Dr Thorne - Anthony Trollope [211]
‘TRICHY’
‘Monday’.
Though Mary was delighted at the idea of once more having her friend in her arms, there was, nevertheless, something in this letter which oppressed her. She could not put up with the idea that Beatrice should have permission given to come to her – just for once. She hardly wished to be seen by permission. Nevertheless, she did not refuse the proffered visit, and the first sight of Beatrice’s face, the first touch of the first embrace, dissipated for the moment all her anger.
And then Beatrice fully enjoyed the delicious talk which she had promised herself. Mary let her have her way, and for two hours all the delights and all the duties, all the comforts and all the responsibilities, of a parson’s wife were discussed with almost equal ardour on both sides. The duties and responsibilities were not exactly those which too often fall to the lot of the mistress of an English vicarage. Beatrice was not doomed to make her husband comfortable, to educate her children, dress herself like a lady, and exercise open-handed charity on an income of two hundred pounds a year. Her duties and responsibilities would have to spread themselves over seven or eight times that amount of worldly burden. Living also close to Greshamsbury, and not far from Courcy Castle, she would have the full advantages and all the privileges of county society. In fact, it was all couleur de rose, and so she chatted deliciously with her friend.
But it was impossible that they should separate without something having been said as to Mary’s own lot. It would, perhaps, have been better that they should do so; but this was hardly within the compass of human nature.
‘And Mary, you know, I shall be able to see you as often as I like; – you and Dr Thorne, too, when I have a house of my own.’
Mary said nothing, but essayed to smile. It was but a ghastly attempt.
‘You know how happy that will make me,’ continued Beatrice. ‘Of course mamma won’t expect me to be led by her then: if he likes it, there can be no objection; and he will like it, you may be sure of that.’
‘You are very kind, Trichy,’ said Mary; but she spoke in a tone very different from that she would have used eighteen months ago.
‘Why, what is the matter, Mary? Shan’t you be glad to come to see us?’
‘I do not know, dearest; that must depend on circumstances. To see you, you yourself, your own dear, sweet, loving face must always be pleasant to me.’
‘And shan’t you be glad to see him?’
‘Yes, certainly, if he loves you.’
‘Of course he loves me.’
‘All that alone would be pleasant enough, Trichy. But what if there should be circumstances which should still make us enemies; should make your friends and my friends – friend, I should say, for I have only one – should make them opposed to each other?’
‘Circumstances! What circumstances?’
‘You are going to be married, Trichy, to the man you love; are you not?’
‘Indeed I am!’
‘And is it not pleasant? is it not a happy feeling?’
‘Pleasant! happy! yes, very pleasant; very happy. But, Mary, I am not at all in such a hurry as he is,’ said Beatrice, naturally thinking of her own little affairs.
‘And, suppose I should wish to be married to the man that I love?’ Mary said this slowly and gravely, and as she spoke she looked her friend full in the face.
Beatrice was somewhat astonished, and for the moment hardly understood. ‘I am sure I hope you will, some day.’
‘No, Trichy; no, you hope just the other way. I love your brother; I love Frank Gresham; I love him quite as well, quite as warmly, as you love Caleb Oriel.’
‘Do you?’ said Beatrice, staring with all her eyes, and giving one long sigh, as this new subject for sorrow was so distinctly put before her.
‘Is that so odd?’ said Mary. ‘You love Mr Oriel, though you have been intimate with him hardly more than