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The Complete Chronicles of Barsetshire: (The Warden + Barchester Towers + Doctor Thorne + Framley Parsonage + The Small House at Allington + The Last Chronicle of Barset). Anthony Trollope
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isbn 4064066441838
Автор произведения Anthony Trollope
Жанр Языкознание
Издательство Bookwire
‘Oh, Mary!’
‘And, oh, Trichy! you don’t mean to say I mayn’t speak out before you. There, perhaps you’d like to put your foot on my neck.’ And then she put her head down to the footstool and kissed Beatrice’s feet.
‘I’d like, if I dared, to put my hand on your cheek and give you a good slap for being such a goose.’
‘Do; do, Trichy: you shall tread on me, or slap me, or kiss me; whichever you like.’
‘I can’t tell you how vexed I am,’ said Beatrice; ‘I wanted to arrange something.’
‘Arrange something! What? arrange what? I love arranging. I fancy myself qualified to be an arranger-general in female matters. I mean pots and pans, and such like. Of course I don’t allude to extraordinary people and extraordinary circumstances that require tact, and delicacy, and drawbacks, and that sort of thing.’
‘Very well, Mary.’
‘But it’s not very well; it’s very bad if you look like that. Well, my pet, there I won’t. I won’t allude to the noble blood of your noble relatives either in joke or in earnest. What is it you want to arrange, Trichy?’
‘I want you to be one of Augusta’s bridesmaids.’
‘Good heavens, Beatrice! Are you mad? What! Put me, even for a morning, into the same category of finery as the noble blood from Courcy Castle!’
‘Patience is to be one.’
‘But that is no reason why Impatience should be another, and I should be very impatient under such honours. No, Trichy; joking apart, do not think of it. Even if Augusta wished it I would refuse. I should be obliged to refuse. I, too, suffer from pride; a pride quite as unpardonable as that of others: I could not stand with your four lady-cousins behind your sister at the altar. In such a galaxy they would be the stars and I—’
‘Why, Mary, all the world knows that you are prettier than any of them!’
‘I am all the world’s very humble servant. But, Trichy, I should not object if I were as ugly as the veiled prophet and they all as beautiful as Zuleika. The glory of that galaxy will be held to depend not on its beauty; but on its birth. You know how they would look at me; now they would scorn me; and there, in church, at the altar, with all that is solemn round us, I could not return their scorn as I might do elsewhere. In a room I’m not a bit afraid of them at all.’ And Mary was again allowing herself to be absorbed by that feeling of indomitable pride, of antagonism to the pride of others, which she herself in her cooler moments was the first to blame.
‘You often say, Mary, that that sort of arrogance should be despised and passed over without notice.’
‘So it should, Trichy. I tell you that as a clergyman tells you to hate riches. But though the clergyman tells you so, he is not the less anxious to be rich himself.’
‘I particularly wish you to be one of Augusta’s bridesmaids.’
‘And I particularly wish to decline the honour; which honour has not been, and will not be, offered to me. No, Trichy. I will not be Augusta’s bridesmaid, but — but — but —’
‘But what, dearest?’
‘But, Trichy, when some one else is married, when the new wing has been built to a house that you know of —’
‘Now, Mary, hold your tongue, or you know you’ll make me angry.’
‘I do so like to see you angry. And when that time comes, when that wedding does take place, then I will be a bridesmaid, Trichy. Yes! even though I am not invited. Yes! though all the De Courcys in Barsetshire should tread upon me and obliterate me. Though I should be dust among the stars, though I should creep up in calico among their satins and lace, I will nevertheless be there; close, close to the bride; to hold something for her, to touch her dress, to feel that I am near to her, to — to — to —’ and she threw her arms round her companion, and kissed her over and over again. ‘No, Trichy; I won’t be Augusta’s bridesmaid; I’ll bide my time for bridesmaiding.’
What protestations Beatrice made against the probability of such an event as foreshadowed in her friend’s promise we will not repeat. The afternoon was advancing, and the ladies also had to dress for dinner, to do honour to the young heir.
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