Dr Thorne

CHAPTER XX

THE PRO­POS­AL

And now the de­par­ture from Cour­cy Cas­tle came rapid­ly one af­ter the oth­er, and there re­mained but one more evening be­fore Miss Dun­sta­ble’s car­riage was to be packed. The count­ess, in the ear­ly mo­ments of Frank’s courtship, had con­trolled his ar­dour and checked the ra­pid­ity of his amorous pro­fes­sions; but as days, and at last weeks, wore away, she found that it was nec­es­sary to stir the fire which she had be­fore en­deav­oured to slack­en.

‘There will be no­body here to-​night but our own cir­cle,’ said she to him, ‘and I re­al­ly think you should tell Miss Dun­sta­ble what your in­ten­tions are. She will have fair ground to com­plain of you if you don’t.’

Frank be­gan to feel that he was in a dilem­ma. He had com­menced mak­ing love to Miss Dun­sta­ble part­ly be­cause he liked the amuse­ment, and part­ly from a satir­ical propen­si­ty to quiz his aunt by ap­pear­ing to fall in­to her scheme. But he had over­shot the mark, and did not know what an­swer to give when he was thus called up­on to make a down­right pro­pos­al. And then, al­though he did not care two rush­es about Miss Dun­sta­ble in the way of love, he nev­er­the­less ex­pe­ri­enced a sort of jeal­ousy when he found that she ap­peared to be in­dif­fer­ent to him, and that she cor­re­spond­ed the mean­while with his cousin George. Though all their flir­ta­tions had been car­ried on on both sides pal­pa­bly by way of fun, though Frank had told him­self ten times a day that his heart was true to Mary Thorne, yet he had an un­de­fined feel­ing that it be­hoved Miss Dun­sta­ble to be a lit­tle in love with him. He was not quite at ease in that she was not a lit­tle melan­choly now that his de­par­ture was so nigh; and, above all, he was anx­ious to know what were the re­al facts about that let­ter. He had in his own breast threat­ened Miss Dun­sta­ble with a heartache; and now, when the time for their sep­ara­tion came, he found that his own heart was the more like­ly to ache of the two.

‘I sup­pose I must say some­thing to her, or my aunt will nev­er be sat­is­fied,’ said he to him­self as he saun­tered in­to the lit­tle draw­ing-​room on that last evening. But at the very time he was ashamed of him­self, for he knew he was go­ing to ask bad­ly.

His sis­ter and one of his cousins were in the room, but his aunt, who was quite on the alert, soon got them out of it, and Frank and Miss Dun­sta­ble were alone.

‘So all our fun and all our laugh­ter is come to an end,’ said she, be­gin­ning the con­ver­sa­tion. ‘I don’t know how you feel, but for my­self I re­al­ly am a lit­tle melan­choly at the idea of part­ing;’ and she looked up at him with her laugh­ing black eyes, as though she nev­er had, and nev­er could have a care in the world.

‘Melan­choly! oh, yes; you look so,’ said Frank, who re­al­ly did feel some­what lack­adaisi­cal­ly sen­ti­men­tal.

‘But how thor­ough­ly glad the count­ess must be that we are both go­ing,’ con­tin­ued she. ‘I de­clare we have treat­ed her most in­fa­mous­ly. Ev­er since we’ve been here we’ve had the amuse­ment to our­selves. I’ve some­times thought she would turn me out of the house.’

‘I wish with all my heart she had.’

‘Oh, you cru­el bar­bar­ian! why on earth should you wish that?’

‘That I might have joined you in your ex­ile. I hate Cour­cy Cas­tle, and should have re­joiced to leave–and–and–’

‘And what?’

‘And I love Miss Dun­sta­ble, and should have dou­bly, tre­bly re­joiced to leave it with her.’

Frank’s voice quiv­ered a lit­tle as he made this gal­lant pro­fes­sion; but still Miss Dun­sta­ble on­ly laughed the loud­er. ‘Up­on my word, of all my knights you are by far the best be­haved,’ said she, ‘and say much the pret­ti­est things.’ Frank be­came rather red in the face, and felt that he did so. Miss Dun­sta­ble was treat­ing him like a boy. While she pre­tend­ed to be so fond of him she was on­ly laugh­ing at him, and cor­re­spond­ing the while with his cousin George. Now Frank Gre­sham al­ready en­ter­tained a sort of con­tempt for his cousin, which in­creased the bit­ter­ness of his feel­ings. Could it re­al­ly be pos­si­ble that George had suc­ceed­ed while he had ut­ter­ly failed; that his stupid cousin had touched the heart of the heiress while she was play­ing with him as with a boy?

‘Of all your knights! Is that the way you talk to me when we are go­ing to part? When was it, Miss Dun­sta­ble, that George de Cour­cy be­came one of them?’

Miss Dun­sta­ble for a while looked se­ri­ous enough. ‘What makes you ask that?’ said she. ‘What makes you in­quire about Mr de Cour­cy?’

‘Oh, I have eyes, you know, and can’t help see­ing. Not that I see, or have seen any­thing that I could pos­si­bly help.’

‘And what have you seen, Mr Gre­sham?’

‘Why, I know you have been writ­ing to him.’

‘Did he tell you so?’

‘No; he did not tell me; but I know it.’

For a mo­ment she sat silent, and then her face again re­sumed its usu­al hap­py smile. ‘Come, Mr Gre­sham, you are not go­ing to quar­rel with me, I hope, even if I did write a let­ter to your cousin. Why should I not write to him? I cor­re­spond with all man­ner of peo­ple. I’ll write to you some of these days if you’ll let me, and will promise to an­swer my let­ters.’

Frank threw him­self back on the so­fa on which he was sit­ting, and, in do­ing so, brought him­self some­what near­er to his com­pan­ion than he had been; he then drew his hand slow­ly across his fore­head, push­ing back his thick hair, and as he did so he sighed some­what plain­tive­ly.

‘I do not care,’ said he, ‘for the priv­ilege of cor­re­spon­dence on such terms. If my cousin George is to be a cor­re­spon­dent of yours al­so, I will give up my claim.’

And then he sighed again, so that it was piteous to hear him. He was cer­tain­ly an ar­rant pup­py, and an egre­gious ass in­to the bar­gain; but then, it must be re­mem­bered in his favour that he was on­ly twen­ty-​one, and that much had been done to spoil him. Miss Dun­sta­ble did re­mem­ber this, and there­fore ab­stained from laugh­ing at him.

‘Why, Mr Gre­sham, what on earth do you mean? In all hu­man prob­abil­ity I shall nev­er write an­oth­er line to Mr de Cour­cy; but, if I did, what pos­si­ble harm could it do you?’

‘Oh, Miss Dun­sta­ble! you do not in the least un­der­stand what my feel­ings are.’

‘Don’t I? Then I hope I nev­er shall. I thought I did. I thought they were the feel­ings of a good, true-​heart­ed friend; feel­ings that I could some­times look back up­on with plea­sure as be­ing hon­est when so much that one meets is false. I have be­come very fond of you, Mr Gre­sham, and I should be sor­ry to think that I did not un­der­stand your feel­ings.’

This was al­most worse and worse. Young ladies like Miss Dun­sta­ble–for she was still to be num­bered in the cat­ego­ry of young ladies–do not usu­al­ly tell young gen­tle­men that they are very fond of them. To boys and girls they may make such a dec­la­ra­tion. Now Frank Gre­sham re­gard­ed him­self as one who had al­ready fought his bat­tles, and fought them not with­out glo­ry; he could not there­fore en­dure to be thus open­ly told by Miss Dun­sta­ble that she was very fond of him.

‘Fond of me, Miss Dun­sta­ble! I wish you were.’

‘So I am–very.’

‘You lit­tle know how fond I am of you, Miss Dun­sta­ble,’ and he put out his hand to take hold of hers. She then lift­ed up her own, and slapped him light­ly on the knuck­les.

‘And what can you have say to Miss Dun­sta­ble that can make it nec­es­sary that you should pinch her hand? I tell you fair­ly, Mr Gre­sham, if you make a fool of your­self, I shall come to a con­clu­sion that you are all fools, and that it is hope­less to look out for any one worth car­ing for.’

Such ad­vice as this, so kind­ly giv­en, so wise­ly meant, so clear­ly in­tel­li­gi­ble he should have tak­en and un­der­stood, young as he was. but even yet he did not do so.

‘A fool of my­self! Yes; I sup­pose I must be a fool if I have so much re­gard for Miss Dun­sta­ble as to make it painful for me to know that I am to see her no more: a fool: yes, of course I am a fool–a man is al­ways a fool when he loves.’

Miss Dun­sta­ble could not pre­tend to doubt his mean­ing any longer; and was de­ter­mined to stop him, let it cost what it would. She now put out her hand, not over white, and, as Frank soon per­ceived, gift­ed with a very fair al­lowance of strength.

‘Now, Mr Gre­sham,’ said she, ‘be­fore you go any fur­ther you shall lis­ten to me. Will you lis­ten to me for a mo­ment with­out in­ter­rupt­ing me?’

Frank was of course obliged to promise that he would do so.

‘You are go­ing–or rather you were go­ing, for I shall stop you–to make a pro­fes­sion of love.’

‘A pro­fes­sion!’ said Frank mak­ing a slight un­suc­cess­ful ef­fort to get his hand free.

‘Yes; a pro­fes­sion–a false pro­fes­sion, Mr Gre­sham,–a false pro­fes­sion– a false pro­fes­sion. Look in­to your heart–in­to your heart of hearts. I know you at any rate have a heart; look in­to it close­ly. Mr Gre­sham, you know you do not love me; not as a man should love the wom­an he swears to love.’

Frank was tak­en aback. So ap­pealed to he found that he could not any longer say that he did love her. He could on­ly look in­to her face with all his eyes, and sit there lis­ten­ing to her.

‘How is it pos­si­ble that you should love me? I am Heav­en knows how many years your se­nior. I am nei­ther young nor beau­ti­ful, nor have I been brought up as she should be whom you in time will re­al­ly love and make your wife. I have noth­ing that should make you love me; but–but I am rich.’

‘It is not that,’ said Frank, stout­ly, feel­ing him­self im­per­ative­ly called up­on to ut­ter some­thing in his own de­fence.

‘Ah, Mr Gre­sham, I fear it is that. For what oth­er rea­son can you have laid your plans to talk in this way to such a wom­an as I am?’

‘I have laid no plans,’ said Frank, now get­ting his hand to him­self. ‘At any rate, you wrong me there, Miss Dun­sta­ble.’

‘I like you so well–nay, love you, if a wom­an may talk of love in the way of friend­ship–that if mon­ey, mon­ey alone would make you hap­py, you should have it heaped on you. If you want it, Mr Gre­sham, you shall have it.’

‘I have nev­er thought of your mon­ey,’ said Frank, surlily.

‘But it grieves me,’ con­tin­ued she, ‘it does grieve me, to think that you, you, you–so young and gay, so bright–that you should have looked for it in this way. From oth­ers I have tak­en it just as the wind that whis­tles;’ and now two big slow tears es­caped from her eyes, and would have rolled down her rosy cheeks were it not that she brushed them off with the back of her hand.

‘You have ut­ter­ly mis­tak­en me, Miss Dun­sta­ble,’ said Frank.

‘If I have, I will humbly beg your par­don,’ said she, ‘but–but–but–’

Frank had noth­ing fur­ther to say in his own de­fence. He had not want­ed Miss Dun­sta­ble’s mon­ey–that was true; but he could not de­ny that he had been about to talk that ab­so­lute non­sense of which she spoke with so much scorn.

‘You would al­most make me think that there are none hon­est in this fash­ion­able world of yours. I well know why La­dy de Cour­cy has had me here: how could I help know­ing it? She has been so fool­ish in her plans that ten times a day she has told me her own se­cret. But I have said to my­self twen­ty times, that if she were crafty, you were hon­est.’

‘And am I dis­hon­est?’

‘I have laughed in my sleeve to see how she played her game, and to hear oth­ers around play­ing theirs; all of them think­ing that they could get the mon­ey of the poor fool who had come at their beck and call; but I was able to laugh at them as long as I thought that I had one true friend to laugh with me. But one can­not laugh with all the world against one.’

‘I am not against you, Miss Dun­sta­ble.’

‘Sell your­self for mon­ey! why, if I were a man I would not sell one jot of lib­er­ty for moun­tains of gold. What! tie my­self in the hey­day of my youth to a per­son I could nev­er love, for a price! per­jure my­self, de­stroy my­self–and not on­ly my­self, but her al­so, in or­der that I might live idly! Oh, heav­ens! Mr Gre­sham! can it be that the words of such a wom­an as your aunt have sunk so deeply in your heart; have black­ened you so foul­ly as this? Have you for­got­ten your soul, your spir­it, your man’s en­er­gy, the trea­sure of your heart? And you, so young! For shame, Mr Gre­sham! for shame–for shame.’

Frank found the task be­fore him by no means an easy one. He had to make Miss Dun­sta­ble un­der­stand that he had nev­er had the slight­est idea of mar­ry­ing her, and that he had made love to her mere­ly with the ob­ject of keep­ing his hand in for the work as it were; with that ob­ject, and the oth­er equal­ly laud­able one of in­ter­fer­ing with his cousin George.

And yet there was noth­ing for him but to get through this task as best he might. He was goad­ed to it by the ac­cu­sa­tions which Miss Dun­sta­ble brought against him; and he be­gan to feel, that though her in­vec­tive against him might be bit­ter when he had told the truth, they could not be so bit­ter as those she now kept hint­ing at un­der her mis­tak­en im­pres­sion as to his views. He had nev­er had any strong propen­si­ty for mon­ey-​hunt­ing; but now that of­fence ap­peared in his eyes abom­inable, un­man­ly, and dis­gust­ing. Any im­pu­ta­tion would be bet­ter than that.

‘Miss Dun­sta­ble, I nev­er for a mo­ment thought of do­ing what you ac­cuse me of; on my hon­our, I nev­er did. I have been very fool­ish–very wrong–id­iot­ic, I be­lieve; but I have nev­er in­tend­ed that.’

‘Then, Mr Gre­sham, what did you in­tend?’

This was rather a dif­fi­cult ques­tion to an­swer; and Frank was not very quick in at­tempt­ing it. ‘I know you will not for­give me,’ he said at last; ‘and, in­deed, I do not see how you can. I don’t know how it came about; but this is cer­tain, Miss Dun­sta­ble; I have nev­er for a mo­ment thought about your for­tune; that is, thought about it in the way of cov­et­ing it.’

‘You nev­er thought of mak­ing me your wife, then?’

‘Nev­er,’ said Frank, look­ing bold­ly in­to her face.

‘You nev­er in­tend­ed re­al­ly to pro­pose to go with me to the al­tar, and then make your­self rich by one great per­jury?’

‘Nev­er for a mo­ment,’ said he.

‘You have nev­er gloat­ed over me as the bird of prey gloats over the poor beast that is soon to be­come car­rion be­neath its claws? You have not count­ed me out as equal to so much land, and cal­cu­lat­ed on me as a bal­ance at your banker’s? Ah, Mr Gre­sham,’ she con­tin­ued, see­ing that he stared as though struck al­most with awe by her strong lan­guage; ‘you lit­tle guess what a wom­an sit­uat­ed as I am has to suf­fer.’

‘I have be­haved bad­ly to you, Miss Dun­sta­ble, and I beg your par­don; but I have nev­er thought of your mon­ey.’

‘Then we will be friends again, Mr Gre­sham, won’t we? It is so nice to have a friend like you. There, I think I un­der­stand it now; you need not tell me.’

‘It was half by way of mak­ing a fool of my aunt,’ said Frank, in an apolo­get­ic tone.

‘There is mer­it in that, at any rate,’ said Miss Dun­sta­ble. ‘I un­der­stand it all now; you thought to make a fool of me in re­al earnest. Well, I can for­give that; at any rate it is not mean.’

It may be, that Miss Dun­sta­ble did not feel much acute anger at find­ing that this young man had ad­dressed her with words of love in the course of an or­di­nary flir­ta­tion, al­though that flir­ta­tion had been un­mean­ing and sil­ly. This was not the of­fence against which her heart and breast had found pe­cu­liar cause to arm it­self; this was not the in­jury from which she had hith­er­to ex­pe­ri­enced suf­fer­ing.

At any rate, she and Frank again be­came friends, and, be­fore the evening was over, they per­fect­ly un­der­stood each oth­er. Twice dur­ing this long tete-​a-​tete La­dy de Cour­cy came in­to the room to see how things were go­ing on, and twice she went out al­most un­no­ticed. It was quite clear to her that some­thing un­com­mon had tak­en place, was tak­ing place, or would take place; and that should this be for weal or for woe, no good could not come from her in­ter­fer­ence. On each oc­ca­sion, there­fore, she smiled sweet­ly on the pair of tur­tle-​doves, and glid­ed out of the room as qui­et­ly as she had glid­ed in­to it.

But at last it be­came nec­es­sary to re­move them; for the world had gone to bed. Frank, in the mean­time, had told to Miss Dun­sta­ble all his love for Mary Thorne, and Miss Dun­sta­ble had en­joined him to be true to his vows. To her eyes there was some­thing of heav­en­ly beau­ty in young, true love–of beau­ty that was heav­en­ly be­cause it had been un­known to her.

‘Mind you let me hear, Mr Gre­sham,’ said she. ‘Mind you do; and, Mr Gre­sham, nev­er, nev­er for­get her for one mo­ment; not for one mo­ment, Mr Gre­sham.’

Frank was about to swear that he nev­er would–again, when the count­ess, for the third time, sailed in­to the room.

‘Young peo­ple,’ said she, ‘do you know what o’clock it is?’

‘Dear me, La­dy de Cour­cy, I de­clare it is past twelve; I re­al­ly am ashamed of my­self. How glad you will be to get rid of me to-​mor­row!’

‘No, no, in­deed we shan’t; shall we, Frank?’ and so Miss Dun­sta­ble passed out.

Then once again the aunt tapped her nephew with her fan. It was the last time in her life that she did so. He looked up in her face, and his look was enough to tell her that the acres of Gre­shams­bury were not to be re­claimed by the oint­ment of Lebanon.

Noth­ing fur­ther on the sub­ject was said. On the fol­low­ing morn­ing Miss Dun­sta­ble took her de­par­ture, not much heed­ing the rather cold words of farewell which her host­ess gave her; and on the fol­low­ing day Frank start­ed for Gre­shams­bury.