow," said the doctor quickly. "A man raises awoman to his own standard, but a woman must take that of the man shemarries."
Again they were silent, and again they walked on, Mary holding heruncle's arm with both her hands. She was determined, however, to cometo the point, and after considering for a while how best she mightdo it, she ceased to beat any longer about the bush, and asked him aplain question.
"The Thornes are as good a family as the Greshams, are they not?"
"In absolute genealogy they are, my dear. That is, when I choose tobe an old fool and talk of such matters in a sense different fromthat in which they are spoken of by the world at large, I may saythat the Thornes are as good, or perhaps better, than the Greshams,but I should be sorry to say so seriously to any one. The Greshamsnow stand much higher in the county than the Thornes do."
"But they are of the same class."
"Yes, yes; Wilfred Thorne of Ullathorne, and our friend the squirehere, are of the same class."
"But, uncle, I and Augusta Gresham--are we of the same class?"
"Well, Minnie, you would hardly have me boast that I am the sameclass with the squire--I, a poor country doctor?"
"You are not answering me fairly, dear uncle; dearest uncle, do younot know that you are not answering me fairly? You know what I mean.Have I a right to call the Thornes of Ullathorne my cousins?"
"Mary, Mary, Mary!" said he after a minute's pause, still allowinghis arm to hang loose, that she might hold it with both her hands."Mary, Mary, Mary! I would that you had spared me this!"
"I could not have spared it to you for ever, uncle."
"I would that you could have done so; I would that you could!"
"It is over now, uncle: it is told now. I will grieve you no more.Dear, dear, dearest! I should love you more than ever now; I would,I would, I would if that were possible. What should I be but foryou? What must I have been but for you?" And she threw herself onhis breast, and clinging with her arms round his neck, kissed hisforehead, cheeks, and lips.
There was nothing more said then on the subject between them. Maryasked no further question, nor did the doctor volunteer furtherinformation. She would have been most anxious to ask about hermother's history had she dared to do so; but she did not dare to ask;she could not bear to be told that her mother had been, perhaps was,a worthless woman. That she was truly a daughter of a brother of thedoctor, that she did know. Little as she had heard of her relativesin her early youth, few as had been the words which had fallen fromher uncle in her hearing as to her parentage, she did know this, thatshe was the daughter of Henry Thorne, a brother of the doctor, and ason of the old prebendary. Trifling little things that had occurred,accidents which could not be prevented, had told her this; but nota word had ever passed any one's lips as to her mother. The doctor,when speaking of his youth, had spoken of her father; but no one hadspoken of her mother. She had long known that she was the child of aThorne; now she knew also that she was no cousin of the Thornes ofUllathorne; no cousin, at least, in the world's ordinary language, noniece indeed of her uncle, unless by his special permission that sheshould be so.
When the interview was over, she went up alone to the drawing-room,and there she sat thinking. She had not been there long before heruncle came up to her. He did not sit down, or even take off the hatwhich he still wore; but coming close to her, and still standing, hespoke thus:--
"Mary, after what has passed I should be very unjust and very cruelto you not to tell you one thing more than you have now learned. Yourmother was unfortunate in much, not in everything; but the world,which is very often stern in such matters, never judged her to havedisgraced herself. I tell you this, my child, in order that you mayrespect her memory;" and so saying, he again left her without givingher time to speak a word.
What he then told her he had told in mercy. He felt what must be herfeelings when she reflected that she had to blush for her mother;that not only could she not speak of her mother, but that she mighthardly think of her with innocence; and to mitigate such sorrow asthis, and also to do justice to the woman whom his brother had sowronged, he had forced himself to reveal so much as is stated above.
And then he walked slowly by himself, backwards and forwards throughthe garden, thinking of what he had done with reference to this girl,and doubting whether he had done wisely and well. He had resolved,when first the little infant was given over to his charge, thatnothing should be known of her or by her as to her mother. He waswilling to devote himself to this orphan child of his brother, thislast seedling of his father's house; but he was not willing so to dothis as to bring himself in any manner into familiar contact with theScatcherds. He had boasted to himself that he, at any rate, was agentleman; and that she, if she were to live in his house, sit at histable, and share his hearth, must be a lady. He would tell no lieabout her; he would not to any one make her out to be aught other oraught better than she was; people would talk about her of course,only let them not talk to him; he conceived of himself--and theconception was not without due ground--that should any do so, hehad that within him which would silence them. He would never claimfor this little creature--thus brought into the world without alegitimate position in which to stand--he would never claim for herany station that would not properly be her own. He would make for hera station as best he could. As he might sink or swim, so should she.
So he had resolved; but things had arranged themselves, as they oftendo, rather than been arranged by him. During ten or twelve years noone had heard of Mary Thorne; the memory of Henry Thorne and histragic death had passed away; the knowledge that an infant had beenborn whose birth was connected with that tragedy, a knowledge neverwidely spread, had faded down into utter ignorance. At the end ofthese twelve years, Dr Thorne had announced, that a young niece, achild of a brother long since dead, was coming to
live with him. Ashe had contemplated, no one spoke to him; but some people did nodoubt talk among themselves. Whether or not the exact truth wassurmised by any, it matters not to say; with absolute exactness,probably not; with great approach to it, probably yes. By one person,at any rate, no guess whatever was made; no thought relative to DrThorne's niece ever troubled him; no idea that Mary Scatcherd hadleft a child in England ever occurred to him; and that person wasRoger Scatcherd, Mary's brother.
To one friend, and only one, did the doctor tell the whole truth,and that was to the old squire. "I have told you," said the doctor,"partly that you may know that the child has no right to mix withyour children if you think much of such things. Do you, however, seeto this. I would rather that no one else should be told."
No one else had been told; and the squire had "seen to it," byaccustoming himself to look at Mary Thorne running about the housewith his own children as though she were of the same brood. Indeed,the squire had always been fond of Mary, had personally noticed her,and, in the affair of Mam'selle Larron, had declared that he wouldhave her placed at once on the bench of magistrates;--much to thedisgust of the Lady Arabella.
And so things had gone on and on, and had not been thought of withmuch downright thinking; till now, when she was one-and-twentyyears of age, his niece came to him, asking as to her position, andinquiring in what rank of life she was to look for a husband.
And so the doctor walked backwards and forwards through the garden,slowly, thinking now with some earnestness what if, after all, hehad been wrong about his niece? What if by endeavouring to place herin the position of a lady, he had falsely so placed her, and robbedher of all legitimate position? What if there was no rank of life towhich she could now properly attach herself?
And then, how had it answered, that plan of his of keeping her allto himself? He, Dr Thorne, was still a poor man; the gift of savingmoney had not been his; he had ever had a comfortable house for herto live in, and, in spite of Doctors Fillgrave, Century, Rerechild,and others, had made from his profession an income sufficient fortheir joint wants; but he had not done as others do: he had no threeor four thousand pounds in the Three per Cents. on which Mary mightlive in some comfort when he should die. Late in life he had insuredhis life for eight hundred pounds; and to that, and that only, hadhe to trust for Mary's future maintenance. How had it answered,then, this plan of letting her be unknown to, and undreamed of by,those who were as near to her on her mother's side as he was on thefather's? On that side, though there had been utter poverty, therewas now absolute wealth.
But when he took her to himself, had he not rescued her from the verydepths of the lowest misery: from the degradation of the workhouse;from the scorn of honest-born charity-children; from the lowest ofthe world's low conditions? Was she not now the apple of his eye, hisone great sovereign comfort--his pride, his happiness, his glory?Was he to make her over, to make any portion of her over to others,if, by doing so, she might be able to share the wealth, as well asthe coarse manners and uncouth society of her at present unknownconnexions? He, who had never worshipped wealth on his own behalf;he, who had scorned the idol of gold, and had ever been teaching herto scorn it; was he now to show that his philosophy had all beenfalse as soon as the temptation to do so was put in his way?
But yet, what man would marry this bastard child, without a sixpence,and bring not only poverty, but ill blood also on his own children?It might be very well for him, Dr Thorne; for him whose career wasmade, whose name, at any rate, was his own; for him who had a fixedstanding-ground in the world; it might be well for him to indulge inlarge views of a philosophy antagonistic to the world's practice; buthad he a right to do it for his niece? What man would marry a girlso placed? For those among whom she might have legitimately founda level, education had now utterly unfitted her. And then, he wellknew that she would never put out her hand in token of love to anyone without telling all she knew and all she surmised as to her ownbirth.
And that question of this evening; had it not been instigated by someappeal to her heart? Was there not already within her breast somecause for disquietude which had made her so pertinacious? Why elsehad she told him then, for the first time, that she did not knowwhere to rank herself? If such an appeal had been made to her, itmust have come from young Frank Gresham. What, in such case, would itbehove him to do? Should he pack up his all, his lancet-cases, pestleand mortar, and seek anew fresh ground in a new world, leaving behinda huge triumph to those learned enemies of his, Fillgrave, Century,and Rerechild? Better that than remain at Greshamsbury at the cost ofhis child's heart and pride.
And so he walked slowly backwards and forwards through his garden,meditating these things painfully enough.