Dr Thorne - Anthony Trollope [270]
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.’
‘What, Mary! Be unhappy and not talk about it to me? That’s something new, is it not?’
‘One has presentiments sometimes, and is unhappy without knowing why. Besides, you know –’
‘I know! What do I know? Do I know anything that will make my pet happier?’ and he took her in his arms as they sat together on the sofa. Her tears were now falling fast, and she no longer made an effort to hide them. ‘Speak to me, Mary; this is more than a presentiment. What is it?’
‘Oh, uncle –’
‘Come, love, speak to me; tell me why you are grieving?’
‘Oh, uncle, why have you not spoken to me? Why have you not told me what to do? Why have you not advised me? Why are you always so silent?’
‘Silent about what?’
‘You know, uncle, you know; silent about him; silent about Frank!’
Why, indeed? What was he to say to this? It was true that he had never counselled her; never shown her what course she should take; had never even spoken to her about her lover. And it was equally true that he was not now prepared to do so, even in answer to such an appeal as this. He had a hope, a strong hope, more than a hope, that Mary’s love would yet be happy; but he could not express or explain his hope; nor could he even acknowledge to himself a wish that would seem to be based on the death of him whose life he was bound, if possible, to preserve.
‘My love,’ he said, ‘it is a matter in which you must judge for yourself. Did I doubt your conduct, I should interfere; but I do not.’
‘Conduct! Is conduct everything? One may conduct oneself excellently, and yet break one’s heart.’
This was too much for the doctor; his sternness and firmness instantly deserted him. ‘Mary,’ he said, ‘I will do anything that you would have me. If you wish it, I will make arrangements for leaving this place at once.’
‘Oh, no,’ she said, plaintively.
‘When you tell me of a broken heart, you almost break my own. Come to me, darling; do not leave me so. I will say all that I can say. I have thought, do still think, that circumstances will admit of your marriage with Frank if you both love each other, and can both be patient.’
‘You think so,’ said she, unconsciously sliding her hand into his, as though to thank him by its pressure for the comfort he was giving her.
‘I do think so now more than ever. But I only think so; I have been unable to assure you. There, darling, I must not say more; only that I cannot bear to see you grieving, I would not have said this’: and then he left her, and nothing more was spoken on the subject.
If you can be patient! Why, a patience of ten years would be as nothing to her. Could she but live with the knowledge that she was first in his estimation, dearest in his heart; could it be also granted to her to feel that she was regarded as his equal, she could be patient for ever. What more did she want than to know and feel this? Patient, indeed!
But what could these circumstances be to which her uncle had alluded? ‘I do think that circumstances will admit of your marriage.’ Such was his opinion, and she had never known him to be wrong. Circumstances! What circumstances? Did he perhaps mean that Mr Gresham’s affairs were not so bad as they had been thought to be? If so, that alone would hardly alter the matter, for what could she give in return? ‘I would give him all the world for one word of love,’ she said