DOCTOR THORNE by Anthony Trollope First published in 1858 CONTENTS I. The Greshams of Greshamsbury II. Long, Long Ago III. Dr Thorne IV. Lessons from Courcy Castle V. Frank Gresham's First Speech VI. Frank Gresham's Early Loves VII. The Doctor's Garden VIII. Matrimonial Prospects IX. Sir Roger Scatcherd X. Sir Roger's Will XI. The Doctor Drinks His Tea XII. When Greek Meets Greek, Then Comes the Tug of War XIII. The Two Uncles XIV. Sentence of Exile XV. Courcy XVI. Miss Dunstable XVII. The Election XVIII. The Rivals XIX. The Duke of Omnium XX. The Proposal XXI. Mr Moffat Falls into Trouble XXII. Sir Roger Is Unseated XXII. Retrospective XXIV. Louis Scatcherd XXV. Sir Roger Dies XXVI. War XXVII. Miss Thorne Goes on a Visit XXVIII. The Doctor Hears Something to His Advantage XXIX. The Donkey Ride XXX. Post Prandial XXXI. The Small End of the Wedge XXXII. Mr Oriel XXXIII. A Morning Visit XXXIV. A Barouche and Four Arrives at Greshamsbury XXXV. Sir Louis Goes Out to Dinner XXXVI. Will He Come Again? XXXVII. Sir Louis Leaves Greshamsbury XXXVIII. De Courcy Precepts and de Courcy Practice XXXIX. What the World Says about Blood XL. The Two Doctors Change Patients XLI. Doctor Thorne Won't Interfere XLII. What Can You Give in Return? XLIII. The Race of Scatcherd Becomes Extinct XLIV. Saturday Evening and Sunday Morning XLV. Law Business in London XLVI. Our Pet Fox Finds a Tail XLVII. How the Bride Was Received, and Who Were Asked to the Wedding CHAPTER I The Greshams of Greshamsbury Before the reader is introduced to the modest country medicalpractitioner who is to be the chief personage of the followingtale, it will be well that he should be made acquainted with someparticulars as to the locality in which, and the neighbours amongwhom, our doctor followed his profession. There is a county in the west of England not so full of life, indeed, nor so widely spoken of as some of its manufacturing leviathanbrethren in the north, but which is, nevertheless, very dear to thosewho know it well. Its green pastures, its waving wheat, its deepand shady and--let us add--dirty lanes, its paths and stiles, itstawny-coloured, well-built rural churches, its avenues of beeches, and frequent Tudor mansions, its constant county hunt, its socialgraces, and the general air of clanship which pervades it, has madeit to its own inhabitants a favoured land of Goshen. It is purelyagricultural; agricultural in its produce, agricultural in its poor, and agricultural in its pleasures. There are towns in it, of course;dépôts from whence are brought seeds and groceries, ribbons andfire-shovels; in which markets are held and county balls are carriedon; which return members to Parliament, generally--in spite of ReformBills, past, present, and coming--in accordance with the dictatesof some neighbouring land magnate: from whence emanate the countrypostmen, and where is located the supply of post-horses necessaryfor county visitings. But these towns add nothing to the importanceof the county; they consist, with the exception of the assize town, of dull, all but death-like single streets. Each possesses twopumps, three hotels, ten shops, fifteen beer-houses, a beadle, and amarket-place. Indeed, the town population of the county reckons for nothing whenthe importance of the county is discussed, with the exception, asbefore said, of the assize town, which is also a cathedral city. Herein is a clerical aristocracy, which is certainly not without itsdue weight. A resident bishop, a resident dean, an archdeacon, threeor four resident prebendaries, and all their numerous chaplains, vicars, and ecclesiastical satellites, do make up a societysufficiently powerful to be counted as something by the countysquirearchy. In other respects the greatness of Barsetshire dependswholly on the landed powers. Barsetshire, however, is not now so essentially one whole as it wasbefore the Reform Bill divided it. There is in these days an EastBarsetshire, and there is a West Barsetshire; and people conversantwith Barsetshire doings declare that they can already decipher somedifference of feeling, some division of interests. The eastern moietyof the county is more purely Conservative than the western; thereis, or was, a taint of Peelism in the latter; and then, too, theresidence of two such great Whig magnates as the Duke of Omnium andthe Earl de Courcy in that locality in some degree overshadows andrenders less influential the gentlemen who live near them. It is to East Barsetshire that we are called. When the division abovespoken of was first contemplated, in those stormy days in whichgallant men were still combatting reform ministers, if not with hope, still with spirit, the battle was fought by none more bravely thanby John Newbold Gresham of Greshamsbury, the member for Barsetshire. Fate, however, and the Duke of Wellington were adverse, and in thefollowing Parliament John Newbold Gresham was only member for EastBarsetshire. Whether or not it was true, as stated at the time, that the aspect ofthe men with whom he was called on to associate at St Stephen's brokehis heart, it is not for us now to inquire. It is certainly true thathe did not live to see the first year of the reformed Parliamentbrought to a close. The then Mr Gresham was not an old man at thetime of his death, and his eldest son, Francis Newbold Gresham, was avery young man; but, notwithstanding his youth, and notwithstandingother grounds of objection which stood in the way of such preferment, and which must be explained, he was chosen in his father's place. The father's services had been too recent, too well appreciated, toothoroughly in unison with the feelings of those around him to allowof any other choice; and in this way young Frank Gresham foundhimself member for East Barsetshire, although the very men whoelected him knew that they had but slender ground for trusting himwith their suffrages. Frank Gresham, though then only twenty-four years of age, was amarried man, and a father. He had already chosen a wife, and byhis choice had given much ground of distrust to the men of EastBarsetshire. He had married no other than Lady Arabella de Courcy, the sister of the great Whig earl who lived at Courcy Castle in thewest; that earl who not only voted for the Reform Bill, but had beeninfamously active in bringing over other young peers so to vote, and whose name therefore stank in the nostrils of the staunch Torysquires of the county. Not only had Frank Gresham so wedded, but having thus improperly andunpatriotically chosen a wife, he had added to his sins by becomingrecklessly intimate with his wife's relations. It is true that hestill called himself a Tory, belonged to the club of which his fatherhad been one of the most honoured members, and in the days of thegreat battle got his head broken in a row, on the right side; but, nevertheless, it was felt by the good men, true and blue, of EastBarsetshire, that a constant sojourner at Courcy Castle could not beregarded as a consistent Tory. When, however, his father died, thatbroken head served him in good stead: his sufferings in the causewere made the most of; these, in unison with his father's merits, turned the scale, and it was accordingly decided, at a meeting heldat the George and Dragon, at Barchester, that Frank Gresham shouldfill his father's shoes. But Frank Gresham could not fill his father's shoes; they were toobig for him. He did become member for East Barsetshire, but he wassuch a member--so lukewarm, so indifferent, so prone to associatewith the enemies of the good cause, so little willing to fight thegood fight, that he soon disgusted those who most dearly loved thememory of the old squire. De Courcy Castle in those days had great allurements for a young man, and all those allurements were made the most of to win over youngGresham. His wife, who was a year or two older than himself, was afashionable woman, with thorough Whig tastes and aspirations, suchas became the daughter of a great Whig earl; she cared for politics, or thought that she cared for them, more than her husband did; fora month or two previous to her engagement she had been attached tothe Court, and had been made to believe that much of the policy ofEngland's rulers depended on the political intrigues of England'swomen. She was one who would fain be doing something if she onlyknew how, and the first important attempt she made was to turn herrespectable young Tory husband into a second-rate Whig bantling. Asthis lady's character will, it is hoped, show itself in the followingpages, we need not now describe it more closely. It is not a bad thing to be son-in-law to a potent earl, member ofParliament for a county, and a possessor of a fine old English seat, and a fine old English fortune. As a very young man, Frank Greshamfound the life to which he was thus introduced agreeable enough. Heconsoled himself as best he might for the blue looks with which hewas greeted by his own party, and took his revenge by consorting morethoroughly than ever with his political adversaries. Foolishly, likea foolish moth, he flew to the bright light, and, like the moths, of course he burnt his wings. Early in 1833 he had become a memberof Parliament, and in the autumn of 1834 the dissolution came. Young members of three or four-and-twenty do not think much ofdissolutions, forget the fancies of their constituents, and are tooproud of the present to calculate much as to the future. So it waswith Mr Gresham. His father had been member for Barsetshire all hislife, and he looked forward to similar prosperity as though it werepart of his inheritance; but he failed to take any of the steps whichhad secured his father's seat. In the autumn of 1834 the dissolution came, and Frank Gresham, withhis honourable lady wife and all the de Courcys at his back, foundthat he had mortally offended the county. To his great disgustanother candidate was brought forward as a fellow to his latecolleague, and though he manfully fought the battle, and spent tenthousand pounds in the contest, he could not recover his position. Ahigh Tory, with a great Whig interest to back him, is never a popularperson in England. No one can trust him, though there may be thosewho are willing to place him, untrusted, in high positions. Suchwas the case with Mr Gresham. There were many who were willing, forfamily considerations, to keep him in Parliament; but no one thoughtthat he was fit to be there. The consequences were, that a bitterand expensive contest ensued. Frank Gresham, when twitted with beinga Whig, foreswore the de Courcy family; and then, when ridiculed ashaving been thrown over by the Tories, foreswore his father's oldfriends. So between the two stools he fell to the ground, and, as apolitician, he never again rose to his feet. He never again rose to his feet; but twice again he made violentefforts to do so. Elections in East Barsetshire, from variouscauses, came quick upon each other in those days, and before he waseight-and-twenty years of age Mr Gresham had three times contestedthe county and been three times beaten. To speak the truth of him, his own spirit would have been satisfied with the loss of the firstten thousand pounds; but Lady Arabella was made of higher mettle. Shehad married a man with a fine place and a fine fortune; but she hadnevertheless married a commoner and had in so far derogated from herhigh birth. She felt that her husband should be by rights a member ofthe House of Lords; but, if not, that it was at least essential thathe should have a seat in the lower chamber. She would by degrees sinkinto nothing if she allowed herself to sit down, the mere wife of amere country squire. Thus instigated, Mr Gresham repeated the useless contest three times, and repeated it each time at a serious cost. He lost his money, LadyArabella lost her temper, and things at Greshamsbury went on by nomeans as prosperously as they had done in the days of the old squire. In the first twelve years of their marriage, children came fast intothe nursery at Greshamsbury. The first that was born was a boy; andin those happy halcyon days, when the old squire was still alive, great was the joy at the birth of an heir to Greshamsbury; bonfiresgleamed through the country-side, oxen were roasted whole, andthe customary paraphernalia of joy, usual to rich Britons on suchoccasions were gone through with wondrous éclat. But when the tenthbaby, and the ninth little girl, was brought into the world, theoutward show of joy was not so great. Then other troubles came on. Some of these little girls were sickly, some very sickly. Lady Arabella had her faults, and they were such aswere extremely detrimental to her husband's happiness and her own;but that of being an indifferent mother was not among them. She hadworried her husband daily for years because he was not in Parliament, she had worried him because he would not furnish the house in PortmanSquare, she had worried him because he objected to have more peopleevery winter at Greshamsbury Park than the house would hold; but nowshe changed her tune and worried him because Selina coughed, becauseHelena was hectic, because poor Sophy's spine was weak, and Matilda'sappetite was gone. Worrying from such causes was pardonable it will be said. So it was;but the manner was hardly pardonable. Selina's cough was certainlynot fairly attributable to the old-fashioned furniture in PortmanSquare; nor would Sophy's spine have been materially benefited byher father having a seat in Parliament; and yet, to have heard LadyArabella discussing those matters in family conclave, one would havethought that she would have expected such results. As it was, her poor weak darlings were carried about from London toBrighton, from Brighton to some German baths, from the German bathsback to Torquay, and thence--as regarded the four we have named--tothat bourne from whence no further journey could be made under theLady Arabella's directions. The one son and heir to Greshamsbury was named as his father, FrancisNewbold Gresham. He would have been the hero of our tale had not thatplace been pre-occupied by the village doctor. As it is, those whoplease may so regard him. It is he who is to be our favourite youngman, to do the love scenes, to have his trials and his difficulties, and to win through them or not, as the case may be. I am too old nowto be a hard-hearted author, and so it is probable that he may notdie of a broken heart. Those who don't approve of a middle-agedbachelor country doctor as a hero, may take the heir to Greshamsburyin his stead, and call the book, if it so please them, "The Loves andAdventures of Francis Newbold Gresham the Younger. " And Master Frank Gresham was not ill adapted for playing the partof a hero of this sort. He did not share his sisters' ill-health, and though the only boy of the family, he excelled all his sistersin personal appearance. The Greshams from time immemorial had beenhandsome. They were broad browed, blue eyed, fair haired, born withdimples in their chins, and that pleasant, aristocratic dangerouscurl of the upper lip which can equally express good humour or scorn. Young Frank was every inch a Gresham, and was the darling of hisfather's heart. The de Courcys had never been plain. There was too much hauteur, toomuch pride, we may perhaps even fairly say, too much nobility intheir gait and manners, and even in their faces, to allow of theirbeing considered plain; but they were not a race nurtured by Venusor Apollo. They were tall and thin, with high cheek-bones, highforeheads, and large, dignified, cold eyes. The de Courcy girls hadall good hair; and, as they also possessed easy manners and powersof talking, they managed to pass in the world for beauties till theywere absorbed in the matrimonial market, and the world at large caredno longer whether they were beauties or not. The Misses Gresham weremade in the de Courcy mould, and were not on this account the lessdear to their mother. The two eldest, Augusta and Beatrice, lived, and were apparentlylikely to live. The four next faded and died one after another--allin the same sad year--and were laid in the neat, new cemetery atTorquay. Then came a pair, born at one birth, weak, delicate, fraillittle flowers, with dark hair and dark eyes, and thin, long, palefaces, with long, bony hands, and long bony feet, whom men looked onas fated to follow their sisters with quick steps. Hitherto, however, they had not followed them, nor had they suffered as their sistershad suffered; and some people at Greshamsbury attributed this to thefact that a change had been made in the family medical practitioner. Then came the youngest of the flock, she whose birth we have said wasnot heralded with loud joy; for when she came into the world, fourothers, with pale temples, wan, worn cheeks, and skeleton, whitearms, were awaiting permission to leave it. Such was the family when, in the year 1854, the eldest son came ofage. He had been educated at Harrow, and was now still at Cambridge;but, of course, on such a day as this he was at home. That coming ofage must be a delightful time to a young man born to inherit broadacres and wide wealth. Those full-mouthed congratulations; thosewarm prayers with which his manhood is welcomed by the grey-hairedseniors of the county; the affectionate, all but motherly caresses ofneighbouring mothers who have seen him grow up from his cradle, ofmothers who have daughters, perhaps, fair enough, and good enough, and sweet enough even for him; the soft-spoken, half-bashful, buttender greetings of the girls, who now, perhaps for the first time, call him by his stern family name, instructed by instinct rather thanprecept that the time has come when the familiar Charles or familiarJohn must by them be laid aside; the "lucky dogs, " and hints ofsilver spoons which are poured into his ears as each young compeerslaps his back and bids him live a thousand years and then never die;the shouting of the tenantry, the good wishes of the old farmers whocome up to wring his hand, the kisses which he gets from the farmers'wives, and the kisses which he gives to the farmers' daughters; allthese things must make the twenty-first birthday pleasant enough toa young heir. To a youth, however, who feels that he is now liableto arrest, and that he inherits no other privilege, the pleasure mayvery possibly not be quite so keen. The case with young Frank Gresham may be supposed to much nearer theformer than the latter; but yet the ceremony of his coming of agewas by no means like that which fate had accorded to his father. MrGresham was now an embarrassed man, and though the world did not knowit, or, at any rate, did not know that he was deeply embarrassed, hehad not the heart to throw open his mansion and receive the countywith a free hand as though all things were going well with him. Nothing was going well with him. Lady Arabella would allow nothingnear him or around him to be well. Everything with him now turned tovexation; he was no longer a joyous, happy man, and the people ofEast Barsetshire did not look for gala doings on a grand scale whenyoung Gresham came of age. Gala doings, to a certain extent, there were there. It was in July, and tables were spread under the oaks for the tenants. Tables werespread, and meat, and beer, and wine were there, and Frank, as hewalked round and shook his guests by the hand, expressed a hope thattheir relations with each other might be long, close, and mutuallyadvantageous. We must say a few words now about the place itself. GreshamsburyPark was a fine old English gentleman's seat--was and is; but we canassert it more easily in past tense, as we are speaking of it withreference to a past time. We have spoken of Greshamsbury Park; therewas a park so called, but the mansion itself was generally known asGreshamsbury House, and did not stand in the park. We may perhapsbest describe it by saying that the village of Greshamsbury consistedof one long, straggling street, a mile in length, which in the centreturned sharp round, so that one half of the street lay directly atright angles to the other. In this angle stood Greshamsbury House, and the gardens and grounds around it filled up the space so made. There was an entrance with large gates at each end of the village, and each gate was guarded by the effigies of two huge pagans withclubs, such being the crest borne by the family; from each entrance abroad road, quite straight, running through to a majestic avenue oflimes, led up to the house. This was built in the richest, perhaps weshould rather say in the purest, style of Tudor architecture; so muchso that, though Greshamsbury is less complete than Longleat, lessmagnificent than Hatfield, it may in some sense be said to be thefinest specimen of Tudor architecture of which the country can boast. It stands amid a multitude of trim gardens and stone-built terraces, divided one from another: these to our eyes are not so attractive asthat broad expanse of lawn by which our country houses are generallysurrounded; but the gardens of Greshamsbury have been celebrated fortwo centuries, and any Gresham who would have altered them would havebeen considered to have destroyed one of the well-known landmarks ofthe family. Greshamsbury Park--properly so called--spread far away on the otherside of the village. Opposite to the two great gates leading upto the mansion were two smaller gates, the one opening on to thestables, kennels, and farm-yard, and the other to the deer park. Thislatter was the principal entrance to the demesne, and a grand andpicturesque entrance it was. The avenue of limes which on one sidestretched up to the house, was on the other extended for a quarter ofa mile, and then appeared to be terminated only by an abrupt rise inthe ground. At the entrance there were four savages and four clubs, two to each portal, and what with the massive iron gates, surmountedby a stone wall, on which stood the family arms supported by twoother club-bearers, the stone-built lodges, the Doric, ivy-coveredcolumns which surrounded the circle, the four grim savages, and theextent of the space itself through which the high road ran, and whichjust abutted on the village, the spot was sufficiently significant ofold family greatness. Those who examined it more closely might see that under the arms wasa scroll bearing the Gresham motto, and that the words were repeatedin smaller letters under each of the savages. "Gardez Gresham, "had been chosen in the days of motto-choosing probably by someherald-at-arms as an appropriate legend for signifying the peculiarattributes of the family. Now, however, unfortunately, men were notof one mind as to the exact idea signified. Some declared, with muchheraldic warmth, that it was an address to the savages, calling onthem to take care of their patron; while others, with whom I myselfam inclined to agree, averred with equal certainty that it was anadvice to the people at large, especially to those inclined to rebelagainst the aristocracy of the county, that they should "beware theGresham. " The latter signification would betoken strength--so saidthe holders of this doctrine; the former weakness. Now the Greshamswere ever a strong people, and never addicted to a false humility. We will not pretend to decide the question. Alas! either constructionwas now equally unsuited to the family fortunes. Such changes hadtaken place in England since the Greshams had founded themselves thatno savage could any longer in any way protect them; they must protectthemselves like common folk, or live unprotected. Nor now was itnecessary that any neighbour should shake in his shoes when theGresham frowned. It would have been to be wished that the presentGresham himself could have been as indifferent to the frowns of someof his neighbours. But the old symbols remained, and may such symbols long remain amongus; they are still lovely and fit to be loved. They tell us of thetrue and manly feelings of other times; and to him who can readaright, they explain more fully, more truly than any written historycan do, how Englishmen have become what they are. England is not yeta commercial country in the sense in which that epithet is used forher; and let us still hope that she will not soon become so. Shemight surely as well be called feudal England, or chivalrous England. If in western civilised Europe there does exist a nation among whomthere are high signors, and with whom the owners of the land arethe true aristocracy, the aristocracy that is trusted as being bestand fittest to rule, that nation is the English. Choose out the tenleading men of each great European people. Choose them in France, inAustria, Sardinia, Prussia, Russia, Sweden, Denmark, Spain (?), andthen select the ten in England whose names are best known as those ofleading statesmen; the result will show in which country there stillexists the closest attachment to, the sincerest trust in, the oldfeudal and now so-called landed interests. England a commercial country! Yes; as Venice was. She may excelother nations in commerce, but yet it is not that in which she mostprides herself, in which she most excels. Merchants as such are notthe first men among us; though it perhaps be open, barely open, toa merchant to become one of them. Buying and selling is good andnecessary; it is very necessary, and may, possibly, be very good; butit cannot be the noblest work of man; and let us hope that it may notin our time be esteemed the noblest work of an Englishman. Greshamsbury Park was very large; it lay on the outside of the angleformed by the village street, and stretched away on two sides withoutapparent limit or boundaries visible from the village road or house. Indeed, the ground on this side was so broken up into abrupt hills, and conical-shaped, oak-covered excrescences, which were seen peepingup through and over each other, that the true extent of the park wasmuch magnified to the eye. It was very possible for a stranger to getinto it and to find some difficulty in getting out again by any ofits known gates; and such was the beauty of the landscape, that alover of scenery would be tempted thus to lose himself. I have said that on one side lay the kennels, and this will giveme an opportunity of describing here one especial episode, a longepisode, in the life of the existing squire. He had once representedhis county in Parliament, and when he ceased to do so he still feltan ambition to be connected in some peculiar way with that county'sgreatness; he still desired that Gresham of Greshamsbury should besomething more in East Barsetshire than Jackson of the Grange, orBaker of Mill Hill, or Bateson of Annesgrove. They were all hisfriends, and very respectable country gentlemen; but Mr Gresham ofGreshamsbury should be more than this: even he had enough of ambitionto be aware of such a longing. Therefore, when an opportunityoccurred he took to hunting the county. For this employment he was in every way well suited--unless it was inthe matter of finance. Though he had in his very earliest manly yearsgiven such great offence by indifference to his family politics, and had in a certain degree fostered the ill-feeling by contestingthe county in opposition to the wishes of his brother squires, nevertheless, he bore a loved and popular name. Men regretted that heshould not have been what they wished him to be, that he should nothave been such as was the old squire; but when they found that suchwas the case, that he could not be great among them as a politician, they were still willing that he should be great in any other way ifthere were county greatness for which he was suited. Now he was knownas an excellent horseman, as a thorough sportsman, as one knowing indogs, and tender-hearted as a sucking mother to a litter of youngfoxes; he had ridden in the county since he was fifteen, had a finevoice for a view-hallo, knew every hound by name, and could wind ahorn with sufficient music for all hunting purposes; moreover, he hadcome to his property, as was well known through all Barsetshire, witha clear income of fourteen thousand a year. Thus, when some old worn-out master of hounds was run to ground, about a year after Mr Gresham's last contest for the county, itseemed to all parties to be a pleasant and rational arrangement thatthe hounds should go to Greshamsbury. Pleasant, indeed, to all exceptthe Lady Arabella; and rational, perhaps, to all except the squirehimself. All this time he was already considerably encumbered. He had spentmuch more than he should have done, and so indeed had his wife, inthose two splendid years in which they had figured as great among thegreat ones of the earth. Fourteen thousand a year ought to have beenenough to allow a member of Parliament with a young wife and two orthree children to live in London and keep up their country familymansion; but then the de Courcys were very great people, and LadyArabella chose to live as she had been accustomed to do, and as hersister-in-law the countess lived: now Lord de Courcy had much morethan fourteen thousand a year. Then came the three elections, withtheir vast attendant cost, and then those costly expedients to whichgentlemen are forced to have recourse who have lived beyond theirincome, and find it impossible so to reduce their establishments asto live much below it. Thus when the hounds came to Greshamsbury, MrGresham was already a poor man. Lady Arabella said much to oppose their coming; but Lady Arabella, though it could hardly be said of her that she was under herhusband's rule, certainly was not entitled to boast that she had himunder hers. She then made her first grand attack as to the furniturein Portman Square; and was then for the first time specially informedthat the furniture there was not matter of much importance, as shewould not in future be required to move her family to that residenceduring the London seasons. The sort of conversations which grew fromsuch a commencement may be imagined. Had Lady Arabella worried herlord less, he might perhaps have considered with more coolness thefolly of encountering so prodigious an increase to the expense of hisestablishment; had he not spent so much money in a pursuit which hiswife did not enjoy, she might perhaps have been more sparing in herrebukes as to his indifference to her London pleasures. As it was, the hounds came to Greshamsbury, and Lady Arabella did go to Londonfor some period in each year, and the family expenses were by nomeans lessened. The kennels, however, were now again empty. Two years previous to thetime at which our story begins, the hounds had been carried off tothe seat of some richer sportsman. This was more felt by Mr Greshamthan any other misfortune which he had yet incurred. He had beenmaster of hounds for ten years, and that work he had at any rate donewell. The popularity among his neighbours which he had lost as apolitician he had regained as a sportsman, and he would fain haveremained autocratic in the hunt, had it been possible. But he soremained much longer than he should have done, and at last they wentaway, not without signs and sounds of visible joy on the part of LadyArabella. But we have kept the Greshamsbury tenantry waiting under theoak-trees by far too long. Yes; when young Frank came of age therewas still enough left at Greshamsbury, still means enough at thesquire's disposal, to light one bonfire, to roast, whole in its skin, one bullock. Frank's virility came on him not quite unmarked, asthat of the parson's son might do, or the son of the neighbouringattorney. It could still be reported in the Barsetshire Conservative_Standard_ that "The beards wagged all" at Greshamsbury, now as theyhad done for many centuries on similar festivals. Yes; it was soreported. But this, like so many other such reports, had but a shadowof truth in it. "They poured the liquor in, " certainly, those whowere there; but the beards did not wag as they had been wont to wagin former years. Beards won't wag for the telling. The squire was athis wits' end for money, and the tenants one and all had so heard. Rents had been raised on them; timber had fallen fast; the lawyeron the estate was growing rich; tradesmen in Barchester, nay, inGreshamsbury itself, were beginning to mutter; and the squire himselfwould not be merry. Under such circumstances the throats of atenantry will still swallow, but their beards will not wag. "I minds well, " said Farmer Oaklerath to his neighbour, "when thesquoire hisself comed of age. Lord love 'ee! There was fun going thatday. There was more yale drank then than's been brewed at the bighouse these two years. T'old squoire was a one'er. " "And I minds when squoire was borned; minds it well, " said an oldfarmer sitting opposite. "Them was the days! It an't that long agoneither. Squoire a'nt come o' fifty yet; no, nor an't nigh it, thoughhe looks it. Things be altered at Greemsbury"--such was the ruralpronunciation--"altered sadly, neebor Oaklerath. Well, well; I'llsoon be gone, I will, and so it an't no use talking; but arter payingone pound fifteen for them acres for more nor fifty year, I didn'tthink I'd ever be axed for forty shilling. " Such was the style of conversation which went on at the varioustables. It had certainly been of a very different tone when thesquire was born, when he came of age, and when, just two yearssubsequently, his son had been born. On each of these events similarrural fêtes had been given, and the squire himself had on theseoccasions been frequent among his guests. On the first, he had beencarried round by his father, a whole train of ladies and nursesfollowing. On the second, he had himself mixed in all the sports, thegayest of the gay, and each tenant had squeezed his way up to thelawn to get a sight of the Lady Arabella, who, as was already known, was to come from Courcy Castle to Greshamsbury to be their mistress. It was little they any of them cared now for the Lady Arabella. Onthe third, he himself had borne his child in his arms as his fatherhad before borne him; he was then in the zenith of his pride, andthough the tenantry whispered that he was somewhat less familiar withthem than of yore, that he had put on somewhat too much of the deCourcy airs, still he was their squire, their master, the rich manin whose hand they lay. The old squire was then gone, and they wereproud of the young member and his lady bride in spite of a littlehauteur. None of them were proud of him now. He walked once round among the guests, and spoke a few words ofwelcome at each table; and as he did so the tenants got up and bowedand wished health to the old squire, happiness to the young one, andprosperity to Greshamsbury; but, nevertheless, it was but a tameaffair. There were also other visitors, of the gentle sort, to do honour tothe occasion; but not such swarms, not such a crowd at the mansionitself and at the houses of the neighbouring gentry as had alwaysbeen collected on these former gala doings. Indeed, the party atGreshamsbury was not a large one, and consisted chiefly of Lady deCourcy and her suite. Lady Arabella still kept up, as far as she wasable, her close connexion with Courcy Castle. She was there as muchas possible, to which Mr Gresham never objected; and she took herdaughters there whenever she could, though, as regarded the two eldergirls, she was interfered with by Mr Gresham, and not unfrequently bythe girls themselves. Lady Arabella had a pride in her son, thoughhe was by no means her favourite child. He was, however, the heir ofGreshamsbury, of which fact she was disposed to make the most, andhe was also a fine gainly open-hearted young man, who could not butbe dear to any mother. Lady Arabella did love him dearly, though shefelt a sort of disappointment in regard to him, seeing that he wasnot so much like a de Courcy as he should have been. She did love himdearly; and, therefore, when he came of age she got her sister-in-lawand all the Ladies Amelia, Rosina etc. , to come to Greshamsbury; andshe also, with some difficulty, persuaded the Honourable Georges andthe Honourable Johns to be equally condescending. Lord de Courcyhimself was in attendance at the Court--or said that he was--and LordPorlock, the eldest son, simply told his aunt when he was invitedthat he never bored himself with those sort of things. Then there were the Bakers, and the Batesons, and the Jacksons, whoall lived near and returned home at night; there was the ReverendCaleb Oriel, the High-Church rector, with his beautiful sister, Patience Oriel; there was Mr Yates Umbleby, the attorney and agent;and there was Dr Thorne, and the doctor's modest, quiet-lookinglittle niece, Miss Mary. CHAPTER II Long, Long Ago As Dr Thorne is our hero--or I should rather say my hero, a privilegeof selecting for themselves in this respect being left to all myreaders--and as Miss Mary Thorne is to be our heroine, a point onwhich no choice whatsoever is left to any one, it is necessary thatthey shall be introduced and explained and described in a proper, formal manner. I quite feel that an apology is due for beginning anovel with two long dull chapters full of description. I am perfectlyaware of the danger of such a course. In so doing I sin against thegolden rule which requires us all to put our best foot foremost, thewisdom of which is fully recognised by novelists, myself among thenumber. It can hardly be expected that any one will consent to gothrough with a fiction that offers so little of allurement in itsfirst pages; but twist it as I will I cannot do otherwise. I findthat I cannot make poor Mr Gresham hem and haw and turn himselfuneasily in his arm-chair in a natural manner till I have said whyhe is uneasy. I cannot bring in my doctor speaking his mind freelyamong the bigwigs till I have explained that it is in accordancewith his usual character to do so. This is unartistic on my part, and shows want of imagination as well as want of skill. Whether ornot I can atone for these faults by straightforward, simple, plainstory-telling--that, indeed, is very doubtful. Dr Thorne belonged to a family in one sense as good, and at any rateas old, as that of Mr Gresham; and much older, he was apt to boast, than that of the de Courcys. This trait in his character is mentionedfirst, as it was the weakness for which he was most conspicuous. Hewas second cousin to Mr Thorne of Ullathorne, a Barsetshire squireliving in the neighbourhood of Barchester, and who boasted that hisestate had remained in his family, descending from Thorne to Thorne, longer than had been the case with any other estate or any otherfamily in the county. But Dr Thorne was only a second cousin; and, therefore, though he wasentitled to talk of the blood as belonging to some extent to himself, he had no right to lay claim to any position in the county other thansuch as he might win for himself if he chose to locate himself in it. This was a fact of which no one was more fully aware than our doctorhimself. His father, who had been first cousin of a former SquireThorne, had been a clerical dignitary in Barchester, but had beendead now many years. He had had two sons; one he had educated as amedical man, but the other, and the younger, whom he had intendedfor the Bar, had not betaken himself in any satisfactory way to anycalling. This son had been first rusticated from Oxford, and thenexpelled; and thence returning to Barchester, had been the cause tohis father and brother of much suffering. Old Dr Thorne, the clergyman, died when the two brothers were yetyoung men, and left behind him nothing but some household andother property of the value of about two thousand pounds, which hebequeathed to Thomas, the elder son, much more than that having beenspent in liquidating debts contracted by the younger. Up to that timethere had been close harmony between the Ullathorne family and thatof the clergyman; but a month or two before the doctor's death--theperiod of which we are speaking was about two-and-twenty years beforethe commencement of our story--the then Mr Thorne of Ullathorne hadmade it understood that he would no longer receive at his house hiscousin Henry, whom he regarded as a disgrace to the family. Fathers are apt to be more lenient to their sons than uncles to theirnephews, or cousins to each other. Dr Thorne still hoped to reclaimhis black sheep, and thought that the head of his family showed anunnecessary harshness in putting an obstacle in his way of doing so. And if the father was warm in support of his profligate son, theyoung medical aspirant was warmer in support of his profligatebrother. Dr Thorne, junior, was no roué himself, but perhaps, as ayoung man, he had not sufficient abhorrence of his brother's vices. At any rate, he stuck to him manfully; and when it was signifiedin the Close that Henry's company was not considered desirable atUllathorne, Dr Thomas Thorne sent word to the squire that under suchcircumstances his visits there would also cease. This was not very prudent, as the young Galen had elected toestablish himself in Barchester, very mainly in expectation of thehelp which his Ullathorne connexion would give him. This, however, inhis anger he failed to consider; he was never known, either in earlyor in middle life, to consider in his anger those points which wereprobably best worth his consideration. This, perhaps, was of the lessmoment as his anger was of an unenduring kind, evaporating frequentlywith more celerity than he could get the angry words out of hismouth. With the Ullathorne people, however, he did establish aquarrel sufficiently permanent to be of vital injury to his medicalprospects. And then the father died, and the two brothers were left livingtogether with very little means between them. At this time therewere living, in Barchester, people of the name of Scatcherd. Of thatfamily, as then existing, we have only to do with two, a brother anda sister. They were in a low rank of life, the one being a journeymanstone-mason, and the other an apprentice to a straw-bonnet maker; butthey were, nevertheless, in some sort remarkable people. The sisterwas reputed in Barchester to be a model of female beauty of thestrong and robuster cast, and had also a better reputation as beinga girl of good character and honest, womanly conduct. Both of herbeauty and of her reputation her brother was exceedingly proud, andhe was the more so when he learnt that she had been asked in marriageby a decent master-tradesman in the city. Roger Scatcherd had also a reputation, but not for beauty orpropriety of conduct. He was known for the best stone-mason in thefour counties, and as the man who could, on occasion, drink the mostalcohol in a given time in the same localities. As a workman, indeed, he had higher reputate even than this: he was not only a good andvery quick stone-mason, but he had also a capacity for turning othermen into good stone-masons: he had a gift of knowing what a man couldand should do; and, by degrees, he taught himself what five, and ten, and twenty--latterly, what a thousand and two thousand men mightaccomplish among them: this, also, he did with very little aidfrom pen and paper, with which he was not, and never became, veryconversant. He had also other gifts and other propensities. He couldtalk in a manner dangerous to himself and others; he could persuadewithout knowing that he did so; and being himself an extremedemagogue, in those noisy times just prior to the Reform Bill, he created a hubbub in Barchester of which he himself had had noprevious conception. Henry Thorne among his other bad qualities had one which his friendsregarded as worse than all the others, and which perhaps justifiedthe Ullathorne people in their severity. He loved to consort withlow people. He not only drank--that might have been forgiven--but hedrank in tap-rooms with vulgar drinkers; so said his friends, and sosaid his enemies. He denied the charge as being made in the pluralnumber, and declared that his only low co-reveller was RogerScatcherd. With Roger Scatcherd, at any rate, he associated, andbecame as democratic as Roger was himself. Now the Thornes ofUllathorne were of the very highest order of Tory excellence. Whether or not Mary Scatcherd at once accepted the offer of therespectable tradesman, I cannot say. After the occurrence of certainevents which must here shortly be told, she declared that she neverhad done so. Her brother averred that she most positively had. Therespectable tradesman himself refused to speak on the subject. It is certain, however, that Scatcherd, who had hitherto been silentenough about his sister in those social hours which he passed withhis gentleman friend, boasted of the engagement when it was, as hesaid, made; and then boasted also of the girl's beauty. Scatcherd, inspite of his occasional intemperance, looked up in the world, and thecoming marriage of his sister was, he thought, suitable to his ownambition for his family. Henry Thorne had already heard of, and already seen, Mary Scatcherd;but hitherto she had not fallen in the way of his wickedness. Now, however, when he heard that she was to be decently married, the deviltempted him to tempt her. It boots not to tell all the tale. It cameout clearly enough when all was told, that he made her most distinctpromises of marriage; he even gave her such in writing; and havingin this way obtained from her her company during some of her littleholidays--her Sundays or summer evenings--he seduced her. Scatcherdaccused him openly of having intoxicated her with drugs; and ThomasThorne, who took up the case, ultimately believed the charge. Itbecame known in Barchester that she was with child, and that theseducer was Henry Thorne. Roger Scatcherd, when the news first reached him, filled himself withdrink, and then swore that he would kill them both. With manly wrath, however, he set forth, first against the man, and that with manlyweapons. He took nothing with him but his fists and a big stick as hewent in search of Henry Thorne. The two brothers were then lodging together at a farm-house closeabutting on the town. This was not an eligible abode for a medicalpractitioner; but the young doctor had not been able to settlehimself eligibly since his father's death; and wishing to put whatconstraint he could upon his brother, had so located himself. To thisfarm-house came Roger Scatcherd one sultry summer evening, his angergleaming from his bloodshot eyes, and his rage heightened to madnessby the rapid pace at which he had run from the city, and by theardent spirits which were fermenting within him. At the very gate of the farm-yard, standing placidly with hiscigar in his mouth, he encountered Henry Thorne. He had thoughtof searching for him through the whole premises, of demanding hisvictim with loud exclamations, and making his way to him throughall obstacles. In lieu of that, there stood the man before him. "Well, Roger, what's in the wind?" said Henry Thorne. They were the last words he ever spoke. He was answered by a blowfrom the blackthorn. A contest ensued, which ended in Scatcherdkeeping his word--at any rate, as regarded the worst offender. Howthe fatal blow on the temple was struck was never exactly determined:one medical man said it might have been done in a fight with aheavy-headed stick; another thought that a stone had been used; athird suggested a stone-mason's hammer. It seemed, however, to beproved subsequently that no hammer was taken out, and Scatcherdhimself persisted in declaring that he had taken in his hand noweapon but the stick. Scatcherd, however, was drunk; and even thoughhe intended to tell the truth, may have been mistaken. There were, however, the facts that Thorne was dead; that Scatcherd had swornto kill him about an hour previously; and that he had without delayaccomplished his threat. He was arrested and tried for murder; allthe distressing circumstances of the case came out on the trial: hewas found guilty of manslaughter, and sentenced to be imprisoned forsix months. Our readers will probably think that the punishment wastoo severe. Thomas Thorne and the farmer were on the spot soon after Henry Thornehad fallen. The brother was at first furious for vengeance againsthis brother's murderer; but, as the facts came out, as he learntwhat had been the provocation given, what had been the feelings ofScatcherd when he left the city, determined to punish him who hadruined his sister, his heart was changed. Those were trying days forhim. It behoved him to do what in him lay to cover his brother'smemory from the obloquy which it deserved; it behoved him also tosave, or to assist to save, from undue punishment the unfortunate manwho had shed his brother's blood; and it behoved him also, at leastso he thought, to look after that poor fallen one whose misfortuneswere less merited than those either of his brother or of hers. And he was not the man to get through these things lightly, or withas much ease as he perhaps might conscientiously have done. He wouldpay for the defence of the prisoner; he would pay for the defence ofhis brother's memory; and he would pay for the poor girl's comforts. He would do this, and he would allow no one to help him. He stoodalone in the world, and insisted on so standing. Old Mr Thorneof Ullathorne offered again to open his arms to him; but he hadconceived a foolish idea that his cousin's severity had driven hisbrother on to his bad career, and he would consequently accept nokindness from Ullathorne. Miss Thorne, the old squire's daughter--acousin considerably older than himself, to whom he had at one timebeen much attached--sent him money; and he returned it to her under ablank cover. He had still enough for those unhappy purposes which hehad in hand. As to what might happen afterwards, he was then mainlyindifferent. The affair made much noise in the county, and was inquired intoclosely by many of the county magistrates; by none more closely thanby John Newbold Gresham, who was then alive. Mr Gresham was greatlytaken with the energy and justice shown by Dr Thorne on the occasion;and when the trial was over, he invited him to Greshamsbury. Thevisit ended in the doctor establishing himself in that village. We must return for a moment to Mary Scatcherd. She was saved from thenecessity of encountering her brother's wrath, for that brother wasunder arrest for murder before he could get at her. Her immediatelot, however, was a cruel one. Deep as was her cause for angeragainst the man who had so inhumanly used her, still it was naturalthat she should turn to him with love rather than with aversion. Towhom else could she in such plight look for love? When, therefore, she heard that he was slain, her heart sank within her; she turnedher face to the wall, and laid herself down to die: to die a doubledeath, for herself and the fatherless babe that was now quick withinher. But, in fact, life had still much to offer, both to her and to herchild. For her it was still destined that she should, in a distantland, be the worthy wife of a good husband, and the happy mother ofmany children. For that embryo one it was destined--but that may notbe so quickly told: to describe her destiny this volume has yet to bewritten. Even in those bitterest days God tempered the wind to the shornlamb. Dr Thorne was by her bedside soon after the bloody tidingshad reached her, and did for her more than either her lover or herbrother could have done. When the baby was born, Scatcherd was stillin prison, and had still three months' more confinement to undergo. The story of her great wrongs and cruel usage was much talked of, and men said that one who had been so injured should be regarded ashaving in nowise sinned at all. One man, at any rate, so thought. At twilight, one evening, Thornewas surprised by a visit from a demure Barchester hardware dealer, whom he did not remember ever to have addressed before. This was theformer lover of poor Mary Scatcherd. He had a proposal to make, andit was this:--if Mary would consent to leave the country at once, toleave it without notice from her brother, or talk or éclat on thematter, he would sell all that he had, marry her, and emigrate. There was but one condition; she must leave her baby behind her. The hardware-man could find it in his heart to be generous, to begenerous and true to his love; but he could not be generous enough tofather the seducer's child. "I could never abide it, sir, if I took it, " said he; "and she, --whyin course she would always love it the best. " In praising his generosity, who can mingle any censure for suchmanifest prudence? He would still make her the wife of his bosom, defiled in the eyes of the world as she had been; but she must beto him the mother of his own children, not the mother of another'schild. And now again our doctor had a hard task to win through. He saw atonce that it was his duty to use his utmost authority to induce thepoor girl to accept such an offer. She liked the man; and here wasopened to her a course which would have been most desirable, evenbefore her misfortune. But it is hard to persuade a mother to partwith her first babe; harder, perhaps, when the babe had been sofathered and so born than when the world has shone brightly on itsearliest hours. She at first refused stoutly: she sent a thousandloves, a thousand thanks, profusest acknowledgements for hisgenerosity to the man who showed her that he loved her so well; butNature, she said, would not let her leave her child. "And what will you do for her here, Mary?" said the doctor. Poor Maryreplied to him with a deluge of tears. "She is my niece, " said the doctor, taking up the tiny infant in hishuge hands; "she is already the nearest thing, the only thing that Ihave in this world. I am her uncle, Mary. If you will go with thisman I will be father to her and mother to her. Of what bread I eat, she shall eat; of what cup I drink, she shall drink. See, Mary, hereis the Bible;" and he covered the book with his hand. "Leave her tome, and by this word she shall be my child. " The mother consented at last; left her baby with the doctor, married, and went to America. All this was consummated before Roger Scatcherdwas liberated from jail. Some conditions the doctor made. The firstwas, that Scatcherd should not know his sister's child was thusdisposed of. Dr Thorne, in undertaking to bring up the baby, did notchoose to encounter any tie with persons who might hereafter claimto be the girl's relations on the other side. Relations she wouldundoubtedly have had none had she been left to live or die as aworkhouse bastard; but should the doctor succeed in life, should heultimately be able to make this girl the darling of his own house, and then the darling of some other house, should she live and win theheart of some man whom the doctor might delight to call his friendand nephew; then relations might spring up whose ties would not beadvantageous. No man plumed himself on good blood more than Dr Thorne; no man hadgreater pride in his genealogical tree, and his hundred and thirtyclearly proved descents from MacAdam; no man had a stronger theoryas to the advantage held by men who have grandfathers over those whohave none, or have none worth talking about. Let it not be thoughtthat our doctor was a perfect character. No, indeed; most far fromperfect. He had within him an inner, stubborn, self-admiring pride, which made him believe himself to be better and higher than thosearound him, and this from some unknown cause which he could hardlyexplain to himself. He had a pride in being a poor man of a highfamily; he had a pride in repudiating the very family of which hewas proud; and he had a special pride in keeping his pride silentlyto himself. His father had been a Thorne, and his mother a Thorold. There was no better blood to be had in England. It was in thepossession of such properties as these that he condescended torejoice; this man, with a man's heart, a man's courage, and a man'shumanity! Other doctors round the county had ditch-water in theirveins; he could boast of a pure ichor, to which that of the greatOmnium family was but a muddy puddle. It was thus that he loved toexcel his brother practitioners, he who might have indulged in thepride of excelling them both in talent and in energy! We speak nowof his early days; but even in his maturer life, the man, thoughmellowed, was the same. This was the man who now promised to take to his bosom as his ownchild a poor bastard whose father was already dead, and whosemother's family was such as the Scatcherds! It was necessary thatthe child's history should be known to none. Except to the mother'sbrother it was an object of interest to no one. The mother had forsome short time been talked of; but now the nine-days' wonder was awonder no longer. She went off to her far-away home; her husband'sgenerosity was duly chronicled in the papers, and the babe was leftuntalked of and unknown. It was easy to explain to Scatcherd that the child had not lived. There was a parting interview between the brother and sister in thejail, during which, with real tears and unaffected sorrow, the motherthus accounted for the offspring of her shame. Then she started, fortunate in her coming fortunes; and the doctor took with him hischarge to the new country in which they were both to live. There hefound for her a fitting home till she should be old enough to sitat his table and live in his bachelor house; and no one but old MrGresham knew who she was, or whence she had come. Then Roger Scatcherd, having completed his six months' confinement, came out of prison. Roger Scatcherd, though his hands were now red with blood, was to bepitied. A short time before the days of Henry Thorne's death he hadmarried a young wife in his own class of life, and had made manyresolves that henceforward his conduct should be such as might becomea married man, and might not disgrace the respectable brother-in-lawhe was about to have given him. Such was his condition when he firstheard of his sister's plight. As has been said, he filled himselfwith drink and started off on the scent of blood. During his prison days his wife had to support herself as she might. The decent articles of furniture which they had put together weresold; she gave up their little house, and, bowed down by misery, shealso was brought near to death. When he was liberated he at once gotwork; but those who have watched the lives of such people know howhard it is for them to recover lost ground. She became a motherimmediately after his liberation, and when her child was born theywere in direst want; for Scatcherd was again drinking, and hisresolves were blown to the wind. The doctor was then living at Greshamsbury. He had gone over therebefore the day on which he undertook the charge of poor Mary's baby, and soon found himself settled as the Greshamsbury doctor. Thisoccurred very soon after the birth of the young heir. His predecessorin this career had "bettered" himself, or endeavoured to do so, byseeking the practice of some large town, and Lady Arabella, at a verycritical time, was absolutely left with no other advice than that ofa stranger, picked up, as she declared to Lady de Courcy, somewhereabout Barchester jail, or Barchester court-house, she did not knowwhich. Of course Lady Arabella could not suckle the young heir herself. Ladies Arabella never can. They are gifted with the powers of beingmothers, but not nursing-mothers. Nature gives them bosoms for show, but not for use. So Lady Arabella had a wet-nurse. At the end of sixmonths the new doctor found Master Frank was not doing quite so wellas he should do; and after a little trouble it was discovered thatthe very excellent young woman who had been sent express from CourcyCastle to Greshamsbury--a supply being kept up on the lord's demesnefor the family use--was fond of brandy. She was at once sent back tothe castle, of course; and, as Lady de Courcy was too much in dudgeonto send another, Dr Thorne was allowed to procure one. He thought ofthe misery of Roger Scatcherd's wife, thought also of her health, and strength, and active habits; and thus Mrs Scatcherd became thefoster-mother to young Frank Gresham. One other episode we must tell of past times. Previous to hisfather's death, Dr Thorne was in love. Nor had he altogether sighedand pleaded in vain; though it had not quite come to that, that theyoung lady's friends, or even the young lady herself, had actuallyaccepted his suit. At that time his name stood well in Barchester. His father was a prebendary; his cousins and his best friends werethe Thornes of Ullathorne, and the lady, who shall be nameless, wasnot thought to be injudicious in listening to the young doctor. Butwhen Henry Thorne went so far astray, when the old doctor died, whenthe young doctor quarrelled with Ullathorne, when the brother waskilled in a disgraceful quarrel, and it turned out that the physicianhad nothing but his profession and no settled locality in which toexercise it; then, indeed, the young lady's friends thought that shewas injudicious, and the young lady herself had not spirit enough, orlove enough, to be disobedient. In those stormy days of the trial shetold Dr Thorne that perhaps it would be wise that they should not seeeach other any more. Dr Thorne, so counselled, at such a moment, --so informed then, whenhe most required comfort from his love, at once swore loudly that heagreed with her. He rushed forth with a bursting heart, and said tohimself that the world was bad, all bad. He saw the lady no more;and, if I am rightly informed, never again made matrimonial overturesto any one. CHAPTER III Dr Thorne And thus Dr Thorne became settled for life in the little village ofGreshamsbury. As was then the wont with many country practitioners, and as should be the wont with them all if they consulted their owndignity a little less and the comforts of their customers somewhatmore, he added the business of a dispensing apothecary to that ofphysician. In doing so, he was of course much reviled. Many peoplearound him declared that he could not truly be a doctor, or, at anyrate, a doctor to be so called; and his brethren in the art livingaround him, though they knew that his diplomas, degrees, andcertificates were all _en règle_, rather countenanced the report. There was much about this new-comer which did not endear him to hisown profession. In the first place he was a new-comer, and, as such, was of course to be regarded by other doctors as being _de trop_. Greshamsbury was only fifteen miles from Barchester, where there wasa regular dépôt of medical skill, and but eight from Silverbridge, where a properly established physician had been in residence for thelast forty years. Dr Thorne's predecessor at Greshamsbury had been ahumble-minded general practitioner, gifted with a due respect forthe physicians of the county; and he, though he had been allowed tophysic the servants, and sometimes the children of Greshamsbury, hadnever had the presumption to put himself on a par with his betters. Then, also, Dr Thorne, though a graduated physician, though entitledbeyond all dispute to call himself a doctor, according to all thelaws of all the colleges, made it known to the East Barsetshireworld, very soon after he had seated himself at Greshamsbury, thathis rate of pay was to be seven-and-sixpence a visit within acircuit of five miles, with a proportionally increased charge atproportionally increased distances. Now there was something low, mean, unprofessional, and democratic in this; so, at least, said thechildren of Æsculapius gathered together in conclave at Barchester. In the first place, it showed that this Thorne was always thinkingof his money, like an apothecary, as he was; whereas, it would havebehoved him, as a physician, had he had the feelings of a physicianunder his hat, to have regarded his own pursuits in a purelyphilosophical spirit, and to have taken any gain which might haveaccrued as an accidental adjunct to his station in life. A physicianshould take his fee without letting his left hand know what his righthand was doing; it should be taken without a thought, without a look, without a move of the facial muscles; the true physician shouldhardly be aware that the last friendly grasp of the hand had beenmade more precious by the touch of gold. Whereas, that fellow Thornewould lug out half a crown from his breeches pocket and give it inchange for a ten shilling piece. And then it was clear that this manhad no appreciation of the dignity of a learned profession. He mightconstantly be seen compounding medicines in the shop, at the lefthand of his front door; not making experiments philosophically inmateria medica for the benefit of coming ages--which, if he did, heshould have done in the seclusion of his study, far from profaneeyes--but positively putting together common powders for ruralbowels, or spreading vulgar ointments for agricultural ailments. A man of this sort was not fit society for Dr Fillgrave ofBarchester. That must be admitted. And yet he had been found to befit society for the old squire of Greshamsbury, whose shoe-ribbons DrFillgrave would not have objected to tie; so high did the old squirestand in the county just previous to his death. But the spirit of theLady Arabella was known by the medical profession of Barsetshire, andwhen that good man died it was felt that Thorne's short tenure ofGreshamsbury favour was already over. The Barsetshire regulars were, however, doomed to disappointment. Our doctor had already contrivedto endear himself to the heir; and though there was not even thenmuch personal love between him and the Lady Arabella, he kept hisplace at the great house unmoved, not only in the nursery and in thebedrooms, but also at the squire's dining-table. Now there was in this, it must be admitted, quite enough to make himunpopular with his brethren; and this feeling was soon shown in amarked and dignified manner. Dr Fillgrave, who had certainly themost respectable professional connexion in the county, who had areputation to maintain, and who was accustomed to meet, on almostequal terms, the great medical baronets from the metropolis at thehouses of the nobility--Dr Fillgrave declined to meet Dr Thorne inconsultation. He exceedingly regretted, he said, most exceedingly, the necessity which he felt of doing so: he had never before hadto perform so painful a duty; but, as a duty which he owed to hisprofession, he must perform it. With every feeling of respect forLady ----, a sick guest at Greshamsbury--and for Mr Gresham, he mustdecline to attend in conjunction with Dr Thorne. If his servicescould be made available under any other circumstances, he would go toGreshamsbury as fast as post-horses could carry him. Then, indeed, there was war in Barsetshire. If there was on DrThorne's cranium one bump more developed than another, it was that ofcombativeness. Not that the doctor was a bully, or even pugnacious, in the usual sense of the word; he had no disposition to provoke afight, no propense love of quarrelling; but there was that in himwhich would allow him to yield to no attack. Neither in argument norin contest would he ever allow himself to be wrong; never at least toany one but to himself; and on behalf of his special hobbies, he wasready to meet the world at large. It will therefore be understood, that when such a gauntlet was thusthrown in his very teeth by Dr Fillgrave, he was not slow to take itup. He addressed a letter to the Barsetshire Conservative _Standard_, in which he attacked Dr Fillgrave with some considerable acerbity. Dr Fillgrave responded in four lines, saying that on matureconsideration he had made up his mind not to notice any remarksthat might be made on him by Dr Thorne in the public press. TheGreshamsbury doctor then wrote another letter, more witty and muchmore severe than the last; and as this was copied into the Bristol, Exeter, and Gloucester papers, Dr Fillgrave found it very difficultto maintain the magnanimity of his reticence. It is sometimesbecoming enough for a man to wrap himself in the dignified toga ofsilence, and proclaim himself indifferent to public attacks; but itis a sort of dignity which it is very difficult to maintain. As wellmight a man, when stung to madness by wasps, endeavour to sit in hischair without moving a muscle, as endure with patience and withoutreply the courtesies of a newspaper opponent. Dr Thorne wrote a thirdletter, which was too much for medical flesh and blood to bear. DrFillgrave answered it, not, indeed, in his own name, but in that ofa brother doctor; and then the war raged merrily. It is hardly toomuch to say that Dr Fillgrave never knew another happy hour. Had hedreamed of what materials was made that young compounder of doses atGreshamsbury he would have met him in consultation, morning, noon, and night, without objection; but having begun the war, he wasconstrained to go on with it: his brethren would allow him noalternative. Thus he was continually being brought up to the fight, as a prize-fighter may be seen to be, who is carried up round afterround, without any hope on his own part, and who, in each round, drops to the ground before the very wind of his opponent's blows. But Dr Fillgrave, though thus weak himself, was backed in practiceand in countenance by nearly all his brethren in the county. Theguinea fee, the principle of _giving_ advice and of selling nomedicine, the great resolve to keep a distinct barrier betweenthe physician and the apothecary, and, above all, the hatred ofthe contamination of a bill, were strong in the medical mind ofBarsetshire. Dr Thorne had the provincial medical world against him, and so he appealed to the metropolis. The _Lancet_ took the matter upin his favour, but the _Journal of Medical Science_ was against him;the _Weekly Chirurgeon_, noted for its medical democracy, upheld himas a medical prophet, but the _Scalping Knife_, a monthly periodicalgot up in dead opposition to the _Lancet_, showed him no mercy. Sothe war went on, and our doctor, to a certain extent, became a notedcharacter. He had, moreover, other difficulties to encounter in his professionalcareer. It was something in his favour that he understood hisbusiness; something that he was willing to labour at it with energy;and resolved to labour at it conscientiously. He had also othergifts, such as conversational brilliancy, an aptitude for truegood fellowship, firmness in friendship, and general honesty ofdisposition, which stood him in stead as he advanced in life. But, at his first starting, much that belonged to himself personally wasagainst him. Let him enter what house he would, he entered it with aconviction, often expressed to himself, that he was equal as a man tothe proprietor, equal as a human being to the proprietress. To age hewould allow deference, and to special recognised talent--at least sohe said; to rank also, he would pay that respect which was its clearand recognised prerogative; he would let a lord walk out of a roombefore him if he did not happen to forget it; in speaking to a dukehe would address him as his Grace; and he would in no way assume afamiliarity with bigger men than himself, allowing to the bigger manthe privilege of making the first advances. But beyond this he wouldadmit that no man should walk the earth with his head higher than hisown. He did not talk of these things much; he offended no rank by boastsof his own equality; he did not absolutely tell the Earl de Courcy inwords, that the privilege of dining at Courcy Castle was to him nogreater than the privilege of dining at Courcy Parsonage; but therewas that in his manner that told it. The feeling in itself wasperhaps good, and was certainly much justified by the manner in whichhe bore himself to those below him in rank; but there was folly inthe resolution to run counter to the world's recognised rules on suchmatters; and much absurdity in his mode of doing so, seeing that atheart he was a thorough Conservative. It is hardly too much to saythat he naturally hated a lord at first sight; but, nevertheless, hewould have expended his means, his blood, and spirit, in fighting forthe upper house of Parliament. Such a disposition, until it was thoroughly understood, did not tendto ingratiate him with the wives of the country gentlemen among whomhe had to look for practice. And then, also, there was not much inhis individual manner to recommend him to the favour of ladies. Hewas brusque, authoritative, given to contradiction, rough thoughnever dirty in his personal belongings, and inclined to indulgein a sort of quiet raillery, which sometimes was not thoroughlyunderstood. People did not always know whether he was laughingat them or with them; and some people were, perhaps, inclined tothink that a doctor should not laugh at all when called in to actdoctorially. When he was known, indeed, when the core of the fruit had beenreached, when the huge proportions of that loving trusting heart hadbeen learned, and understood, and appreciated, when that honesty hadbeen recognised, that manly, and almost womanly tenderness had beenfelt, then, indeed, the doctor was acknowledged to be adequate in hisprofession. To trifling ailments he was too often brusque. Seeingthat he accepted money for the cure of such, he should, we may say, have cured them without an offensive manner. So far he is withoutdefence. But to real suffering no one found him brusque; no patientlying painfully on a bed of sickness ever thought him rough. Another misfortune was, that he was a bachelor. Ladies think, andI, for one, think that ladies are quite right in so thinking, thatdoctors should be married men. All the world feels that a man whenmarried acquires some of the attributes of an old woman--he becomes, to a certain extent, a motherly sort of being; he acquires aconversance with women's ways and women's wants, and loses the wilderand offensive sparks of his virility. It must be easier to talk tosuch a one about Matilda's stomach, and the growing pains in Fanny'slegs, than to a young bachelor. This impediment also stood much in DrThorne's way during his first years at Greshamsbury. But his wants were not at first great; and though his ambition wasperhaps high, it was not of an impatient nature. The world was hisoyster; but, circumstanced as he was, he knew that it was not for himto open it with his lancet all at once. He had bread to earn, whichhe must earn wearily; he had a character to make, which must comeslowly; it satisfied his soul that, in addition to his immortalhopes, he had a possible future in this world to which he could lookforward with clear eyes, and advance with a heart that would know nofainting. On his first arrival at Greshamsbury he had been put by the squireinto a house, which he still occupied when that squire's grandsoncame of age. There were two decent, commodious, private houses in thevillage--always excepting the rectory, which stood grandly in its owngrounds, and, therefore, was considered as ranking above the villageresidences--of these two Dr Thorne had the smaller. They stoodexactly at the angle before described, on the outer side of it, andat right angles to each other. They both possessed good stables andample gardens; and it may be as well to specify, that Mr Umbleby, theagent and lawyer to the estate, occupied the larger one. Here Dr Thorne lived for eleven or twelve years, all alone; andthen for ten or eleven more with his niece, Mary Thorne. Mary wasthirteen when she came to take up permanent abode as mistress of theestablishment--or, at any rate, to act as the only mistress which theestablishment possessed. This advent greatly changed the tenor ofthe doctor's ways. He had been before pure bachelor; not a room inhis house had been comfortably furnished; he at first commenced in amakeshift sort of way, because he had not at his command the means ofcommencing otherwise; and he had gone on in the same fashion, becausethe exact time had never come at which it was imperative in him toset his house in order. He had had no fixed hour for his meals, nofixed place for his books, no fixed wardrobe for his clothes. He hada few bottles of good wine in his cellar, and occasionally asked abrother bachelor to take a chop with him; but beyond this he hadtouched very little on the cares of housekeeping. A slop-bowl full ofstrong tea, together with bread, and butter, and eggs, was producedfor him in the morning, and he expected that at whatever hour hemight arrive in the evening, some food should be presented to himwherewith to satisfy the cravings of nature; if, in addition to this, he had another slop-bowl of tea in the evening, he got all that heever required, or all, at least, that he ever demanded. But when Mary came, or rather, when she was about to come, thingswere altogether changed at the doctor's. People had hithertowondered--and especially Mrs Umbleby--how a gentleman like Dr Thornecould continue to live in so slovenly a manner; and how people againwondered, and again especially Mrs Umbleby, how the doctor couldpossibly think it necessary to put such a lot of furniture into ahouse because a little chit of a girl of twelve years of age wascoming to live with him. Mrs Umbleby had great scope for her wonder. The doctor made athorough revolution in his household, and furnished his house fromthe ground to the roof completely. He painted--for the first timesince the commencement of his tenancy--he papered, he carpeted, andcurtained, and mirrored, and linened, and blanketed, as though a MrsThorne with a good fortune were coming home to-morrow; and all for agirl of twelve years old. "And how, " said Mrs Umbleby, to her friendMiss Gushing, "how did he find out what to buy?" as though the doctorhad been brought up like a wild beast, ignorant of the nature oftables and chairs, and with no more developed ideas of drawing-roomdrapery than an hippopotamus. To the utter amazement of Mrs Umbleby and Miss Gushing, the doctordid it all very well. He said nothing about it to any one--he neverdid say much about such things--but he furnished his house well anddiscreetly; and when Mary Thorne came home from her school at Bath, to which she had been taken some six years previously, she foundherself called upon to be the presiding genius of a perfect paradise. It has been said that the doctor had managed to endear himself to thenew squire before the old squire's death, and that, therefore, thechange at Greshamsbury had had no professional ill effects upon him. Such was the case at the time; but, nevertheless, all did not gosmoothly in the Greshamsbury medical department. There was six orseven years' difference in age between Mr Gresham and the doctor, and, moreover, Mr Gresham was young for his age, and the doctor old;but, nevertheless, there was a very close attachment between themearly in life. This was never thoroughly sundered, and, backed bythis, the doctor did maintain himself for some years before thefire of Lady Arabella's artillery. But drops falling, if they fallconstantly, will bore through a stone. Dr Thorne's pretensions, mixed with his subversive professionaldemocratic tendencies, his seven-and-sixpenny visits, added to hisutter disregard of Lady Arabella's airs, were too much for herspirit. He brought Frank through his first troubles, and that atfirst ingratiated her; he was equally successful with the earlydietary of Augusta and Beatrice; but, as his success was obtainedin direct opposition to the Courcy Castle nursery principles, thishardly did much in his favour. When the third daughter was born, he at once declared that she was a very weakly flower, and sternlyforbade the mother to go to London. The mother, loving her babe, obeyed; but did not the less hate the doctor for the order, whichshe firmly believed was given at the instance and express dictationof Mr Gresham. Then another little girl came into the world, and thedoctor was more imperative than ever as to the nursery rules and theexcellence of country air. Quarrels were thus engendered, and LadyArabella was taught to believe that this doctor of her husband'swas after all no Solomon. In her husband's absence she sent for DrFillgrave, giving very express intimation that he would not have towound either his eyes or dignity by encountering his enemy; and shefound Dr Fillgrave a great comfort to her. Then Dr Thorne gave Mr Gresham to understand that, under suchcircumstances, he could not visit professionally at Greshamsburyany longer. The poor squire saw there was no help for it, and thoughhe still maintained his friendly connexion with his neighbour, the seven-and-sixpenny visits were at an end. Dr Fillgrave fromBarchester, and the gentleman at Silverbridge, divided theresponsibility between them, and the nursery principles of CourcyCastle were again in vogue at Greshamsbury. So things went on for years, and those years were years of sorrow. We must not ascribe to our doctor's enemies the sufferings, andsickness, and deaths that occurred. The four frail little ones thatdied would probably have been taken had Lady Arabella been moretolerant of Dr Thorne. But the fact was, that they did die; and thatthe mother's heart then got the better of the woman's pride, and LadyArabella humbled herself before Dr Thorne. She humbled herself, orwould have done so, had the doctor permitted her. But he, with hiseyes full of tears, stopped the utterance of her apology, took hertwo hands in his, pressed them warmly, and assured her that his joyin returning would be great, for the love that he bore to all thatbelonged to Greshamsbury. And so the seven-and-sixpenny visits wererecommenced; and the great triumph of Dr Fillgrave came to an end. Great was the joy in the Greshamsbury nursery when the second changetook place. Among the doctor's attributes, not hitherto mentioned, was an aptitude for the society of children. He delighted to talk tochildren, and to play with them. He would carry them on his back, three or four at a time, roll with them on the ground, race withthem in the garden, invent games for them, contrive amusements incircumstances which seemed quite adverse to all manner of delight;and, above all, his physic was not nearly so nasty as that which camefrom Silverbridge. He had a great theory as to the happiness of children; and thoughhe was not disposed altogether to throw over the precepts ofSolomon--always bargaining that he should, under no circumstances, be himself the executioner--he argued that the principal duty whicha parent owed to a child was to make him happy. Not only was the manto be made happy--the future man, if that might be possible--but theexisting boy was to be treated with equal favour; and his happiness, so said the doctor, was of much easier attainment. "Why struggle after future advantage at the expense of present pain, seeing that the results were so very doubtful?" Many an opponent ofthe doctor had thought to catch him on the hip when so singular adoctrine was broached; but they were not always successful. "What!"said his sensible enemies, "is Johnny not to be taught to readbecause he does not like it?" "Johnny must read by all means, " wouldthe doctor answer; "but is it necessary that he should not like it?If the preceptor have it in him, may not Johnny learn, not only toread, but to like to learn to read?" "But, " would say his enemies, "children must be controlled. " "And somust men also, " would say the doctor. "I must not steal your peaches, nor make love to your wife, nor libel your character. Much as Imight wish through my natural depravity to indulge in such vices, I am debarred from them without pain, and I may almost say withoutunhappiness. " And so the argument went on, neither party convincing the other. But, in the meantime, the children of the neighbourhood became very fondof Dr Thorne. Dr Thorne and the squire were still fast friends, but circumstanceshad occurred, spreading themselves now over a period of many years, which almost made the poor squire uneasy in the doctor's company. MrGresham owed a large sum of money, and he had, moreover, already solda portion of his property. Unfortunately it had been the pride of theGreshams that their acres had descended from one to another withoutan entail, so that each possessor of Greshamsbury had had the fullpower to dispose of the property as he pleased. Any doubt as toits going to the male heir had never hitherto been felt. It hadoccasionally been encumbered by charges for younger children; butthese charges had been liquidated, and the property had come downwithout any burden to the present squire. Now a portion of this hadbeen sold, and it had been sold to a certain degree through theagency of Dr Thorne. This made the squire an unhappy man. No man loved his family name andhonour, his old family blazon and standing more thoroughly than hedid; he was every whit a Gresham at heart; but his spirit had beenweaker than that of his forefathers; and, in his days, for the firsttime, the Greshams were to go to the wall! Ten years before thebeginning of our story it had been necessary to raise a large sum ofmoney to meet and pay off pressing liabilities, and it was found thatthis could be done with more material advantage by selling a portionof the property than in any other way. A portion of it, about a thirdof the whole in value, was accordingly sold. Boxall Hill lay half-way between Greshamsbury and Barchester, and wasknown as having the best partridge shooting in the county; as havingon it also a celebrated fox cover, Boxall Gorse, held in very highrepute by Barsetshire sportsmen. There was no residence on theimmediate estate, and it was altogether divided from the remainder ofthe Greshamsbury property. This, with many inward and outward groans, Mr Gresham permitted to be sold. It was sold, and sold well, by private contract to a native ofBarchester, who, having risen from the world's ranks, had made forhimself great wealth. Somewhat of this man's character must hereafterbe told; it will suffice to say that he relied for advice in moneymatters upon Dr Thorne, and that at Dr Thorne's suggestion he hadpurchased Boxall Hill, partridge-shooting and gorse cover allincluded. He had not only bought Boxall Hill, but had subsequentlylent the squire large sums of money on mortgage, in all whichtransactions the doctor had taken part. It had therefore come to passthat Mr Gresham was not unfrequently called upon to discuss his moneyaffairs with Dr Thorne, and occasionally to submit to lectures andadvice which might perhaps as well have been omitted. So much for Dr Thorne. A few words must still be said about Miss Marybefore we rush into our story; the crust will then have been broken, and the pie will be open to the guests. Little Miss Mary was kept ata farm-house till she was six; she was then sent to school at Bath, and transplanted to the doctor's newly furnished house a little morethan six years after that. It must not be supposed that he had lostsight of his charge during her earlier years. He was much too wellaware of the nature of the promise which he had made to the departingmother to do that. He had constantly visited his little niece, andlong before the first twelve years of her life were over had lost allconsciousness of his promise, and of his duty to the mother, in thestronger ties of downright personal love for the only creature thatbelonged to him. When Mary came home the doctor was like a child in his glee. Heprepared surprises for her with as much forethought and trouble asthough he were contriving mines to blow up an enemy. He took herfirst into the shop, and then into the kitchen, thence to thedining-rooms, after that to his and her bedrooms, and so on tillhe came to the full glory of the new drawing-room, enhancing thepleasure by little jokes, and telling her that he should never dareto come into the last paradise without her permission, and not thentill he had taken off his boots. Child as she was, she understood thejoke, and carried it on like a little queen; and so they soon becamethe firmest of friends. But though Mary was a queen, it was still necessary that she shouldbe educated. Those were the earlier days in which Lady Arabella hadhumbled herself, and to show her humility she invited Mary to sharethe music-lessons of Augusta and Beatrice at the great house. Amusic-master from Barchester came over three times a week, andremained for three hours, and if the doctor chose to send his girlover, she could pick up what was going on without doing any harm. So said the Lady Arabella. The doctor with many thanks and with nohesitation, accepted the offer, merely adding, that he had perhapsbetter settle separately with Signor Cantabili, the music-master. Hewas very much obliged to Lady Arabella for giving his little girlpermission to join her lessons to those of the Miss Greshams. It need hardly be said that the Lady Arabella was on fire at once. Settle with Signor Cantabili! No, indeed; she would do that; theremust be no expense whatever incurred in such an arrangement on MissThorne's account! But here, as in most things, the doctor carried hispoint. It being the time of the lady's humility, she could not makeas good a fight as she would otherwise have done; and thus shefound, to her great disgust, that Mary Thorne was learning music inher schoolroom on equal terms, as regarded payment, with her owndaughters. The arrangement having been made could not be broken, especially as the young lady in nowise made herself disagreeable; andmore especially as the Miss Greshams themselves were very fond ofher. And so Mary Thorne learnt music at Greshamsbury, and with her musicshe learnt other things also; how to behave herself among girls ofher own age; how to speak and talk as other young ladies do; how todress herself, and how to move and walk. All which, she, being quickto learn, learnt without trouble at the great house. Something alsoshe learnt of French, seeing that the Greshamsbury French governesswas always in the room. And then, some few years later, there came a rector, and a rector'ssister; and with the latter Mary studied German, and French also. From the doctor himself she learnt much; the choice, namely, ofEnglish books for her own reading, and habits of thought somewhatakin to his own, though modified by the feminine softness of herindividual mind. And so Mary Thorne grew up and was educated. Of her personalappearance it certainly is my business as an author to say something. She is my heroine, and, as such, must necessarily be very beautiful;but, in truth, her mind and inner qualities are more clearly distinctto my brain than her outward form and features. I know that she wasfar from being tall, and far from being showy; that her feet andhands were small and delicate; that her eyes were bright when lookedat, but not brilliant so as to make their brilliancy palpablyvisible to all around her; her hair was dark brown, and worn veryplainly brushed from her forehead; her lips were thin, and hermouth, perhaps, in general inexpressive, but when she was eager inconversation it would show itself to be animated with curves ofwondrous energy; and, quiet as she was in manner, sober and demure aswas her usual settled appearance, she could talk, when the fit cameon her, with an energy which in truth surprised those who did notknow her; aye, and sometimes those who did. Energy! nay, it wasoccasionally a concentration of passion, which left her for themoment perfectly unconscious of all other cares but solicitude forthat subject which she might then be advocating. All her friends, including the doctor, had at times been made unhappyby this vehemence of character; but yet it was to that very vehemencethat she owed it that all her friends so loved her. It had oncenearly banished her in early years from the Greshamsbury schoolroom;and yet it ended in making her claim to remain there so strong, thatLady Arabella could no longer oppose it, even when she had the wishto do so. A new French governess had lately come to Greshamsbury, and was, orwas to be, a great pet with Lady Arabella, having all the great giftswith which a governess can be endowed, and being also a protégéefrom the castle. The castle, in Greshamsbury parlance, always meantthat of Courcy. Soon after this a valued little locket belonging toAugusta Gresham was missing. The French governess had objected to itsbeing worn in the schoolroom, and it had been sent up to the bedroomby a young servant-girl, the daughter of a small farmer on theestate. The locket was missing, and after a while, a considerablenoise in the matter having been made, was found, by the diligence ofthe governess, somewhere among the belongings of the English servant. Great was the anger of Lady Arabella, loud were the protestationsof the girl, mute the woe of her father, piteous the tears of hermother, inexorable the judgment of the Greshamsbury world. Butsomething occurred, it matters now not what, to separate Mary Thornein opinion from that world at large. Out she then spoke, and to herface accused the governess of the robbery. For two days Mary was indisgrace almost as deep as that of the farmer's daughter. But she wasneither quiet nor dumb in her disgrace. When Lady Arabella would nothear her, she went to Mr Gresham. She forced her uncle to move in thematter. She gained over to her side, one by one, the potentates ofthe parish, and ended by bringing Mam'selle Larron down on her kneeswith a confession of the facts. From that time Mary Thorne was dearto the tenantry of Greshamsbury; and specially dear at one smallhousehold, where a rough-spoken father of a family was often heard todeclare, that for Miss Mary Thorne he'd face man or magistrate, dukeor devil. And so Mary Thorne grew up under the doctor's eye, and at thebeginning of our tale she was one of the guests assembled atGreshamsbury on the coming of age of the heir, she herself havingthen arrived at the same period of her life. CHAPTER IV Lessons from Courcy Castle It was the first of July, young Frank Gresham's birthday, and theLondon season was not yet over; nevertheless, Lady de Courcy hadmanaged to get down into the country to grace the coming of ageof the heir, bringing with her all the Ladies Amelia, Rosina, Margaretta, and Alexandrina, together with such of the HonourableJohns and Georges as could be collected for the occasion. The Lady Arabella had contrived this year to spend ten weeks in town, which, by a little stretching, she made to pass for the season; andhad managed, moreover, at last to refurnish, not ingloriously, thePortman Square drawing-room. She had gone up to London under thepretext, imperatively urged, of Augusta's teeth--young ladies' teethare not unfrequently of value in this way;--and having receivedauthority for a new carpet, which was really much wanted, had madesuch dexterous use of that sanction as to run up an upholsterer'sbill of six or seven hundred pounds. She had of course had hercarriage and horses; the girls of course had gone out; it had beenpositively necessary to have a few friends in Portman Square;and, altogether, the ten weeks had not been unpleasant, and notinexpensive. For a few confidential minutes before dinner, Lady de Courcy and hersister-in-law sat together in the latter's dressing-room, discussingthe unreasonableness of the squire, who had expressed himself withmore than ordinary bitterness as to the folly--he had probably usedsome stronger word--of these London proceedings. "Heavens!" said the countess, with much eager animation; "what canthe man expect? What does he wish you to do?" "He would like to sell the house in London, and bury us all here forever. Mind, I was there only for ten weeks. " "Barely time for the girls to get their teeth properly looked at! ButArabella, what does he say?" Lady de Courcy was very anxious to learnthe exact truth of the matter, and ascertain, if she could, whetherMr Gresham was really as poor as he pretended to be. "Why, he said yesterday that he would have no more going to town atall; that he was barely able to pay the claims made on him, and keepup the house here, and that he would not--" "Would not what?" asked the countess. "Why, he said that he would not utterly ruin poor Frank. " "Ruin Frank!" "That's what he said. " "But, surely, Arabella, it is not so bad as that? What possiblereason can there be for him to be in debt?" "He is always talking of those elections. " "But, my dear, Boxall Hill paid all that off. Of course Frank willnot have such an income as there was when you married into thefamily; we all know that. And whom will he have to thank but hisfather? But Boxall Hill paid all those debts, and why should there beany difficulty now?" "It was those nasty dogs, Rosina, " said the Lady Arabella, almost intears. "Well, I for one never approved of the hounds coming to Greshamsbury. When a man has once involved his property he should not incur anyexpenses that are not absolutely necessary. That is a golden rulewhich Mr Gresham ought to have remembered. Indeed, I put it to himnearly in those very words; but Mr Gresham never did, and never willreceive with common civility anything that comes from me. " "I know, Rosina, he never did; and yet where would he have beenbut for the de Courcys?" So exclaimed, in her gratitude, the LadyArabella; to speak the truth, however, but for the de Courcys, MrGresham might have been at this moment on the top of Boxall Hill, monarch of all he surveyed. "As I was saying, " continued the countess, "I never approved of thehounds coming to Greshamsbury; but yet, my dear, the hounds can'thave eaten up everything. A man with ten thousand a year ought to beable to keep hounds; particularly as he had a subscription. " "He says the subscription was little or nothing. " "That's nonsense, my dear. Now, Arabella, what does he do with hismoney? That's the question. Does he gamble?" "Well, " said Lady Arabella, very slowly, "I don't think he does. " Ifthe squire did gamble he must have done it very slyly, for he rarelywent away from Greshamsbury, and certainly very few men looking likegamblers were in the habit of coming thither as guests. "I don'tthink he does gamble. " Lady Arabella put her emphasis on the wordgamble, as though her husband, if he might perhaps be charitablyacquitted of that vice, was certainly guilty of every other known inthe civilised world. "I know he used, " said Lady de Courcy, looking very wise, and rathersuspicious. She certainly had sufficient domestic reasons fordisliking the propensity; "I know he used; and when a man begins, heis hardly ever cured. " "Well, if he does, I don't know it, " said the Lady Arabella. "The money, my dear, must go somewhere. What excuse does he give whenyou tell him you want this and that--all the common necessaries oflife, that you have always been used to?" "He gives no excuse; sometimes he says the family is so large. " "Nonsense! Girls cost nothing; there's only Frank, and he can't havecost anything yet. Can he be saving money to buy back Boxall Hill?" "Oh no!" said the Lady Arabella, quickly. "He is not saving anything;he never did, and never will save, though he is so stingy to me. He_is_ hard pushed for money, I know that. " "Then where has it gone?" said the Countess de Courcy, with a look ofstern decision. "Heaven only knows! Now, Augusta is to be married. I must of coursehave a few hundred pounds. You should have heard how he groaned whenI asked him for it. Heaven only knows where the money goes!" And theinjured wife wiped a piteous tear from her eye with her fine dresscambric handkerchief. "I have all the sufferings and privations ofa poor man's wife, but I have none of the consolations. He has noconfidence in me; he never tells me anything; he never talks tome about his affairs. If he talks to any one it is to that horriddoctor. " "What, Dr Thorne?" Now the Countess de Courcy hated Dr Thorne with aholy hatred. "Yes; Dr Thorne. I believe that he knows everything; and adviseseverything, too. Whatever difficulties poor Gresham may have, I dobelieve Dr Thorne has brought them about. I do believe it, Rosina. " "Well, that is surprising. Mr Gresham, with all his faults, isa gentleman; and how he can talk about his affairs with a lowapothecary like that, I, for one, cannot imagine. Lord de Courcy hasnot always been to me all that he should have been; far from it. " AndLady de Courcy thought over in her mind injuries of a much graverdescription than any that her sister-in-law had ever suffered; "but Ihave never known anything like that at Courcy Castle. Surely Umblebyknows all about it, doesn't he?" "Not half so much as the doctor, " said Lady Arabella. The countess shook her head slowly; the idea of Mr Gresham, a countrygentleman of good estate like him, making a confidant of a countrydoctor was too great a shock for her nerves; and for a while she wasconstrained to sit silent before she could recover herself. "One thing at any rate is certain, Arabella, " said the countess, as soon as she found herself again sufficiently composed to offercounsel in a properly dictatorial manner. "One thing at any rate iscertain; if Mr Gresham be involved so deeply as you say, Frank hasbut one duty before him. He must marry money. The heir of fourteenthousand a year may indulge himself in looking for blood, as MrGresham did, my dear"--it must be understood that there was verylittle compliment in this, as the Lady Arabella had always conceivedherself to be a beauty--"or for beauty, as some men do, " continuedthe countess, thinking of the choice that the present Earl de Courcyhad made; "but Frank must marry money. I hope he will understand thisearly; do make him understand this before he makes a fool of himself;when a man thoroughly understands this, when he knows what hiscircumstances require, why, the matter becomes easy to him. I hopethat Frank understands that he has no alternative. In his position hemust marry money. " But, alas! alas! Frank Gresham had already made a fool of himself. "Well, my boy, I wish you joy with all my heart, " said the HonourableJohn, slapping his cousin on the back, as he walked round to thestable-yard with him before dinner, to inspect a setter puppy ofpeculiarly fine breed which had been sent to Frank as a birthdaypresent. "I wish I were an elder son; but we can't all have thatluck. " "Who wouldn't sooner be the younger son of an earl than the eldestson of a plain squire?" said Frank, wishing to say something civil inreturn for his cousin's civility. "I wouldn't for one, " said the Honourable John. "What chance have I?There's Porlock as strong as a horse; and then George comes next. Andthe governor's good for these twenty years. " And the young man sighedas he reflected what small hope there was that all those who werenearest and dearest to him should die out of his way, and leave himto the sweet enjoyment of an earl's coronet and fortune. "Now, you'resure of your game some day; and as you've no brothers, I suppose thesquire'll let you do pretty well what you like. Besides, he's not sostrong as my governor, though he's younger. " Frank had never looked at his fortune in this light before, and wasso slow and green that he was not much delighted at the prospect nowthat it was offered to him. He had always, however, been taught tolook to his cousins, the de Courcys, as men with whom it would bevery expedient that he should be intimate; he therefore showed nooffence, but changed the conversation. "Shall you hunt with the Barsetshire this season, John? I hope youwill; I shall. " "Well, I don't know. It's very slow. It's all tillage here, or elsewoodland. I rather fancy I shall go to Leicestershire when thepartridge-shooting is over. What sort of a lot do you mean to comeout with, Frank?" Frank became a little red as he answered, "Oh, I shall have two, " hesaid; "that is, the mare I have had these two years, and the horse myfather gave me this morning. " "What! only those two? and the mare is nothing more than a pony. " "She is fifteen hands, " said Frank, offended. "Well, Frank, I certainly would not stand that, " said the HonourableJohn. "What, go out before the county with one untrained horse and apony; and you the heir to Greshamsbury!" "I'll have him so trained before November, " said Frank, "thatnothing in Barsetshire shall stop him. Peter says"--Peter wasthe Greshamsbury stud-groom--"that he tucks up his hind legsbeautifully. " "But who the deuce would think of going to work with one horse; ortwo either, if you insist on calling the old pony a huntress? I'llput you up to a trick, my lad: if you stand that you'll standanything; and if you don't mean to go in leading-strings all yourlife, now is the time to show it. There's young Baker--Harry Baker, you know--he came of age last year, and he has as pretty a string ofnags as any one would wish to set eyes on; four hunters and a hack. Now, if old Baker has four thousand a year it's every shilling he hasgot. " This was true, and Frank Gresham, who in the morning had been made sohappy by his father's present of a horse, began to feel that hardlyenough had been done for him. It was true that Mr Baker had only fourthousand a year; but it was also true that he had no other child thanHarry Baker; that he had no great establishment to keep up; that heowed a shilling to no one; and, also, that he was a great fool inencouraging a mere boy to ape all the caprices of a man of wealth. Nevertheless, for a moment, Frank Gresham did feel that, consideringhis position, he was being treated rather unworthily. "Take the matter in your own hands, Frank, " said the Honourable John, seeing the impression that he had made. "Of course the governor knowsvery well that you won't put up with such a stable as that. Lordbless you! I have heard that when he married my aunt, and that waswhen he was about your age, he had the best stud in the whole county;and then he was in Parliament before he was three-and-twenty. " "His father, you know, died when he was very young, " said Frank. "Yes; I know he had a stroke of luck that doesn't fall to everyone;but--" Young Frank's face grew dark now instead of red. When his cousinsubmitted to him the necessity of having more than two horses forhis own use he could listen to him; but when the same monitor talkedof the chance of a father's death as a stroke of luck, Frank wastoo much disgusted to be able to pretend to pass it over withindifference. What! was he thus to think of his father, whose facewas always lighted up with pleasure when his boy came near to him, and so rarely bright at any other time? Frank had watched his fatherclosely enough to be aware of this; he knew how his father delightedin him; he had had cause to guess that his father had many troubles, and that he strove hard to banish the memory of them when his son waswith him. He loved his father truly, purely, and thoroughly, liked tobe with him, and would be proud to be his confidant. Could he thenlisten quietly while his cousin spoke of the chance of his father'sdeath as a stroke of luck? "I shouldn't think it a stroke of luck, John. I should think it thegreatest misfortune in the world. " It is so difficult for a young man to enumerate sententiously aprinciple of morality, or even an expression of ordinary goodfeeling, without giving himself something of a ridiculous air, without assuming something of a mock grandeur! "Oh, of course, my dear fellow, " said the Honourable John, laughing;"that's a matter of course. We all understand that without saying it. Porlock, of course, would feel exactly the same about the governor;but if the governor were to walk, I think Porlock would consolehimself with the thirty thousand a year. " "I don't know what Porlock would do; he's always quarrelling with myuncle, I know. I only spoke of myself; I never quarrelled with myfather, and I hope I never shall. " "All right, my lad of wax, all right. I dare say you won't be tried;but if you are, you'll find before six months are over, that it's avery nice thing to master of Greshamsbury. " "I'm sure I shouldn't find anything of the kind. " "Very well, so be it. You wouldn't do as young Hatherly did, atHatherly Court, in Gloucestershire, when his father kicked thebucket. You know Hatherly, don't you?" "No; I never saw him. " "He's Sir Frederick now, and has, or had, one of the finest fortunesin England, for a commoner; the most of it is gone now. Well, when heheard of his governor's death, he was in Paris, but he went off toHatherly as fast as special train and post-horses would carry him, and got there just in time for the funeral. As he came back toHatherly Court from the church, they were putting up the hatchmentover the door, and Master Fred saw that the undertakers had put atthe bottom 'Resurgam. ' You know what that means?" "Oh, yes, " said Frank. "'I'll come back again, '" said the Honourable John, construing theLatin for the benefit of his cousin. "'No, ' said Fred Hatherly, looking up at the hatchment; 'I'm blessed if you do, old gentleman. That would be too much of a joke; I'll take care of that. ' So hegot up at night, and he got some fellows with him, and they climbedup and painted out 'Resurgam, ' and they painted into its place, 'Requiescat in pace;' which means, you know, 'you'd a great dealbetter stay where you are. ' Now I call that good. Fred Hatherly didthat as sure as--as sure as--as sure as anything. " Frank could not help laughing at the story, especially at hiscousin's mode of translating the undertaker's mottoes; and then theysauntered back from the stables into the house to dress for dinner. Dr Thorne had come to the house somewhat before dinner-time, at MrGresham's request, and was now sitting with the squire in his ownbook-room--so called--while Mary was talking to some of the girlsupstairs. "I must have ten or twelve thousand pounds; ten at the very least, "said the squire, who was sitting in his usual arm-chair, close to hislittered table, with his head supported on his hand, looking veryunlike the father of an heir of a noble property, who had that daycome of age. It was the first of July, and of course there was no fire in thegrate; but, nevertheless, the doctor was standing with his back tothe fireplace, with his coat-tails over his arms, as though he wereengaged, now in summer as he so often was in winter, in talking, androasting his hinder person at the same time. "Twelve thousand pounds! It's a very large sum of money. " "I said ten, " said the squire. "Ten thousand pounds is a very large sum of money. There is no doubthe'll let you have it. Scatcherd will let you have it; but I knowhe'll expect to have the title deeds. " "What! for ten thousand pounds?" said the squire. "There is not aregistered debt against the property but his own and Armstrong's. " "But his own is very large already. " "Armstrong's is nothing; about four-and-twenty thousand pounds. " "Yes; but he comes first, Mr Gresham. " "Well, what of that? To hear you talk, one would think that there wasnothing left of Greshamsbury. What's four-and-twenty thousand pounds?Does Scatcherd know what rent-roll is?" "Oh, yes, he knows it well enough: I wish he did not. " "Well, then, why does he make such a bother about a few thousandpounds? The title-deeds, indeed!" "What he means is, that he must have ample security to cover what hehas already advanced before he goes on. I wish to goodness you hadno further need to borrow. I did think that things were settled lastyear. " "Oh if there's any difficulty, Umbleby will get it for me. " "Yes; and what will you have to pay for it?" "I'd sooner pay double than be talked to in this way, " said thesquire, angrily, and, as he spoke, he got up hurriedly from hischair, thrust his hands into his trousers-pockets, walked quickly tothe window, and immediately walking back again, threw himself oncemore into his chair. "There are some things a man cannot bear, doctor, " said he, beatingthe devil's tattoo on the floor with one of his feet, "though Godknows I ought to be patient now, for I am made to bear a good manythings. You had better tell Scatcherd that I am obliged to him forhis offer, but that I will not trouble him. " The doctor during this little outburst had stood quite silent withhis back to the fireplace and his coat-tails hanging over his arms;but though his voice said nothing, his face said much. He was veryunhappy; he was greatly grieved to find that the squire was so soonagain in want of money, and greatly grieved also to find that thiswant had made him so bitter and unjust. Mr Gresham had attacked him;but as he was determined not to quarrel with Mr Gresham, he refrainedfrom answering. The squire also remained silent for a few minutes; but he was notendowed with the gift of silence, and was soon, as it were, compelledto speak again. "Poor Frank!" said he. "I could yet be easy about everything if itwere not for the injury I have done him. Poor Frank!" The doctor advanced a few paces from off the rug, and taking his handout of his pocket, he laid it gently on the squire's shoulder. "Frankwill do very well yet, " said the he. "It is not absolutely necessarythat a man should have fourteen thousand pounds a year to be happy. " "My father left me the property entire, and I should leave it entireto my son;--but you don't understand this. " The doctor did understand the feeling fully. The fact, on the otherhand, was that, long as he had known him, the squire did notunderstand the doctor. "I would you could, Mr Gresham, " said the doctor, "so that your mindmight be happier; but that cannot be, and, therefore, I say again, that Frank will do very well yet, although he will not inheritfourteen thousand pounds a year; and I would have you say the samething to yourself. " "Ah! you don't understand it, " persisted the squire. "You don't knowhow a man feels when he--Ah, well! it's no use my troubling you withwhat cannot be mended. I wonder whether Umbleby is about the placeanywhere?" The doctor was again standing with his back against thechimney-piece, and with his hands in his pockets. "You did not see Umbleby as you came in?" again asked the squire. "No, I did not; and if you will take my advice you will not see himnow; at any rate with reference to this money. " "I tell you I must get it from someone; you say Scatcherd won't letme have it. " "No, Mr Gresham; I did not say that. " "Well, you said what was as bad. Augusta is to be married inSeptember, and the money must be had. I have agreed to give Moffatsix thousand pounds, and he is to have the money down in hard cash. " "Six thousand pounds, " said the doctor. "Well, I suppose that is notmore than your daughter should have. But then, five times six arethirty; thirty thousand pounds will be a large sum to make up. " The father thought to himself that his younger girls were butchildren, and that the trouble of arranging their marriage portionsmight well be postponed a while. Sufficient for the day is the evilthereof. "That Moffat is a griping, hungry fellow, " said the squire. "Isuppose Augusta likes him; and, as regards money, it is a goodmatch. " "If Miss Gresham loves him, that is everything. I am not in love withhim myself; but then, I am not a young lady. " "The de Courcys are very fond of him. Lady de Courcy says that he isa perfect gentleman, and thought very much of in London. " "Oh! if Lady de Courcy says that, of course, it's all right, " saidthe doctor, with a quiet sarcasm, that was altogether thrown away onthe squire. The squire did not like any of the de Courcys; especially, he did notlike Lady de Courcy; but still he was accessible to a certain amountof gratification in the near connexion which he had with the earl andcountess; and when he wanted to support his family greatness, wouldsometimes weakly fall back upon the grandeur of Courcy Castle. Itwas only when talking to his wife that he invariably snubbed thepretensions of his noble relatives. The two men after this remained silent for a while; and then thedoctor, renewing the subject for which he had been summoned into thebook-room, remarked, that as Scatcherd was now in the country--hedid not say, was now at Boxall Hill, as he did not wish to wound thesquire's ears--perhaps he had better go and see him, and ascertainin what way this affair of the money might be arranged. There wasno doubt, he said, that Scatcherd would supply the sum required ata lower rate of interest than that at which it could be procuredthrough Umbleby's means. "Very well, " said the squire. "I'll leave it in your hands, then. Ithink ten thousand pounds will do. And now I'll dress for dinner. "And then the doctor left him. Perhaps the reader will suppose after this that the doctor had somepecuniary interest of his own in arranging the squire's loans; or, atany rate, he will think that the squire must have so thought. Not inthe least; neither had he any such interest, nor did the squire thinkthat he had any. What Dr Thorne did in this matter the squire wellknew was done for love. But the squire of Greshamsbury was a greatman at Greshamsbury; and it behoved him to maintain the greatness ofhis squirehood when discussing his affairs with the village doctor. So much he had at any rate learnt from his contact with the deCourcys. And the doctor--proud, arrogant, contradictory, headstrong as hewas--why did he bear to be thus snubbed? Because he knew that thesquire of Greshamsbury, when struggling with debt and poverty, required an indulgence for his weakness. Had Mr Gresham been in easycircumstances, the doctor would by no means have stood so placidlywith his hands in his pockets, and have had Mr Umbleby thus thrown inhis teeth. The doctor loved the squire, loved him as his own oldestfriend; but he loved him ten times better as being in adversity thanhe could ever have done had things gone well at Greshamsbury in histime. While this was going on downstairs, Mary was sitting upstairs withBeatrice Gresham in the schoolroom. The old schoolroom, so called, was now a sitting-room, devoted to the use of the grown-up youngladies of the family, whereas one of the old nurseries was now themodern schoolroom. Mary well knew her way to the sanctum, and, without asking any questions, walked up to it when her uncle went tothe squire. On entering the room she found that Augusta and the LadyAlexandrina were also there, and she hesitated for a moment at thedoor. "Come in, Mary, " said Beatrice, "you know my cousin Alexandrina. "Mary came in, and having shaken hands with her two friends, wasbowing to the lady, when the lady condescended, put out her noblehand, and touched Miss Thorne's fingers. Beatrice was Mary's friend, and many heart-burnings and much mentalsolicitude did that young lady give to her mother by indulging insuch a friendship. But Beatrice, with some faults, was true at heart, and she persisted in loving Mary Thorne in spite of the hints whichher mother so frequently gave as to the impropriety of such anaffection. Nor had Augusta any objection to the society of Miss Thorne. Augustawas a strong-minded girl, with much of the de Courcy arrogance, butquite as well inclined to show it in opposition to her mother as inany other form. To her alone in the house did Lady Arabella show muchdeference. She was now going to make a suitable match with a man oflarge fortune, who had been procured for her as an eligible _parti_by her aunt, the countess. She did not pretend, had never pretended, that she loved Mr Moffat, but she knew, she said, that in the presentstate of her father's affairs such a match was expedient. Mr Moffatwas a young man of very large fortune, in Parliament, inclined tobusiness, and in every way recommendable. He was not a man of birth, to be sure; that was to be lamented;--in confessing that Mr Moffatwas not a man of birth, Augusta did not go so far as to admit that hewas the son of a tailor; such, however, was the rigid truth in thismatter--he was not a man of birth, that was to be lamented; but inthe present state of affairs at Greshamsbury, she understood wellthat it was her duty to postpone her own feelings in some respect. MrMoffat would bring fortune; she would bring blood and connexion. Andas she so said, her bosom glowed with strong pride to think that shewould be able to contribute so much more towards the proposed futurepartnership than her husband would do. 'Twas thus that Miss Gresham spoke of her match to her dear friends, her cousins the de Courcys for instance, to Miss Oriel, her sisterBeatrice, and even to Mary Thorne. She had no enthusiasm, sheadmitted, but she thought she had good judgment. She thought shehad shown good judgment in accepting Mr Moffat's offer, though shedid not pretend to any romance of affection. And, having so said, she went to work with considerable mental satisfaction, choosingfurniture, carriages, and clothes, not extravagantly as her motherwould have done, not in deference to sterner dictates of the latestfashion as her aunt would have done, with none of the girlish gleein new purchases which Beatrice would have felt, but with soundjudgment. She bought things that were rich, for her husband was to berich, and she meant to avail herself of his wealth; she bought thingsthat were fashionable, for she meant to live in the fashionableworld; but she bought what was good, and strong, and lasting, andworth its money. Augusta Gresham had perceived early in life that she could not obtainsuccess either as an heiress, or as a beauty, nor could she shineas a wit; she therefore fell back on such qualities as she had, anddetermined to win the world as a strong-minded, useful woman. Thatwhich she had of her own was blood; having that, she would in allways do what in her lay to enhance its value. Had she not possessedit, it would to her mind have been the vainest of pretences. When Mary came in, the wedding preparations were being discussed. Thenumber and names of the bridesmaids were being settled, the dresseswere on the tapis, the invitations to be given were talked over. Sensible as Augusta was, she was not above such feminine cares; shewas, indeed, rather anxious that the wedding should go off well. Shewas a little ashamed of her tailor's son, and therefore anxious thatthings should be as brilliant as possible. The bridesmaid's names had just been written on a card as Maryentered the room. There were the Ladies Amelia, Rosina, Margaretta, and Alexandrina of course at the head of it; then came Beatrice andthe twins; then Miss Oriel, who, though only a parson's sister, wasa person of note, birth, and fortune. After this there had been herea great discussion whether or not there should be any more. If therewere to be one more there must be two. Now Miss Moffat had expresseda direct wish, and Augusta, though she would much rather have donewithout her, hardly knew how to refuse. Alexandrina--we hope wemay be allowed to drop the "lady" for the sake of brevity, for thepresent scene only--was dead against such an unreasonable request. "We none of us know her, you know; and it would not be comfortable. "Beatrice strongly advocated the future sister-in-law's acceptanceinto the bevy; she had her own reasons; she was pained that MaryThorne should not be among the number, and if Miss Moffat wereaccepted, perhaps Mary might be brought in as her colleague. "If you have Miss Moffat, " said Alexandrina, "you must have dearPussy too; and I really think that Pussy is too young; it will betroublesome. " Pussy was the youngest Miss Gresham, who was now onlyeight years old, and whose real name was Nina. "Augusta, " said Beatrice, speaking with some slight hesitation, somesoupçon of doubt, before the high authority of her noble cousin, "ifyou do have Miss Moffat would you mind asking Mary Thorne to joinher? I think Mary would like it, because, you see, Patience Orielis to be one; and we have known Mary much longer than we have knownPatience. " Then out and spake the Lady Alexandrina. "Beatrice, dear, if you think of what you are asking, I am sure youwill see that it would not do; would not do at all. Miss Thorne is avery nice girl, I am sure; and, indeed, what little I have seen ofher I highly approve. But, after all, who is she? Mamma, I know, thinks that Aunt Arabella has been wrong to let her be here so much, but--" Beatrice became rather red in the face, and, in spite of the dignityof her cousin, was preparing to defend her friend. "Mind, I am not saying a word against Miss Thorne. " "If I am married before her, she shall be one of my bridesmaids, "said Beatrice. "That will probably depend on circumstances, " said the LadyAlexandrina; I find that I cannot bring my courteous pen to drop thetitle. "But Augusta is very peculiarly situated. Mr Moffat is, yousee, not of the very highest birth; and, therefore, she should takecare that on her side every one about her is well born. " "Then you cannot have Miss Moffat, " said Beatrice. "No; I would not if I could help it, " said the cousin. "But the Thornes are as good a family as the Greshams, " saidBeatrice. She had not quite the courage to say, as good as the deCourcys. "I dare say they are; and if this was Miss Thorne of Ullathorne, Augusta probably would not object to her. But can you tell me whoMiss Mary Thorne is?" "She is Dr Thorne's niece. " "You mean that she is called so; but do you know who her fatherwas, or who her mother was? I, for one, must own I do not. Mamma, Ibelieve, does, but--" At this moment the door opened gently and Mary Thorne entered theroom. It may easily be conceived, that while Mary was making hersalutations the three other young ladies were a little cast aback. The Lady Alexandrina, however, quickly recovered herself, and, by herinimitable presence of mind and facile grace of manner, soon put thematter on a proper footing. "We were discussing Miss Gresham's marriage, " said she; "I am sure Imay mention to an acquaintance of so long standing as Miss Thorne, that the first of September has been now fixed for the wedding. " Miss Gresham! Acquaintance of so long standing! Why, Mary and AugustaGresham had for years, we will hardly say now for how many, passedtheir mornings together in the same schoolroom; had quarrelled, andsquabbled, and caressed and kissed, and been all but as sisters toeach other. Acquaintance indeed! Beatrice felt that her ears weretingling, and even Augusta was a little ashamed. Mary, however, knew that the cold words had come from a de Courcy, and not from aGresham, and did not, therefore, resent them. "So it's settled, Augusta, is it?" said she; "the first of September. I wish you joy with all my heart, " and, coming round, she put her armover Augusta's shoulder and kissed her. The Lady Alexandrina couldnot but think that the doctor's niece uttered her congratulationsvery much as though she were speaking to an equal; very much asthough she had a father and mother of her own. "You will have delicious weather, " continued Mary. "September, andthe beginning of October, is the nicest time of the year. If I weregoing honeymooning it is just the time of year I would choose. " "I wish you were, Mary, " said Beatrice. "So do not I, dear, till I have found some decent sort of a body tohoneymoon along with me. I won't stir out of Greshamsbury till I havesent you off before me, at any rate. And where will you go, Augusta?" "We have not settled that, " said Augusta. "Mr Moffat talks of Paris. " "Who ever heard of going to Paris in September?" said the LadyAlexandrina. "Or who ever heard of the gentleman having anything to say on thematter?" said the doctor's niece. "Of course Mr Moffat will gowherever you are pleased to take him. " The Lady Alexandrina was not pleased to find how completely thedoctor's niece took upon herself to talk, and sit, and act atGreshamsbury as though she was on a par with the young ladies ofthe family. That Beatrice should have allowed this would not havesurprised her; but it was to be expected that Augusta would haveshown better judgment. "These things require some tact in their management; some delicacywhen high interests are at stake, " said she; "I agree with MissThorne in thinking that, in ordinary circumstances, with ordinarypeople, perhaps, the lady should have her way. Rank, however, has itsdrawbacks, Miss Thorne, as well as its privileges. " "I should not object to the drawbacks, " said the doctor's niece, "presuming them to be of some use; but I fear I might fail in gettingon so well with the privileges. " The Lady Alexandrina looked at her as though not fully aware whethershe intended to be pert. In truth, the Lady Alexandrina was rather inthe dark on the subject. It was almost impossible, it was incredible, that a fatherless, motherless, doctor's niece should be pert to anearl's daughter at Greshamsbury, seeing that that earl's daughter wasthe cousin of the Miss Greshams. And yet the Lady Alexandrina hardlyknew what other construction to put on the words she had just heard. It was at any rate clear to her that it was not becoming that sheshould just then stay any longer in that room. Whether she intendedto be pert or not, Miss Mary Thorne was, to say the least, very free. The de Courcy ladies knew what was due to them--no ladies better;and, therefore, the Lady Alexandrina made up her mind at once to goto her own bedroom. "Augusta, " she said, rising slowly from her chair with much statelycomposure, "it is nearly time to dress; will you come with me? Wehave a great deal to settle, you know. " So she swam out of the room, and Augusta, telling Mary that she wouldsee her again at dinner, swam--no, tried to swim--after her. MissGresham had had great advantages; but she had not been absolutelybrought up at Courcy Castle, and could not as yet quite assume theCourcy style of swimming. "There, " said Mary, as the door closed behind the rustling muslinsof the ladies. "There, I have made an enemy for ever, perhaps two;that's satisfactory. " "And why have you done it, Mary? When I am fighting your battlesbehind your back, why do you come and upset it all by making thewhole family of the de Courcys dislike you? In such a matter as that, they'll all go together. " "I am sure they will, " said Mary; "whether they would be equallyunanimous in a case of love and charity, that, indeed, is anotherquestion. " "But why should you try to make my cousin angry; you that ought tohave so much sense? Don't you remember what you were saying yourselfthe other day, of the absurdity of combatting pretences which theworld sanctions?" "I do, Trichy, I do; don't scold me now. It is so much easier topreach than to practise. I do so wish I was a clergyman. " "But you have done so much harm, Mary. " "Have I?" said Mary, kneeling down on the ground at her friend'sfeet. "If I humble myself very low; if I kneel through the wholeevening in a corner; if I put my neck down and let all your cousinstrample on it, and then your aunt, would not that make atonement? Iwould not object to wearing sackcloth, either; and I'd eat a littleashes--or, at any rate, I'd try. " "I know you're clever, Mary; but still I think you're a fool. I do, indeed. " "I am a fool, Trichy, I do confess it; and am not a bit clever; butdon't scold me; you see how humble I am; not only humble but umble, which I look upon to be the comparative, or, indeed, superlativedegree. Or perhaps there are four degrees; humble, umble, stumble, tumble; and then, when one is absolutely in the dirt at their feet, perhaps these big people won't wish one to stoop any further. " "Oh, Mary!" "And, oh, Trichy! you don't mean to say I mayn't speak out beforeyou. There, perhaps you'd like to put your foot on my neck. " And thenshe 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 agood 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 toarrange something. " "Arrange something! What? arrange what? I love arranging. I fancymyself qualified to be an arranger-general in female matters. Imean pots and pans, and such like. Of course I don't allude toextraordinary people and extraordinary circumstances that requiretact, 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 yournoble relatives either in joke or in earnest. What is it you want toarrange, Trichy?" "I want you to be one of Augusta's bridesmaids. " "Good heavens, Beatrice! Are you mad? What! Put me, even for amorning, into the same category of finery as the noble blood fromCourcy Castle!" "Patience is to be one. " "But that is no reason why Impatience should be another, and I shouldbe very impatient under such honours. No, Trichy; joking apart, donot think of it. Even if Augusta wished it I should refuse. I shouldbe obliged to refuse. I, too, suffer from pride; a pride quite asunpardonable as that of others: I could not stand with your fourlady-cousins behind your sister at the altar. In such a galaxy theywould be the stars and I--" "Why, Mary, all the world knows that you are prettier than any ofthem!" "I am all the world's very humble servant. But, Trichy, I shouldnot object if I were as ugly as the veiled prophet and they all asbeautiful as Zuleika. The glory of that galaxy will be held to dependnot on its beauty, but on its birth. You know how they would look atme; how they would scorn me; and there, in church, at the altar, withall that is solemn round us, I could not return their scorn as Imight do elsewhere. In a room I'm not a bit afraid of them all. " AndMary was again allowing herself to be absorbed by that feeling ofindomitable pride, of antagonism to the pride of others, which sheherself in her cooler moments was the first to blame. "You often say, Mary, that that sort of arrogance should be despisedand passed over without notice. " "So it should, Trichy. I tell you that as a clergyman tells you tohate riches. But though the clergyman tells you so, he is not theless 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 hasnot been, and will not be, offered to me. No, Trichy. I will not beAugusta's bridesmaid, but--but--but--" "But what, dearest?" "But, Trichy, when some one else is married, when the new wing hasbeen 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 thatwedding does take place, then I will be a bridesmaid, Trichy. Yes!even though I am not invited. Yes! though all the de Courcys inBarsetshire should tread upon me and obliterate me. Though I shouldbe as dust among the stars, though I should creep up in calico amongtheir satins and lace, I will nevertheless be there; close, close tothe bride; to hold something for her, to touch her dress, to feelthat I am near to her, to--to--to--" and she threw her arms round hercompanion, and kissed her over and over again. "No, Trichy; I won'tbe Augusta's bridesmaid; I'll bide my time for bridesmaiding. " What protestations Beatrice made against the probability of such anevent as foreshadowed in her friend's promise we will not repeat. Theafternoon was advancing, and the ladies also had to dress for dinner, to do honour to the young heir. CHAPTER V Frank Gresham's First Speech We have said, that over and above those assembled in the house, therecame to the Greshamsbury dinner on Frank's birthday the Jacksonsof the Grange, consisting of Mr and Mrs Jackson; the Batesons fromAnnesgrove, viz. , Mr and Mrs Bateson, and Miss Bateson, theirdaughter--an unmarried lady of about fifty; the Bakers of Mill Hill, father and son; and Mr Caleb Oriel, the rector, with his beautifulsister, Patience. Dr Thorne, and his niece Mary, we count among thosealready assembled at Greshamsbury. There was nothing very magnificent in the number of the guests thusbrought together to do honour to young Frank; but he, perhaps, wascalled on to take a more prominent part in the proceedings, to bemade more of a hero than would have been the case had half the countybeen there. In that case the importance of the guests would have beenso great that Frank would have got off with a half-muttered speech ortwo; but now he had to make a separate oration to every one, and veryweary work he found it. The Batesons, Bakers, and Jacksons were very civil; no doubt the moreso from an unconscious feeling on their part, that as the squire wasknown to be a little out at elbows as regards money, any deficiencyon their part might be considered as owing to the present stateof affairs at Greshamsbury. Fourteen thousand a year will receivehonour; in that case there is no doubt, and the man absolutelypossessing it is not apt to be suspicious as to the treatment he mayreceive; but the ghost of fourteen thousand a year is not always soself-assured. Mr Baker, with his moderate income, was a very muchricher man than the squire; and, therefore, he was peculiarly forwardin congratulating Frank on the brilliancy of his prospects. Poor Frank had hardly anticipated what there would be to do, andbefore dinner was announced he was very tired of it. He had no warmerfeeling for any of the grand cousins than a very ordinary cousinlylove; and he had resolved, forgetful of birth and blood, and allthose gigantic considerations which, now that manhood had come uponhim, he was bound always to bear in mind, --he had resolved to sneakout to dinner comfortably with Mary Thorne if possible; and if notwith Mary, then with his other love, Patience Oriel. Great, therefore, was his consternation at finding that, after beingkept continually in the foreground for half an hour before dinner, hehad to walk out to the dining-room with his aunt the countess, andtake his father's place for the day at the bottom of the table. "It will now depend altogether upon yourself, Frank, whether youmaintain or lose that high position in the county which has been heldby the Greshams for so many years, " said the countess, as she walkedthrough the spacious hall, resolving to lose no time in teachingto her nephew that great lesson which it was so imperative that heshould learn. Frank took this as an ordinary lecture, meant to inculcate generalgood conduct, such as old bores of aunts are apt to inflict onyouthful victims in the shape of nephews and nieces. "Yes, " said Frank; "I suppose so; and I mean to go along all square, aunt, and no mistake. When I get back to Cambridge, I'll read likebricks. " His aunt did not care two straws about his reading. It was not byreading that the Greshams of Greshamsbury had held their heads up inthe county, but by having high blood and plenty of money. The bloodhad come naturally to this young man; but it behoved him to look forthe money in a great measure himself. She, Lady de Courcy, coulddoubtless help him; she might probably be able to fit him with a wifewho would bring her money onto his birth. His reading was a matter inwhich she could in no way assist him; whether his taste might leadhim to prefer books or pictures, or dogs and horses, or turnips indrills, or old Italian plates and dishes, was a matter which did notmuch signify; with which it was not at all necessary that his nobleaunt should trouble herself. "Oh! you are going to Cambridge again, are you? Well, if your fatherwishes it;--though very little is ever gained now by a universityconnexion. " "I am to take my degree in October, aunt; and I am determined, at anyrate, that I won't be plucked. " "Plucked!" "No; I won't be plucked. Baker was plucked last year, and all becausehe got into the wrong set at John's. He's an excellent fellow if youknew him. He got among a set of men who did nothing but smoke anddrink beer. Malthusians, we call them. " "Malthusians!" "'Malt, ' you know, aunt, and 'use;' meaning that they drink beer. Sopoor Harry Baker got plucked. I don't know that a fellow's any theworse; however, I won't get plucked. " By this time the party had taken their place round the long board, Mr Gresham sitting at the top, in the place usually occupied by LadyArabella. She, on the present occasion, sat next to her son on theone side, as the countess did on the other. If, therefore, Frank nowwent astray, it would not be from want of proper leading. "Aunt, will you have some beef?" said he, as soon as the soupand fish had been disposed of, anxious to perform the rites ofhospitality now for the first time committed to his charge. "Do not be in a hurry, Frank, " said his mother; "the servants will--" "Oh! ah! I forgot; there are cutlets and those sort of things. Myhand is not in yet for this work, aunt. Well, as I was saying aboutCambridge--" "Is Frank to go back to Cambridge, Arabella?" said the countess toher sister-in-law, speaking across her nephew. "So his father seems to say. " "Is it not a waste of time?" asked the countess. "You know I never interfere, " said the Lady Arabella; "I never likedthe idea of Cambridge myself at all. All the de Courcys were ChristChurch men; but the Greshams, it seems, were always at Cambridge. " "Would it not be better to send him abroad at once?" "Much better, I would think, " said the Lady Arabella; "but you know, I never interfere: perhaps you would speak to Mr Gresham. " The countess smiled grimly, and shook her head with a decidedlynegative shake. Had she said out loud to the young man, "Your fatheris such an obstinate, pig-headed, ignorant fool, that it is no usespeaking to him; it would be wasting fragrance on the desert air, "she could not have spoken more plainly. The effect on Frank was this:that he said to himself, speaking quite as plainly as Lady de Courcyhad spoken by her shake of the face, "My mother and aunt are alwaysdown on the governor, always; but the more they are down on him themore I'll stick to him. I certainly will take my degree: I will readlike bricks; and I'll begin to-morrow. " "Now will you take some beef, aunt?" This was said out loud. The Countess de Courcy was very anxious to go on with her lessonwithout loss of time; but she could not, while surrounded by guestsand servants, enunciate the great secret: "You must marry money, Frank; that is your one great duty; that is the matter to be bornesteadfastly in your mind. " She could not now, with sufficient weightand impress of emphasis, pour this wisdom into his ears; the moreespecially as he was standing up to his work of carving, and was deepto his elbows in horse-radish, fat, and gravy. So the countess satsilent while the banquet proceeded. "Beef, Harry?" shouted the young heir to his friend Baker. "Oh! but Isee it isn't your turn yet. I beg your pardon, Miss Bateson, " and hesent to that lady a pound and a half of excellent meat, cut out withgreat energy in one slice, about half an inch thick. And so the banquet went on. Before dinner Frank had found himself obliged to make numerous smallspeeches in answer to the numerous individual congratulations of hisfriends; but these were as nothing to the one great accumulated onusof an oration which he had long known that he should have to sustainafter the cloth was taken away. Someone of course would propose hishealth, and then there would be a clatter of voices, ladies andgentlemen, men and girls; and when that was done he would findhimself standing on his legs, with the room about him, going roundand round and round. Having had a previous hint of this, he had sought advice from hiscousin, the Honourable George, whom he regarded as a dab at speaking;at least, so he had heard the Honourable George say of himself. "What the deuce is a fellow to say, George, when he stands up afterthe clatter is done?" "Oh, it's the easiest thing in life, " said the cousin. "Only rememberthis: you mustn't get astray; that is what they call presence ofmind, you know. I'll tell you what I do, and I'm often called up, youknow; at our agriculturals I always propose the farmers' daughters:well, what I do is this--I keep my eye steadfastly fixed on one ofthe bottles, and never move it. " "On one of the bottles!" said Frank; "wouldn't it be better if I madea mark of some old covey's head? I don't like looking at the table. " "The old covey'd move, and then you'd be done; besides there isn'tthe least use in the world in looking up. I've heard people say, whogo to those sort of dinners every day of their lives, that wheneveranything witty is said; the fellow who says it is sure to be lookingat the mahogany. " "Oh, you know I shan't say anything witty; I'll be quite the otherway. " "But there's no reason you shouldn't learn the manner. That's the wayI succeeded. Fix your eye on one of the bottles; put your thumbs inyour waist-coat pockets; stick out your elbows, bend your knees alittle, and then go ahead. " "Oh, ah! go ahead; that's all very well; but you can't go ahead ifyou haven't got any steam. " "A very little does it. There can be nothing so easy as your speech. When one has to say something new every year about the farmers'daughters, why one has to use one's brains a bit. Let's see: how willyou begin? Of course, you'll say that you are not accustomed to thissort of thing; that the honour conferred upon you is too much foryour feelings; that the bright array of beauty and talent aroundyou quite overpowers your tongue, and all that sort of thing. Thendeclare you're a Gresham to the backbone. " "Oh, they know that. " "Well, tell them again. Then of course you must say something aboutus; or you'll have the countess as black as old Nick. " "Abut my aunt, George? What on earth can I say about her when she'sthere herself before me?" "Before you! of course; that's just the reason. Oh, say any lie youcan think of; you must say something about us. You know we've comedown from London on purpose. " Frank, in spite of the benefit he was receiving from his cousin'serudition, could not help wishing in his heart that they had allremained in London; but this he kept to himself. He thanked hiscousin for his hints, and though he did not feel that the troubleof his mind was completely cured, he began to hope that he might gothrough the ordeal without disgracing himself. Nevertheless, he felt rather sick at heart when Mr Baker got up topropose the toast as soon as the servants were gone. The servants, that is, were gone officially; but they were there in a body, menand women, nurses, cooks, and ladies' maids, coachmen, grooms, andfootmen, standing in two doorways to hear what Master Frank wouldsay. The old housekeeper headed the maids at one door, standingboldly inside the room; and the butler controlled the men at theother, marshalling them back with a drawn corkscrew. Mr Baker did not say much; but what he did say, he said well. Theyhad all seen Frank Gresham grow up from a child; and were nowrequired to welcome as a man amongst them one who was well qualifiedto carry on the honour of that loved and respected family. Hisyoung friend, Frank, was every inch a Gresham. Mr Baker omitted tomake mention of the infusion of de Courcy blood, and the countess, therefore, drew herself up on her chair and looked as though she wereextremely bored. He then alluded tenderly to his own long friendshipwith the present squire, Francis Newbold Gresham the elder; and satdown, begging them to drink health, prosperity, long life, and anexcellent wife to their dear young friend, Francis Newbold Greshamthe younger. There was a great jingling of glasses, of course; made the merrierand the louder by the fact that the ladies were still there aswell as the gentlemen. Ladies don't drink toasts frequently; and, therefore, the occasion coming rarely was the more enjoyed. "Godbless you, Frank!" "Your good health, Frank!" "And especially agood wife, Frank!" "Two or three of them, Frank!" "Good health andprosperity to you, Mr Gresham!" "More power to you, Frank, my boy!""May God bless you and preserve you, my dear boy!" and then a merry, sweet, eager voice from the far end of the table, "Frank! Frank! Dolook at me, pray do Frank; I am drinking your health in real wine;ain't I, papa?" Such were the addresses which greeted Mr FrancisNewbold Gresham the younger as he essayed to rise up on his feet forthe first time since he had come to man's estate. When the clatter was at an end, and he was fairly on his legs, hecast a glance before him on the table, to look for a decanter. Hehad not much liked his cousin's theory of sticking to the bottle;nevertheless, in the difficulty of the moment, it was well to haveany system to go by. But, as misfortune would have it, though thetable was covered with bottles, his eye could not catch one. Indeed, his eye first could catch nothing, for the things swam before him, and the guests all seemed to dance in their chairs. Up he got, however, and commenced his speech. As he could not followhis preceptor's advice as touching the bottle, he adopted his owncrude plan of "making a mark on some old covey's head, " and thereforelooked dead at the doctor. "Upon my word, I am very much obliged to you, gentlemen and ladies, ladies and gentlemen, I should say, for drinking my health, anddoing me so much honour, and all that sort of thing. Upon my word Iam. Especially to Mr Baker. I don't mean you, Harry, you're not MrBaker. " "As much as you're Mr Gresham, Master Frank. " "But I am not Mr Gresham; and I don't mean to be for many a long yearif I can help it; not at any rate till we have had another coming ofage here. " "Bravo, Frank; and whose will that be?" "That will be my son, and a very fine lad he will be; and I hopehe'll make a better speech than his father. Mr Baker said I was everyinch a Gresham. Well, I hope I am. " Here the countess began to lookcold and angry. "I hope the day will never come when my father won'town me for one. " "There's no fear, no fear, " said the doctor, who was almost put outof countenance by the orator's intense gaze. The countess lookedcolder and more angry, and muttered something to herself about abear-garden. "Gardez Gresham; eh? Harry! mind that when you're sticking in a gapand I'm coming after you. Well, I am sure I am very obliged to youfor the honour you have all done me, especially the ladies, who don'tdo this sort of thing on ordinary occasions. I wish they did; don'tyou, doctor? And talking of the ladies, my aunt and cousins have comeall the way from London to hear me make this speech, which certainlyis not worth the trouble; but, all the same I am very much obligedto them. " And he looked round and made a little bow at the countess. "And so I am to Mr and Mrs Jackson, and Mr and Mrs and Miss Bateson, and Mr Baker--I'm not at all obliged to you, Harry--and to Mr Orieland Miss Oriel, and to Mr Umbleby, and to Dr Thorne, and to Mary--Ibeg her pardon, I mean Miss Thorne. " And then he sat down, amid theloud plaudits of the company, and a string of blessings which camefrom the servants behind him. After this the ladies rose and departed. As she went, Lady Arabella, kissed her son's forehead, and then his sisters kissed him, and oneor two of his lady-cousins; and then Miss Bateson shook him by thehand. "Oh, Miss Bateson, " said he, "I thought the kissing was to goall round. " So Miss Bateson laughed and went her way; and PatienceOriel nodded at him, but Mary Thorne, as she quietly left the room, almost hidden among the extensive draperies of the grander ladies, hardly allowed her eyes to meet his. He got up to hold the door for them as they passed; and as they went, he managed to take Patience by the hand; he took her hand and pressedit for a moment, but dropped it quickly, in order that he might gothrough the same ceremony with Mary, but Mary was too quick for him. "Frank, " said Mr Gresham, as soon as the door was closed, "bringyour glass here, my boy;" and the father made room for his son closebeside himself. "The ceremony is now over, so you may have your placeof dignity. " Frank sat himself down where he was told, and Mr Greshamput his hand on his son's shoulder and half caressed him, while thetears stood in his eyes. "I think the doctor is right, Baker, I thinkhe'll never make us ashamed of him. " "I am sure he never will, " said Mr Baker. "I don't think he ever will, " said Dr Thorne. The tones of the men's voices were very different. Mr Baker did notcare a straw about it; why should he? He had an heir of his own aswell as the squire; one also who was the apple of _his_ eye. But thedoctor, --he did care; he had a niece, to be sure, whom he loved, perhaps as well as these men loved their sons; but there was room inhis heart also for young Frank Gresham. After this small exposé of feeling they sat silent for a moment ortwo. But silence was not dear to the heart of the Honourable John, and so he took up the running. "That's a niceish nag you gave Frank this morning, " he said to hisuncle. "I was looking at him before dinner. He is a Monsoon, isn'the?" "Well I can't say I know how he was bred, " said the squire. "He showsa good deal of breeding. " "He's a Monsoon, I'm sure, " said the Honourable John. "They've allthose ears, and that peculiar dip in the back. I suppose you gave agoodish figure for him?" "Not so very much, " said the squire. "He's a trained hunter, I suppose?" "If not, he soon will be, " said the squire. "Let Frank alone for that, " said Harry Baker. "He jumps beautifully, sir, " said Frank. "I haven't tried him myself, but Peter made him go over the bar two or three times this morning. " The Honourable John was determined to give his cousin a helping hand, as he considered it. He thought that Frank was very ill-used in beingput off with so incomplete a stud, and thinking also that the son hadnot spirit enough to attack his father himself on the subject, theHonourable John determined to do it for him. "He's the making of a very nice horse, I don't doubt. I wish you hada string like him, Frank. " Frank felt the blood rush to his face. He would not for worlds havehis father think that he was discontented, or otherwise than pleasedwith the present he had received that morning. He was heartilyashamed of himself in that he had listened with a certain degree ofcomplacency to his cousin's tempting; but he had no idea that thesubject would be repeated--and then repeated, too, before his father, in a manner to vex him on such a day as this, before such people aswere assembled there. He was very angry with his cousin, and for amoment forgot all his hereditary respect for a de Courcy. "I tell you what, John, " said he, "do you choose your day, some dayearly in the season, and come out on the best thing you have, andI'll bring, not the black horse, but my old mare; and then do you tryand keep near me. If I don't leave you at the back of Godspeed beforelong, I'll give you the mare and the horse too. " The Honourable John was not known in Barsetshire as one of the mostforward of its riders. He was a man much addicted to hunting, as faras the get-up of the thing was concerned; he was great in boots andbreeches; wondrously conversant with bits and bridles; he had quitea collection of saddles; and patronised every newest invention forcarrying spare shoes, sandwiches, and flasks of sherry. He wasprominent at the cover side;--some people, including the masterof hounds, thought him perhaps a little too loudly prominent;he affected a familiarity with the dogs, and was on speakingacquaintance with every man's horse. But when the work was cut out, when the pace began to be sharp, when it behoved a man either to rideor visibly to decline to ride, then--so at least said they who hadnot the de Courcy interest quite closely at heart--then, in thoseheart-stirring moments, the Honourable John was too often founddeficient. There was, therefore, a considerable laugh at his expense when Frank, instigated to his innocent boast by a desire to save his father, challenged his cousin to a trial of prowess. The Honourable Johnwas not, perhaps, as much accustomed to the ready use of his tongueas was his honourable brother, seeing that it was not his annualbusiness to depict the glories of the farmers' daughters; at anyrate, on this occasion he seemed to be at some loss for words; heshut up, as the slang phrase goes, and made no further allusion tothe necessity of supplying young Gresham with a proper string ofhunters. But the old squire had understood it all; had understood the meaningof his nephew's attack; had thoroughly understood also the meaning ofhis son's defence, and the feeling which actuated it. He also hadthought of the stableful of horses which had belonged to himself whenhe came of age; and of the much more humble position which his sonwould have to fill than that which _his_ father had prepared for him. He thought of this, and was sad enough, though he had sufficientspirit to hide from his friends around him the fact, that theHonourable John's arrow had not been discharged in vain. "He shall have Champion, " said the father to himself. "It is time forme to give it up. " Now Champion was one of the two fine old hunters which the squirekept for his own use. And it might have been said of him now, at theperiod of which we are speaking, that the only really happy momentsof his life were those which he spent in the field. So much as to itsbeing time for him to give up. CHAPTER VI Frank Gresham's Early Loves It was, we have said, the first of July, and such being the time ofthe year, the ladies, after sitting in the drawing-room for half anhour or so, began to think that they might as well go through thedrawing-room windows on to the lawn. First one slipped out a littleway, and then another; and then they got on to the lawn; and thenthey talked of their hats; till, by degrees, the younger ones of theparty, and at last of the elder also, found themselves dressed forwalking. The windows, both of the drawing-room and the dining-room, looked outon to the lawn; and it was only natural that the girls should walkfrom the former to the latter. It was only natural that they, beingthere, should tempt their swains to come to them by the sight oftheir broad-brimmed hats and evening dresses; and natural, also, thatthe temptation should not be resisted. The squire, therefore, and theelder male guests soon found themselves alone round their wine. "Upon my word, we were enchanted by your eloquence, Mr Gresham, werewe not?" said Miss Oriel, turning to one of the de Courcy girls whowas with her. Miss Oriel was a very pretty girl; a little older than FrankGresham, --perhaps a year or so. She had dark hair, large round darkeyes, a nose a little too broad, a pretty mouth, a beautiful chin, and, as we have said before, a large fortune;--that is, moderatelylarge--let us say twenty thousand pounds, there or thereabouts. She and her brother had been living at Greshamsbury for the lasttwo years, the living having been purchased for him--such wereMr Gresham's necessities--during the lifetime of the last oldincumbent. Miss Oriel was in every respect a nice neighbour; she wasgood-humoured, lady-like, lively, neither too clever nor too stupid, belonging to a good family, sufficiently fond of this world's goodthings, as became a pretty young lady so endowed, and sufficientlyfond, also, of the other world's good things, as became the mistressof a clergyman's house. "Indeed, yes, " said the Lady Margaretta. "Frank is very eloquent. When he described our rapid journey from London, he nearly moved meto tears. But well as he talks, I think he carves better. " "I wish you'd had to do it, Margaretta; both the carving andtalking. " "Thank you, Frank; you're very civil. " "But there's one comfort, Miss Oriel; it's over now, and done. Afellow can't be made to come of age twice. " "But you'll take your degree, Mr Gresham; and then, of course, there'll be another speech; and then you'll get married, and therewill be two or three more. " "I'll speak at your wedding, Miss Oriel, long before I do at my own. " "I shall not have the slightest objection. It will be so kind of youto patronise my husband. " "But, by Jove, will he patronise me? I know you'll marry some awfulbigwig, or some terribly clever fellow; won't she, Margaretta?" "Miss Oriel was saying so much in praise of you before you came out, "said Margaretta, "that I began to think that her mind was intent onremaining at Greshamsbury all her life. " Frank blushed, and Patience laughed. There was but a year'sdifference in their age; Frank, however, was still a boy, thoughPatience was fully a woman. "I am ambitious, Lady Margaretta, " said she. "I own it; but I ammoderate in my ambition. I do love Greshamsbury, and if Mr Greshamhad a younger brother, perhaps, you know--" "Another just like myself, I suppose, " said Frank. "Oh, yes. I could not possibly wish for any change. " "Just as eloquent as you are, Frank, " said the Lady Margaretta. "And as good a carver, " said Patience. "Miss Bateson has lost her heart to him for ever, because of hiscarving, " said the Lady Margaretta. "But perfection never repeats itself, " said Patience. "Well, you see, I have not got any brothers, " said Frank; "so all Ican do is to sacrifice myself. " "Upon my word, Mr Gresham, I am under more than ordinary obligationsto you; I am indeed, " and Miss Oriel stood still in the path, andmade a very graceful curtsy. "Dear me! only think, Lady Margaretta, that I should be honoured with an offer from the heir the very momenthe is legally entitled to make one. " "And done with so much true gallantry, too, " said the other;"expressing himself quite willing to postpone any views of his own oryour advantage. " "Yes, " said Patience; "that's what I value so much: had he loved menow, there would have been no merit on his part; but a sacrifice, youknow--" "Yes, ladies are so fond of such sacrifices, Frank, upon my word, Ihad no idea you were so very excellent at making speeches. " "Well, " said Frank, "I shouldn't have said sacrifice, that was aslip; what I meant was--" "Oh, dear me, " said Patience, "wait a minute; now we are goingto have a regular declaration. Lady Margaretta, you haven't gota scent-bottle, have you? And if I should faint, where's thegarden-chair?" "Oh, but I'm not going to make a declaration at all, " said Frank. "Are you not? Oh! Now, Lady Margaretta, I appeal to you; did you notunderstand him to say something very particular?" "Certainly, I thought nothing could be plainer, " said the LadyMargaretta. "And so, Mr Gresham, I am to be told, that after all it meansnothing, " said Patience, putting her handkerchief up to her eyes. "It means that you are an excellent hand at quizzing a fellow likeme. " "Quizzing! No; but you are an excellent hand at deceiving a poorgirl like me. Well, remember I have got a witness; here is LadyMargaretta, who heard it all. What a pity it is that my brother isa clergyman. You calculated on that, I know; or you would never hadserved me so. " She said so just as her brother joined them, or rather just as hehad joined Lady Margaretta de Courcy; for her ladyship and Mr Orielwalked on in advance by themselves. Lady Margaretta had found itrather dull work, making a third in Miss Oriel's flirtation with hercousin; the more so as she was quite accustomed to take a principalpart herself in all such transactions. She therefore not unwillinglywalked on with Mr Oriel. Mr Oriel, it must be conceived, was not acommon, everyday parson, but had points about him which made himquite fit to associate with an earl's daughter. And as it was knownthat he was not a marrying man, having very exalted ideas on thatpoint connected with his profession, the Lady Margaretta, of course, had the less objection to trust herself alone with him. But directly she was gone, Miss Oriel's tone of banter ceased. It wasvery well making a fool of a lad of twenty-one when others were by;but there might be danger in it when they were alone together. "I don't know any position on earth more enviable than yours, MrGresham, " said she, quite soberly and earnestly; "how happy you oughtto be. " "What, in being laughed at by you, Miss Oriel, for pretending to bea man, when you choose to make out that I am only a boy? I can bearto be laughed at pretty well generally, but I can't say that yourlaughing at me makes me feel so happy as you say I ought to be. " Frank was evidently of an opinion totally different from that of MissOriel. Miss Oriel, when she found herself _tête-à-tête_ with him, thought it was time to give over flirting; Frank, however, imaginedthat it was just the moment for him to begin. So he spoke and lookedvery languishing, and put on him quite the airs of an Orlando. "Oh, Mr Gresham, such good friends as you and I may laugh at eachother, may we not?" "You may do what you like, Miss Oriel: beautiful women I believealways may; but you remember what the spider said to the fly, 'Thatwhich is sport to you, may be death to me. '" Anyone looking atFrank's face as he said this, might well have imagined that he wasbreaking his very heart for love of Miss Oriel. Oh, Master Frank!Master Frank! if you act thus in the green leaf, what will you do inthe dry? While Frank Gresham was thus misbehaving himself, and going on asthough to him belonged the privilege of falling in love with prettyfaces, as it does to ploughboys and other ordinary people, his greatinterests were not forgotten by those guardian saints who were soanxious to shower down on his head all manner of temporal blessings. Another conversation had taken place in the Greshamsbury gardens, in which nothing light had been allowed to present itself; nothingfrivolous had been spoken. The countess, the Lady Arabella, and MissGresham had been talking over Greshamsbury affairs, and they hadlatterly been assisted by the Lady Amelia, than whom no de Courcyever born was more wise, more solemn, more prudent, or more proud. The ponderosity of her qualifications for nobility was sometimes toomuch even for her mother, and her devotion to the peerage was such, that she would certainly have declined a seat in heaven if offered toher without the promise that it should be in the upper house. The subject first discussed had been Augusta's prospects. Mr Moffathad been invited to Courcy Castle, and Augusta had been taken thitherto meet him, with the express intention on the part of the countess, that they should be man and wife. The countess had been careful tomake it intelligible to her sister-in-law and niece, that though MrMoffat would do excellently well for a daughter of Greshamsbury, hecould not be allowed to raise his eyes to a female scion of CourcyCastle. "Not that we personally dislike him, " said the Lady Amelia; "but rankhas its drawbacks, Augusta. " As the Lady Amelia was now somewhatnearer forty than thirty, and was still allowed to walk, "In maiden meditation, fancy free, " it may be presumed that in her case rank had been found to haveserious drawbacks. To this Augusta said nothing in objection. Whether desirable by ade Courcy or not, the match was to be hers, and there was no doubtwhatever as to the wealth of the man whose name she was to take; theoffer had been made, not to her, but to her aunt; the acceptancehad been expressed, not by her, but by her aunt. Had she thought ofrecapitulating in her memory all that had ever passed between MrMoffat and herself, she would have found that it did not amount tomore than the most ordinary conversation between chance partnersin a ball-room. Nevertheless, she was to be Mrs Moffat. All that MrGresham knew of him was, that when he met the young man for the firstand only time in his life, he found him extremely hard to deal within the matter of money. He had insisted on having ten thousand poundswith his wife, and at last refused to go on with the match unlesshe got six thousand pounds. This latter sum the poor squire hadundertaken to pay him. Mr Moffat had been for a year or two M. P. For Barchester; havingbeen assisted in his views on that ancient city by all the deCourcy interest. He was a Whig, of course. Not only had Barchester, departing from the light of other days, returned a Whig member ofParliament, but it was declared, that at the next election, now nearat hand, a Radical would be sent up, a man pledged to the ballot, toeconomies of all sorts, one who would carry out Barchester politicsin all their abrupt, obnoxious, pestilent virulence. This was oneScatcherd, a great railway contractor, a man who was a native ofBarchester, who had bought property in the neighbourhood, and who hadachieved a sort of popularity there and elsewhere by the violence ofhis democratic opposition to the aristocracy. According to this man'spolitical tenets, the Conservatives should be laughed at as fools, but the Whigs should be hated as knaves. Mr Moffat was now coming down to Courcy Castle to look after hiselectioneering interests, and Miss Gresham was to return with heraunt to meet him. The countess was very anxious that Frank shouldalso accompany them. Her great doctrine, that he must marry money, had been laid down with authority, and received without doubt. Shenow pushed it further, and said that no time should be lost; thathe should not only marry money, but do so very early in life; therewas always danger in delay. The Greshams--of course she alluded onlyto the males of the family--were foolishly soft-hearted; no onecould say what might happen. There was that Miss Thorne always atGreshamsbury. This was more than the Lady Arabella could stand. She protestedthat there was at least no ground for supposing that Frank wouldabsolutely disgrace his family. Still the countess persisted: "Perhaps not, " she said; "but whenyoung people of perfectly different ranks were allowed to associatetogether, there was no saying what danger might arise. They all knewthat old Mr Bateson--the present Mr Bateson's father--had gone offwith the governess; and young Mr Everbeery, near Taunton, had onlythe other day married a cook-maid. " "But Mr Everbeery was always drunk, aunt, " said Augusta, feelingcalled upon to say something for her brother. "Never mind, my dear; these things do happen, and they are verydreadful. " "Horrible!" said the Lady Amelia; "diluting the best blood of thecountry, and paving the way for revolutions. " This was very grand;but, nevertheless, Augusta could not but feel that she perhaps mightbe about to dilute the blood of her coming children in marrying thetailor's son. She consoled herself by trusting that, at any rate, shepaved the way for no revolutions. "When a thing is so necessary, " said the countess, "it cannot be donetoo soon. Now, Arabella, I don't say that anything will come of it;but it may: Miss Dunstable is coming down to us next week. Now, weall know that when old Dunstable died last year, he left over twohundred thousand to his daughter. " "It is a great deal of money, certainly, " said Lady Arabella. "It would pay off everything, and a great deal more, " said thecountess. "It was ointment, was it not, aunt?" said Augusta. "I believe so, my dear; something called the ointment of Lebanon, orsomething of that sort: but there's no doubt about the money. " "But how old is she, Rosina?" asked the anxious mother. "About thirty, I suppose; but I don't think that much signifies. " "Thirty, " said Lady Arabella, rather dolefully. "And what is shelike? I think that Frank already begins to like girls that are youngand pretty. " "But surely, aunt, " said the Lady Amelia, "now that he has come toman's discretion, he will not refuse to consider all that he owes tohis family. A Mr Gresham of Greshamsbury has a position to support. "The de Courcy scion spoke these last words in the sort of tone that aparish clergyman would use, in warning some young farmer's son thathe should not put himself on an equal footing with the ploughboys. It was at last decided that the countess should herself convey toFrank a special invitation to Courcy Castle, and that when she gothim there, she should do all that lay in her power to prevent hisreturn to Cambridge, and to further the Dunstable marriage. "We did think of Miss Dunstable for Porlock, once, " she said, naïvely; "but when we found that it wasn't much over two hundredthousand, why, that idea fell to the ground. " The terms on which thede Courcy blood might be allowed to dilute itself were, it must bepresumed, very high indeed. Augusta was sent off to find her brother, and to send him to thecountess in the small drawing-room. Here the countess was to haveher tea, apart from the outer common world, and here, withoutinterruption, she was to teach her great lesson to her nephew. Augusta did find her brother, and found him in the worst of badsociety--so at least the stern de Courcys would have thought. Old MrBateson and the governess, Mr Everbeery and his cook's diluted blood, and ways paved for revolutions, all presented themselves to Augusta'smind when she found her brother walking with no other company thanMary Thorne, and walking with her, too, in much too close proximity. How he had contrived to be off with the old love and so soon on withthe new, or rather, to be off with the new love and again on with theold, we will not stop to inquire. Had Lady Arabella, in truth, knownall her son's doings in this way, could she have guessed how verynigh he had approached the iniquity of old Mr Bateson, and to thefolly of young Mr Everbeery, she would in truth have been in a hurryto send him off to Courcy Castle and Miss Dunstable. Some daysbefore the commencement of our story, young Frank had sworn in soberearnest--in what he intended for his most sober earnest, his mostearnest sobriety--that he loved Mary Thorne with a love for whichwords could find no sufficient expression--with a love that couldnever die, never grow dim, never become less, which no opposition onthe part of others could extinguish, which no opposition on her partcould repel; that he might, could, would, and should have her for hiswife, and that if she told him she didn't love him, he would-- "Oh, oh! Mary; do you love me? Don't you love me? Won't you love me?Say you will. Oh, Mary, dearest Mary, will you? won't you? do you?don't you? Come now, you have a right to give a fellow an answer. " With such eloquence had the heir of Greshamsbury, when not yettwenty-one years of age, attempted to possess himself of theaffections of the doctor's niece. And yet three days afterwards hewas quite ready to flirt with Miss Oriel. If such things are done in the green wood, what will be done in thedry? And what had Mary said when these fervent protestations of an undyinglove had been thrown at her feet? Mary, it must be remembered, wasvery nearly of the same age as Frank; but, as I and others have sooften said before, "Women grow on the sunny side of the wall. " ThoughFrank was only a boy, it behoved Mary to be something more than agirl. Frank might be allowed, without laying himself open to muchjust reproach, to throw all of what he believed to be his heart intoa protestation of what he believed to be love; but Mary was in dutybound to be more thoughtful, more reticent, more aware of the factsof their position, more careful of her own feelings, and more carefulalso of his. And yet she could not put him down as another young lady might putdown another young gentleman. It is very seldom that a young man, unless he be tipsy, assumes an unwelcome familiarity in his earlyacquaintance with any girl; but when acquaintance has been long andintimate, familiarity must follow as a matter of course. Frank andMary had been so much together in his holidays, had so constantlyconsorted together as boys and girls, that, as regarded her, he hadnot that innate fear of a woman which represses a young man's tongue;and she was so used to his good-humour, his fun, and high jovialspirits, and was, withal, so fond of them and him, that it was verydifficult for her to mark with accurate feeling, and stop withreserved brow, the shade of change from a boy's liking to a man'slove. And Beatrice, too, had done harm in this matter. With a spiritpainfully unequal to that of her grand relatives, she had quizzedMary and Frank about their early flirtations. This she had done; buthad instinctively avoided doing so before her mother and sister, andhad thus made a secret of it, as it were, between herself, Mary, andher brother;--had given currency, as it were, to the idea that theremight be something serious between the two. Not that Beatrice hadever wished to promote a marriage between them, or had even thoughtof such a thing. She was girlish, thoughtless, imprudent, inartistic, and very unlike a de Courcy. Very unlike a de Courcy she was in allthat; but, nevertheless, she had the de Courcy veneration for blood, and, more than that, she had the Gresham feeling joined to that ofthe de Courcys. The Lady Amelia would not for worlds have had thede Courcy blood defiled; but gold she thought could not defile. Now Beatrice was ashamed of her sister's marriage, and had oftendeclared, within her own heart, that nothing could have made hermarry a Mr Moffat. She had said so also to Mary, and Mary had told her that she wasright. Mary also was proud of blood, was proud of her uncle's blood, and the two girls talked together in all the warmth of girlishconfidence, of the great glories of family traditions and familyhonours. Beatrice had talked in utter ignorance as to her friend'sbirth; and Mary, poor Mary, she had talked, being as ignorant; butnot without a strong suspicion that, at some future time, a day ofsorrow would tell her some fearful truth. On one point Mary's mind was strongly made up. No wealth, no mereworldly advantage could make any one her superior. If she were borna gentlewoman, then was she fit to match with any gentleman. Letthe most wealthy man in Europe pour all his wealth at her feet, shecould, if so inclined, give him back at any rate more than that. That offered at her feet she knew she would never tempt her to yieldup the fortress of her heart, the guardianship of her soul, thepossession of her mind; not that alone, nor that, even, as anypossible slightest fraction of a make-weight. If she were born a gentlewoman! And then came to her mind thosecurious questions; what makes a gentleman? what makes a gentlewoman?What is the inner reality, the spiritualised quintessence of thatprivilege in the world which men call rank, which forces thethousands and hundreds of thousands to bow down before the few elect?What gives, or can give it, or should give it? And she answered the question. Absolute, intrinsic, acknowledged, individual merit must give it to its possessor, let him be whom, andwhat, and whence he might. So far the spirit of democracy was strongwith her. Beyond this it could be had but by inheritance, receivedas it were second-hand, or twenty-second-hand. And so far the spiritof aristocracy was strong within her. All this she had, as may beimagined, learnt in early years from her uncle; and all this she wasat great pains to teach Beatrice Gresham, the chosen of her heart. When Frank declared that Mary had a right to give him an answer, he meant that he had a right to expect one. Mary acknowledged thisright, and gave it to him. "Mr Gresham, " she said. "Oh, Mary; Mr Gresham!" "Yes, Mr Gresham. It must be Mr Gresham after that. And, moreover, itmust be Miss Thorne as well. " "I'll be shot if it shall, Mary. " "Well; I can't say that I shall be shot if it be not so; but if it benot so, if you do not agree that it shall be so, I shall be turnedout of Greshamsbury. " "What! you mean my mother?" said Frank. "Indeed, I mean no such thing, " said Mary, with a flash from her eyethat made Frank almost start. "I mean no such thing. I mean you, notyour mother. I am not in the least afraid of Lady Arabella; but I amafraid of you. " "Afraid of me, Mary!" "Miss Thorne; pray, pray, remember. It must be Miss Thorne. Do notturn me out of Greshamsbury. Do not separate me from Beatrice. Itis you that will drive me out; no one else. I could stand my groundagainst your mother--I feel I could; but I cannot stand against youif you treat me otherwise than--than--" "Otherwise than what? I want to treat you as the girl I have chosenfrom all the world as my wife. " "I am sorry you should so soon have found it necessary to make achoice. But, Mr Gresham, we must not joke about this at present. I amsure you would not willingly injure me; but if you speak to me, or ofme, again in that way, you will injure me, injure me so much that Ishall be forced to leave Greshamsbury in my own defence. I know youare too generous to drive me to that. " And so the interview had ended. Frank, of course, went upstairs tosee if his new pocket-pistols were all ready, properly cleaned, loaded, and capped, should he find, after a few days' experience, that prolonged existence was unendurable. However, he managed to live through the subsequent period; doubtlesswith a view of preventing any disappointment to his father's guests. 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. " "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. CHAPTER VIII Matrimonial Prospects It will of course be remembered that Mary's interview with the othergirls at Greshamsbury took place some two or three days subsequentlyto Frank's generous offer of his hand and heart. Mary had quite madeup her mind that the whole thing was to be regarded as a folly, andthat it was not to be spoken of to any one; but yet her heart wassore enough. She was full of pride, and yet she knew she must bow herneck to the pride of others. Being, as she was herself, nameless, shecould not but feel a stern, unflinching antagonism, the antagonism ofa democrat, to the pretensions of others who were blessed with thatof which she had been deprived. She had this feeling; and yet, ofall the things that she coveted, she most coveted that, for gloryingin which, she was determined to heap scorn on others. She said toherself, proudly, that God's handiwork was the inner man, the innerwoman, the naked creature animated by a living soul; that all otheradjuncts were but man's clothing for the creature; all others, whether stitched by tailors or contrived by kings. Was it not withinher capacity to do as nobly, to love as truly, to worship her God inheaven with as perfect a faith, and her god on earth with as leal atroth, as though blood had descended to her purely through scoresof purely born progenitors? So to herself she spoke; and yet, asshe said it, she knew that were she a man, such a man as the heirof Greshamsbury should be, nothing would tempt her to sully herchildren's blood by mating herself with any one that was base born. She felt that were she an Augusta Gresham, no Mr Moffat, let hiswealth be what it might, should win her hand unless he too could tellof family honours and a line of ancestors. And so, with a mind at war with itself, she came forth armed to dobattle against the world's prejudices, those prejudices she herselfloved so well. And was she to give up her old affections, her feminine loves, because she found that she was a cousin to nobody? Was she no longerto pour out her heart to Beatrice Gresham with all the girlishvolubility of an equal? Was she to be severed from Patience Oriel, and banished--or rather was she to banish herself--from the freeplace she had maintained in the various youthful female conclavesheld within that parish of Greshamsbury? Hitherto, what Mary Thorne would say, what Miss Thorne suggested insuch or such a matter, was quite as frequently asked as any opinionfrom Augusta Gresham--quite as frequently, unless when it chancedthat any of the de Courcy girls were at the house. Was this to begiven up? These feelings had grown up among them since they werechildren, and had not hitherto been questioned among them. Now theywere questioned by Mary Thorne. Was she in fact to find that herposition had been a false one, and must be changed? Such had been her feelings when she protested that she would not beAugusta Gresham's bridesmaid, and offered to put her neck beneathBeatrice's foot; when she drove the Lady Margaretta out of the room, and gave her own opinion as to the proper grammatical construction ofthe word humble; such also had been her feelings when she kept herhand so rigidly to herself while Frank held the dining-room door openfor her to pass through. "Patience Oriel, " said she to herself, "can talk to him of her fatherand mother: let Patience take his hand; let her talk to him;" andthen, not long afterwards, she saw that Patience did talk to him; andseeing it, she walked along silent, among some of the old people, andwith much effort did prevent a tear from falling down her cheek. But why was the tear in her eye? Had she not proudly told Frank thathis love-making was nothing but a boy's silly rhapsody? Had she notsaid so while she had yet reason to hope that her blood was as goodas his own? Had she not seen at a glance that his love tirade wasworthy of ridicule, and of no other notice? And yet there was a tearnow in her eye because this boy, whom she had scolded from her, whosehand, offered in pure friendship, she had just refused, because he, so rebuffed by her, had carried his fun and gallantry to one whowould be less cross to him! She could hear as she was walking, that while Lady Margaretta waswith them, their voices were loud and merry; and her sharp ear couldalso hear, when Lady Margaretta left them, that Frank's voice becamelow and tender. So she walked on, saying nothing, looking straightbefore her, and by degrees separating herself from all the others. The Greshamsbury grounds were on one side somewhat too closely hemmedin by the village. On this side was a path running the length of oneof the streets of the village; and far down the path, near to theextremity of the gardens, and near also to a wicket-gate which ledout into the village, and which could be opened from the inside, wasa seat, under a big yew-tree, from which, through a breach in thehouses, might be seen the parish church, standing in the park on theother side. Hither Mary walked alone, and here she seated herself, determined to get rid of her tears and their traces before she againshowed herself to the world. "I shall never be happy here again, " said she to herself; "never. Iam no longer one of them, and I cannot live among them unless I amso. " And then an idea came across her mind that she hated PatienceOriel; and then, instantly another idea followed it--quick as suchthoughts are quick--that she did not hate Patience Oriel at all; thatshe liked her, nay, loved her; that Patience Oriel was a sweet girl;and that she hoped the time would come when she might see her thelady of Greshamsbury. And then the tear, which had been no whitcontrolled, which indeed had now made itself master of her, came to ahead, and, bursting through the floodgates of the eye, came rollingdown, and in its fall, wetted her hand as it lay on her lap. "What afool! what an idiot! what an empty-headed cowardly fool I am!" saidshe, springing up from the bench on her feet. As she did so, she heard voices close to her, at the little gate. They were those of her uncle and Frank Gresham. "God bless you, Frank!" said the doctor, as he passed out of thegrounds. "You will excuse a lecture, won't you, from so old afriend?--though you are a man now, and discreet, of course, by Act ofParliament. " "Indeed I will, doctor, " said Frank. "I will excuse a longer lecturethan that from you. " "At any rate it won't be to-night, " said the doctor, as hedisappeared. "And if you see Mary, tell her that I am obliged to go;and that I will send Janet down to fetch her. " Now Janet was the doctor's ancient maid-servant. Mary could not move on without being perceived; she therefore stoodstill till she heard the click of the door, and then began walkingrapidly back to the house by the path which had brought her thither. The moment, however, that she did so, she found that she wasfollowed; and in a very few moments Frank was alongside of her. "Oh, Mary!" said he, calling to her, but not loudly, before he quiteovertook her, "how odd that I should come across you just when I havea message for you! and why are you all alone?" Mary's first impulse was to reiterate her command to him to call herno more by her Christian name; but her second impulse told her thatsuch an injunction at the present moment would not be prudent on herpart. The traces of her tears were still there; and she well knewthat a very little, the slightest show of tenderness on his part, theslightest effort on her own to appear indifferent, would bring downmore than one other such intruder. It would, moreover, be betterfor her to drop all outward sign that she remembered what had takenplace. So long, then, as he and she were at Greshamsbury together, heshould call her Mary if he pleased. He would soon be gone; and whilehe remained, she would keep out of his way. "Your uncle has been obliged to go away to see an old woman atSilverbridge. " "At Silverbridge! why, he won't be back all night. Why could not theold woman send for Dr Century?" "I suppose she thought two old women could not get on well together. " Mary could not help smiling. She did not like her uncle going off solate on such a journey; but it was always felt as a triumph when hewas invited into the strongholds of his enemies. "And Janet is to come over for you. However, I told him it was quiteunnecessary to disturb another old woman, for that I should of coursesee you home. " "Oh, no, Mr Gresham; indeed you'll not do that. " "Indeed, and indeed, I shall. " "What! on this great day, when every lady is looking for you, andtalking of you. I suppose you want to set the countess against me forever. Think, too, how angry Lady Arabella will be if you are absenton such an errand as this. " "To hear you talk, Mary, one would think that you were going toSilverbridge yourself. " "Perhaps I am. " "If I did not go with you, some of the other fellows would. John, orGeorge--" "Good gracious, Frank! Fancy either of the Mr de Courcys walking homewith me!" She had forgotten herself, and the strict propriety on which she hadresolved, in the impossibility of forgoing her little joke againstthe de Courcy grandeur; she had forgotten herself, and had calledhim Frank in her old, former, eager, free tone of voice; and then, remembering she had done so, she drew herself up, but her lips, anddetermined to be doubly on her guard in the future. "Well, it shall be either one of them or I, " said Frank: "perhaps youwould prefer my cousin George to me?" "I should prefer Janet to either, seeing that with her I should notsuffer the extreme nuisance of knowing that I was a bore. " "A bore! Mary, to me?" "Yes, Mr Gresham, a bore to you. Having to walk home through the mudwith village young ladies is boring. All gentlemen feel it to be so. " "There is no mud; if there were you would not be allowed to walk atall. " "Oh! village young ladies never care for such things, thoughfashionable gentlemen do. " "I would carry you home, Mary, if it would do you a service, " saidFrank, with considerable pathos in his voice. "Oh, dear me! pray do not, Mr Gresham. I should not like it at all, "said she: "a wheelbarrow would be preferable to that. " "Of course. Anything would be preferable to my arm, I know. " "Certainly; anything in the way of a conveyance. If I were to actbaby; and you were to act nurse, it really would not be comfortablefor either of us. " Frank Gresham felt disconcerted, though he hardly knew why. He wasstriving to say something tender to his lady-love; but every wordthat he spoke she turned into joke. Mary did not answer him coldlyor unkindly; but, nevertheless, he was displeased. One does not liketo have one's little offerings of sentimental service turned intoburlesque when one is in love in earnest. Mary's jokes had appearedso easy too; they seemed to come from a heart so little troubled. This, also, was cause of vexation to Frank. If he could but haveknown all, he would, perhaps, have been better pleased. He determined not to be absolutely laughed out of his tenderness. When, three days ago, he had been repulsed, he had gone away owningto himself that he had been beaten; owning so much, but owning itwith great sorrow and much shame. Since that he had come of age;since that he had made speeches, and speeches had been made to him;since that he had gained courage by flirting with Patience Oriel. Nofaint heart ever won a fair lady, as he was well aware; he resolved, therefore, that his heart should not be faint, and that he would seewhether the fair lady might not be won by becoming audacity. "Mary, " said he, stopping in the path--for they were now near thespot where it broke out upon the lawn, and they could already hearthe voices of the guests--"Mary, you are unkind to me. " "I am not aware of it, Mr Gresham; but if I am, do not you retaliate. I am weaker than you, and in your power; do not you, therefore, beunkind to me. " "You refused my hand just now, " continued he. "Of all the people hereat Greshamsbury, you are the only one that has not wished me joy; theonly one--" "I do wish you joy; I will wish you joy; there is my hand, " and shefrankly put out her ungloved hand. "You are quite man enough tounderstand me: there is my hand; I trust you use it only as it ismeant to be used. " He took it in his and pressed it cordially, as he might have donethat of any other friend in such a case; and then--did not drop itas he should have done. He was not a St Anthony, and it was mostimprudent in Miss Thorne to subject him to such a temptation. "Mary, " said he; "dear Mary! dearest Mary! if you did but know how Ilove you!" As he said this, holding Miss Thorne's hand, he stood on the pathwaywith his back towards the lawn and house, and, therefore, did not atfirst see his sister Augusta, who had just at that moment come uponthem. Mary blushed up to her straw hat, and, with a quick jerk, recovered her hand. Augusta saw the motion, and Mary saw that Augustahad seen it. From my tedious way of telling it, the reader will be led to imaginethat the hand-squeezing had been protracted to a duration quiteincompatible with any objection to such an arrangement on the part ofthe lady; but the fault is mine: in no part hers. Were I possessedof a quick spasmodic style of narrative, I should have been ableto include it all--Frank's misbehaviour, Mary's immediate anger, Augusta's arrival, and keen, Argus-eyed inspection, and then Mary'ssubsequent misery--in five words and half a dozen dashes and invertedcommas. The thing should have been so told; for, to do Mary justice, she did not leave her hand in Frank's a moment longer than she couldhelp herself. Frank, feeling the hand withdrawn, and hearing, when it was too late, the step on the gravel, turned sharply round. "Oh, it's you, is it, Augusta? Well, what do you want?" Augusta was not naturally very ill-natured, seeing that in her veinsthe high de Courcy blood was somewhat tempered by an admixture ofthe Gresham attributes; nor was she predisposed to make her brotherher enemy by publishing to the world any of his little tenderpeccadilloes; but she could not but bethink herself of what her aunthad been saying as to the danger of any such encounters as that shejust now had beheld; she could not but start at seeing her brotherthus, on the very brink of the precipice of which the countess hadspecially forewarned her mother. She, Augusta, was, as she well knew, doing her duty by her family by marrying a tailor's son for whom shedid not care a chip, seeing the tailor's son was possessed of untoldwealth. Now when one member of a household is making a struggle for afamily, it is painful to see the benefit of that struggle negativedby the folly of another member. The future Mrs Moffat did feelaggrieved by the fatuity of the young heir, and, consequently, tookupon herself to look as much like her Aunt de Courcy as she could do. "Well, what is it?" said Frank, looking rather disgusted. "What makesyou stick your chin up and look in that way?" Frank had hitherto beenrather a despot among his sisters, and forgot that the eldest ofthem was now passing altogether from under his sway to that of thetailor's son. "Frank, " said Augusta, in a tone of voice which did honour to thegreat lessons she had lately received. "Aunt de Courcy wants to seeyou immediately in the small drawing-room;" and, as she said so, sheresolved to say a few words of advice to Miss Thorne as soon as herbrother should have left them. "In the small drawing-room, does she? Well, Mary, we may as well gotogether, for I suppose it is tea-time now. " "You had better go at once, Frank, " said Augusta; "the countess willbe angry if you keep her waiting. She has been expecting you thesetwenty minutes. Mary Thorne and I can return together. " There was something in the tone in which the words, "Mary Thorne, "were uttered, which made Mary at once draw herself up. "I hope, " saidshe, "that Mary Thorne will never be any hindrance to either of you. " Frank's ear had also perceived that there was something in the toneof his sister's voice not boding comfort to Mary; he perceived thatthe de Courcy blood in Augusta's veins was already rebelling againstthe doctor's niece on his part, though it had condescended to submititself to the tailor's son on her own part. "Well, I am going, " said he; "but look here Augusta, if you say oneword of Mary--" Oh, Frank! Frank! you boy, you very boy! you goose, you silly goose!Is that the way you make love, desiring one girl not to tell ofanother, as though you were three children, tearing your frocks andtrousers in getting through the same hedge together? Oh, Frank!Frank! you, the full-blown heir of Greshamsbury? You, a man alreadyendowed with a man's discretion? You, the forward rider, that did butnow threaten young Harry Baker and the Honourable John to eclipsethem by prowess in the field? You, of age? Why, thou canst not as yethave left thy mother's apron-string! "If you say one word of Mary--" So far had he got in his injunction to his sister, but further thanthat, in such a case, was he never destined to proceed. Mary'sindignation flashed upon him, striking him dumb long before the soundof her voice reached his ears; and yet she spoke as quick as thewords would come to her call, and somewhat loudly too. "Say one word of Mary, Mr Gresham! And why should she not say as manywords of Mary as she may please? I must tell you all now, Augusta!and I must also beg you not to be silent for my sake. As far as I amconcerned, tell it to whom you please. This was the second time yourbrother--" "Mary, Mary, " said Frank, deprecating her loquacity. "I beg your pardon, Mr Gresham; you have made it necessary that Ishould tell your sister all. He has now twice thought it well toamuse himself by saying to me words which it was ill-natured in himto speak, and--" "Ill-natured, Mary!" "Ill-natured in him to speak, " continued Mary, "and to which it wouldbe absurd for me to listen. He probably does the same to others, " sheadded, being unable in heart to forget that sharpest of her wounds, that flirtation of his with Patience Oriel; "but to me it is almostcruel. Another girl might laugh at him, or listen to him, as shewould choose; but I can do neither. I shall now keep away fromGreshamsbury, at any rate till he has left it; and, Augusta, I canonly beg you to understand, that, as far as I am concerned, there isnothing which may not be told to all the world. " And, so saying, she walked on a little in advance of them, as proudas a queen. Had Lady de Courcy herself met her at this moment, shewould almost have felt herself forced to shrink out of the pathway. "Not say a word of me!" she repeated to herself, but still out loud. "No word need be left unsaid on my account; none, none. " Augusta followed her, dumfounded at her indignation; and Frank alsofollowed, but not in silence. When his first surprise at Mary'sgreat anger was over, he felt himself called upon to say some wordthat might tend to exonerate his lady-love; and some word also ofprotestation as to his own purpose. "There is nothing to be told, nothing, at least of Mary, " he said, speaking to his sister; "but of me, you may tell this, if you chooseto disoblige your brother--that I love Mary Thorne with all my heart;and that I will never love any one else. " By this time they had reached the lawn, and Mary was able to turnaway from the path which led up to the house. As she left them shesaid in a voice, now low enough, "I cannot prevent him from talkingnonsense, Augusta; but you will bear me witness, that I do notwillingly hear it. " And, so saying, she started off almost in a runtowards the distant part of the gardens, in which she saw Beatrice. Frank, as he walked up to the house with his sister, endeavoured toinduce her to give him a promise that she would tell no tales as towhat she had heard and seen. "Of course, Frank, it must be all nonsense, " she had said; "and youshouldn't amuse yourself in such a way. " "Well, but, Guss, come, we have always been friends; don't let usquarrel just when you are going to be married. " But Augusta wouldmake no promise. Frank, when he reached the house, found the countess waiting for him, sitting in the little drawing-room by herself, --somewhat impatiently. As he entered he became aware that there was some peculiar gravityattached to the coming interview. Three persons, his mother, one ofhis younger sisters, and the Lady Amelia, each stopped him to lethim know that the countess was waiting; and he perceived that asort of guard was kept upon the door to save her ladyship from anyundesirable intrusion. The countess frowned at the moment of his entrance, but soon smoothedher brow, and invited him to take a chair ready prepared for himopposite to the elbow of the sofa on which she was leaning. She had asmall table before her, on which was her teacup, so that she was ableto preach at him nearly as well as though she had been ensconced in apulpit. "My dear Frank, " said she, in a voice thoroughly suitable to theimportance of the communication, "you have to-day come of age. " Frank remarked that he understood that such was the case, and addedthat "that was the reason for all the fuss. " "Yes; you have to-day come of age. Perhaps I should have been glad tosee such an occasion noticed at Greshamsbury with some more suitablesigns of rejoicing. " "Oh, aunt! I think we did it all very well. " "Greshamsbury, Frank, is, or at any rate ought to be, the seat of thefirst commoner in Barsetshire. "Well; so it is. I am quite sure there isn't a better fellow thanfather anywhere in the county. " The countess sighed. Her opinion of the poor squire was verydifferent from Frank's. "It is no use now, " said she, "looking backto that which cannot be cured. The first commoner in Barsetshireshould hold a position--I will not of course say equal to that of apeer. " "Oh dear no; of course not, " said Frank; and a bystander might havethought that there was a touch of satire in his tone. "No, not equal to that of a peer; but still of very paramountimportance. Of course my first ambition is bound up in Porlock. " "Of course, " said Frank, thinking how very weak was the staff onwhich his aunt's ambition rested; for Lord Porlock's youthful careerhad not been such as to give unmitigated satisfaction to his parents. "Is bound up in Porlock:" and then the countess plumed herself; butthe mother sighed. "And next to Porlock, Frank, my anxiety is aboutyou. " "Upon my honour, aunt, I am very much obliged. I shall be all right, you'll see. " "Greshamsbury, my dear boy, is not now what it used to be. " "Isn't it?" asked Frank. "No, Frank; by no means. I do not wish to say a word against yourfather. It may, perhaps have been his misfortune, rather than hisfault--" "She is always down on the governor; always, " said Frank to himself;resolving to stick bravely to the side of the house to which he hadelected to belong. "But there is the fact, Frank, too plain to us all; Greshamsbury isnot what it was. It is your duty to restore it to its formerimportance. " "My duty!" said Frank, rather puzzled. "Yes, Frank, your duty. It all depends on you now. Of course you knowthat your father owes a great deal of money. " Frank muttered something. Tidings had in some shape reached his earthat his father was not comfortably circumstances as regarded money. "And then, he has sold Boxall Hill. It cannot be expected that BoxallHill shall be repurchased, as some horrid man, a railway-maker, Ibelieve--" "Yes; that's Scatcherd. " "Well, he has built a house there, I'm told; so I presume that itcannot be bought back: but it will be your duty, Frank, to pay allthe debts that there are on the property, and to purchase what, atany rate, will be equal to Boxall Hill. " Frank opened his eyes wide and stared at his aunt, as though doubtingmuch whether or no she were in her right mind. He pay off thefamily debts! He buy up property of four thousand pounds a year!He remained, however, quite quiet, waiting the elucidation of themystery. "Frank, of course you understand me. " Frank was obliged to declare, that just at the present moment he didnot find his aunt so clear as usual. "You have but one line of conduct left you, Frank: your position, as heir to Greshamsbury, is a good one; but your father hasunfortunately so hampered you with regard to money, that unless youset the matter right yourself, you can never enjoy that position. Ofcourse you must marry money. " "Marry money!" said he, considering for the first time that in allprobability Mary Thorne's fortune would not be extensive. "Marrymoney!" "Yes, Frank. I know no man whose position so imperatively demands it;and luckily for you, no man can have more facility for doing so. Inthe first place you are very handsome. " Frank blushed like a girl of sixteen. "And then, as the matter is made plain to you at so early an age, you are not of course hampered by any indiscreet tie; by any absurdengagement. " Frank blushed again; and then saying to himself, "How much the oldgirl knows about it!" felt a little proud of his passion for MaryThorne, and of the declaration he had made to her. "And your connexion with Courcy Castle, " continued the countess, nowcarrying up the list of Frank's advantages to its great climax, "willmake the matter so easy for you, that really, you will hardly haveany difficulty. " Frank could not but say how much obliged he felt to Courcy Castle andits inmates. "Of course I would not wish to interfere with you in any underhandway, Frank; but I will tell you what has occurred to me. You haveheard, probably, of Miss Dunstable?" "The daughter of the ointment of Lebanon man?" "And of course you know that her fortune is immense, " continuedthe countess, not deigning to notice her nephew's allusion to theointment. "Quite immense when compared with the wants and position ofany commoner. Now she is coming to Courcy Castle, and I wish you tocome and meet her. " "But, aunt, just at this moment I have to read for my degree likeanything. I go up, you know, in October. " "Degree!" said the countess. "Why, Frank, I am talking to you ofyour prospects in life, of your future position, of that on whicheverything hangs, and you tell me of your degree!" Frank, however, obstinately persisted that he must take his degree, and that he should commence reading hard at six a. M. To-morrowmorning. "You can read just as well at Courcy Castle. Miss Dunstable willnot interfere with that, " said his aunt, who knew the expediency ofyielding occasionally; "but I must beg you will come over and meether. You will find her a most charming young woman, remarkably welleducated I am told, and--" "How old is she?" asked Frank. "I really cannot say exactly, " said the countess; "but it is not, Iimagine, matter of much moment. " "Is she thirty?" asked Frank, who looked upon an unmarried woman ofthat age as quite an old maid. "I dare say she may be about that age, " said the countess, whoregarded the subject from a very different point of view. "Thirty!" said Frank out loud, but speaking, nevertheless, as thoughto himself. "It is a matter of no moment, " said his aunt, almost angrily. "Whenthe subject itself is of such vital importance, objections of noreal weight should not be brought into view. If you wish to hold upyour head in the country; if you wish to represent your county inParliament, as has been done by your father, your grandfather, andyour great-grandfathers; if you wish to keep a house over your head, and to leave Greshamsbury to your son after you, you must marrymoney. What does it signify whether Miss Dunstable be twenty-eightor thirty? She has got money; and if you marry her, you may thenconsider that your position in life is made. " Frank was astonished at his aunt's eloquence; but, in spite ofthat eloquence, he made up his mind that he would not marry MissDunstable. How could he, indeed, seeing that his troth was alreadyplighted to Mary Thorne in the presence of his sister? Thiscircumstance, however, he did not choose to plead to his aunt, so herecapitulated any other objections that presented themselves to hismind. In the first place, he was so anxious about his degree that he couldnot think of marrying at present; then he suggested that it might bebetter to postpone the question till the season's hunting should beover; he declared that he could not visit Courcy Castle till he got anew suit of clothes home from the tailor; and ultimately rememberedthat he had a particular engagement to go fly-fishing with Mr Orielon that day week. None, however, of these valid reasons were sufficiently potent toturn the countess from her point. "Nonsense, Frank, " said she, "I wonder that you can talk offly-fishing when the property of Greshamsbury is at stake. You willgo with Augusta and myself to Courcy Castle to-morrow. " "To-morrow, aunt!" he said, in the tone in which a condemned criminalmight make his ejaculation on hearing that a very near day had beennamed for his execution. "To-morrow!" "Yes, we return to-morrow, and shall be happy to have your company. My friends, including Miss Dunstable, come on Thursday. I am quitesure you will like Miss Dunstable. I have settled all that with yourmother, so we need say nothing further about it. And now, good-night, Frank. " Frank, finding that there was nothing more to be said, took hisdeparture, and went out to look for Mary. But Mary had gone home withJanet half an hour since, so he betook himself to his sisterBeatrice. "Beatrice, " said he, "I am to go to Courcy Castle to-morrow. " "So I heard mamma say. " "Well; I only came of age to-day, and I will not begin by runningcounter to them. But I tell you what, I won't stay above a weekat Courcy Castle for all the de Courcys in Barsetshire. Tell me, Beatrice, did you ever hear of a Miss Dunstable?" CHAPTER IX Sir Roger Scatcherd Enough has been said in this narrative to explain to the reader thatRoger Scatcherd, who was whilom a drunken stone-mason in Barchester, and who had been so prompt to avenge the injury done to his sister, had become a great man in the world. He had become a contractor, first for little things, such as half a mile or so of a railwayembankment, or three or four canal bridges, and then a contractor forgreat things, such as Government hospitals, locks, docks, and quays, and had latterly had in his hands the making of whole lines ofrailway. He had been occasionally in partnership with one man for one thing, and then with another for another; but had, on the whole, kept hisinterests to himself, and now at the time of our story, he was a veryrich man. And he had acquired more than wealth. There had been a time when theGovernment wanted the immediate performance of some extraordinarypiece of work, and Roger Scatcherd had been the man to do it. Therehad been some extremely necessary bit of a railway to be made in halfthe time that such work would properly demand, some speculation tobe incurred requiring great means and courage as well, and RogerScatcherd had been found to be the man for the time. He was thenelevated for the moment to the dizzy pinnacle of a newspaper hero, and became one of those "whom the king delighteth to honour. " He wentup one day to kiss Her Majesty's hand, and come down to his new grandhouse at Boxall Hill, Sir Roger Scatcherd, Bart. "And now, my lady, " said he, when he explained to his wife the highstate to which she had been called by his exertions and the Queen'sprerogative, "let's have a bit of dinner, and a drop of som'at hot. "Now the drop of som'at hot signified a dose of alcohol sufficient tosend three ordinary men very drunk to bed. While conquering the world Roger Scatcherd had not conquered his oldbad habits. Indeed, he was the same man at all points that he hadbeen when formerly seen about the streets of Barchester with hisstone-mason's apron tucked up round his waist. The apron he hadabandoned, but not the heavy prominent thoughtful brow, with thewildly flashing eye beneath it. He was still the same good companion, and still also the same hard-working hero. In this only had hechanged, that now he would work, and some said equally well, whetherhe were drunk or sober. Those who were mostly inclined to make amiracle of him--and there was a school of worshippers ready to adorehim as their idea of a divine, superhuman, miracle-moving, inspiredprophet--declared that his wondrous work was best done, hiscalculations most quickly and most truly made, that he saw with mostaccurate eye into the far-distant balance of profit and loss, whenhe was under the influence of the rosy god. To these worshippers hisbreakings-out, as his periods of intemperance were called in his ownset, were his moments of peculiar inspiration--his divine frenzies, in which he communicated most closely with those deities who presideover trade transactions; his Eleusinian mysteries, to approach him inwhich was permitted only to a few of the most favoured. "Scatcherd has been drunk this week past, " they would say one toanother, when the moment came at which it was to be decided whoseoffer should be accepted for constructing a harbour to hold all thecommerce of Lancashire, or to make a railway from Bombay to Canton. "Scatcherd has been drunk this week past; I am told that he has takenover three gallons of brandy. " And then they felt sure that none butScatcherd would be called upon to construct the dock or make therailway. But be this as it may, be it true or false that Sir Roger was mostefficacious when in his cups, there can be no doubt that he could notwallow for a week in brandy, six or seven times every year, withoutin a great measure injuring, and permanently injuring, the outwardman. Whatever immediate effect such symposiums might have on theinner mind--symposiums indeed they were not; posiums I will callthem, if I may be allowed; for in latter life, when he drank heavily, he drank alone--however little for evil, or however much for good theworking of his brain might be affected, his body suffered greatly. Itwas not that he became feeble or emaciated, old-looking or inactive, that his hand shook, or that his eye was watery; but that in themoments of his intemperance his life was often not worth a day'spurchase. The frame which God had given to him was powerful beyondthe power of ordinary men; powerful to act in spite of these violentperturbations; powerful to repress and conquer the qualms andheadaches and inward sicknesses to which the votaries of Bacchus areordinarily subject; but this power was not without its limit. Ifencroached on too far, it would break and fall and come asunder, andthen the strong man would at once become a corpse. Scatcherd had but one friend in the world. And, indeed, this friendwas no friend in the ordinary acceptance of the word. He neither atewith him nor drank with him, nor even frequently talked with him. Their pursuits in life were wide asunder. Their tastes were alldifferent. The society in which each moved very seldom came together. Scatcherd had nothing in unison with this solitary friend; but hetrusted him, and he trusted no other living creature on God's earth. He trusted this man; but even him he did not trust thoroughly; not atleast as one friend should trust another. He believed that this manwould not rob him; would probably not lie to him; would not endeavourto make money of him; would not count him up or speculate on him, andmake out a balance of profit and loss; and, therefore, he determinedto use him. But he put no trust whatever in his friend's counsel, inhis modes of thought; none in his theory, and none in his practice. He disliked his friend's counsel, and, in fact, disliked hissociety, for his friend was somewhat apt to speak to him in a mannerapproaching to severity. Now Roger Scatcherd had done many thingsin the world, and made much money; whereas his friend had done butfew things, and made no money. It was not to be endured that thepractical, efficient man should be taken to task by the man whoproved himself to be neither practical nor efficient; not to beendured, certainly, by Roger Scatcherd, who looked on men of his ownclass as the men of the day, and on himself as by no means the leastamong them. The friend was our friend Dr Thorne. The doctor's first acquaintance with Scatcherd has been alreadyexplained. He was necessarily thrown into communication with the manat the time of the trial, and Scatcherd then had not only sufficientsense, but sufficient feeling also to know that the doctor behavedvery well. This communication had in different ways been kept upbetween them. Soon after the trial Scatcherd had begun to rise, andhis first savings had been entrusted to the doctor's care. This hadbeen the beginning of a pecuniary connexion which had never whollyceased, and which had led to the purchase of Boxall Hill, and to theloan of large sums of money to the squire. In another way also there had been a close alliance between them, andone not always of a very pleasant description. The doctor was, andlong had been, Sir Roger's medical attendant, and, in his unceasingattempts to rescue the drunkard from the fate which was so much tobe dreaded, he not unfrequently was driven into a quarrel with hispatient. One thing further must be told of Sir Roger. In politics he was asviolent a Radical as ever, and was very anxious to obtain a positionin which he could bring his violence to bear. With this view he wasabout to contest his native borough of Barchester, in the hope ofbeing returned in opposition to the de Courcy candidate; and withthis object he had now come down to Boxall Hill. Nor were his claims to sit for Barchester such as could be despised. If money were to be of avail, he had plenty of it, and was preparedto spend it; whereas, rumour said that Mr Moffat was equallydetermined to do nothing so foolish. Then again, Sir Roger had a sortof rough eloquence, and was able to address the men of Barchester inlanguage that would come home to their hearts, in words that wouldendear him to one party while they made him offensively odious to theother; but Mr Moffat could make neither friends nor enemies by hiseloquence. The Barchester roughs called him a dumb dog that could notbark, and sometimes sarcastically added that neither could he bite. The de Courcy interest, however, was at his back, and he had also theadvantage of possession. Sir Roger, therefore, knew that the battlewas not to be won without a struggle. Dr Thorne got safely back from Silverbridge that evening, and foundMary waiting to give him his tea. He had been called there to aconsultation with Dr Century, that amiable old gentleman having sofar fallen away from the high Fillgrave tenets as to consent to theoccasional endurance of such degradation. The next morning he breakfasted early, and, having mounted his strongiron-grey cob, started for Boxall Hill. Not only had he there tonegotiate the squire's further loan, but also to exercise his medicalskill. Sir Roger having been declared contractor for cutting a canalfrom sea to sea, through the Isthmus of Panama, had been making aweek of it; and the result was that Lady Scatcherd had written ratherperemptorily to her husband's medical friend. The doctor consequently trotted off to Boxall Hill on his iron-greycob. Among his other merits was that of being a good horseman, andhe did much of his work on horseback. The fact that he occasionallytook a day with the East Barsetshires, and that when he did so hethoroughly enjoyed it, had probably not failed to add something tothe strength of the squire's friendship. "Well, my lady, how is he? Not much the matter, I hope?" said thedoctor, as he shook hands with the titled mistress of Boxall Hill ina small breakfast-parlour in the rear of the house. The show-roomsof Boxall Hill were furnished most magnificently, but they were setapart for company; and as the company never came--seeing that theywere never invited--the grand rooms and the grand furniture were notof much material use to Lady Scatcherd. "Indeed then, doctor, he's just bad enough, " said her ladyship, notin a very happy tone of voice; "just bad enough. There's been some'atat the back of his head, rapping, and rapping, and rapping; and ifyou don't do something, I'm thinking it will rap him too hard yet. " "Is he in bed?" "Why, yes, he is in bed; for when he was first took he couldn't verywell help hisself, so we put him to bed. And then, he don't seem tobe quite right yet about the legs, so he hasn't got up; but he's gotthat Winterbones with him to write for him, and when Winterbones isthere, Scatcherd might as well be up for any good that bed'll dohim. " Mr Winterbones was confidential clerk to Sir Roger. That is to say, he was a writing-machine of which Sir Roger made use to do certainwork which could not well be adjusted without some contrivance. Hewas a little, withered, dissipated, broken-down man, whom gin andpoverty had nearly burnt to a cinder, and dried to an ash. Mind hehad none left, nor care for earthly things, except the smallestmodicum of substantial food, and the largest allowance of liquidsustenance. All that he had ever known he had forgotten, except howto count up figures and to write: the results of his counting and hiswriting never stayed with him from one hour to another; nay, not fromone folio to another. Let him, however, be adequately screwed up withgin, and adequately screwed down by the presence of his master, andthen no amount of counting and writing would be too much for him. This was Mr Winterbones, confidential clerk to the great Sir RogerScatcherd. "We must send Winterbones away, I take it, " said the doctor. "Indeed, doctor, I wish you would. I wish you'd send him to Bath, oranywhere else out of the way. There is Scatcherd, he takes brandy;and there is Winterbones, he takes gin; and it'd puzzle a woman tosay which is worst, master or man. " It will seem from this, that Lady Scatcherd and the doctor were onvery familiar terms as regarded her little domestic inconveniences. "Tell Sir Roger I am here, will you?" said the doctor. "You'll take a drop of sherry before you go up?" said the lady. "Not a drop, thank you, " said the doctor. "Or, perhaps, a little cordial?" "Not of drop of anything, thank you; I never do, you know. " "Just a thimbleful of this?" said the lady, producing from somerecess under a sideboard a bottle of brandy; "just a thimbleful? It'swhat he takes himself. " When Lady Scatcherd found that even this argument failed, she led theway to the great man's bedroom. "Well, doctor! well, doctor! well, doctor!" was the greeting withwhich our son of Galen was saluted some time before he entered thesick-room. His approaching step was heard, and thus the ci-devantBarchester stone-mason saluted his coming friend. The voice was loudand powerful, but not clear and sonorous. What voice that is nurturedon brandy can ever be clear? It had about it a peculiar huskiness, adissipated guttural tone, which Thorne immediately recognised, andrecognised as being more marked, more guttural, and more husky thanheretofore. "So you've smelt me out, have you, and come for your fee? Ha! ha!ha! Well, I have had a sharpish bout of it, as her ladyship thereno doubt has told you. Let her alone to make the worst of it. But, you see, you're too late, man. I've bilked the old gentleman againwithout troubling you. " "Anyway, I'm glad you're something better, Scatcherd. " "Something! I don't know what you call something. I never was betterin my life. Ask Winterbones there. " "Indeed, now, Scatcherd, you ain't; you're bad enough if you onlyknew it. And as for Winterbones, he has no business here up in yourbedroom, which stinks of gin so, it does. Don't you believe him, doctor; he ain't well, nor yet nigh well. " Winterbones, when the above ill-natured allusion was made tothe aroma coming from his libations, might be seen to depositsurreptitiously beneath the little table at which he sat, the cupwith which he had performed them. The doctor, in the meantime, had taken Sir Roger's hand on thepretext of feeling his pulse, but was drawing quite as muchinformation from the touch of the sick man's skin, and the look ofthe sick man's eye. "I think Mr Winterbones had better go back to the London office, "said he. "Lady Scatcherd will be your best clerk for some time, SirRoger. " "Then I'll be d---- if Mr Winterbones does anything of the kind, "said he; "so there's an end of that. " "Very well, " said the doctor. "A man can die but once. It is my dutyto suggest measures for putting off the ceremony as long as possible. Perhaps, however, you may wish to hasten it. " "Well, I am not very anxious about it, one way or the other, " saidScatcherd. And as he spoke there came a fierce gleam from his eye, which seemed to say--"If that's the bugbear with which you wish tofrighten me, you will find that you are mistaken. " "Now, doctor, don't let him talk that way, don't, " said LadyScatcherd, with her handkerchief to her eyes. "Now, my lady, do you cut it; cut at once, " said Sir Roger, turninghastily round to his better-half; and his better-half, knowing thatthe province of a woman is to obey, did cut it. But as she went shegave the doctor a pull by the coat's sleeve, so that thereby hishealing faculties might be sharpened to the very utmost. "The best woman in the world, doctor; the very best, " said he, as thedoor closed behind the wife of his bosom. "I'm sure of it, " said the doctor. "Yes, till you find a better one, " said Scatcherd. "Ha! ha! ha! butgood or bad, there are some things which a woman can't understand, and some things which she ought not to be let to understand. " "It's natural she should be anxious about your health, you know. " "I don't know that, " said the contractor. "She'll be very well off. All that whining won't keep a man alive, at any rate. " There was a pause, during which the doctor continued his medicalexamination. To this the patient submitted with a bad grace; butstill he did submit. "We must turn over a new leaf, Sir Roger; indeed we must. " "Bother, " said Sir Roger. "Well, Scatcherd; I must do my duty to you, whether you like it ornot. " "That is to say, I am to pay you for trying to frighten me. " "No human nature can stand such shocks as these much longer. " "Winterbones, " said the contractor, turning to his clerk, "go down, go down, I say; but don't be out of the way. If you go to thepublic-house, by G----, you may stay there for me. When I take adrop, --that is if I ever do, it does not stand in the way of work. "So Mr Winterbones, picking up his cup again, and concealing it insome way beneath his coat flap, retreated out of the room, and thetwo friends were alone. "Scatcherd, " said the doctor, "you have been as near your God, as anyman ever was who afterwards ate and drank in this world. " "Have I, now?" said the railway hero, apparently somewhat startled. "Indeed you have; indeed you have. " "And now I'm all right again?" "All right! How can you be all right, when you know that your limbsrefuse to carry you? All right! why the blood is still beating roundyour brain with a violence that would destroy any other brain butyours. " "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Scatcherd. He was very proud of thinkinghimself to be differently organised from other men. "Ha! ha! ha!Well, and what am I to do now?" The whole of the doctor's prescription we will not give at length. To some of his ordinances Sir Roger promised obedience; to others heobjected violently, and to one or two he flatly refused to listen. The great stumbling-block was this, that total abstinence frombusiness for two weeks was enjoined; and that it was impossible, soSir Roger said, that he should abstain for two days. "If you work, " said the doctor, "in your present state, you willcertainly have recourse to the stimulus of drink; and if you drink, most assuredly you will die. " "Stimulus! Why do you think I can't work without Dutch courage?" "Scatcherd, I know that there is brandy in the room at this moment, and that you have been taking it within these two hours. " "You smell that fellow's gin, " said Scatcherd. "I feel the alcohol working within your veins, " said the doctor, whostill had his hand on his patient's arm. Sir Roger turned himself roughly in the bed so as to get away fromhis Mentor, and then he began to threaten in his turn. "I'll tell you what it is, doctor; I've made up my mind, and I'll doit. I'll send for Fillgrave. " "Very well, " said he of Greshamsbury, "send for Fillgrave. Your caseis one in which even he can hardly go wrong. " "You think you can hector me, and do as you like because you had meunder your thumb in other days. You're a very good fellow, Thorne, but I ain't sure that you are the best doctor in all England. " "You may be sure I am not; you may take me for the worst if you will. But while I am here as your medical adviser, I can only tell you thetruth to the best of my thinking. Now the truth is this, that anotherbout of drinking will in all probability kill you; and any recourseto stimulus in your present condition may do so. " "I'll send for Fillgrave--" "Well, send for Fillgrave, only do it at once. Believe me at anyrate in this, that whatever you do, you should do at once. Obligeme in this; let Lady Scatcherd take away that brandy bottle till DrFillgrave comes. " "I'm d---- if I do. Do you think I can't have a bottle of brandy inmy room without swigging?" "I think you'll be less likely to swig it if you can't get at it. " Sir Roger made another angry turn in his bed as well as hishalf-paralysed limbs would let him; and then, after a few moments'peace, renewed his threats with increased violence. "Yes; I'll have Fillgrave over here. If a man be ill, really ill, he should have the best advice he can get. I'll have Fillgrave, andI'll have that other fellow from Silverbridge to meet him. What's hisname?--Century. " The doctor turned his head away; for though the occasion was serious, he could not help smiling at the malicious vengeance with which hisfriend proposed to gratify himself. "I will; and Rerechild too. What's the expense? I suppose five or sixpound apiece will do it; eh, Thorne?" "Oh, yes; that will be liberal I should say. But, Sir Roger, will youallow me to suggest what you ought to do? I don't know how far youmay be joking--" "Joking!" shouted the baronet; "you tell a man he's dying and jokingin the same breath. You'll find I'm not joking. " "Well I dare say not. But if you have not full confidence in me--" "I have no confidence in you at all. " "Then why not send to London? Expense is no object to you. " "It is an object; a great object. " "Nonsense! Send to London for Sir Omicron Pie: send for some man whomyou will really trust when you see him. "There's not one of the lot I'd trust as soon as Fillgrave. I'veknown Fillgrave all my life, and I trust him. I'll send for Fillgraveand put my case in his hands. If any one can do anything for me, Fillgrave is the man. " "Then in God's name send for Fillgrave, " said the doctor. "And now, good-bye, Scatcherd; and as you do send for him, give him a fairchance. Do not destroy yourself by more brandy before he comes. " "That's my affair, and his; not yours, " said the patient. "So be it; give me your hand, at any rate, before I go. I wish youwell through it, and when you are well, I'll come and see you. " "Good-bye--good-bye; and look here, Thorne, you'll be talking to LadyScatcherd downstairs I know; now, no nonsense. You understand me, eh?no nonsense, you know. " CHAPTER X Sir Roger's Will Dr Thorne left the room and went downstairs, being fully aware thathe could not leave the house without having some communication withLady Scatcherd. He was not sooner within the passage than he heardthe sick man's bell ring violently; and then the servant, passinghim on the staircase, received orders to send a mounted messengerimmediately to Barchester. Dr Fillgrave was to be summoned to come asquickly as possible to the sick man's room, and Mr Winterbones was tobe sent up to write the note. Sir Roger was quite right in supposing that there would be some wordsbetween the doctor and her ladyship. How, indeed, was the doctor toget out of the house without such, let him wish it ever so much?There were words; and these were protracted, while the doctor'scob was being ordered round, till very many were uttered which thecontractor would probably have regarded as nonsense. Lady Scatcherd was no fit associate for the wives of Englishbaronets;--was no doubt by education and manners much better fittedto sit in their servants' halls; but not on that account was she abad wife or a bad woman. She was painfully, fearfully, anxious forthat husband of hers, whom she honoured and worshipped, as it behovedher to do, above all other men. She was fearfully anxious as to hislife, and faithfully believed, that if any man could prolong it, itwas that old and faithful friend whom she had known to be true to herlord since their early married troubles. When, therefore, she found that he had been dismissed, and that astranger was to be sent for in his place, her heart sank low withinher. "But, doctor, " she said, with her apron up to her eyes, "you ain'tgoing to leave him, are you?" Dr Thorne did not find it easy to explain to her ladyship thatmedical etiquette would not permit him to remain in attendance on herhusband after he had been dismissed and another physician called inhis place. "Etiquette!" said she, crying. "What's etiquette to do with it when aman is a-killing hisself with brandy?" "Fillgrave will forbid that quite as strongly as I can do. " "Fillgrave!" said she. "Fiddlesticks! Fillgrave, indeed!" Dr Thorne could almost have embraced her for the strong feeling ofthorough confidence on the one side, and thorough distrust on theother, which she contrived to throw into those few words. "I'll tell you what, doctor; I won't let the messenger go. I'll bearthe brunt of it. He can't do much now he ain't up, you know. I'llstop the boy; we won't have no Fillgraves here. " This, however, was a step to which Dr Thorne would not assent. Heendeavoured to explain to the anxious wife, that after what hadpassed he could not tender his medical services till they were againasked for. "But you can slip in as a friend, you know; and then by degrees youcan come round him, eh? can't you now, doctor? And as to thepayment--" All that Dr Thorne said on the subject may easily be imagined. And inthis way, and in partaking of the lunch which was forced upon him, anhour had nearly passed between his leaving Sir Roger's bedroom andputting his foot in the stirrup. But no sooner had the cob begun tomove on the gravel-sweep before the house, than one of the upperwindows opened, and the doctor was summoned to another conferencewith the sick man. "He says you are to come back, whether or no, " said Mr Winterbones, screeching out of the window, and putting all his emphasis on thelast words. "Thorne! Thorne! Thorne!" shouted the sick man from his sick-bed, soloudly that the doctor heard him, seated as he was on horseback outbefore the house. "You're to come back, whether or no, " repeated Winterbones, withmore emphasis, evidently conceiving that there was a strength ofinjunction in that "whether or no" which would be found quiteinvincible. Whether actuated by these magic words, or by some internal process ofthought, we will not say; but the doctor did slowly, and as thoughunwillingly, dismount again from his steed, and slowly retrace hissteps into the house. "It is no use, " he said to himself, "for that messenger has alreadygone to Barchester. " "I have sent for Dr Fillgrave, " were the first words which thecontractor said to him when he again found himself by the bedside. "Did you call me back to tell me that?" said Thorne, who now realyfelt angry at the impertinent petulance of the man before him: "youshould consider, Scatcherd, that my time may be of value to others, if not to you. " "Now don't be angry, old fellow, " said Scatcherd, turning to him, and looking at him with a countenance quite different from any thathe had shown that day; a countenance in which there was a show ofmanhood, --some show also of affection. "You ain't angry now becauseI've sent for Fillgrave?" "Not in the least, " said the doctor very complacently. "Not in theleast. Fillgrave will do as much good as I can do you. " "And that's none at all, I suppose; eh, Thorne?" "That depends on yourself. He will do you good if you will tell himthe truth, and will then be guided by him. Your wife, your servant, any one can be as good a doctor to you as either he or I; as good, that is, in the main point. But you have sent for Fillgrave now; andof course you must see him. I have much to do, and you must let mego. " Scatcherd, however, would not let him go, but held his hand fast. "Thorne, " said he, "if you like it, I'll make them put Fillgraveunder the pump directly he comes here. I will indeed, and pay all thedamage myself. " This was another proposition to which the doctor could not consent;but he was utterly unable to refrain from laughing. There was anearnest look of entreaty about Sir Roger's face as he made thesuggestion; and, joined to this, there was a gleam of comicsatisfaction in his eye which seemed to promise, that if he receivedthe least encouragement he would put his threat into execution. Nowour doctor was not inclined to taking any steps towards subjectinghis learned brother to pump discipline; but he could not but admit tohimself that the idea was not a bad one. "I'll have it done, I will, by heavens! if you'll only say the word, "protested Sir Roger. But the doctor did not say the word, and so the idea was passed off. "You shouldn't be so testy with a man when he is ill, " saidScatcherd, still holding the doctor's hand, of which he had again gotpossession; "specially not an old friend; and specially again whenyou're been a-blowing of him up. " It was not worth the doctor's while to aver that the testinesshad all been on the other side, and that he had never lost hisgood-humour; so he merely smiled, and asked Sir Roger if he could doanything further for him. "Indeed you can, doctor; and that's why I sent for you, --why I sentfor you yesterday. Get out of the room, Winterbones, " he then said, gruffly, as though he were dismissing from his chamber a dirtydog. Winterbones, not a whit offended, again hid his cup under hiscoat-tail and vanished. "Sit down, Thorne, sit down, " said the contractor, speaking quite ina different manner from any that he had yet assumed. "I know you'rein a hurry, but you must give me half an hour. I may be dead beforeyou can give me another; who knows?" The doctor of course declared that he hoped to have many ahalf-hour's chat with him for many a year to come. "Well, that's as may be. You must stop now, at any rate. You can makethe cob pay for it, you know. " The doctor took a chair and sat down. Thus entreated to stop, he hadhardly any alternative but to do so. "It wasn't because I'm ill that I sent for you, or rather let herladyship send for you. Lord bless you, Thorne; do you think I don'tknow what it is that makes me like this? When I see that poor wretch, Winterbones, killing himself with gin, do you think I don't knowwhat's coming to myself as well as him? "Why do you take it then? Why do you do it? Your life is not likehis. Oh, Scatcherd! Scatcherd!" and the doctor prepared to pour outthe flood of his eloquence in beseeching this singular man to abstainfrom his well-known poison. "Is that all you know of human nature, doctor? Abstain. Can youabstain from breathing, and live like a fish does under water?" "But Nature has not ordered you to drink, Scatcherd. " "Habit is second nature, man; and a stronger nature than the first. And why should I not drink? What else has the world given me forall that I have done for it? What other resource have I? What othergratification?" "Oh, my God! Have you not unbounded wealth? Can you not do anythingyou wish? be anything you choose?" "No, " and the sick man shrieked with an energy that made him audibleall through the house. "I can do nothing that I would choose to do;be nothing that I would wish to be! What can I do? What can I be?What gratification can I have except the brandy bottle? If I go amonggentlemen, can I talk to them? If they have anything to say abouta railway, they will ask me a question: if they speak to me beyondthat, I must be dumb. If I go among my workmen, can they talk to me?No; I am their master, and a stern master. They bob their heads andshake in their shoes when they see me. Where are my friends? Here!"said he, and he dragged a bottle from under his very pillow. "Whereare my amusements? Here!" and he brandished the bottle almost in thedoctor's face. "Where is my one resource, my one gratification, myonly comfort after all my toils. Here, doctor; here, here, here!"and, so saying, he replaced his treasure beneath his pillow. There was something so horrifying in this, that Dr Thorne shrank backamazed, and was for a moment unable to speak. "But, Scatcherd, " he said at last; "surely you would not die for sucha passion as that?" "Die for it? Aye, would I. Live for it while I can live; and die forit when I can live no longer. Die for it! What is that for a man todo? Do not men die for a shilling a day? What is a man the worse fordying? What can I be the worse for dying? A man can die but once, yousaid just now. I'd die ten times for this. " "You are speaking now either in madness, or else in folly, to startleme. " "Folly enough, perhaps, and madness enough, also. Such a life as minemakes a man a fool, and makes him mad too. What have I about me thatI should be afraid to die? I'm worth three hundred thousand pounds;and I'd give it all to be able to go to work to-morrow with a hod andmortar, and have a fellow clap his hand upon my shoulder, and say:'Well, Roger, shall us have that 'ere other half-pint this morning?'I'll tell you what, Thorne, when a man has made three hundredthousand pounds, there's nothing left for him but to die. It's allhe's good for then. When money's been made, the next thing is tospend it. Now the man who makes it has not the heart to do that. " The doctor, of course, in hearing all this, said something of atendency to comfort and console the mind of his patient. Not thatanything he could say would comfort or console the man; but that itwas impossible to sit there and hear such fearful truths--for asregarded Scatcherd they were truths--without making some answer. "This is as good as a play, isn't, doctor?" said the baronet. "Youdidn't know how I could come out like one of those actor fellows. Well, now, come; at last I'll tell you why I have sent for you. Before that last burst of mine I made my will. " "You had a will made before that. " "Yes, I had. That will is destroyed. I burnt it with my own hand, sothat there should be no mistake about it. In that will I had namedtwo executors, you and Jackson. I was then partner with Jackson inthe York and Yeovil Grand Central. I thought a deal of Jackson then. He's not worth a shilling now. " "Well, I'm exactly in the same category. " "No, you're not. Jackson is nothing without money; but money'll nevermake you. " "No, nor I shan't make money, " said the doctor. "No, you never will. Nevertheless, there's my other will, there, under that desk there; and I've put you in as sole executor. " "You must alter that, Scatcherd; you must indeed; with three hundredthousand pounds to be disposed of, the trust is far too much for anyone man: besides you must name a younger man; you and I are of thesame age, and I may die the first. " "Now, doctor, doctor, no humbug; let's have no humbug from you. Remember this; if you're not true, you're nothing. " "Well, but, Scatcherd--" "Well, but doctor, there's the will, it's already made. I don't wantto consult you about that. You are named as executor, and if you havethe heart to refuse to act when I'm dead, why, of course, you can doso. " The doctor was no lawyer, and hardly knew whether he had any meansof extricating himself from this position in which his friend wasdetermined to place him. "You'll have to see that will carried out, Thorne. Now I'll tell youwhat I have done. " "You're not going to tell me how you have disposed of your property?" "Not exactly; at least not all of it. One hundred thousand I've leftin legacies, including, you know, what Lady Scatcherd will have. " "Have you not left the house to Lady Scatcherd?" "No; what the devil would she do with a house like this? She doesn'tknow how to live in it now she has got it. I have provided for her;it matters not how. The house and the estate, and the remainder of mymoney, I have left to Louis Philippe. " "What! two hundred thousand pounds?" said the doctor. "And why shouldn't I leave two hundred thousand pounds to my son, even to my eldest son if I had more than one? Does not Mr Greshamleave all his property to his heir? Why should not I make an eldestson as well as Lord de Courcy or the Duke of Omnium? I suppose arailway contractor ought not to be allowed an eldest son by Act ofParliament! Won't my son have a title to keep up? And that's morethan the Greshams have among them. " The doctor explained away what he said as well as he could. He couldnot explain that what he had really meant was this, that Sir RogerScatcherd's son was not a man fit to be trusted with the entirecontrol of an enormous fortune. Sir Roger Scatcherd had but one child; that child which had been bornin the days of his early troubles, and had been dismissed from hismother's breast in order that the mother's milk might nourish theyoung heir of Greshamsbury. The boy had grown up, but had becomestrong neither in mind nor body. His father had determined to makea gentleman of him, and had sent to Eton and to Cambridge. Buteven this receipt, generally as it is recognised, will not make agentleman. It is hard, indeed, to define what receipt will do so, though people do have in their own minds some certain undefined, butyet tolerably correct ideas on the subject. Be that as it may, twoyears at Eton, and three terms at Cambridge, did not make a gentlemanof Louis Philippe Scatcherd. Yes; he was christened Louis Philippe, after the King of the French. If one wishes to look out in the world for royal nomenclature, tofind children who have been christened after kings and queens, orthe uncles and aunts of kings and queens, the search should be madein the families of democrats. None have so servile a deference forthe very nail-parings of royalty; none feel so wondering an awe atthe exaltation of a crowned head; none are so anxious to securethemselves some shred or fragment that has been consecrated by theroyal touch. It is the distance which they feel to exist betweenthemselves and the throne which makes them covet the crumbs ofmajesty, the odds and ends and chance splinters of royalty. There was nothing royal about Louis Philippe Scatcherd but hisname. He had now come to man's estate, and his father, finding theCambridge receipt to be inefficacious, had sent him abroad to travelwith a tutor. The doctor had from time to time heard tidings of thisyouth; he knew that he had already shown symptoms of his father'svices, but no symptoms of his father's talents; he knew that he hadbegun life by being dissipated, without being generous; and that atthe age of twenty-one he had already suffered from delirium tremens. It was on this account that he had expressed disapprobation, ratherthan surprise, when he heard that his father intended to bequeaththe bulk of his large fortune to the uncontrolled will of thisunfortunate boy. "I have toiled for my money hard, and I have a right to do as I likewith it. What other satisfaction can it give me?" The doctor assured him that he did not at all mean to dispute this. "Louis Philippe will do well enough, you'll find, " continued thebaronet, understanding what was passing within his companion'sbreast. "Let a young fellow sow his wild oats while he is young, andhe'll be steady enough when he grows old. " "But what if he never lives to get through the sowing?" thought thedoctor to himself. "What if the wild-oats operation is carried onin so violent a manner as to leave no strength in the soil for theproduct of a more valuable crop?" It was of no use saying this, however, so he allowed Scatcherd to continue. "If I'd had a free fling when I was a youngster, I shouldn't havebeen so fond of the brandy bottle now. But any way, my son shall bemy heir. I've had the gumption to make the money, but I haven't thegumption to spend it. My son, however, shall be able to ruffle itwith the best of them. I'll go bail he shall hold his head higherthan ever young Gresham will be able to hold his. They are much ofthe same age, as well I have cause to remember;--and so has herladyship there. " Now the fact was, that Sir Roger Scatcherd felt in his heart nospecial love for young Gresham; but with her ladyship it might almostbe a question whether she did not love the youth whom she had nursedalmost as well as that other one who was her own proper offspring. "And will you not put any check on thoughtless expenditure? Ifyou live ten or twenty years, as we hope you may, it will becomeunnecessary; but in making a will, a man should always remember hemay go off suddenly. " "Especially if he goes to bed with a brandy bottle under his head;eh, doctor? But, mind, that's a medical secret, you know; not a wordof that out of the bedroom. " Dr Thorne could but sigh. What could he say on such a subject to sucha man as this? "Yes, I have put a check on his expenditure. I will not let his dailybread depend on any man; I have therefore left him five hundred ayear at his own disposal, from the day of my death. Let him make whatducks and drakes of that he can. " "Five hundred a year certainly is not much, " said the doctor. "No; nor do I want to keep him to that. Let him have whatever hewants if he sets about spending it properly. But the bulk of theproperty--this estate of Boxall Hill, and the Greshamsbury mortgage, and those other mortgages--I have tied up in this way: they shall beall his at twenty-five; and up to that age it shall be in your powerto give him what he wants. If he shall die without children beforehe shall be twenty-five years of age, they are all to go to Mary'seldest child. " Now Mary was Sir Roger's sister, the mother, therefore, of MissThorne, and, consequently, the wife of the respectable ironmonger whowent to America, and the mother of a family there. "Mary's eldest child!" said the doctor, feeling that the perspirationhad nearly broken out on his forehead, and that he could hardlycontrol his feelings. "Mary's eldest child! Scatcherd, you shouldbe more particular in your description, or you will leave your bestlegacy to the lawyers. " "I don't know, and never heard the name of one of them. " "But do you mean a boy or a girl?" "They may be all girls for what I know, or all boys; besides, Idon't care which it is. A girl would probably do best with it. Onlyyou'd have to see that she married some decent fellow; you'd be herguardian. " "Pooh, nonsense, " said the doctor. "Louis will be five-and-twenty ina year or two. " "In about four years. " "And for all that's come and gone yet, Scatcherd, you are not goingto leave us yourself quite so soon as all that. " "Not if I can help it, doctor; but that's as may be. " "The chances are ten to one that such a clause in your will willnever come to bear. " "Quite so, quite so. If I die, Louis Philippe won't; but I thought itright to put in something to prevent his squandering it all before hecomes to his senses. " "Oh! quite right, quite right. I think I would have named a later agethan twenty-five. " "So would not I. Louis Philippe will be all right by that time. That's my lookout. And now, doctor, you know my will; and if I dieto-morrow, you will know what I want you to do for me. " "You have merely said the eldest child, Scatcherd?" "That's all; give it here, and I'll read it to you. " "No, no; never mind. The eldest child! You should be more particular, Scatcherd; you should, indeed. Consider what an enormous interest mayhave to depend on those words. " "Why, what the devil could I say? I don't know their names; nevereven heard them. But the eldest is the eldest, all the world over. Perhaps I ought to say the youngest, seeing that I am only a railwaycontractor. " Scatcherd began to think that the doctor might now as well go awayand leave him to the society of Winterbones and the brandy; but, muchas our friend had before expressed himself in a hurry, he now seemedinclined to move very leisurely. He sat there by the bedside, restinghis hands on his knees and gazing unconsciously at the counterpane. At last he gave a deep sigh, and then he said, "Scatcherd, you mustbe more particular in this. If I am to have anything to do with it, you must, indeed, be more explicit. " "Why, how the deuce can I be more explicit? Isn't her eldest livingchild plain enough, whether he be Jack, or she be Gill?" "What did your lawyer say to this, Scatcherd?" "Lawyer! You don't suppose I let my lawyer know what I was putting. No; I got the form and the paper, and all that from him, and had himhere, in one room, while Winterbones and I did it in another. It'sall right enough. Though Winterbones wrote it, he did it in such away he did not know what he was writing. " The doctor sat a while longer, still looking at the counterpane, and then got up to depart. "I'll see you again soon, " said he;"to-morrow, probably. " "To-morrow!" said Sir Roger, not at all understanding why Dr Thorneshould talk of returning so soon. "To-morrow! why I ain't so bad asthat, man, am I? If you come so often as that you'll ruin me. " "Oh, not as a medical man; not as that; but about this will, Scatcherd. I must think if over; I must, indeed. " "You need not give yourself the least trouble in the world about mywill till I'm dead; not the least. And who knows--maybe, I may besettling your affairs yet; eh, doctor? looking after your niece whenyou're dead and gone, and getting a husband for her, eh? Ha! ha! ha!" And then, without further speech, the doctor went his way. CHAPTER XI The Doctor Drinks His Tea The doctor got on his cob and went his way, returning duly toGreshamsbury. But, in truth, as he went he hardly knew whither he wasgoing, or what he was doing. Sir Roger had hinted that the cob wouldbe compelled to make up for lost time by extra exertion on the road;but the cob had never been permitted to have his own way as to pacemore satisfactorily than on the present occasion. The doctor, indeed, hardly knew that he was on horseback, so completely was he envelopedin the cloud of his own thoughts. In the first place, that alternative which it had become him to putbefore the baronet as one unlikely to occur--that of the speedy deathof both father and son--was one which he felt in his heart of heartsmight very probably come to pass. "The chances are ten to one that such a clause will never be broughtto bear. " This he had said partly to himself, so as to ease thethoughts which came crowding on his brain; partly, also, in pity forthe patient and the father. But now that he thought the matter over, he felt that there were no such odds. Were not the odds the otherway? Was it not almost probable that both these men might be gatheredto their long account within the next four years? One, the elder, wasa strong man, indeed; one who might yet live for years to come if hewould but give himself fair play. But then, he himself protested, and protested with a truth too surely grounded, that fair play tohimself was beyond his own power to give. The other, the younger, had everything against him. Not only was he a poor, puny creature, without physical strength, one of whose life a friend could neverfeel sure under any circumstances, but he also was already addictedto his father's vices; he also was already killing himself withalcohol. And then, if these two men did die within the prescribed period, ifthis clause in Sir Roger's will were brought to bear, if it shouldbecome his, Dr Thorne's, duty to see that clause carried out, howwould he be bound to act? That woman's eldest child was his ownniece, his adopted bairn, his darling, the pride of his heart, thecynosure of his eye, his child also, his own Mary. Of all his dutieson this earth, next to that one great duty to his God and conscience, was his duty to her. What, under these circumstances, did his duty toher require of him? But then, that one great duty, that duty which she would be the firstto expect from him; what did that demand of him? Had Scatcherd madehis will without saying what its clauses were, it seemed to Thornethat Mary must have been the heiress, should that clause becomenecessarily operative. Whether she were so or not would at any ratebe for lawyers to decide. But now the case was very different. This rich man had confided in him, and would it not be a breach ofconfidence, an act of absolute dishonesty--an act of dishonesty bothto Scatcherd and to that far-distant American family, to that father, who, in former days, had behaved so nobly, and to that eldest childof his, would it not be gross dishonesty to them all if he allowedthis man to leave a will by which his property might go to a personnever intended to be his heir? Long before he had arrived at Greshamsbury his mind on this pointhad been made up. Indeed, it had been made up while sitting there byScatcherd's bedside. It had not been difficult to make up his mind toso much; but then, his way out of this dishonesty was not so easy forhim to find. How should he set this matter right so as to inflict noinjury on his niece, and no sorrow to himself--if that indeed couldbe avoided? And then other thoughts crowded on his brain. He had alwaysprofessed--professed at any rate to himself and to her--that of allthe vile objects of a man's ambition, wealth, wealth merely for itsown sake, was the vilest. They, in their joint school of inherentphilosophy, had progressed to ideas which they might find it not easyto carry out, should they be called on by events to do so. And ifthis would have been difficult to either when acting on behalf ofself alone, how much more difficult when one might have to act forthe other! This difficulty had now come to the uncle. Should he, inthis emergency, take upon himself to fling away the golden chancewhich might accrue to his niece if Scatcherd should be encouraged tomake her partly his heir? "He'd want her to go and live there--to live with him and his wife. All the money in the Bank of England would not pay her for suchmisery, " said the doctor to himself, as he slowly rode into is ownyard. On one point, and one only, had he definitely made up his mind. Onthe following day he would go over again to Boxall Hill, and wouldtell Scatcherd the whole truth. Come what might, the truth must bethe best. And so, with some gleam of comfort, he went into the house, and found his niece in the drawing-room with Patience Oriel. "Mary and I have been quarrelling, " said Patience. "She says thedoctor is the greatest man in a village; and I say the parson is, ofcourse. " "I only say that the doctor is the most looked after, " said Mary. "There's another horrid message for you to go to Silverbridge, uncle. Why can't that Dr Century manage his own people?" "She says, " continued Miss Oriel, "that if a parson was away for amonth, no one would miss him; but that a doctor is so precious thathis very minutes are counted. " "I am sure uncle's are. They begrudge him his meals. Mr Oriel nevergets called away to Silverbridge. " "No; we in the Church manage our parish arrangements better than youdo. We don't let strange practitioners in among our flocks becausethe sheep may chance to fancy them. Our sheep have to put up with ourspiritual doses whether they like them or not. In that respect we aremuch the best off. I advise you, Mary, to marry a clergyman, by allmeans. " "I will when you marry a doctor, " said she. "I am sure nothing on earth would give me greater pleasure, " saidMiss Oriel, getting up and curtseying very low to Dr Thorne; "but Iam not quite prepared for the agitation of an offer this morning, soI'll run away. " And so she went; and the doctor, getting on his other horse, startedagain for Silverbridge, wearily enough. "She's happy now where sheis, " said he to himself, as he rode along. "They all treat her thereas an equal at Greshamsbury. What though she be no cousin to theThornes of Ullathorne. She has found her place there among them all, and keeps it on equal terms with the best of them. There is MissOriel; her family is high; she is rich, fashionable, a beauty, courted by every one; but yet she does not look down on Mary. Theyare equal friends together. But how would it be if she were taken toBoxall Hill, even as a recognised niece of the rich man there? WouldPatience Oriel and Beatrice Gresham go there after her? Could she behappy there as she is in my house here, poor though it be? It wouldkill her to pass a month with Lady Scatcherd and put up with thatman's humours, to see his mode of life, to be dependent on him, tobelong to him. " And then the doctor, hurrying on to Silverbridge, again met Dr Century at the old lady's bedside, and having made hisendeavours to stave off the inexorable coming of the grim visitor, again returned to his own niece and his own drawing-room. "You must be dead, uncle, " said Mary, as she poured out his tea forhim, and prepared the comforts of that most comfortable meal--tea, dinner, and supper, all in one. "I wish Silverbridge was fifty milesoff. " "That would only make the journey worse; but I am not dead yet, and, what is more to the purpose, neither is my patient. " And as he spokehe contrived to swallow a jorum of scalding tea, containing inmeasure somewhat near a pint. Mary, not a whit amazed at this feat, merely refilled the jorum without any observation; and the doctorwent on stirring the mixture with his spoon, evidently oblivious thatany ceremony had been performed by either of them since the firstsupply had been administered to him. When the clatter of knives and forks was over, the doctor turnedhimself to the hearthrug, and putting one leg over the other, hebegan to nurse it as he looked with complacency at his third cup oftea, which stood untasted beside him. The fragments of the solidbanquet had been removed, but no sacrilegious hand had been laid onthe teapot and the cream-jug. "Mary, " said he, "suppose you were to find out to-morrow morningthat, by some accident, you had become a great heiress, would you beable to suppress your exultation?" "The first thing I'd do, would be to pronounce a positive edict thatyou should never go to Silverbridge again; at least without a day'snotice. " "Well, and what next? what would you do next?" "The next thing--the next thing would be to send to Paris for aFrench bonnet exactly like the one Patience Oriel had on. Did you seeit?" "Well I can't say I did; bonnets are invisible now; besides I neverremark anybody's clothes, except yours. " "Oh! do look at Miss Oriel's bonnet the next time you see her. Icannot understand why it should be so, but I am sure of this--noEnglish fingers could put together such a bonnet as that; and I amnearly sure that no French fingers could do it in England. " "But you don't care so much about bonnets, Mary!" This the doctorsaid as an assertion; but there was, nevertheless, somewhat of aquestion involved in it. "Don't I, though?" said she. "I do care very much about bonnets;especially since I saw Patience this morning. I asked how much itcost--guess. " "Oh! I don't know--a pound?" "A pound, uncle!" "What! a great deal more? Ten pounds?" "Oh, uncle. " "What! more than ten pounds? Then I don't think even Patience Orielought to give it. " "No, of course she would not; but, uncle, it really cost a hundredfrancs!" "Oh! a hundred francs; that's four pounds, isn't it? Well, and howmuch did your last new bonnet cost?" "Mine! oh, nothing--five and ninepence, perhaps; I trimmed it myself. If I were left a great fortune, I'd send to Paris to-morrow; no, I'd go myself to Paris to buy a bonnet, and I'd take you with me tochoose it. " The doctor sat silent for a while meditating about this, duringwhich he unconsciously absorbed the tea beside him; and Mary againreplenished his cup. "Come, Mary, " said he at last, "I'm in a generous mood; and as I amrather more rich than usual, we'll send to Paris for a French bonnet. The going for it must wait a while longer I am afraid. " "You're joking. " "No, indeed. If you know the way to send--that I must confess wouldpuzzle me; but if you'll manage the sending, I'll manage the paying;and you shall have a French bonnet. " "Uncle!" said she, looking up at him. "Oh, I'm not joking; I owe you a present, and I'll give you that. " "And if you do, I'll tell you what I'll do with it. I'll cut it intofragments, and burn them before your face. Why, uncle, what do youtake me for? You're not a bit nice to-night to make such an offer asthat to me; not a bit, not a bit. " And then she came over from herseat at the tea-tray and sat down on a foot-stool close at his knee. "Because I'd have a French bonnet if I had a large fortune, is that areason why I should like one now? if you were to pay four pounds fora bonnet for me, it would scorch my head every time I put it on. " "I don't see that: four pounds would not ruin me. However, I don'tthink you'd look a bit better if you had it; and, certainly, I shouldnot like to scorch these locks, " and putting his hand upon hershoulders, he played with her hair. "Patience has a pony-phaeton, and I'd have one if I were rich; andI'd have all my books bound as she does; and, perhaps, I'd give fiftyguineas for a dressing-case. " "Fifty guineas!" "Patience did not tell me; but so Beatrice says. Patience showed itto me once, and it is a darling. I think I'd have the dressing-casebefore the bonnet. But, uncle--" "Well?" "You don't suppose I want such things?" "Not improperly. I am sure you do not. " "Not properly, or improperly; not much, or little. I covet manythings; but nothing of that sort. You know, or should know, that I donot. Why did you talk of buying a French bonnet for me?" Dr Thorne did not answer this question, but went on nursing his leg. "After all, " said he, "money is a fine thing. " "Very fine, when it is well come by, " she answered; "that is, withoutdetriment to the heart or soul. " "I should be a happier man if you were provided for as is Miss Oriel. Suppose, now, I could give you up to a rich man who would be able toinsure you against all wants?" "Insure me against all wants! Oh, that would be a man. That would beselling me, wouldn't it, uncle? Yes, selling me; and the price youwould receive would be freedom from future apprehensions as regardsme. It would be a cowardly sale for you to make; and then, as tome--me the victim. No, uncle; you must bear the misery of having toprovide for me--bonnets and all. We are in the same boat, and youshan't turn me overboard. " "But if I were to die, what would you do then?" "And if I were to die, what would you do? People must be boundtogether. They must depend on each other. Of course, misfortunes maycome; but it is cowardly to be afraid of them beforehand. You and Iare bound together, uncle; and though you say these things to teaseme, I know you do not wish to get rid of me. " "Well, well; we shall win through, doubtless; if not in one way, thenin another. " "Win through! Of course we shall; who doubts our winning? but, uncle--" "But, Mary. " "Well?" "You haven't got another cup of tea, have you?" "Oh, uncle! you have had five. " "No, my dear! not five; only four--only four, I assure you; I havebeen very particular to count. I had one while I was--" "Five uncle; indeed and indeed. " "Well, then, as I hate the prejudice which attaches luck to an oddnumber, I'll have a sixth to show that I am not superstitious. " While Mary was preparing the sixth jorum, there came a knock at thedoor. Those late summonses were hateful to Mary's ear, for they wereusually the forerunners of a midnight ride through the dark lanes tosome farmer's house. The doctor had been in the saddle all day, and, as Janet brought the note into the room, Mary stood up as though todefend her uncle from any further invasion on his rest. "A note from the house, miss, " said Janet: now "the house, " inGreshamsbury parlance, always meant the squire's mansion. "No one ill at the house, I hope, " said the doctor, taking the notefrom Mary's hand. "Oh--ah--yes; it's from the squire--there's nobodyill: wait a minute, Janet, and I'll write a line. Mary, lend me yourdesk. " The squire, anxious as usual for money, had written to ask whatsuccess the doctor had had in negotiating the new loan with SirRoger. The fact, however, was, that in his visit at Boxall Hill, thedoctor had been altogether unable to bring on the carpet the matterof this loan. Subjects had crowded themselves in too quickly duringthat interview--those two interviews at Sir Roger's bedside; and hehad been obliged to leave without even alluding to the question. "I must at any rate go back now, " said he to himself. So he wrote tothe squire, saying that he was to be at Boxall Hill again on thefollowing day, and that he would call at the house on his return. "That's settled, at any rate, " said he. "What's settled?" said Mary. "Why, I must go to Boxall Hill again to-morrow. I must go early, too, so we'd better both be off to bed. Tell Janet I must breakfast athalf-past seven. " "You couldn't take me, could you? I should so like to see that SirRoger. " "To see Sir Roger! Why, he's ill in bed. " "That's an objection, certainly; but some day, when he's well, couldnot you take me over? I have the greatest desire to see a man likethat; a man who began with nothing and now has more than enough tobuy the whole parish of Greshamsbury. " "I don't think you'd like him at all. " "Why not? I am sure I should; I am sure I should like him, and LadyScatcherd, too. I've heard you say that she is an excellent woman. " "Yes, in her way; and he, too, is good in his way; but they areneither of them in your way: they are extremely vulgar--" "Oh! I don't mind that; that would make them more amusing; onedoesn't go to those sort of people for polished manners. " "I don't think you'd find the Scatcherds pleasant acquaintances atall, " said the doctor, taking his bed-candle, and kissing his niece'sforehead as he left the room. CHAPTER XII When Greek Meets Greek, Then Comes the Tug of War The doctor, that is our doctor, had thought nothing more of themessage which had been sent to that other doctor, Dr Fillgrave; norin truth did the baronet. Lady Scatcherd had thought of it, but herhusband during the rest of the day was not in a humour which allowedher to remind him that he would soon have a new physician on hishands; so she left the difficulty to arrange itself, waiting in somelittle trepidation till Dr Fillgrave should show himself. It was well that Sir Roger was not dying for want of his assistance, for when the message reached Barchester, Dr Fillgrave was some fiveor six miles out of town, at Plumstead; and as he did not get backtill late in the evening, he felt himself necessitated to put off hisvisit to Boxall Hill till next morning. Had he chanced to have beenmade acquainted with that little conversation about the pump, hewould probably have postponed it even yet a while longer. He was, however, by no means sorry to be summoned to the bedside ofSir Roger Scatcherd. It was well known at Barchester, and very wellknown to Dr Fillgrave, that Sir Roger and Dr Thorne were old friends. It was very well known to him also, that Sir Roger, in all his bodilyailments, had hitherto been contented to entrust his safety to theskill of his old friend. Sir Roger was in his way a great man, andmuch talked of in Barchester, and rumour had already reached theears of the Barchester Galen, that the great railway contractor wasill. When, therefore, he received a peremptory summons to go over toBoxall Hill, he could not but think that some pure light had brokenin upon Sir Roger's darkness, and taught him at last where to lookfor true medical accomplishment. And then, also, Sir Roger was the richest man in the county, and tocounty practitioners a new patient with large means is a godsend; howmuch greater a godsend when he be not only acquired, but taken alsofrom some rival practitioner, need hardly be explained. Dr Fillgrave, therefore, was somewhat elated when, after a very earlybreakfast, he stepped into the post-chaise which was to carry himto Boxall Hill. Dr Fillgrave's professional advancement had beensufficient to justify the establishment of a brougham, in which hepaid his ordinary visits round Barchester; but this was a specialoccasion, requiring special speed, and about to produce no doubt aspecial guerdon, and therefore a pair of post-horses were put intorequest. It was hardly yet nine when the post-boy somewhat loudly rang thebell at Sir Roger's door; and then Dr Fillgrave, for the first time, found himself in the new grand hall of Boxall Hill house. "I'll tell my lady, " said the servant, showing him into the granddining-room; and there for some fifteen minutes or twenty minutes DrFillgrave walked up and down the length of the Turkey carpet allalone. Dr Fillgrave was not a tall man, and was perhaps rather more inclinedto corpulence than became his height. In his stocking-feet, accordingto the usually received style of measurement, he was five feet five;and he had a little round abdominal protuberance, which an inch and ahalf added to the heels of his boots hardly enabled him to carry offas well as he himself would have wished. Of this he was apparentlyconscious, and it gave to him an air of not being entirely at hisease. There was, however, a personal dignity in his demeanour, apropriety in his gait, and an air of authority in his gestures whichshould prohibit one from stigmatizing those efforts at altitude as afailure. No doubt he did achieve much; but, nevertheless, the effortwould occasionally betray itself, and the story of the frog and theox would irresistibly force itself into one's mind at those momentswhen it most behoved Dr Fillgrave to be magnificent. But if the bulgy roundness of his person and the shortness of hislegs in any way detracted from his personal importance, thesetrifling defects were, he was well aware, more than atoned for by thepeculiar dignity of his countenance. If his legs were short, his facewas not; if there was any undue preponderance below the waistcoat, all was in due symmetry above the necktie. His hair was grey, notgrizzled nor white, but properly grey; and stood up straight from offhis temples on each side with an unbending determination of purpose. His whiskers, which were of an admirable shape, coming down andturning gracefully at the angle of his jaw, were grey also, butsomewhat darker than his hair. His enemies in Barchester declaredthat their perfect shade was produced by a leaden comb. His eyes werenot brilliant, but were very effective, and well under command. Hewas rather short-sighted, and a pair of eye-glasses was always on hisnose, or in his hand. His nose was long, and well pronounced, and hischin, also, was sufficiently prominent; but the great feature of hisface was his mouth. The amount of secret medical knowledge of whichhe could give assurance by the pressure of those lips was trulywonderful. By his lips, also, he could be most exquisitely courteous, or most sternly forbidding. And not only could he be either the oneor the other; but he could at his will assume any shade of differencebetween the two, and produce any mixture of sentiment. When Dr Fillgrave was first shown into Sir Roger's dining-room, hewalked up and down the room for a while with easy, jaunty step, withhis hands joined together behind his back, calculating the priceof the furniture, and counting the heads which might be adequatelyentertained in a room of such noble proportions; but in seven oreight minutes an air of impatience might have been seen to suffusehis face. Why could he not be shown into the sick man's room? Whatnecessity could there be for keeping him there, as though he weresome apothecary with a box of leeches in his pocket? He then rangthe bell, perhaps a little violently. "Does Sir Roger know that I amhere?" he said to the servant. "I'll tell my lady, " said the man, again vanishing. For five minutes more he walked up and down, calculating no longerthe value of the furniture, but rather that of his own importance. He was not wont to be kept waiting in this way; and though Sir RogerScatcherd was at present a great and rich man, Dr Fillgrave hadremembered him a very small and a very poor man. He now began tothink of Sir Roger as the stone-mason, and to chafe somewhat moreviolently at being so kept by such a man. When one is impatient, five minutes is as the duration of all time, and a quarter of an hour is eternity. At the end of twenty minutesthe step of Dr Fillgrave up and down the room had become very quick, and he had just made up his mind that he would not stay there allday to the serious detriment, perhaps fatal injury, of his otherexpectant patients. His hand was again on the bell, and was about tobe used with vigour, when the door opened and Lady Scatcherd entered. The door opened and Lady Scatcherd entered; but she did so veryslowly, as though she were afraid to come into her own dining-room. We must go back a little and see how she had been employed duringthose twenty minutes. "Oh, laws!" Such had been her first exclamation on hearing that thedoctor was in the dining-room. She was standing at the time with herhousekeeper in a small room in which she kept her linen and jam, and in which, in company with the same housekeeper, she spent thehappiest moments of her life. "Oh laws! now, Hannah, what shall we do?" "Send 'un up at once to master, my lady! let John take 'un up. " "There'll be such a row in the house, Hannah; I know there will. " "But sure-ly didn't he send for 'un? Let the master have the rowhimself, then; that's what I'd do, my lady, " added Hannah, seeingthat her ladyship still stood trembling in doubt, biting herthumb-nail. "You couldn't go up to the master yourself, could you now, Hannah?"said Lady Scatcherd in her most persuasive tone. "Why no, " said Hannah, after a little deliberation; "no, I'm afeard Icouldn't. " "Then I must just face it myself. " And up went the wife to tell herlord that the physician for whom he had sent had come to attend hisbidding. In the interview which then took place the baronet had not indeedbeen violent, but he had been very determined. Nothing on earth, hesaid, should induce him to see Dr Fillgrave and offend his dear oldfriend Dr Thorne. "But Roger, " said her ladyship, half crying, or rather pretending tocry in her vexation, "what shall I do with the man? How shall I gethim out of the house?" "Put him under the pump, " said the baronet; and he laughed hispeculiar low guttural laugh, which told so plainly of the havoc whichbrandy had made in his throat. "That's nonsense, Roger; you know I can't put him under the pump. Nowyou are ill, and you'd better see him just for five minutes. I'llmake it all right with Dr Thorne. " "I'll be d---- if I do, my lady. " All the people about Boxall Hillcalled poor Lady Scatcherd "my lady" as if there was some excellentjoke in it; and, so, indeed, there was. "You know you needn't mind nothing he says, nor yet take nothing hesends: and I'll tell him not to come no more. Now do 'ee see him, Roger. " But there was no coaxing Roger over now, or indeed ever: he was awilful, headstrong, masterful man; a tyrant always though nevera cruel one; and accustomed to rule his wife and household asdespotically as he did his gangs of workmen. Such men it is not easyto coax over. "You go down and tell him I don't want him, and won't see him, andthat's an end of it. If he chose to earn his money, why didn't hecome yesterday when he was sent for? I'm well now, and don't wanthim; and what's more, I won't have him. Winterbones, lock the door. " So Winterbones, who during this interview had been at work at hislittle table, got up to lock the door, and Lady Scatcherd had noalternative but to pass through it before the last edict was obeyed. Lady Scatcherd, with slow step, went downstairs and again soughtcounsel with Hannah, and the two, putting their heads together, agreed that the only cure for the present evil was to found in agood fee. So Lady Scatcherd, with a five-pound note in her hand, andtrembling in every limb, went forth to encounter the august presenceof Dr Fillgrave. As the door opened, Dr Fillgrave dropped the bell-rope which was inhis hand, and bowed low to the lady. Those who knew the doctor well, would have known from his bow that he was not well pleased; it wasas much as though he said, "Lady Scatcherd, I am your most obedienthumble servant; at any rate it appears that it is your pleasure totreat me as such. " Lady Scatcherd did not understand all this; but she perceived at oncethat the man was angry. "I hope Sir Roger does not find himself worse, " said the doctor. "Themorning is getting on; shall I step up and see him?" "Hem! ha! oh! Why, you see, Dr Fillgrave, Sir Roger finds hisselfvastly better this morning, vastly so. " "I'm very glad to hear it; but as the morning is getting on, shall Istep up to see Sir Roger?" "Why, Dr Fillgrave, sir, you see, he finds hisself so much hisselfthis morning, that he a'most thinks it would be a shame to troubleyou. " "A shame to trouble me!" This was the sort of shame which DrFillgrave did not at all comprehend. "A shame to trouble me! Why LadyScatcherd--" Lady Scatcherd saw that she had nothing for it but to make the wholematter intelligible. Moreover, seeing that she appreciated morethoroughly the smallness of Dr Fillgrave's person than she did thepeculiar greatness of his demeanour, she began to be a shade lessafraid of him than she had thought she should have been. "Yes, Dr Fillgrave; you see, when a man like he gets well, he can'tabide the idea of doctors: now, yesterday, he was all for sending foryou; but to-day he comes to hisself, and don't seem to want no doctorat all. " Then did Dr Fillgrave seem to grow out of his boots, so suddenly didhe take upon himself sundry modes of expansive attitude;--to grow outof his boots and to swell upwards, till his angry eyes almost lookeddown on Lady Scatcherd, and each erect hair bristled up towards theheavens. "This is very singular, very singular, Lady Scatcherd; very singular, indeed; very singular; quite unusual. I have come here fromBarchester, at some considerable inconvenience, at some veryconsiderable inconvenience, I may say, to my regular patients;and--and--and--I don't know that anything so very singular everoccurred to me before. " And then Dr Fillgrave, with a compression ofhis lips which almost made the poor woman sink into the ground, movedtowards the door. Then Lady Scatcherd bethought her of her great panacea. "It isn'tabout the money, you know, doctor, " said she; "of course Sir Rogerdon't expect you to come here with post-horses for nothing. " In this, by the by, Lady Scatcherd did not stick quite close to veracity, for Sir Roger, had he known it, would by no means have assented toany payment; and the note which her ladyship held in her hand wastaken from her own private purse. "It ain't at all about the money, doctor;" and then she tendered the bank-note, which she thought wouldimmediately make all things smooth. Now Dr Fillgrave dearly loved a five-pound fee. What physician is sounnatural as not to love it? He dearly loved a five-pound fee; but heloved his dignity better. He was angry also; and like all angry men, he loved his grievance. He felt that he had been badly treated; butif he took the money he would throw away his right to indulge in anysuch feeling. At that moment his outraged dignity and his cherishedanger were worth more than a five-pound note. He looked at it withwishful but still averted eyes, and then sternly refused the tender. "No, madam, " said he; "no, no;" and with his right hand raised withhis eye-glasses in it, he motioned away the tempting paper. "No; Ishould have been happy to have given Sir Roger the benefit of anymedical skill I may have, seeing that I was specially called in--" "But, doctor; if the man's well, you know--" "Oh, of course; if he's well, and does not choose to see me, there'san end of it. Should he have any relapse, as my time is valuable, hewill perhaps oblige me by sending elsewhere. Madam, good morning. I will, if you will allow me, ring for my carriage--that is, post-chaise. " "But, doctor, you'll take the money; you must take the money; indeedyou'll take the money, " said Lady Scatcherd, who had now becomereally unhappy at the idea that her husband's unpardonable whim hadbrought this man with post-horses all the way from Barchester, andthat he was to be paid nothing for his time nor costs. "No, madam, no. I could not think of it. Sir Roger, I have no doubt, will know better another time. It is not a question of money; not atall. " "But it is a question of money, doctor; and you really shall, youmust. " And poor Lady Scatcherd, in her anxiety to acquit herself atany rate of any pecuniary debt to the doctor, came to personal closequarters with him, with the view of forcing the note into his hands. "Quite impossible, quite impossible, " said the doctor, stillcherishing his grievance, and valiantly rejecting the root of allevil. "I shall not do anything of the kind, Lady Scatcherd. " "Now doctor, do 'ee; to oblige me. " "Quite out of the question. " And so, with his hands and hat behindhis back, in token of his utter refusal to accept any pecuniaryaccommodation of his injury, he made his way backwards to the door, her ladyship perseveringly pressing him in front. So eager had beenthe attack on him, that he had not waited to give his order about thepost-chaise, but made his way at once towards the hall. "Now, do 'ee take it, do 'ee, " pressed Lady Scatcherd. "Utterly out of the question, " said Dr Fillgrave, with greatdeliberation, as he backed his way into the hall. As he did so, ofcourse he turned round, --and he found himself almost in the arms ofDr Thorne. As Burley must have glared at Bothwell when they rushed together inthe dread encounter on the mountain side; as Achilles may have glaredat Hector when at last they met, each resolved to test in fatalconflict the prowess of the other, so did Dr Fillgrave glare at hisfoe from Greshamsbury, when, on turning round on his exalted heel, he found his nose on a level with the top button of Dr Thorne'swaistcoat. And here, if it be not too tedious, let us pause a while torecapitulate and add up the undoubted grievances of the Barchesterpractitioner. He had made no effort to ingratiate himself into thesheepfold of that other shepherd-dog; it was not by his seeking thathe was now at Boxall Hill; much as he hated Dr Thorne, full sureas he felt of that man's utter ignorance, of his incapacity toadminister properly even a black dose, of his murdering propensitiesand his low, mean, unprofessional style of practice; nevertheless, hehad done nothing to undermine him with these Scatcherds. Dr Thornemight have sent every mother's son at Boxall Hill to his longaccount, and Dr Fillgrave would not have interfered;--would not haveinterfered unless specially and duly called upon to do so. But he had been specially and duly called on. Before such a step wastaken some words must undoubtedly have passed on the subject betweenThorne and the Scatcherds. Thorne must have known what was to bedone. Having been so called, Dr Fillgrave had come--had come all theway in a post-chaise--had been refused admittance to the sick man'sroom, on the plea that the sick man was no longer sick; and just ashe was about to retire fee-less--for the want of the fee was notthe less a grievance from the fact of its having been tendered andrefused--fee-less, dishonoured, and in dudgeon, he encountered thisother doctor--this very rival whom he had been sent to supplant; heencountered him in the very act of going to the sick man's room. What mad fanatic Burley, what god-succoured insolent Achilles, ever had such cause to swell with wrath as at that moment had DrFillgrave? Had I the pen of Moliere, I could fitly tell of suchmedical anger, but with no other pen can it be fitly told. He didswell, and when the huge bulk of his wrath was added to his naturalproportions, he loomed gigantic before the eyes of the surroundingfollowers of Sir Roger. Dr Thorne stepped back three steps and took his hat from his head, having, in the passage from the hall-door to the dining-room, hitherto omitted to do so. It must be borne in mind that he had noconception whatever that Sir Roger had declined to see the physicianfor whom he had sent; none whatever that the physician was now aboutto return, fee-less, to Barchester. Dr Thorne and Dr Fillgrave were doubtless well-known enemies. Allthe world of Barchester, and all that portion of the world of Londonwhich is concerned with the lancet and the scalping-knife, were wellaware of this: they were continually writing against each other;continually speaking against each other; but yet they had neverhitherto come to that positive personal collision which is held tojustify a cut direct. They very rarely saw each other; and when theydid meet, it was in some casual way in the streets of Barchester orelsewhere, and on such occasions their habit had been to bow withvery cold propriety. On the present occasion, Dr Thorne of course felt that Dr Fillgravehad the whip-hand of him; and, with a sort of manly feeling onsuch a point, he conceived it to be most compatible with his owndignity to show, under such circumstances, more than his usualcourtesy--something, perhaps, amounting almost to cordiality. Hehad been supplanted, _quoad_ doctor, in the house of this rich, eccentric, railway baronet, and he would show that he bore no maliceon that account. So he smiled blandly as he took off his hat, and in a civil speech heexpressed a hope that Dr Fillgrave had not found his patient to be inany very unfavourable state. Here was an aggravation to the already lacerated feelings of theinjured man. He had been brought thither to be scoffed at and scornedat, that he might be a laughing-stock to his enemies, and foodfor mirth to the vile-minded. He swelled with noble anger till hewould have burst, had it not been for the opportune padding of hisfrock-coat. "Sir, " said he; "sir:" and he could hardly get his lips open to givevent to the tumult of his heart. Perhaps he was not wrong; for it maybe that his lips were more eloquent than would have been his words. "What's the matter?" said Dr Thorne, opening his eyes wide, andaddressing Lady Scatcherd over the head and across the hairs of theirritated man below him. "What on earth is the matter? Is anythingwrong with Sir Roger?" "Oh, laws, doctor!" said her ladyship. "Oh, laws; I'm sure it ain'tmy fault. Here's Dr Fillgrave in a taking, and I'm quite ready topay him, --quite. If a man gets paid, what more can he want?" And sheagain held out the five-pound note over Dr Fillgrave's head. What more, indeed, Lady Scatcherd, can any of us want, if onlywe could keep our tempers and feelings a little in abeyance? DrFillgrave, however, could not so keep his; and, therefore, he didwant something more, though at the present moment he could havehardly said what. Lady Scatcherd's courage was somewhat resuscitated by the presence ofher ancient trusty ally; and, moreover, she began to conceive thatthe little man before her was unreasonable beyond all conscience inhis anger, seeing that that for which he was ready to work had beenoffered to him without any work at all. "Madam, " said he, again turning round at Lady Scatcherd, "I wasnever before treated in such a way in any house in Barchester--never--never. " "Good heavens, Dr Fillgrave!" said he of Greshamsbury, "what is thematter?" "I'll let you know what is the matter, sir, " said he, turning roundagain as quickly as before. "I'll let you know what is the matter. I'll publish this, sir, to the medical world;" and as he shriekedout the words of the threat, he stood on tiptoes and brandished hiseye-glasses up almost into his enemy's face. "Don't be angry with Dr Thorne, " said Lady Scatcherd. "Any ways, youneedn't be angry with him. If you must be angry with anybody--" "I shall be angry with him, madam, " ejaculated Dr Fillgrave, makinganother sudden demi-pirouette. "I am angry with him--or, rather, Idespise him;" and completing the circle, Dr Fillgrave again broughthimself round in full front of his foe. Dr Thorne raised his eyebrows and looked inquiringly at LadyScatcherd; but there was a quiet sarcastic motion round his mouthwhich by no means had the effect of throwing oil on the troubledwaters. "I'll publish the whole of this transaction to the medical world, DrThorne--the whole of it; and if that has not the effect of rescuingthe people of Greshamsbury out of your hands, then--then--then, Idon't know what will. Is my carriage--that is, post-chaise there?"and Dr Fillgrave, speaking very loudly, turned majestically to one ofthe servants. "What have I done to you, Dr Fillgrave, " said Dr Thorne, nowabsolutely laughing, "that you should determined to take my bread outof my mouth? I am not interfering with your patient. I have come heresimply with reference to money matters appertaining to Sir Roger. " "Money matters! Very well--very well; money matters. That is youridea of medical practice! Very well--very well. Is my post-chaise atthe door? I'll publish it all to the medical world--every word--everyword of it, every word of it. " "Publish what, you unreasonable man?" "Man! sir; whom do you call a man? I'll let you know whether I'm aman--post-chaise there!" "Don't 'ee call him names now, doctor; don't 'ee, pray don't 'ee, "said Lady Scatcherd. By this time they had all got somewhere nearer the hall-door; but theScatcherd retainers were too fond of the row to absent themselveswillingly at Dr Fillgrave's bidding, and it did not appear that anyone went in search of the post-chaise. "Man! sir; I'll let you know what it is to speak to me in that style. I think, sir, you hardly know who I am. " "All that I know of you at present is, that you are my friend SirRoger's physician, and I cannot conceive what has occurred to makeyou so angry. " And as he spoke, Dr Thorne looked carefully at him tosee whether that pump-discipline had in truth been applied. Therewere no signs whatever that cold water had been thrown upon DrFillgrave. "My post-chaise--is my post-chaise there? The medical world shallknow all; you may be sure, sir, the medical world shall know it all;"and thus, ordering his post-chaise, and threatening Dr Thorne withthe medical world, Dr Fillgrave made his way to the door. But the moment he put on his hat he returned. "No, madam, " saidhe. "No; it is quite out of the question: such an affair is notto be arranged by such means. I'll publish it all to the medicalworld--post-chaise there!" and then, using all his force, he flungas far as he could into the hall a light bit of paper. It fell at DrThorne's feet, who, raising it, found that it was a five-pound note. "I put it into his hat just while he was in his tantrum, " said LadyScatcherd. "And I thought that perhaps he would not find it till hegot to Barchester. Well I wish he'd been paid, certainly, althoughSir Roger wouldn't see him;" and in this manner Dr Thorne got someglimpse of understanding into the cause of the great offence. "I wonder whether Sir Roger will see _me_, " said he, laughing. CHAPTER XIII The Two Uncles "Ha! ha! ha! Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Sir Roger, lustily, as Dr Thorneentered the room. "Well, if that ain't rich, I don't know what is. Ha! ha! ha! But why did they not put him under the pump, doctor?" The doctor, however, had too much tact, and too many things ofimportance to say, to allow of his giving up much time to thediscussion of Dr Fillgrave's wrath. He had come determined to openthe baronet's eyes as to what would be the real effect of his will, and he had also to negotiate a loan for Mr Gresham, if that might bepossible. Dr Thorne therefore began about the loan, that being theeasier subject, and found that Sir Roger was quite clear-headed as tohis money concerns, in spite of his illness. Sir Roger was willingenough to lend Mr Gresham more money--six, eight, ten, twentythousand; but then, in doing so, he should insist on obtainingpossession of the title-deeds. "What! the title-deeds of Greshamsbury for a few thousand pounds?"said the doctor. "I don't know whether you call ninety thousand pounds a fewthousands; but the debt will about amount to that. " "Ah! that's the old debt. " "Old and new together, of course; every shilling I lend more weakensmy security for what I have lent before. " "But you have the first claim, Sir Roger. " "It ought to be first and last to cover such a debt as that. If hewants further accommodation, he must part with his deeds, doctor. " The point was argued backwards and forwards for some time withoutavail, and the doctor then thought it well to introduce the othersubject. "Well, Sir Roger, you're a hard man. " "No I ain't, " said Sir Roger; "not a bit hard; that is, not a bit toohard. Money is always hard. I know I found it hard to come by; andthere is no reason why Squire Gresham should expect to find me sovery soft. " "Very well; there is an end of that. I thought you would have done asmuch to oblige me, that is all. " "What! take bad security to oblige you?" "Well, there's an end of that. " "I'll tell you what; I'll do as much to oblige a friend as any one. I'll lend you five thousand pounds, you yourself, without security atall, if you want it. " "But you know I don't want it; or, at any rate, shan't take it. " "But to ask me to go on lending money to a third party, and he overhead and ears in debt, by way of obliging you, why, it's a little toomuch. " "Well, there's and end of it. Now I've something to say to you aboutthat will of yours. " "Oh! that's settled. " "No, Scatcherd; it isn't settled. It must be a great deal moresettled before we have done with it, as you'll find when you hearwhat I have to tell you. " "What you have to tell me!" said Sir Roger, sitting up in bed; "andwhat have you to tell me?" "Your will says you sister's eldest child. " "Yes; but that's only in the event of Louis Philippe dying before heis twenty-five. " "Exactly; and now I know something about your sister's eldest child, and, therefore, I have come to tell you. " "You know something about Mary's eldest child?" "I do, Scatcherd; it is a strange story, and maybe it will make youangry. I cannot help it if it does so. I should not tell you this ifI could avoid it; but as I do tell you, for your sake, as you willsee, and not for my own, I must implore you not to tell my secret toothers. " Sir Roger now looked at him with an altered countenance. There wassomething in his voice of the authoritative tone of other days, something in the doctor's look which had on the baronet the sameeffect which in former days it had sometimes had on the stone-mason. "Can you give me a promise, Scatcherd, that what I am about to tellyou shall not be repeated?" "A promise! Well, I don't know what it's about, you know. I don'tlike promises in the dark. " "Then I must leave it to your honour; for what I have to say must besaid. You remember my brother, Scatcherd?" Remember his brother! thought the rich man to himself. The name ofthe doctor's brother had not been alluded to between them since thedays of that trial; but still it was impossible but that Scatcherdshould well remember him. "Yes, yes; certainly. I remember your brother, " said he. "I rememberhim well; there's no doubt about that. " "Well, Scatcherd, " and, as he spoke, the doctor laid his hand withkindness on the other's arm. "Mary's eldest child was my brother'schild as well. "But there is no such child living, " said Sir Roger; and, in hisviolence, as he spoke he threw from off him the bedclothes, and triedto stand upon the floor. He found, however, that he had no strengthfor such an effort, and was obliged to remain leaning on the bed andresting on the doctor's arm. "There was no such child ever lived, " said he. "What do you mean bythis?" Dr Thorne would say nothing further till he had got the man into bedagain. This he at last effected, and then he went on with the storyin his own way. "Yes, Scatcherd, that child is alive; and for fear that you shouldunintentionally make her your heir, I have thought it right to tellyou this. " "A girl, is it?" "Yes, a girl. " "And why should you want to spite her? If she is Mary's child, she isyour brother's child also. If she is my niece, she must be your niecetoo. Why should you want to spite her? Why should you try to do hersuch a terrible injury?" "I do not want to spite her. " "Where is she? Who is she? What is she called? Where does she live?" The doctor did not at once answer all these questions. He had madeup his mind that he would tell Sir Roger that this child was living, but he had not as yet resolved to make known all the circumstancesof her history. He was not even yet quite aware whether it would benecessary to say that this foundling orphan was the cherished darlingof his own house. "Such a child, is, at any rate, living, " said he; "of that I giveyou my assurance; and under your will, as now worded, it might cometo pass that that child should be your heir. I do not want to spiteher, but I should be wrong to let you make your will without suchknowledge, seeing that I am possessed of it myself. " "But where is the girl?" "I do not know that that signifies. " "Signifies! Yes; it does signify a great deal. But, Thorne, Thorne, now that I remember it, now that I can think of things, it was--wasit not you yourself who told me that the baby did not live?" "Very possibly. " "And was it a lie that you told me?" "If so, yes. But it is no lie that I tell you now. " "I believed you then, Thorne; then, when I was a poor, broken-downday-labourer, lying in jail, rotting there; but I tell you fairly, Ido not believe you now. You have some scheme in this. " "Whatever scheme I may have, you can frustrate by making anotherwill. What can I gain by telling you this? I only do so to induce youto be more explicit in naming your heir. " They both remained silent for a while, during which the baronetpoured out from his hidden resource a glass of brandy and swallowedit. "When a man is taken aback suddenly by such tidings as these, he musttake a drop of something, eh, doctor?" Dr Thorne did not see the necessity; but the present, he felt, was notime for arguing the point. "Come, Thorne, where is the girl? You must tell me that. She is myniece, and I have a right to know. She shall come here, and I will dosomething for her. By the Lord! I would as soon she had the money asany one else, if she is anything of a good 'un;--some of it, that is. Is she a good 'un?" "Good!" said the doctor, turning away his face. "Yes; she is goodenough. " "She must be grown up by now. None of your light skirts, eh?" "She is a good girl, " said the doctor somewhat loudly and sternly. Hecould hardly trust himself to say much on this point. "Mary was a good girl, a very good girl, till"--and Sir Roger raisedhimself up in his bed with his fist clenched, as though he were againabout to strike that fatal blow at the farm-yard gate. "But come, it's no good thinking of that; you behaved well and manly, always. And so poor Mary's child is alive; at least, you say so. " "I say so, and you may believe it. Why should I deceive you?" "No, no; I don't see why. But then why did you deceive me before?" To this the doctor chose to make no answer, and again there wassilence for a while. "What do you call her, doctor?" "Her name is Mary. " "The prettiest women's name going; there's no name like it, " said thecontractor, with an unusual tenderness in his voice. "Mary--yes; butMary what? What other name does she go by?" Here the doctor hesitated. "Mary Scatcherd--eh?" "No. Not Mary Scatcherd. " "Not Mary Scatcherd! Mary what, then? You, with your d---- pride, wouldn't let her be called Mary Thorne, I know. " This was too much for the doctor. He felt that there were tears inhis eyes, so he walked away to the window to dry them, unseen. Had hehad fifty names, each more sacred than the other, the most sacred ofthem all would hardly have been good enough for her. "Mary what, doctor? Come, if the girl is to belong to me, if I am toprovide for her, I must know what to call her, and where to look forher. " "Who talked of your providing for her?" said the doctor, turninground at the rival uncle. "Who said that she was to belong to you?She will be no burden to you; you are only told of this that youmay not leave your money to her without knowing it. She is providedfor--that is, she wants nothing; she will do well enough; you neednot trouble yourself about her. " "But if she's Mary's child, Mary's child in real truth, I willtrouble myself about her. Who else should do so? For the matter ofthat, I'd as soon say her as any of those others in America. What doI care about blood? I shan't mind her being a bastard. That is tosay, of course, if she's decently good. Did she ever get any kind ofteaching; book-learning, or anything of that sort?" Dr Thorne at this moment hated his friend the baronet with almost adeadly hatred; that he, rough brute as he was--for he was a roughbrute--that he should speak in such language of the angel who gave tothat home in Greshamsbury so many of the joys of Paradise--that heshould speak of her as in some degree his own, that he should inquiredoubtingly as to her attributes and her virtues. And then the doctorthought of her Italian and French readings, of her music, of her nicebooks, and sweet lady ways, of her happy companionship with PatienceOriel, and her dear, bosom friendship with Beatrice Gresham. Hethought of her grace, and winning manners, and soft, polishedfeminine beauty; and, as he did so, he hated Sir Roger Scatcherd, andregarded him with loathing, as he might have regarded a wallowinghog. At last a light seemed to break in upon Sir Roger's mind. Dr Thorne, he perceived, did not answer his last question. He perceived, also, that the doctor was affected with some more than ordinary emotion. Why should it be that this subject of Mary Scatcherd's child movedhim so deeply? Sir Roger had never been at the doctor's house atGreshamsbury, had never seen Mary Thorne, but he had heard thatthere lived with the doctor some young female relative; and thus aglimmering light seemed to come in upon Sir Roger's bed. He had twitted the doctor with his pride; had said that it wasimpossible that the girl should be called Mary Thorne. What if shewere so called? What if she were now warming herself at the doctor'shearth? "Well, come, Thorne, what is it you call her? Tell it out, man. And, look you, if it's your name she bears, I shall think more of you, adeal more than ever I did yet. Come, Thorne, I'm her uncle too. Ihave a right to know. She is Mary Thorne, isn't she?" The doctor had not the hardihood nor the resolution to deny it. "Yes, " said he, "that is her name; she lives with me. " "Yes, and lives with all those grand folks at Greshamsbury too. Ihave heard of that. " "She lives with me, and belongs to me, and is as my daughter. " "She shall come over here. Lady Scatcherd shall have her to stay withher. She shall come to us. And as for my will, I'll make another. I'll--" "Yes, make another will--or else alter that one. But as to MissThorne coming here--" "What! Mary--" "Well, Mary. As to Mary Thorne coming here, that I fear will not bepossible. She cannot have two homes. She has cast her lot with one ofher uncles, and she must remain with him now. " "Do you mean to say that she must never have any relation but one?" "But one such as I am. She would not be happy over here. She does notlike new faces. You have enough depending on you; I have but her. " "Enough! why, I have only Louis Philippe. I could provide for a dozengirls. " "Well, well, well, we will not talk about that. " "Ah! but, Thorne, you have told me of this girl now, and I cannot buttalk of her. If you wished to keep the matter dark, you should havesaid nothing about it. She is my niece as much as yours. And, Thorne, I loved my sister Mary quite as well as you loved your brother; quiteas well. " Any one who might now have heard and seen the contractor would havehardly thought him to be the same man who, a few hours before, wasurging that the Barchester physician should be put under the pump. "You have your son, Scatcherd. I have no one but that girl. " "I don't want to take her from you. I don't want to take her; butsurely there can be no harm in her coming here to see us? I canprovide for her, Thorne, remember that. I can provide for her withoutreference to Louis Philippe. What are ten or fifteen thousand poundsto me? Remember that, Thorne. " Dr Thorne did remember it. In that interview he remembered manythings, and much passed through his mind on which he felt himselfcompelled to resolve somewhat too suddenly. Would he be justifiedin rejecting, on behalf of Mary, the offer of pecuniary provisionwhich this rich relative seemed so well inclined to make? Or, if heaccepted it, would he in truth be studying her interests? Scatcherdwas a self-willed, obstinate man--now indeed touched by unwontedtenderness; but he was one to whose lasting tenderness Dr Thornewould be very unwilling to trust his darling. He did resolve, that onthe whole he should best discharge his duty, even to her, by keepingher to himself, and rejecting, on her behalf, any participation inthe baronet's wealth. As Mary herself had said, "some people mustbe bound together;" and their destiny, that of himself and hisniece, seemed to have so bound them. She had found her place atGreshamsbury, her place in the world; and it would be better forher now to keep it, than to go forth and seek another that would bericher, but at the same time less suited to her. "No, Scatcherd, " he said at last, "she cannot come here; she wouldnot be happy here, and, to tell the truth, I do not wish her to knowthat she has other relatives. " "Ah! she would be ashamed of her mother, you mean, and of hermother's brother too, eh? She's too fine a lady, I suppose, to takeme by the hand and give me a kiss, and call me her uncle? I and LadyScatcherd would not be grand enough for her, eh?" "You may say what you please, Scatcherd: I of course cannot stopyou. " "But I don't know how you'll reconcile what you are doing to yourconscience. What right can you have to throw away the girl's chance, now that she has a chance? What fortune can you give her?" "I have done what little I could, " said Thorne, proudly. "Well, well, well, well, I never heard such a thing in my life;never. Mary's child, my own Mary's child, and I'm not to see her!But, Thorne, I tell you what; I will see her. I'll go over to her, I'll go to Greshamsbury, and tell her who I am, and what I can dofor her. I tell you fairly I will. You shall not keep her away fromthose who belong to her, and can do her a good turn. Mary's daughter;another Mary Scatcherd! I almost wish she were called Mary Scatcherd. Is she like her, Thorne? Come tell me that; is she like her mother. " "I do not remember her mother; at least not in health. " "Not remember her! ah, well. She was the handsomest girl inBarchester, anyhow. That was given up to her. Well, I didn't think tobe talking of her again. Thorne, you cannot but expect that I shallgo over and see Mary's child?" "Now, Scatcherd, look here, " and the doctor, coming away from thewindow, where he had been standing, sat himself down by the bedside, "you must not come over to Greshamsbury. " "Oh! but I shall. " "Listen to me, Scatcherd. I do not want to praise myself in any way;but when that girl was an infant, six months old, she was like to bea thorough obstacle to her mother's fortune in life. Tomlinson waswilling to marry your sister, but he would not marry the child too. Then I took the baby, and I promised her mother that I would be toher as a father. I have kept my word as fairly as I have been able. She has sat at my hearth, and drunk of my cup, and been to me as myown child. After that, I have a right to judge what is best for her. Her life is not like your life, and her ways are not as your ways--" "Ah, that is just it; we are too vulgar for her. " "You may take it as you will, " said the doctor, who was too much inearnest to be in the least afraid of offending his companion. "I havenot said so; but I do say that you and she are unlike in your way ofliving. " "She wouldn't like an uncle with a brandy bottle under his head, eh?" "You could not see her without letting her know what is the connexionbetween you; of that I wish to keep her in ignorance. " "I never knew any one yet who was ashamed of a rich connexion. How doyou mean to get a husband for her, eh?" "I have told you of her existence, " continued the doctor, notappearing to notice what the baronet had last said, "because I foundit necessary that you should know the fact of your sister having leftthis child behind her; you would otherwise have made a will differentfrom that intended, and there might have been a lawsuit, and mischiefand misery when we are gone. You must perceive that I have done thisin honesty to you; and you yourself are too honest to repay me bytaking advantage of this knowledge to make me unhappy. " "Oh, very well, doctor. At any rate, you are a brick, I will saythat. But I'll think of all this, I'll think of it; but it doesstartle me to find that poor Mary has a child living so near to me. " "And now, Scatcherd, I will say good-bye. We part as friends, don'twe?" "Oh, but doctor, you ain't going to leave me so. What am I to do?What doses shall I take? How much brandy may I drink? May I have agrill for dinner? D---- me, doctor, you have turned Fillgrave out ofthe house. You mustn't go and desert me. " Dr Thorne laughed, and then, sitting himself down to write medically, gave such prescriptions and ordinances as he found to be necessary. They amounted but to this: that the man was to drink, if possible, nobrandy; and if that were not possible, then as little as might be. This having been done, the doctor again proceeded to take his leave;but when he got to the door he was called back. "Thorne! Thorne!About that money for Mr Gresham; do what you like, do just whatyou like. Ten thousand, is it? Well, he shall have it. I'll makeWinterbones write about it at once. Five per cent. , isn't it? No, four and a half. Well, he shall have ten thousand more. " "Thank you, Scatcherd, thank you, I am really very much obliged toyou, I am indeed. I wouldn't ask it if I was not sure your money issafe. Good-bye, old fellow, and get rid of that bedfellow of yours, "and again he was at the door. "Thorne, " said Sir Roger once more. "Thorne, just come back for aminute. You wouldn't let me send a present would you, --fifty poundsor so, --just to buy a few flounces?" The doctor contrived to escape without giving a definite answerto this question; and then, having paid his compliments to LadyScatcherd, remounted his cob and rode back to Greshamsbury. CHAPTER XIV Sentence of Exile Dr Thorne did not at once go home to his own house. When he reachedthe Greshamsbury gates, he sent his horse to its own stable by one ofthe people at the lodge, and then walked on to the mansion. He hadto see the squire on the subject of the forthcoming loan, and he hadalso to see Lady Arabella. The Lady Arabella, though she was not personally attached to thedoctor with quite so much warmth as some others of her family, stillhad reasons of her own for not dispensing with his visits to thehouse. She was one of his patients, and a patient fearful of thedisease with which she was threatened. Though she thought the doctorto be arrogant, deficient as to properly submissive demeanourtowards herself, an instigator to marital parsimony in her lord, one altogether opposed to herself and her interest in Greshamsburypolitics, nevertheless, she did feel trust in him as a medical man. She had no wish to be rescued out of his hands by any Dr Fillgrave, as regarded that complaint of hers, much as she may have desired, and did desire, to sever him from all Greshamsbury councils in allmatters not touching the healing art. Now the complaint of which the Lady Arabella was afraid, was cancer:and her only present confidant in this matter was Dr Thorne. The first of the Greshamsbury circle whom he saw was Beatrice, and hemet her in the garden. "Oh, doctor, " said she, "where has Mary been this age? She has notbeen up here since Frank's birthday. " "Well, that was only three days ago. Why don't you go down and ferrether out in the village?" "So I have done. I was there just now, and found her out. She was outwith Patience Oriel. Patience is all and all with her now. Patienceis all very well, but if they throw me over--" "My dear Miss Gresham, Patience is and always was a virtue. " "A poor, beggarly, sneaking virtue after all, doctor. They shouldhave come up, seeing how deserted I am here. There's absolutelynobody left. " "Has Lady de Courcy gone?" "Oh, yes! All the de Courcys have gone. I think, between ourselves, Mary stays away because she does not love them too well. They haveall gone, and taken Augusta and Frank with them. " "Has Frank gone to Courcy Castle?" "Oh, yes; did you not hear? There was rather a fight about it. MasterFrank wanted to get off, and was as hard to catch as an eel, and thenthe countess was offended; and papa said he didn't see why Frank wasto go if he didn't like it. Papa is very anxious about his degree, you know. " The doctor understood it all as well as though it had been describedto him at full length. The countess had claimed her prey, in orderthat she might carry him off to Miss Dunstable's golden embrace. Theprey, not yet old enough and wise enough to connect the worship ofPlutus with that of Venus, had made sundry futile feints and dodgesin the vain hope of escape. Then the anxious mother had enforced thede Courcy behests with all a mother's authority. But the father, whose ideas on the subject of Miss Dunstable's wealth had probablynot been consulted, had, as a matter of course, taken exactly theother side of the question. The doctor did not require to be told allthis in order to know how the battle had raged. He had not yet heardof the great Dunstable scheme; but he was sufficiently acquaintedwith Greshamsbury tactics to understand that the war had been carriedon somewhat after this fashion. As a rule, when the squire took a point warmly to heart, he waswont to carry his way against the de Courcy interest. He could beobstinate enough when it so pleased him, and had before now gone sofar as to tell his wife, that her thrice-noble sister-in-law mightremain at home at Courcy Castle--or, at any rate, not come toGreshamsbury--if she could not do so without striving to rule him andevery one else when she got here. This had of course been repeated tothe countess, who had merely replied to it by a sisterly whisper, inwhich she sorrowfully intimated that some men were born brutes, andalways would remain so. "I think they all are, " the Lady Arabella had replied; wishing, perhaps, to remind her sister-in-law that the breed of brutes was asrampant in West Barsetshire as in the eastern division of the county. The squire, however, had not fought on this occasion with all hisvigour. There had, of course, been some passages between him and hisson, and it had been agreed that Frank should go for a fortnight toCourcy Castle. "We mustn't quarrel with them, you know, if we can help it, " said thefather; "and, therefore, you must go sooner or later. " "Well, I suppose so; but you don't know how dull it is, governor. " "Don't I!" said Gresham. "There's a Miss Dunstable to be there; did you ever hear of her, sir?" "No, never. " "She's a girl whose father used to make ointment, or something ofthat sort. " "Oh, yes, to be sure; the ointment of Lebanon. He used to cover allthe walls in London. I haven't heard of him this year past. " "No; that's because he's dead. Well, she carries on the ointment now, I believe; at any rate, she has got all the money. I wonder whatshe's like. " "You'd better go and see, " said the father, who now began to havesome inkling of an idea why the two ladies were so anxious to carryhis son off to Courcy Castle at this exact time. And so Frank hadpacked up his best clothes, given a last fond look at the new blackhorse, repeated his last special injunctions to Peter, and had thenmade one of the stately _cortège_ which proceeded through the countyfrom Greshamsbury to Courcy Castle. "I am very glad of that, very, " said the squire, when he heard thatthe money was to be forthcoming. "I shall get it on easier terms fromhim than elsewhere; and it kills me to have continual bother aboutsuch things. " And Mr Gresham, feeling that that difficulty was tidedover for a time, and that the immediate pressure of little debtswould be abated, stretched himself on his easy chair as though hewere quite comfortable;--one may say almost elated. How frequent it is that men on their road to ruin feel elation suchas this! A man signs away a moiety of his substance; nay, that werenothing; but a moiety of the substance of his children; he putshis pen to the paper that ruins him and them; but in doing so hefrees himself from a score of immediate little pestering, stingingtroubles: and, therefore, feels as though fortune has been almostkind to him. The doctor felt angry with himself for what he had done when he sawhow easily the squire adapted himself to this new loan. "It will makeScatcherd's claim upon you very heavy, " said he. Mr Gresham at once read all that was passing through the doctor'smind. "Well, what else can I do?" said he. "You wouldn't have meallow my daughter to lose this match for the sake of a few thousandpounds? It will be well at any rate to have one of them settled. Lookat that letter from Moffat. " The doctor took the letter and read it. It was a long, wordy, ill-written rigmarole, in which that amorous gentleman spoke withmuch rapture of his love and devotion for Miss Gresham; but at thesame time declared, and most positively swore, that the adversecruelty of his circumstances was such, that it would not allow him tostand up like a man at the hymeneal altar until six thousand poundshard cash had been paid down at his banker's. "It may be all right, " said the squire; "but in my time gentlemenwere not used to write such letters as that to each other. " The doctor shrugged his shoulders. He did not know how far he wouldbe justified in saying much, even to his friend the squire, indispraise of his future son-in-law. "I told him that he should have the money; and one would have thoughtthat that would have been enough for him. Well: I suppose Augustalikes him. I suppose she wishes the match; otherwise, I would givehim such an answer to that letter as would startle him a little. " "What settlement is he to make?" said Thorne. "Oh, that's satisfactory enough; couldn't be more so; a thousand ayear and the house at Wimbledon for her; that's all very well. Butsuch a lie, you know, Thorne. He's rolling in money, and yet he talksof this beggarly sum as though he couldn't possibly stir without it. " "If I might venture to speak my mind, " said Thorne. "Well?" said the squire, looking at him earnestly. "I should be inclined to say that Mr Moffat wants to cry off, himself. " "Oh, impossible; quite impossible. In the first place, he was so veryanxious for the match. In the next place, it is such a great thingfor him. And then, he would never dare; you see, he is dependent onthe de Courcys for his seat. " "But suppose he loses his seat?" "But there is not much fear of that, I think. Scatcherd may be a veryfine fellow, but I think they'll hardly return him at Barchester. " "I don't understand much about it, " said Thorne; "but such things dohappen. " "And you believe that this man absolutely wants to get off the match;absolutely thinks of playing such a trick as that on my daughter;--onme?" "I don't say he intends to do it; but it looks to me as though hewere making a door for himself, or trying to make a door: if so, yourhaving the money will stop him there. " "But, Thorne, don't you think he loves the girl? If I thought not--" The doctor stood silent for a moment, and then he said, "I am not alove-making man myself, but I think that if I were much in love witha young lady I should not write such a letter as that to her father. " "By heavens! If I thought so, " said the squire--"but, Thorne, wecan't judge of those fellows as one does of gentlemen; they are soused to making money, and seeing money made, that they have an eye tobusiness in everything. " "Perhaps so, perhaps so, " muttered the doctor, showing evidently thathe still doubted the warmth of Mr Moffat's affection. "The match was none of my making, and I cannot interfere now to breakit off: it will give her a good position in the world; for, afterall, money goes a great way, and it is something to be in Parliament. I can only hope she likes him. I do truly hope she likes him;" andthe squire also showed by the tone of his voice that, though he mighthope that his daughter was in love with her intended husband, hehardly conceived it to be possible that she should be so. And what was the truth of the matter? Miss Gresham was no more inlove with Mr Moffat than you are--oh, sweet, young, blooming beauty!Not a whit more; not, at least, in your sense of the word, nor inmine. She had by no means resolved within her heart that of all themen whom she had ever seen, or ever could see, he was far away thenicest and best. That is what you will do when you are in love, ifyou be good for anything. She had no longing to sit near to him--thenearer the better; she had no thought of his taste and his choicewhen she bought her ribbons and bonnets; she had no indescribabledesire that all her female friends should be ever talking to herabout him. When she wrote to him, she did not copy her letters againand again, so that she might be, as it were, ever speaking to him;she took no special pride in herself because he had chosen her tobe his life's partner. In point of fact, she did not care one strawabout him. And yet she thought she loved him; was, indeed, quite confidentthat she did so; told her mother that she was sure Gustavus wouldwish this, she knew Gustavus would like that, and so on; but as forGustavus himself, she did not care a chip for him. She was in love with her match just as farmers are in love withwheat at eighty shillings a quarter; or shareholders--innocentgudgeons--with seven and half per cent. Interest on their paid-upcapital. Eighty shillings a quarter, and seven and half per cent. Interest, such were the returns which she had been taught to lookfor in exchange for her young heart; and, having obtained them, orbeing thus about to obtain them, why should not her young heart besatisfied? Had she not sat herself down obediently at the feet of herlady Gamaliel, and should she not be rewarded? Yes, indeed, she shallbe rewarded. And then the doctor went to the lady. On their medical secrets wewill not intrude; but there were other matters bearing on the courseof our narrative, as to which Lady Arabella found it necessary to saya word or so to the doctor; and it is essential that we should knowwhat was the tenor of those few words so spoken. How the aspirations, and instincts, and feelings of a householdbecome changed as the young birds begin to flutter with featheredwings, and have half-formed thoughts of leaving the parental nest! Afew months back, Frank had reigned almost autocratic over the lessersubjects of the kingdom of Greshamsbury. The servants, for instance, always obeyed him, and his sisters never dreamed of telling anythingwhich he directed should not be told. All his mischief, all histroubles, and all his loves were confided to them, with the sureconviction that they would never be made to stand in evidence againsthim. Trusting to this well-ascertained state of things, he had nothesitated to declare his love for Miss Thorne before his sisterAugusta. But his sister Augusta had now, as it were, been receivedinto the upper house; having duly received, and duly profited by thelessons of her great instructress, she was now admitted to sit inconclave with the higher powers: her sympathies, of course, becamechanged, and her confidence was removed from the young and giddyand given to the ancient and discreet. She was as a schoolboy, who, having finished his schooling, and being fairly forced by necessityinto the stern bread-earning world, undertakes the new duties oftutoring. Yesterday he was taught, and fought, of course, against theschoolmaster; to-day he teaches, and fights as keenly for him. Soit was with Augusta Gresham, when, with careful brow, she whisperedto her mother that there was something wrong between Frank and MaryThorne. "Stop it at once, Arabella: stop it at once, " the countess had said;"that, indeed, will be ruin. If he does not marry money, he is lost. Good heavens! the doctor's niece! A girl that nobody knows where shecomes from!" "He's going with you to-morrow, you know, " said the anxious mother. "Yes; and that is so far well: if he will be led by me, the evilmay be remedied before he returns; but it is very, very hard tolead young men. Arabella, you must forbid that girl to come toGreshamsbury again on any pretext whatever. The evil must be stoppedat once. " "But she is here so much as a matter of course. " "Then she must be here as a matter of course no more: there has beenfolly, very great folly, in having her here. Of course she would turnout to be a designing creature with such temptation before her; withsuch a prize within her reach, how could she help it?" "I must say, aunt, she answered him very properly, " said Augusta. "Nonsense, " said the countess; "before you, of course she did. Arabella, the matter must not be left to the girl's propriety. Inever knew the propriety of a girl of that sort to be fit to bedepended upon yet. If you wish to save the whole family from ruin, you must take steps to keep her away from Greshamsbury now at once. Now is the time; now that Frank is to be away. Where so much, so verymuch depends on a young man's marrying money, not one day ought to belost. " Instigated in this manner, Lady Arabella resolved to open her mindto the doctor, and to make it intelligible to him that, underpresent circumstances, Mary's visits at Greshamsbury had better bediscontinued. She would have given much, however, to have escapedthis business. She had in her time tried one or two falls with thedoctor, and she was conscious that she had never yet got the betterof him: and then she was in a slight degree afraid of Mary herself. She had a presentiment that it would not be so easy to banish Maryfrom Greshamsbury: she was not sure that that young lady would notboldly assert her right to her place in the school-room; appealloudly to the squire, and perhaps, declare her determination ofmarrying the heir, out before them all. The squire would be sure touphold her in that, or in anything else. And then, too, there would be the greatest difficulty in wording herrequest to the doctor; and Lady Arabella was sufficiently consciousof her own weakness to know that she was not always very good atwords. But the doctor, when hard pressed, was never at fault: hecould say the bitterest things in the quietest tone, and LadyArabella had a great dread of these bitter things. What, also, if heshould desert her himself; withdraw from her his skill and knowledgeof her bodily wants and ailments now that he was so necessary to her?She had once before taken that measure of sending to Barchester forDr Fillgrave, but it had answered with her hardly better than withSir Roger and Lady Scatcherd. When, therefore, Lady Arabella found herself alone with the doctor, and called upon to say out her say in what best language she couldselect for the occasion, she did not feel to very much at her ease. There was that about the man before her which cowed her, in spite ofher being the wife of the squire, the sister of an earl, a personquite acknowledged to be of the great world, and the mother of thevery important young man whose affections were now about to be calledin question. Nevertheless, there was the task to be done, and with amother's courage she essayed it. "Dr Thorne, " said she, as soon as their medical conference was atan end, "I am very glad you came over to-day, for I had somethingspecial which I wanted to say to you:" so far she got, and thenstopped; but, as the doctor did not seem inclined to give her anyassistance, she was forced to flounder on as best she could. "Something very particular indeed. You know what a respect andesteem, and I may say affection, we all have for you, "--here thedoctor made a low bow--"and I may say for Mary also;" here thedoctor bowed himself again. "We have done what little we could to bepleasant neighbours, and I think you'll believe me when I say that Iam a true friend to you and dear Mary--" The doctor knew that something very unpleasant was coming, but hecould not at all guess what might be its nature. He felt, however, that he must say something; so he expressed a hope that he was dulysensible of all the acts of kindness he had ever received from thesquire and the family at large. "I hope, therefore, my dear doctor, you won't take amiss what I amgoing to say. " "Well, Lady Arabella, I'll endeavour not to do so. " "I am sure I would not give any pain if I could help it, much lessto you. But there are occasions, doctor, in which duty must beparamount; paramount to all other considerations, you know, and, certainly, this occasion is one of them. " "But what is the occasion, Lady Arabella?" "I'll tell you, doctor. You know what Frank's position is?" "Frank's position! as regards what?" "Why, his position in life; an only son, you know. " "Oh, yes; I know his position in that respect; an only son, and hisfather's heir; and a very fine fellow, he is. You have but one son, Lady Arabella, and you may well be proud of him. " Lady Arabella sighed. She did not wish at the present moment toexpress herself as being in any way proud of Frank. She was desirousrather, on the other hand, of showing that she was a good dealashamed of him; only not quite so much ashamed of him as it behovedthe doctor to be of his niece. "Well, perhaps so; yes, " said Lady Arabella, "he is, I believe, avery good young man, with an excellent disposition; but, doctor, hisposition is very precarious; and he is just at that time of life whenevery caution is necessary. " To the doctor's ears, Lady Arabella was now talking of her son as amother might of her infant when whooping-cough was abroad or croupimminent. "There is nothing on earth the matter with him, I shouldsay, " said the doctor. "He has every possible sign of perfecthealth. " "Oh yes; his health! Yes, thank God, his health is good; that is agreat blessing. " And Lady Arabella thought of her four flowerets thathad already faded. "I am sure I am most thankful to see him growingup so strong. But it is not that I mean, doctor. " "Then what is it, Lady Arabella?" "Why, doctor, you know the squire's position with regard to moneymatters?" Now the doctor undoubtedly did know the squire's position with regardto money matters, --knew it much better than did Lady Arabella; buthe was by no means inclined to talk on that subject to her ladyship. He remained quite silent, therefore, although Lady Arabella's lastspeech had taken the form of a question. Lady Arabella was a littleoffended at this want of freedom on his part, and become somewhatsterner in her tone--a thought less condescending in her manner. "The squire has unfortunately embarrassed the property, and Frankmust look forward to inherit it with very heavy encumbrances; Ifear very heavy indeed, though of what exact nature I am kept inignorance. " Looking at the doctor's face, she perceived that there was noprobability whatever that her ignorance would be enlightened by him. "And, therefore, it is highly necessary that Frank should be verycareful. " "As to his private expenditure, you mean?" said the doctor. "No; not exactly that: though of course he must be careful as tothat, too; that's of course. But that is not what I mean, doctor; hisonly hope of retrieving his circumstances is by marrying money. " "With every other conjugal blessing that a man can have, I hope hemay have that also. " So the doctor replied with imperturbable face;but not the less did he begin to have a shade of suspicion of whatmight be the coming subject of the conference. It would be untrue tosay that he had ever thought it probable that the young heir shouldfall in love with his niece; that he had ever looked forward to sucha chance, either with complacency or with fear; nevertheless, theidea had of late passed through his mind. Some word had fallen fromMary, some closely watched expression of her eye, or some quiverin her lip when Frank's name was mentioned, had of late made himinvoluntarily think that such might not be impossible; and then, whenthe chance of Mary becoming the heiress to so large a fortune hadbeen forced upon his consideration, he had been unable to preventhimself from building happy castles in the air, as he rode slowlyhome from Boxall Hill. But not a whit the more on that account washe prepared to be untrue to the squire's interest or to encourage afeeling which must be distasteful to all the squire's friends. "Yes, doctor; he must marry money. " "And worth, Lady Arabella; and a pure feminine heart; and youth andbeauty. I hope he will marry them all. " Could it be possible, that in speaking of a pure feminine heart, andyouth and beauty, and such like gewgaws, the doctor was thinking ofhis niece? Could it be that he had absolutely made up his mind tofoster and encourage this odious match? The bare idea made Lady Arabella wrathful, and her wrath gave hercourage. "He must marry money, or he will be a ruined man. Now, doctor, I am informed that things--words that is--have passed betweenhim and Mary which never ought to have been allowed. " And now also the doctor was wrathful. "What things? what words?" saidhe, appearing to Lady Arabella as though he rose in his anger nearlya foot in altitude before her eyes. "What has passed between them?and who says so?" "Doctor, there have been love-makings, you may take my word for it;love-makings of a very, very, very advanced description. " This, the doctor could not stand. No, not for Greshamsbury and itsheir; not for the squire and all his misfortunes; not for LadyArabella and the blood of all the de Courcys could he stand quietand hear Mary thus accused. He sprang up another foot in height, andexpanded equally in width as he flung back the insinuation. "Who says so? Whoever says so, whoever speaks of Miss Thorne in suchlanguage, says what is not true. I will pledge my word--" "My dear doctor, my dear doctor, what took place was quite clearlyheard; there was no mistake about it, indeed. " "What took place? What was heard?" "Well, then, I don't want, you know, to make more of it than can behelped. The thing must be stopped, that is all. " "What thing? Speak out, Lady Arabella. I will not have Mary's conductimpugned by innuendoes. What is it that eavesdroppers have heard?" "Dr Thorne, there have been no eavesdroppers. " "And no talebearers either? Will you ladyship oblige me by letting meknow what is the accusation which you bring against my niece?" "There has been most positively an offer made, Dr Thorne. " "And who made it?" "Oh, of course I am not going to say but what Frank must have beenvery imprudent. Of course he has been to blame. There has been faulton both sides, no doubt. " "I utterly deny it. I positively deny it. I know nothing of thecircumstances; have heard nothing about it--" "Then of course you can't say, " said Lady Arabella. "I know nothing of the circumstance; have heard nothing about it, "continued Dr Thorne; "but I do know my niece, and am ready to assertthat there has not been fault on both sides. Whether there has beenany fault on any side, that I do not yet know. " "I can assure you, Dr Thorne, that an offer was made by Frank;such an offer cannot be without its allurements to a young ladycircumstanced like your niece. " "Allurements!" almost shouted the doctor, and, as he did so, LadyArabella stepped back a pace or two, retreating from the fire whichshot out of his eyes. "But the truth is, Lady Arabella, you do notknow my niece. If you will have the goodness to let me understandwhat it is that you desire I will tell you whether I can comply withyour wishes. " "Of course it will be very inexpedient that the young people shouldbe thrown together again;--for the present, I mean. " "Well!" "Frank has now gone to Courcy Castle; and he talks of going fromthence to Cambridge. But he will doubtless be here, backwards andforwards; and perhaps it will be better for all parties--safer, that is, doctor--if Miss Thorne were to discontinue her visits toGreshamsbury for a while. " "Very well!" thundered out the doctor. "Her visits to Greshamsburyshall be discontinued. " "Of course, doctor, this won't change the intercourse between us;between you and the and the family. " "Not change it!" said he. "Do you think that I will break bread in ahouse from whence she has been ignominiously banished? Do you thinkthat I can sit down in friendship with those who have spoken of heras you have now spoken? You have many daughters; what would you sayif I accused them one of them as you have accused her?" "Accused, doctor! No, I don't accuse her. But prudence, you know, does sometimes require us--" "Very well; prudence requires you to look after those who belongto you; and prudence requires me to look after my one lamb. Goodmorning, Lady Arabella. " "But, doctor, you are not going to quarrel with us? You will comewhen we want you; eh! won't you?" Quarrel! quarrel with Greshamsbury! Angry as he was, the doctor feltthat he could ill bear to quarrel with Greshamsbury. A man past fiftycannot easily throw over the ties that have taken twenty years toform, and wrench himself away from the various close ligatures withwhich, in such a period, he has become bound. He could not quarrelwith the squire; he could ill bear to quarrel with Frank; though henow began to conceive that Frank had used him badly, he could not doso; he could not quarrel with the children, who had almost been borninto his arms; nor even with the very walls, and trees, and grassyknolls with which he was so dearly intimate. He could not proclaimhimself an enemy to Greshamsbury; and yet he felt that fealty to Maryrequired of him that, for the present, he should put on an enemy'sguise. "If you want me, Lady Arabella, and send for me, I will come to you;otherwise I will, if you please, share the sentence which has beenpassed on Mary. I will now wish you good morning. " And then bowinglow to her, he left the room and the house, and sauntered slowly awayto his own home. What was he to say to Mary? He walked very slowly down theGreshamsbury avenue, with his hands clasped behind his back, thinkingover the whole matter; thinking of it, or rather trying to thinkof it. When a man's heart is warmly concerned in any matter, itis almost useless for him to endeavour to think of it. Instead ofthinking, he gives play to his feelings, and feeds his passion byindulging it. "Allurements!" he said to himself, repeating LadyArabella's words. "A girl circumstanced like my niece! How utterlyincapable is such a woman as that to understand the mind, and heart, and soul of such a one as Mary Thorne!" And then his thoughtsrecurred to Frank. "It has been ill done of him; ill done of him:young as he is, he should have had feeling enough to have spared methis. A thoughtless word has been spoken which will now make hermiserable!" And then, as he walked on, he could not divest his mindof the remembrance of what had passed between him and Sir Roger. What, if after all, Mary should become the heiress to all that money?What, if she should become, in fact, the owner of Greshamsbury? for, indeed it seemed too possible that Sir Roger's heir would be theowner of Greshamsbury. The idea was one which he disliked to entertain, but it would recurto him again and again. It might be, that a marriage between hisniece and the nominal heir to the estate might be of all the matchesthe best for young Gresham to make. How sweet would be the revenge, how glorious the retaliation on Lady Arabella, if, after what hadnow been said, it should come to pass that all the difficulties ofGreshamsbury should be made smooth by Mary's love, and Mary's hand!It was a dangerous subject on which to ponder; and, as he sauntereddown the road, the doctor did his best to banish it from hismind, --not altogether successfully. But as he went he again encountered Beatrice. "Tell Mary I went toher to-day, " said she, "and that I expect her up here to-morrow. Ifshe does not come, I shall be savage. " "Do not be savage, " said he, putting out his hand, "even though sheshould not come. " Beatrice immediately saw that his manner with her was not playful, and that his face was serious. "I was only in joke, " said she; "ofcourse I was only joking. But is anything the matter? Is Mary ill?" "Oh, no; not ill at all; but she will not be here to-morrow, norprobably for some time. But, Miss Gresham, you must not be savagewith her. " Beatrice tried to interrogate him, but he would not wait to answerher questions. While she was speaking he bowed to her in his usualold-fashioned courteous way, and passed on out of hearing. "She willnot come up for some time, " said Beatrice to herself. "Then mammamust have quarrelled with her. " And at once in her heart sheacquitted her friend of all blame in the matter, whatever it mightbe, and condemned her mother unheard. The doctor, when he arrived at his own house, had in nowise madeup his mind as to the manner in which he would break the matter toMary; but by the time that he had reached the drawing-room, he hadmade up his mind to this, that he would put off the evil hour tillthe morrow. He would sleep on the matter--lie awake on it, moreprobably--and then at breakfast, as best he could, tell her what hadbeen said of her. Mary that evening was more than usually inclined to be playful. She had not been quite certain till the morning, whether Frank hadabsolutely left Greshamsbury, and had, therefore, preferred thecompany of Miss Oriel to going up to the house. There was a peculiarcheerfulness about her friend Patience, a feeling of satisfactionwith the world and those in it, which Mary always shared with her;and now she had brought home to the doctor's fireside, in spite ofher young troubles, a smiling face, if not a heart altogether happy. "Uncle, " she said at last, "what makes you so sombre? Shall I read toyou?" "No; not to-night, dearest. " "Why, uncle; what is the matter?" "Nothing, nothing. " "Ah, but it is something, and you shall tell me;" getting up, shecame over to his arm-chair, and leant over his shoulder. He looked at her for a minute in silence, and then, getting up fromhis chair, passed his arm round her waist, and pressed her closely tohis heart. "My darling!" he said, almost convulsively. "My best own, truestdarling!" and Mary, looking up into his face, saw that big tears wererunning down his cheeks. But still he told her nothing that night. CHAPTER XV Courcy When Frank Gresham expressed to his father an opinion that CourcyCastle was dull, the squire, as may be remembered, did not pretend todiffer from him. To men such as the squire, and such as the squire'sson, Courcy Castle was dull. To what class of men it would not bedull the author is not prepared to say; but it may be presumed thatthe de Courcys found it to their liking, or they would have made itother than it was. The castle itself was a huge brick pile, built in the days of WilliamIII, which, though they were grand for days of the construction ofthe Constitution, were not very grand for architecture of a morematerial description. It had, no doubt, a perfect right to be calleda castle, as it was entered by a castle-gate which led into a court, the porter's lodge for which was built as it were into the wall;there were attached to it also two round, stumpy adjuncts, whichwere, perhaps properly, called towers, though they did not do much inthe way of towering; and, moreover, along one side of the house, overwhat would otherwise have been the cornice, there ran a castellatedparapet, through the assistance of which, the imagination no doubtwas intended to supply the muzzles of defiant artillery. But anyartillery which would have so presented its muzzle must have beenvery small, and it may be doubted whether even a bowman could haveobtained shelter there. The grounds about the castle were not very inviting, nor, as grounds, very extensive; though, no doubt, the entire domain was such assuited the importance of so puissant a nobleman as Earl de Courcy. What, indeed, should have been the park was divided out into variouslarge paddocks. The surface was flat and unbroken; and thoughthere were magnificent elm-trees standing in straight lines, likehedgerows, the timber had not that beautiful, wild, scattered lookwhich generally gives the great charm to English scenery. The town of Courcy--for the place claimed to rank as a town--wasin many particulars like the castle. It was built of dingy-redbrick--almost more brown than red--and was solid, dull-looking, uglyand comfortable. It consisted of four streets, which were formed bytwo roads crossing each other, making at the point of junction acentre for the town. Here stood the Red Lion; had it been called thebrown lion, the nomenclature would have been more strictly correct;and here, in the old days of coaching, some life had been wont tostir itself at those hours in the day and night when the Freetraders, Tallyhoes, and Royal Mails changed their horses. But now there was arailway station a mile and a half distant, and the moving life of thetown of Courcy was confined to the Red Lion omnibus, which seemed topass its entire time in going up and down between the town and thestation, quite unembarrassed by any great weight of passengers. There were, so said the Courcyites when away from Courcy, excellentshops in the place; but they were not the less accustomed, whenat home among themselves, to complain to each other of the vileextortion with which they were treated by their neighbours. Theironmonger, therefore, though he loudly asserted that he could beatBristol in the quality of his wares in one direction, and undersellGloucester in another, bought his tea and sugar on the sly in oneof those larger towns; and the grocer, on the other hand, equallydistrusted the pots and pans of home production. Trade, therefore, atCourcy, had not thriven since the railway had opened: and, indeed, had any patient inquirer stood at the cross through one entire day, counting customers who entered the neighbouring shops, he might wellhave wondered that any shops in Courcy could be kept open. And how changed has been the bustle of that once noisy inn to thepresent death-like silence of its green courtyard! There, a lameostler crawls about with his hands thrust into the capacious pocketsof his jacket, feeding on memory. That weary pair of omnibus jades, and three sorry posters, are all that now grace those stables wherehorses used to be stalled in close contiguity by the dozen; wheretwenty grains apiece, abstracted from every feed of oats consumedduring the day, would have afforded a daily quart to the luckypilferer. Come, my friend, and discourse with me. Let us know what are thyideas of the inestimable benefits which science has conferred on usin these, our latter days. How dost thou, among others, appreciaterailways and the power of steam, telegraphs, telegrams, and our newexpresses? But indifferently, you say. "Time was I've zeed vifteenpair o' 'osses go out of this 'ere yard in vour-and-twenty hour;and now there be'ant vifteen, no, not ten, in vour-and-twenty days!There was the duik--not this 'un; he be'ant no gude; but this 'un'svather--why, when he'd come down the road, the cattle did be a-going, vour days an eend. Here'd be the tooter and the young gen'lmen, andthe governess and the young leddies, and then the servants--they'dbe al'ays the grandest folk of all--and then the duik and thedoochess--Lord love 'ee, zur; the money did fly in them days! Butnow--" and the feeling of scorn and contempt which the lame ostlerwas enabled by his native talent to throw into the word "now, " wasquite as eloquent against the power of steam as anything that hasbeen spoken at dinners, or written in pamphlets by the keenestadmirers of latter-day lights. "Why, luke at this 'ere town, " continued he of the sieve, "the grassbe a-growing in the very streets;--that can't be no gude. Why, luke'ee here, zur; I do be a-standing at this 'ere gateway, just thisway, hour arter hour, and my heyes is hopen mostly;--I zees who'sa-coming and who's a-going. Nobody's a-coming and nobody's a-going;that can't be no gude. Luke at that there homnibus; why, darn me--"and now, in his eloquence at this peculiar point, my friend becamemore loud and powerful than ever--"why, darn me, if maister harnsenough with that there bus to put hiron on them 'osses' feet, I'll--be--blowed!" And as he uttered this hypothetical denunciationon himself he spoke very slowly, bringing out every word as it wereseparately, and lowering himself at his knees at every sound, movingat the same time his right hand up and down. When he had finished, he fixed his eyes upon the ground, pointing downwards, as if therewas to be the site of his doom if the curse that he had called downupon himself should ever come to pass; and then, waiting no furtherconverse, he hobbled away, melancholy, to his deserted stables. Oh, my friend! my poor lame friend! it will avail nothing to tellthee of Liverpool and Manchester; of the glories of Glasgow, with herflourishing banks; of London, with its third millions of inhabitants;of the great things which commerce is doing for this nation of thine!What is commerce to thee, unless it be commerce in posting on thatworn-out, all but useless great western turnpike-road? There isnothing left for thee but to be carted away as rubbish--for theeand for many of us in these now prosperous days; oh, my melancholy, care-ridden friend! Courcy Castle was certainly a dull place to look at, and Frank, inhis former visits, had found that the appearance did not belie thereality. He had been but little there when the earl had been atCourcy; and as he had always felt from his childhood a peculiardistaste to the governance of his aunt the countess, this perhaps mayhave added to his feeling of dislike. Now, however, the castle wasto be fuller than he had ever before known it; the earl was to be athome; there was some talk of the Duke of Omnium coming for a day ortwo, though that seemed doubtful; there was some faint doubt of LordPorlock; Mr Moffat, intent on the coming election--and also, let ushope, on his coming bliss--was to be one of the guests; and there wasalso to be the great Miss Dunstable. Frank, however, found that those grandees were not expected quiteimmediately. "I might go back to Greshamsbury for three or four daysas she is not to be here, " he said naïvely to his aunt, expressing, with tolerable perspicuity, his feeling, that he regarded his visitto Courcy Castle quite as a matter of business. But the countesswould hear of no such arrangement. Now that she had got him, shewas not going to let him fall back into the perils of Miss Thorne'sintrigues, or even of Miss Thorne's propriety. "It is quiteessential, " she said, "that you should be here a few days before her, so that she may see that you are at home. " Frank did not understandthe reasoning; but he felt himself unable to rebel, and he therefore, remained there, comforting himself, as best he might, with theeloquence of the Honourable George, and the sporting humours of theHonourable John. Mr Moffat's was the earliest arrival of any importance. Frank hadnot hitherto made the acquaintance of his future brother-in-law, andthere was, therefore, some little interest in the first interview. MrMoffat was shown into the drawing-room before the ladies had gone upto dress, and it so happened that Frank was there also. As no oneelse was in the room but his sister and two of his cousins, he hadexpected to see the lovers rush into each other's arms. But Mr Moffatrestrained his ardour, and Miss Gresham seemed contented that heshould do so. He was a nice, dapper man, rather above the middle height, andgood-looking enough had he had a little more expression in his face. He had dark hair, very nicely brushed, small black whiskers, and asmall black moustache. His boots were excellently well made, andhis hands were very white. He simpered gently as he took hold ofAugusta's fingers, and expressed a hope that she had been quite wellsince last he had the pleasure of seeing her. Then he touched thehands of the Lady Rosina and the Lady Margaretta. "Mr Moffat, allow me to introduce you to my brother?" "Most happy, I'm sure, " said Mr Moffat, again putting out his hand, and allowing it to slip through Frank's grasp, as he spoke in apretty, mincing voice: "Lady Arabella quite well?--and your father, and sisters? Very warm isn't it?--quite hot in town, I do assureyou. " "I hope Augusta likes him, " said Frank to himself, arguing on thesubject exactly as his father had done; "but for an engaged lover heseems to me to have a very queer way with him. " Frank, poor fellow!who was of a coarser mould, would, under such circumstances, havebeen all for kissing--sometimes, indeed, even under othercircumstances. Mr Moffat did not do much towards improving the conviviality ofthe castle. He was, of course, a good deal intent upon his comingelection, and spent much of his time with Mr Nearthewinde, thecelebrated parliamentary agent. It behoved him to be a good dealat Barchester, canvassing the electors and undermining, by MrNearthewinde's aid, the mines for blowing him out of his seat, whichwere daily being contrived by Mr Closerstil, on behalf of Sir Roger. The battle was to be fought on the internecine principle, no quarterbeing given or taken on either side; and of course this gave MrMoffat as much as he knew how to do. Mr Closerstil was well known to be the sharpest man at his businessin all England, unless the palm should be given to his great rivalMr Nearthewinde; and in this instance he was to be assisted in thebattle by a very clever young barrister, Mr Romer, who was an admirerof Sir Roger's career in life. Some people in Barchester, when theysaw Sir Roger, Closerstil and Mr Romer saunter down the High Street, arm in arm, declared that it was all up with poor Moffat; but others, in whose head the bump of veneration was strongly pronounced, whispered to each other that great shibboleth--the name of the Dukeof Omnium--and mildly asserted it to be impossible that the duke'snominee should be thrown out. Our poor friend the squire did not take much interest in the matter, except in so far that he liked his son-in-law to be in Parliament. Both the candidates were in his eye equally wrong in their opinions. He had long since recanted those errors of his early youth, whichhad cost him his seat for the county, and had abjured the de Courcypolitics. He was staunch enough as a Tory now that his being so wouldno longer be of the slightest use to him; but the Duke of Omnium, and Lord de Courcy, and Mr Moffat were all Whigs; Whigs, however, differing altogether in politics from Sir Roger, who belonged tothe Manchester school, and whose pretensions, through some of thoseinscrutable twists in modern politics which are quite unintelligibleto the minds of ordinary men outside the circle, were on thisoccasion secretly favoured by the high Conservative party. How Mr Moffat, who had been brought into the political world by Lordde Courcy, obtained all the weight of the duke's interest I nevercould exactly learn. For the duke and the earl did not generally actas twin-brothers on such occasions. There is a great difference in Whigs. Lord de Courcy was a CourtWhig, following the fortunes, and enjoying, when he could get it, thesunshine of the throne. He was a sojourner at Windsor, and a visitorat Balmoral. He delighted in gold sticks, and was never so happy aswhen holding some cap of maintenance or spur of precedence with duedignity and acknowledged grace in the presence of all the Court. His means had been somewhat embarrassed by early extravagance; and, therefore, as it was to his taste to shine, it suited him to shine atthe cost of the Court rather than at his own. The Duke of Omnium was a Whig of a very different calibre. He rarelywent near the presence of majesty, and when he did do so, he did itmerely as a disagreeable duty incident to his position. He was verywilling that the Queen should be queen so long as he was allowed tobe Duke of Omnium. Nor had he begrudged Prince Albert any of hishonours till he was called Prince Consort. Then, indeed, he had, to his own intimate friends, made some remark in three words, notflattering to the discretion of the Prime Minister. The Queen mightbe queen so long as he was Duke of Omnium. Their revenues wereabout the same, with the exception, that the duke's were his own, and he could do what he liked with them. This remembrance did notunfrequently present itself to the duke's mind. In person, he was aplain, thin man, tall, but undistinguished in appearance, except thatthere was a gleam of pride in his eye which seemed every moment to besaying, "I am the Duke of Omnium. " He was unmarried, and, if reportsaid true, a great debauchee; but if so he had always kept hisdebaucheries decently away from the eyes of the world, and was not, therefore, open to that loud condemnation which should fall like ahailstorm round the ears of some more open sinners. Why these two mighty nobles put their heads together in order thatthe tailor's son should represent Barchester in Parliament, I cannotexplain. Mr Moffat, was, as has been said, Lord de Courcy's friend;and it may be that Lord de Courcy was able to repay the duke for hiskindness, as touching Barchester, with some little assistance in thecounty representation. The next arrival was that of the Bishop of Barchester; a meek, good, worthy man, much attached to his wife, and somewhat addicted to hisease. She, apparently, was made in a different mould, and by herenergy and diligence atoned for any want in those qualities whichmight be observed in the bishop himself. When asked his opinion, hislordship would generally reply by saying--"Mrs Proudie and I think soand so. " But before that opinion was given, Mrs Proudie would takeup the tale, and she, in her more concise manner, was not wont toquote the bishop as having at all assisted in the consideration ofthe subject. It was well known in Barsetshire that no married pairconsorted more closely or more tenderly together; and the example ofsuch conjugal affection among persons in the upper classes is worthmentioning, as it is believed by those below them, and too often withtruth, that the sweet bliss of connubial reciprocity is not so commonas it should be among the magnates of the earth. But the arrival even of the bishop and his wife did not make theplace cheerful to Frank Gresham, and he began to long for MissDunstable, in order that he might have something to do. He could notget on at all with Mr Moffat. He had expected that the man would atonce have called him Frank, and that he would have called the manGustavus; but they did not even get beyond Mr Moffat and Mr Gresham. "Very hot in Barchester to-day, very, " was the nearest approach toconversation which Frank could attain with him; and as far as he, Frank, could see, Augusta never got much beyond it. There might be_tête-à-tête_ meetings between them, but, if so, Frank could notdetect when they took place; and so, opening his heart at last to theHonourable George, for the want of a better confidant, he expressedhis opinion that his future brother-in-law was a muff. "A muff--I believe you too. What do you think now? I have been withhim and Nearthewinde in Barchester these three days past, looking upthe electors' wives and daughters, and that kind of thing. " "I say, if there is any fun in it you might as well take me withyou. " "Oh, there is not much fun; they are mostly so slobbered and dirty. Asharp fellow in Nearthewinde, and knows what he is about well. " "Does he look up the wives and daughters too?" "Oh, he goes on every tack, just as it's wanted. But there wasMoffat, yesterday, in a room behind the milliner's shop nearCuthbert's Gate; I was with him. The woman's husband is one of thechoristers and an elector, you know, and Moffat went to look for hisvote. Now, there was no one there when we got there but the threeyoung women, the wife, that is, and her two girls--very pretty womenthey are too. " "I say, George, I'll go and get the chorister's vote for Moffat; Iought to do it as he's to be my brother-in-law. " "But what do you think Moffat said to the women?" "Can't guess--he didn't kiss any of them, did he?" "Kiss any of them? No; but he begged to give them his positiveassurance as a gentleman, that if he was returned to Parliament hewould vote for an extension of the franchise, and the admission ofthe Jews into Parliament. " "Well, he is a muff!" said Frank. CHAPTER XVI Miss Dunstable At last the great Miss Dunstable came. Frank, when he heard thatthe heiress had arrived, felt some slight palpitation at his heart. He had not the remotest idea in the world of marrying her; indeed, during the last week past, absence had so heightened his love forMary Thorne that he was more than ever resolved that he would nevermarry any one but her. He knew that he had made her a formal offerfor her hand, and that it behoved him to keep to it, let the charmsof Miss Dunstable be what they might; but, nevertheless, he wasprepared to go through a certain amount of courtship, in obedienceto his aunt's behests, and he felt a little nervous at being broughtup in that way, face to face, to do battle with two hundred thousandpounds. "Miss Dunstable has arrived, " said his aunt to him, with greatcomplacency, on his return from an electioneering visit to thebeauties of Barchester which he made with his cousin George on theday after the conversation which was repeated at the end of the lastchapter. "She has arrived, and is looking remarkably well; she hasquite a _distingué_ air, and will grace any circle to which she maybe introduced. I will introduce you before dinner, and you can takeher out. " "I couldn't propose to her to-night, I suppose?" said Frank, maliciously. "Don't talk nonsense, Frank, " said the countess, angrily. "I am doingwhat I can for you, and taking on an infinity of trouble to endeavourto place you in an independent position; and now you talk nonsense tome. " Frank muttered some sort of apology, and then went to prepare himselffor the encounter. Miss Dunstable, though she had come by train, had brought with herher own carriage, her own horses, her own coachman and footman, andher own maid, of course. She had also brought with her half a scoreof trunks, full of wearing apparel; some of them nearly as rich asthat wonderful box which was stolen a short time since from the topof a cab. But she brought all these things, not in the least becauseshe wanted them herself, but because she had been instructed to doso. Frank was a little more than ordinarily careful in dressing. Hespoilt a couple of white neckties before he was satisfied, and wasrather fastidious as the set of his hair. There was not much of thedandy about him in the ordinary meaning of the word; but he felt thatit was incumbent on him to look his best, seeing what it was expectedthat he should now do. He certainly did not mean to marry MissDunstable; but as he was to have a flirtation with her, it was wellthat he should do so under the best possible auspices. When he entered the drawing-room he perceived at once that the ladywas there. She was seated between the countess and Mrs Proudie; andmammon, in her person, was receiving worship from the temporalitiesand spiritualities of the land. He tried to look unconcerned, andremained in the farther part of the room, talking with some of hiscousins; but he could not keep his eye off the future possible MrsFrank Gresham; and it seemed as though she was as much constrained toscrutinise him as he felt to scrutinise her. Lady de Courcy had declared that she was looking extremely well, andhad particularly alluded to her _distingué_ appearance. Frank at oncefelt that he could not altogether go along with his aunt in thisopinion. Miss Dunstable might be very well; but her style of beautywas one which did not quite meet with his warmest admiration. In age she was about thirty; but Frank, who was no great judge inthese matters, and who was accustomed to have very young girls roundhim, at once put her down as being ten years older. She had a veryhigh colour, very red cheeks, a large mouth, big white teeth, a broadnose, and bright, small, black eyes. Her hair also was black andbright, but very crisp, and strong, and was combed close round herface in small crisp black ringlets. Since she had been brought outinto the fashionable world some one of her instructors in fashionhad given her to understand that curls were not the thing. "They'llalways pass muster, " Miss Dunstable had replied, "when they are doneup with bank-notes. " It may therefore be presumed that Miss Dunstablehad a will of her own. "Frank, " said the countess, in the most natural and unpremeditatedway, as soon as she caught her nephew's eye, "come here. I want tointroduce you to Miss Dunstable. " The introduction was then made. "Mrs Proudie, would you excuse me? I must positively go and say a fewwords to Mrs Barlow, or the poor woman will feel herself huffed;"and, so saying, she moved off, leaving the coast clear for MasterFrank. He of course slipped into his aunt's place, and expressed a hope thatMiss Dunstable was not fatigued by her journey. "Fatigued!" said she, in a voice rather loud, but very good-humoured, and not altogether unpleasing; "I am not to be fatigued by such athing as that. Why, in May we came through all the way from Rome toParis without sleeping--that is, without sleeping in a bed--and wewere upset three times out of the sledges coming over the Simplon. Itwas such fun! Why, I wasn't to say tired even then. " "All the way from Rome to Paris!" said Mrs Proudie--in a tone ofastonishment, meant to flatter the heiress--"and what made you insuch a hurry?" "Something about money matters, " said Miss Dunstable, speaking ratherlouder than usual. "Something to do with the ointment. I was sellingthe business just then. " Mrs Proudie bowed, and immediately changed the conversation. "Idolatry is, I believe, more rampant than ever in Rome, " said she;"and I fear there is no such thing at all as Sabbath observance. " "Oh, not in the least, " said Miss Dunstable, with rather a joyousair; "Sundays and week-days are all the same there. " "How very frightful!" said Mrs Proudie. "But it's a delicious place. I do like Rome, I must say. And as forthe Pope, if he wasn't quite so fat he would be the nicest old fellowin the world. Have you been in Rome, Mrs Proudie?" Mrs Proudie sighed as she replied in the negative, and declared herbelief that danger was to be apprehended from such visits. "Oh!--ah!--the malaria--of course--yes; if you go at the wrong time;but nobody is such a fool as that now. " "I was thinking of the soul, Miss Dunstable, " said the lady-bishop, in her peculiar, grave tone. "A place where there are no Sabbathobservances--" "And have you been in Rome, Mr Gresham?" said the young lady, turningalmost abruptly round to Frank, and giving a somewhat uncivilly coldshoulder to Mrs Proudie's exhortation. She, poor lady, was forced tofinish her speech to the Honourable George, who was standing near toher. He having an idea that bishops and all their belongings, likeother things appertaining to religion, should, if possible, beavoided; but if that were not possible, should be treated withmuch assumed gravity, immediately put on a long face, and remarkedthat--"it was a deuced shame: for his part he always liked to seepeople go quiet on Sundays. The parsons had only one day out ofseven, and he thought they were fully entitled to that. " Satisfiedwith which, or not satisfied, Mrs Proudie had to remain silent tilldinner-time. "No, " said Frank; "I never was in Rome. I was in Paris once, andthat's all. " And then, feeling a not unnatural anxiety as to thepresent state of Miss Dunstable's worldly concerns, he took anopportunity of falling back on that part of the conversation whichMrs Proudie had exercised so much tact in avoiding. "And was it sold?" said he. "Sold! what sold?" "You were saying about the business--that you came back without goingto bed because of selling the business. " "Oh!--the ointment. No; it was not sold. After all, the affair didnot come off, and I might have remained and had another roll in thesnow. Wasn't it a pity?" "So, " said Frank to himself, "if I should do it, I should be owner ofthe ointment of Lebanon: how odd!" And then he gave her his arm andhanded her down to dinner. He certainly found that the dinner was less dull than any other hehad sat down to at Courcy Castle. He did not fancy that he shouldever fall in love with Miss Dunstable; but she certainly was anagreeable companion. She told him of her tour, and the fun she had inher journeys; how she took a physician with her for the benefit ofher health, whom she generally was forced to nurse; of the trouble itwas to her to look after and wait upon her numerous servants; of thetricks she played to bamboozle people who came to stare at her; and, lastly, she told him of a lover who followed her from country tocountry, and was now in hot pursuit of her, having arrived in Londonthe evening before she left. "A lover?" said Frank, somewhat startled by the suddenness of theconfidence. "A lover--yes--Mr Gresham; why should I not have a lover?" "Oh!--no--of course not. I dare say you have a good many. " "Only three or four, upon my word; that is, only three or four that Ifavour. One is not bound to reckon the others, you know. " "No, they'd be too numerous. And so you have three whom you favour, Miss Dunstable;" and Frank sighed, as though he intended to say thatthe number was too many for his peace of mind. "Is not that quite enough? But of course I change them sometimes;"and she smiled on him very good-naturedly. "It would be very dull ifI were always to keep the same. " "Very dull indeed, " said Frank, who did not quite know what to say. "Do you think the countess would mind my having one or two of themhere if I were to ask her?" "I am quite sure she would, " said Frank, very briskly. "She would notapprove of it at all; nor should I. " "You--why, what have you to do with it?" "A great deal--so much so that I positively forbid it; but, MissDunstable--" "Well, Mr Gresham?" "We will contrive to make up for the deficiency as well as possible, if you will permit us to do so. Now for myself--" "Well, for yourself?" At this moment the countess gleamed her accomplished eye round thetable, and Miss Dunstable rose from her chair as Frank was preparinghis attack, and accompanied the other ladies into the drawing-room. His aunt, as she passed him, touched his arm lightly with her fan, solightly that the action was perceived by no one else. But Frank wellunderstood the meaning of the touch, and appreciated the approbationwhich it conveyed. He merely blushed, however, at his owndissimulation; for he felt more certain that ever that he would nevermarry Miss Dunstable, and he felt nearly equally sure that MissDunstable would never marry him. Lord de Courcy was now at home; but his presence did not add muchhilarity to the claret-cup. The young men, however, were very keenabout the election, and Mr Nearthewinde, who was one of the party, was full of the most sanguine hopes. "I have done one good at any rate, " said Frank; "I have secured thechorister's vote. " "What! Bagley?" said Nearthewinde. "The fellow kept out of my way, and I couldn't see him. " "I haven't exactly seen him, " said Frank; "but I've got his vote allthe same. " "What! by a letter?" said Mr Moffat. "No, not by letter, " said Frank, speaking rather low as he looked atthe bishop and the earl; "I got a promise from his wife: I think he'sa little in the henpecked line. " "Ha--ha--ha!" laughed the good bishop, who, in spite of Frank'smodulation of voice, had overheard what had passed. "Is that the wayyou manage electioneering matters in our cathedral city? Ha--ha--ha!"The idea of one of his choristers being in the henpecked line wasvery amusing to the bishop. "Oh, I got a distinct promise, " said Frank, in his pride; and thenadded incautiously, "but I had to order bonnets for the wholefamily. " "Hush-h-h-h-h!" said Mr Nearthewinde, absolutely flabbergasted bysuch imprudence on the part of one of his client's friends. "I amquite sure that your order had no effect, and was intended to have noeffect on Mr Bagley's vote. " "Is that wrong?" said Frank; "upon my word I thought that it wasquite legitimate. " "One should never admit anything in electioneering matters, shouldone?" said George, turning to Mr Nearthewinde. "Very little, Mr de Courcy; very little indeed--the less the better. It's hard to say in these days what is wrong and what is not. Now, there's Reddypalm, the publican, the man who has the Brown Bear. Well, I was there, of course: he's a voter, and if any man inBarchester ought to feel himself bound to vote for a friend of theduke's, he ought. Now, I was so thirsty when I was in that man'shouse that I was dying for a glass of beer; but for the life of me Ididn't dare order one. " "Why not?" said Frank, whose mind was only just beginning to beenlightened by the great doctrine of purity of election as practisedin English provincial towns. "Oh, Closerstil had some fellow looking at me; why, I can't walk downthat town without having my very steps counted. I like sharp fightingmyself, but I never go so sharp as that. " "Nevertheless I got Bagley's vote, " said Frank, persisting in praiseof his own electioneering prowess; "and you may be sure of this, MrNearthewinde, none of Closerstil's men were looking at me when I gotit. " "Who'll pay for the bonnets, Frank?" said George. "Oh, I'll pay for them if Moffat won't. I think I shall keep anaccount there; they seem to have good gloves and those sort ofthings. " "Very good, I have no doubt, " said George. "I suppose your lordship will be in town soon after the meeting ofParliament?" said the bishop, questioning the earl. "Oh! yes; I suppose I must be there. I am never allowed to remainvery long in quiet. It is a great nuisance; but it is too late tothink of that now. " "Men in high places, my lord, never were, and never will be, allowedto consider themselves. They burn their torches not in their ownbehalf, " said the bishop, thinking, perhaps, as much of himself as hedid of his noble friend. "Rest and quiet are the comforts of thosewho have been content to remain in obscurity. " "Perhaps so, " said the earl, finishing his glass of claret withan air of virtuous resignation. "Perhaps so. " His own martyrdom, however, had not been severe, for the rest and quiet of home hadnever been peculiarly satisfactory to his tastes. Soon after thisthey all went to the ladies. It was some little time before Frank could find an opportunity ofrecommencing his allotted task with Miss Dunstable. She got intoconversation with the bishop and some other people, and, except thathe took her teacup and nearly managed to squeeze one of her fingersas he did so, he made very little further progress till towards theclose of the evening. At last he found her so nearly alone as to admit of his speaking toher in his low confidential voice. "Have you managed that matter with my aunt?" "What matter?" said Miss Dunstable; and her voice was not low, norparticularly confidential. "About those three or four gentlemen whom you wish to invite here?" "Oh! my attendant knights! no, indeed; you gave me such very slighthope of success; besides, you said something about my not wantingthem. " "Yes I did; I really think they'd be quite unnecessary. If you shouldwant any one to defend you--" "At these coming elections, for instance. " "Then, or at any other time, there are plenty here who will be readyto stand up for you. " "Plenty! I don't want plenty: one good lance in the olden days wasalways worth more than a score of ordinary men-at-arms. " "But you talked about three or four. " "Yes; but then you see, Mr Gresham, I have never yet found the onegood lance--at least, not good enough to suit my ideas of trueprowess. " What could Frank do but declare that he was ready to lay his own inrest, now and always in her behalf? His aunt had been quite angrywith him, and had thought that he turned her into ridicule, when hespoke of making an offer to her guest that very evening; and yet herehe was so placed that he had hardly an alternative. Let his inwardresolution to abjure the heiress be ever so strong, he was now in aposition which allowed him no choice in the matter. Even Mary Thornecould hardly have blamed him for saying, that so far as his ownprowess went, it was quite at Miss Dunstable's service. Had Mary beenlooking on, she, perhaps, might have thought that he could have doneso with less of that look of devotion which he threw into his eyes. "Well, Mr Gresham, that's very civil--very civil indeed, " said MissDunstable. "Upon my word, if a lady wanted a true knight she mightdo worse than trust to you. Only I fear that your courage is of soexalted a nature that you would be ever ready to do battle for anybeauty who might be in distress--or, indeed, who might not. You couldnever confine your valour to the protection of one maiden. " "Oh, yes! but I would though if I liked her, " said Frank. "Thereisn't a more constant fellow in the world than I am in that way--youtry me, Miss Dunstable. " "When young ladies make such trials as that, they sometimes find ittoo late to go back if the trial doesn't succeed, Mr Gresham. " "Oh, of course there's always some risk. It's like hunting; therewould be no fun if there was no danger. " "But if you get a tumble one day you can retrieve your honour thenext; but a poor girl, if she once trusts a man who says that heloves her, has no such chance. For myself, I would never listen to aman unless I'd known him for seven years at least. " "Seven years!" said Frank, who could not help thinking that in sevenyears' time Miss Dunstable would be almost an old woman. "Seven daysis enough to know any person. " "Or perhaps seven hours; eh, Mr Gresham?" "Seven hours--well, perhaps seven hours, if they happen to be a gooddeal together during the time. " "There's nothing after all like love at first sight, is there, MrGresham?" Frank knew well enough that she was quizzing him, and could notresist the temptation he felt to be revenged on her. "I am sure it'svery pleasant, " said he; "but as for myself, I have never experiencedit. " "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Miss Dunstable. "Upon my word, Mr Gresham, Ilike you amazingly. I didn't expect to meet anybody down here thatI should like half so much. You must come and see me in London, andI'll introduce you to my three knights, " and so saying, she movedaway and fell into conversation with some of the higher powers. Frank felt himself to be rather snubbed, in spite of the strongexpression which Miss Dunstable had made in his favour. It was notquite clear to him that she did not take him for a boy. He was, to besure, avenged on her for that by taking her for a middle-aged woman;but, nevertheless, he was hardly satisfied with himself; "I mightgive her a heartache yet, " said he to himself, "and she might findafterwards that she was left in the lurch with all her money. " Andso he retired, solitary, into a far part of the room, and began tothink of Mary Thorne. As he did so, and as his eyes fell upon MissDunstable's stiff curls, he almost shuddered. And then the ladies retired. His aunt, with a good-natured smile onher face, come to him as she was leaving the room, the last of thebevy, and putting her hand on his arm, led him out into a smallunoccupied chamber which opened from the grand saloon. "Upon my word, Master Frank, " said she, "you seem to be losing notime with the heiress. You have quite made an impression already. " "I don't know much about that, aunt, " said he, looking rathersheepish. "Oh, I declare you have; but, Frank, my dear boy, you should notprecipitate these sort of things too much. It is well to take alittle more time: it is more valued; and perhaps, you know, on thewhole--" Perhaps Frank might know; but it was clear that Lady de Courcy didnot: at any rate, she did not know how to express herself. Had shesaid out her mind plainly, she would probably have spoken thus: "Iwant you to make love to Miss Dunstable, certainly; or at any rate tomake an offer to her; but you need not make a show of yourself and ofher, too, by doing it so openly as all that. " The countess, however, did not want to reprimand her obedient nephew, and therefore did notspeak out her thoughts. "Well?" said Frank, looking up into her face. "Take a _leetle_ more time--that is all, my dear boy; slow and sure, you know;" so the countess again patted his arm and went away to bed. "Old fool!" muttered Frank to himself, as he returned to the roomwhere the men were still standing. He was right in this: she was anold fool, or she would have seen that there was no chance whateverthat her nephew and Miss Dunstable should become man and wife. "Well Frank, " said the Honourable John; "so you're after the heiressalready. " "He won't give any of us a chance, " said the Honourable George. "If he goes on in that way she'll be Mrs Gresham before a month isover. But, Frank, what will she say of your manner of looking forBarchester votes?" "Mr Gresham is certainly an excellent hand at canvassing, " said MrNearthewinde; "only a little too open in his manner of proceeding. " "I got that chorister for you at any rate, " said Frank. "And youwould never have had him without me. " "I don't think half so much of the chorister's vote as that of MissDunstable, " said the Honourable George: "that's the interest that isreally worth looking after. " "But, surely, " said Mr Moffat, "Miss Dunstable has no property inBarchester?" Poor man! his heart was so intent on his election thathe had not a moment to devote to the claims of love. CHAPTER XVII The Election And now the important day of the election had arrived, and some men'shearts beat quickly enough. To be or not to a member of the BritishParliament is a question of very considerable moment in a man's mind. Much is often said of the great penalties which the ambitious pay forenjoying this honour; of the tremendous expenses of elections; of thelong, tedious hours of unpaid labour: of the weary days passed in theHouse; but, nevertheless, the prize is one very well worth the pricepaid for it--well worth any price that can be paid for it short ofwading through dirt and dishonour. No other great European nation has anything like it to offer to theambition of its citizens; for in no other great country of Europe, not even in those which are free, has the popular constitutionobtained, as with us, true sovereignty and power of rule. Here it isso; and when a man lays himself out to be a member of Parliament, heplays the highest game and for the highest stakes which the countryaffords. To some men, born silver-spooned, a seat in Parliament comes asa matter of course. From the time of their early manhood theyhardly know what it is not to sit there; and the honour is hardlyappreciated, being too much a matter of course. As a rule, theynever know how great a thing it is to be in Parliament; though, whenreverse comes, as reverses occasionally will come, they fully feelhow dreadful it is to be left out. But to men aspiring to be members, or to those who having beenonce fortunate have again to fight the battle without assurance ofsuccess, the coming election must be matter of dread concern. Oh, howdelightful to hear that the long-talked-of rival has declined thecontest, and that the course is clear! or to find by a short canvassthat one's majority is safe, and the pleasures of crowing over anunlucky, friendless foe quite secured! No such gratification as this filled the bosom of Mr Moffat onthe morning of the Barchester election. To him had been broughtno positive assurance of success by his indefatigable agent, MrNearthewinde. It was admitted on all sides that the contest would bea very close one; and Mr Nearthewinde would not do more than assertthat they ought to win unless things went very wrong with them. Mr Nearthewinde had other elections to attend to, and had not beenremaining at Courcy Castle ever since the coming of Miss Dunstable:but he had been there, and at Barchester, as often as possible, andMr Moffat was made greatly uneasy by reflecting how very high thebill would be. The two parties had outdone each other in the loudness of theirassertions, that each would on his side conduct the election instrict conformity to law. There was to be no bribery. Bribery! who, indeed, in these days would dare to bribe; to give absolute money foran absolute vote, and pay for such an article in downright palpablesovereigns? No. Purity was much too rampant for that, and the meansof detection too well understood. But purity was to be carried muchfurther than this. There should be no treating; no hiring of twohundred voters to act as messengers at twenty shillings a day inlooking up some four hundred other voters; no bands were to be paidfor; no carriages furnished; no ribbons supplied. British voters wereto vote, if vote they would, for the love and respect they bore totheir chosen candidate. If so actuated, they would not vote, theymight stay away; no other inducement would be offered. So much was said loudly--very loudly--by each party; but, nevertheless, Mr Moffat, early in these election days, began to havesome misgivings about the bill. The proclaimed arrangement had beenone exactly suitable to his taste; for Mr Moffat loved his money. Hewas a man in whose breast the ambition of being great in the world, and of joining himself to aristocratic people was continually at warwith the great cost which such tastes occasioned. His last electionhad not been a cheap triumph. In one way or another money hadbeen dragged from him for purposes which had been to his mindunintelligible; and when, about the middle of his first session, hehad, with much grumbling, settled all demands, he had questioned withhimself whether his whistle was worth its cost. He was therefore a great stickler for purity of election; although, had he considered the matter, he should have known that with himmoney was his only passport into that Elysium in which he had nowlived for two years. He probably did not consider it; for when, inthose canvassing days immediately preceding the election, he hadseen that all the beer-houses were open, and half the populationwas drunk, he had asked Mr Nearthewinde whether this violation ofthe treaty was taking place only on the part of his opponent, andwhether, in such case, it would not be duly noticed with a view to apossible future petition. Mr Nearthewinde assured him triumphantly that half at least of thewallowing swine were his own especial friends; and that somewhatmore than half of the publicans of the town were eagerly engaged infighting his, Mr Moffat's battle. Mr Moffat groaned, and would haveexpostulated had Mr Nearthewinde been willing to hear him. But thatgentleman's services had been put into requisition by Lord de Courcyrather than by the candidate. For the candidate he cared but little. To pay the bill would be enough for him. He, Mr Nearthewinde, wasdoing his business as he well knew how to do it; and it was notlikely that he should submit to be lectured by such as Mr Moffat on atrumpery score of expense. It certainly did appear on the morning of the election as though somegreat change had been made in that resolution of the candidates to bevery pure. From an early hour rough bands of music were to be heardin every part of the usually quiet town; carts and gigs, omnibusesand flys, all the old carriages from all the inn-yards, and everyvehicle of any description which could be pressed into the servicewere in motion; if the horses and post-boys were not to be paid forby the candidates, the voters themselves were certainly very liberalin their mode of bringing themselves to the poll. The electiondistrict of the city of Barchester extended for some miles on eachside of the city, so that the omnibuses and flys had enough to do. Beer was to be had at the public-houses, almost without question, byall who chose to ask for it; and rum and brandy were dispensed toselect circles within the bars with equal profusion. As for ribbons, the mercers' shops must have been emptied of that article, as far asscarlet and yellow were concerned. Scarlet was Sir Roger's colour, while the friends of Mr Moffat were decked with yellow. Seeing whathe did see, Mr Moffat might well ask whether there had not been aviolation of the treaty of purity! At the time of this election there was some question whether Englandshould go to war with all her energy; or whether it would not bebetter for her to save her breath to cool her porridge, and notmeddle more than could be helped with foreign quarrels. The last viewof the matter was advocated by Sir Roger, and his motto of courseproclaimed the merits of domestic peace and quiet. "Peace abroad anda big loaf at home, " was consequently displayed on four or five hugescarlet banners, and carried waving over the heads of the people. ButMr Moffat was a staunch supporter of the Government, who were alreadyinclined to be belligerent, and "England's honour" was therefore thelegend under which he selected to do battle. It may, however, bedoubted whether there was in all Barchester one inhabitant--let aloneone elector--so fatuous as to suppose that England's honour was inany special manner dear to Mr Moffat; or that he would be a whit moresure of a big loaf than he was now, should Sir Roger happily become amember of the legislature. And then the fine arts were resorted to, seeing that language fellshort in telling all that was found necessary to be told. Poor SirRoger's failing as regards the bottle was too well known; and it wasalso known that, in acquiring his title, he had not quite laid asidethe rough mode of speech which he had used in his early years. Therewas, consequently, a great daub painted up on sundry walls, on whicha navvy, with a pimply, bloated face, was to be seen standing on arailway bank, leaning on a spade holding a bottle in one hand, whilehe invited a comrade to drink. "Come, Jack, shall us have a drop ofsome'at short?" were the words coming out of the navvy's mouth; andunder this was painted in huge letters, "THE LAST NEW BARONET. " But Mr Moffat hardly escaped on easier terms. The trade by which hisfather had made his money was as well known as that of the railwaycontractor; and every possible symbol of tailordom was displayed ingraphic portraiture on the walls and hoardings of the city. He wasdrawn with his goose, with his scissors, with his needle, with histapes; he might be seen measuring, cutting, stitching, pressing, carrying home his bundle, and presenting his little bill; and undereach of these representations was repeated his own motto: "England'shonour. " Such were the pleasant little amenities with which the people ofBarchester greeted the two candidates who were desirous of the honourof serving them in Parliament. The polling went on briskly and merrily. There were somewhat abovenine hundred registered voters, of whom the greater portion recordedtheir votes early in the day. At two o'clock, according to SirRoger's committee, the numbers were as follows:-- Scatcherd 275 Moffat 268 Whereas, by the light afforded by Mr Moffat's people, they stood in aslightly different ratio to each other, being written thus:-- Moffat 277 Scatcherd 269 This naturally heightened the excitement, and gave additional delightto the proceedings. At half-past two it was agreed by both sides thatMr Moffat was ahead; the Moffatites claiming a majority of twelve, and the Scatcherdites allowing a majority of one. But by threeo'clock sundry good men and true, belonging to the railway interest, had made their way to the booth in spite of the efforts of a bandof roughs from Courcy, and Sir Roger was again leading, by ten or adozen, according to his own showing. One little transaction which took place in the earlier part of theday deserves to be recorded. There was in Barchester an honestpublican--honest as the world of publicans goes--who not only waspossessed of a vote, but possessed also of a son who was a voter. He was one Reddypalm, and in former days, before he had learned toappreciate the full value of an Englishman's franchise, he had been adeclared Liberal and an early friend of Roger Scatcherd's. In latterdays he had governed his political feelings with more decorum, andhad not allowed himself to be carried away by such foolish fervour ashe had evinced in his youth. On this special occasion, however, hisline of conduct was so mysterious as for a while to baffle even thosewho knew him best. His house was apparently open in Sir Roger's interest. Beer, at anyrate, was flowing there as elsewhere; and scarlet ribbons goingin--not, perhaps, in a state of perfect steadiness--came out moreunsteady than before. Still had Mr Reddypalm been deaf to the voiceof that charmer, Closerstil, though he had charmed with all hiswisdom. Mr Reddypalm had stated, first his unwillingness to vote atall:--he had, he said, given over politics, and was not inclined totrouble his mind again with the subject; then he had spoken of hisgreat devotion to the Duke of Omnium, under whose grandfathers hisgrandfather had been bred: Mr Nearthewinde had, as he said, beenwith him, and proved to him beyond a shadow of a doubt that it wouldshow the deepest ingratitude on his part to vote against the duke'scandidate. Mr Closerstil thought he understood all this, and sent more, andstill more men to drink beer. He even caused--taking infinite troubleto secure secrecy in the matter--three gallons of British brandy tobe ordered and paid for as the best French. But, nevertheless, MrReddypalm made no sign to show that he considered that the rightthing had been done. On the evening before the election, he toldone of Mr Closerstil's confidential men, that he had thought a gooddeal about it, and that he believed he should be constrained by hisconscience to vote for Mr Moffat. We have said that Mr Closerstil was accompanied by a learned friendof his, one Mr Romer, a barrister, who was greatly interested in SirRoger, and who, being a strong Liberal, was assisting in the canvasswith much energy. He, hearing how matters were likely to go withthis conscientious publican, and feeling himself peculiarly capableof dealing with such delicate scruples, undertook to look into thecase in hand. Early, therefore, on the morning of the election, hesauntered down the cross street in which hung out the sign of theBrown Bear, and, as he expected, found Mr Reddypalm near his owndoor. Now it was quite an understood thing that there was to be no bribery. This was understood by no one better than by Mr Romer, who had, intruth, drawn up many of the published assurances to that effect. And, to give him his due, he was fully minded to act in accordance withthese assurances. The object of all the parties was to make it worththe voters' while to give their votes; but to do so without bribery. Mr Romer had repeatedly declared that he would have nothing to dowith any illegal practising; but he had also declared that, as longas all was done according to law, he was ready to lend his bestefforts to assist Sir Roger. How he assisted Sir Roger, and adheredto the law, will now be seen. Oh, Mr Romer! Mr Romer! is it not the case with thee that thou"wouldst not play false, and yet wouldst wrongly win?" Not inelectioneering, Mr Romer, any more than in other pursuits, can a mantouch pitch and not be defiled; as thou, innocent as thou art, wiltsoon learn to thy terrible cost. "Well, Reddypalm, " said Mr Romer, shaking hands with him. Mr Romerhad not been equally cautious as Nearthewinde, and had already drunksundry glasses of ale at the Brown Bear, in the hope of softening thestern Bear-warden. "How is it to be to-day? Which is to be the man?" "If any one knows that, Mr Romer, you must be the man. A poornumbskull like me knows nothing of them matters. How should I?All I looks to, Mr Romer, is selling a trifle of drink now andthen--selling it, and getting paid for it, you know, Mr Romer. " "Yes, that's important, no doubt. But come, Reddypalm, such an oldfriend of Sir Roger as you are, a man he speaks of as one of hisintimate friends, I wonder how you can hesitate about it? Now withanother man, I should think that he wanted to be paid for voting--" "Oh, Mr Romer!--fie--fie--fie!" "I know it's not the case with you. It would be an insult to offeryou money, even if money were going. I should not mention this, onlyas money is not going, neither on our side nor on the other, no harmcan be done. " "Mr Romer, if you speak of such a thing, you'll hurt me. I know thevalue of an Englishman's franchise too well to wish to sell it. Iwould not demean myself so low; no, not though five-and-twenty pounda vote was going, as there was in the good old times--and that's notso long ago neither. " "I am sure you wouldn't, Reddypalm; I'm sure you wouldn't. But anhonest man like you should stick to old friends. Now, tell me, " andputting his arm through Reddypalm's, he walked with him into thepassage of his own house; "Now, tell me--is there anything wrong?It's between friends, you know. Is there anything wrong?" "I wouldn't sell my vote for untold gold, " said Reddypalm, who wasperhaps aware that untold gold would hardly be offered to him for it. "I am sure you would not, " said Mr Romer. "But, " said Reddypalm, "a man likes to be paid his little bill. " "Surely, surely, " said the barrister. "And I did say two years since, when your friend Mr Closerstilbrought a friend of his down to stand here--it wasn't Sir Rogerthen--but when he brought a friend of his down, and when I drewtwo or three hogsheads of ale on their side, and when my bill wasquestioned and only half-settled, I did say that I wouldn't interferewith no election no more. And no more I will, Mr Romer--unless it beto give a quiet vote for the nobleman under whom I and mine alwayslived respectable. " "Oh!" said Mr Romer. "A man do like to have his bill paid, you know, Mr Romer. " Mr Romer could not but acknowledge that this was a natural feeling onthe part of an ordinary mortal publican. "It goes agin the grain with a man not to have his little bill paid, and specially at election time, " again urged Mr Reddypalm. Mr Romer had not much time to think about it; but he knew well thatmatters were so nearly balanced, that the votes of Mr Reddypalm andhis son were of inestimable value. "If it's only about your bill, " said Mr Romer, "I'll see to have thatsettled. I'll speak to Closerstil about that. " "All right!" said Reddypalm, seizing the young barrister's hand, andshaking it warmly; "all right!" And late in the afternoon when a voteor two became matter of intense interest, Mr Reddypalm and his soncame up to the hustings and boldly tendered theirs for their oldfriend, Sir Roger. There was a great deal of eloquence heard in Barchester on that day. Sir Roger had by this time so far recovered as to be able to gothrough the dreadfully hard work of canvassing and addressing theelectors from eight in the morning till near sunset. A very perfectrecovery, most men will say. Yes; a perfect recovery as regarded thetemporary use of his faculties, both physical and mental; thoughit may be doubted whether there can be any permanent recovery fromsuch disease as his. What amount of brandy he consumed to enablehim to perform this election work, and what lurking evil effect theexcitement might have on him--of these matters no record was kept inthe history of those proceedings. Sir Roger's eloquence was of a rough kind; but not perhaps the lessoperative on those for whom it was intended. The aristocracy ofBarchester consisted chiefly of clerical dignitaries, bishops, deans, prebendaries, and such like: on them and theirs it was not probablethat anything said by Sir Roger would have much effect. Those menwould either abstain from voting, or vote for the railway hero, with the view of keeping out the de Courcy candidate. Then came theshopkeepers, who might also be regarded as a stiff-necked generation, impervious to electioneering eloquence. They would, generally, support Mr Moffat. But there was an inferior class of voters, ten-pound freeholders, and such like, who, at this period, weresomewhat given to have an opinion of their own, and over them it wassupposed that Sir Roger did obtain some power by his gift of talking. "Now, gentlemen, will you tell me this, " said he, bawling at the topof his voice from off the portico which graced the door of the Dragonof Wantley, at which celebrated inn Sir Roger's committee sat:--"Whois Mr Moffat, and what has he done for us? There have been somepicture-makers about the town this week past. The Lord knows whothey are; I don't. These clever fellows do tell you who I am, andwhat I've done. I ain't very proud of the way they've painted me, though there's something about it I ain't ashamed of either. Seehere, " and he held up on one side of him one of the great daubs ofhimself--"just hold it there till I can explain it, " and he handedthe paper to one of his friends. "That's me, " said Sir Roger, puttingup his stick, and pointing to the pimply-nosed representation ofhimself. "Hurrah! Hur-r-rah! more power to you--we all know who you are, Roger. You're the boy! When did you get drunk last?" Such-likegreetings, together with a dead cat which was flung at him from thecrowd, and which he dexterously parried with his stick, were theanswers which he received to this exordium. "Yes, " said he, quite undismayed by this little missile which hadso nearly reached him: "that's me. And look here; this brown, dirty-looking broad streak here is intended for a railway; and thatthing in my hand--not the right hand; I'll come to that presently--" "How about the brandy, Roger?" "I'll come to that presently. I'll tell you about the brandy in goodtime. But that thing in my left hand is a spade. Now, I never handleda spade, and never could; but, boys, I handled a chisel and mallet;and many a hundred block of stone has come out smooth from under thathand;" and Sir Roger lifted up his great broad palm wide open. "So you did, Roger, and well we minds it. " "The meaning, however, of that spade is to show that I made therailway. Now I'm very much obliged to those gentlemen over at theWhite Horse for putting up this picture of me. It's a true picture, and it tells you who I am. I did make that railway. I have madethousands of miles of railway; I am making thousands of miles ofrailways--some in Europe, some in Asia, some in America. It's atrue picture, " and he poked his stick through it and held it up tothe crowd. "A true picture: but for that spade and that railway, Ishouldn't be now here asking your votes; and, when next Februarycomes, I shouldn't be sitting in Westminster to represent you, as, byGod's grace, I certainly will do. That tells you who I am. But now, will you tell me who Mr Moffat is?" "How about the brandy, Roger?" "Oh, yes, the brandy! I was forgetting that and the little speechthat is coming out of my mouth--a deal shorter speech, and a betterone than what I am making now. Here, in the right hand you see abrandy bottle. Well, boys, I'm not a bit ashamed of that; as longas a man does his work--and the spade shows that--it's only fair heshould have something to comfort him. I'm always able to work, andfew men work much harder. I'm always able to work, and no man has aright to expect more of me. I never expect more than that from thosewho work for me. " "No more you don't, Roger: a little drop's very good, ain't it, Roger? Keeps the cold from the stomach, eh, Roger?" "Then as to this speech, 'Come, Jack, let's have a drop of some'atshort. ' Why, that's a good speech too. When I do drink I like toshare with a friend; and I don't care how humble that friend is. " "Hurrah! more power. That's true too, Roger; may you never be withouta drop to wet your whistle. " "They say I'm the last new baronet. Well, I ain't ashamed of that;not a bit. When will Mr Moffat get himself made a baronet? No mancan truly say I'm too proud of it. I have never stuck myself up; no, nor stuck my wife up either: but I don't see much to be ashamed ofbecause the bigwigs chose to make a baronet of me. " "Nor, no more thee h'ant, Roger. We'd all be barrownites if so be weknew the way. " "But now, having polished off this bit of picture, let me ask you whoMr Moffat is? There are pictures enough about him, too; though Heavenknows where they all come from. I think Sir Edwin Landseer must havedone this one of the goose; it is so deadly natural. Look at it;there he is. Upon my word, whoever did that ought to make his fortuneat some of these exhibitions. Here he is again, with a big pairof scissors. He calls himself 'England's honour;' what the deuceEngland's honour has to do with tailoring, I can't tell you: perhapsMr Moffat can. But mind you, my friends, I don't say anything againsttailoring: some of you are tailors, I dare say. " "Yes, we be, " said a little squeaking voice from out of the crowd. "And a good trade it is. When I first knew Barchester there weretailors here could lick any stone-mason in the trade; I say nothingagainst tailors. But it isn't enough for a man to be a tailor unlesshe's something else along with it. You're not so fond of tailors thatyou'll send one up to Parliament merely because he is a tailor. " "We won't have no tailors. No; nor yet no cabbaging. Take a go ofbrandy, Roger; you're blown. " "No, I'm not blown yet. I've a deal more to say about Mr Moffatbefore I shall be blown. What has he done to entitle him to come herebefore you and ask you to send him to Parliament? Why; he isn't evena tailor. I wish he were. There's always some good in a fellow whoknows how to earn his own bread. But he isn't a tailor; he can't evenput a stitch in towards mending England's honour. His father was atailor; not a Barchester tailor, mind you, so as to give him anyclaim on your affections; but a London tailor. Now the question is, do you want to send the son of a London tailor up to Parliament torepresent you?" "No, we don't; nor yet we won't either. " "I rather think not. You've had him once, and what has he done foryou? Has he said much for you in the House of Commons? Why, he's sodumb a dog that he can't bark even for a bone. I'm told it's quitepainful to hear him fumbling and mumbling and trying to get up aspeech there over at the White Horse. He doesn't belong to the city;he hasn't done anything for the city; and he hasn't the power to doanything for the city. Then, why on earth does he come here? I'lltell you. The Earl de Courcy brings him. He's going to marry theEarl de Courcy's niece; for they say he's very rich--this tailor'sson--only they do say also that he doesn't much like to spend hismoney. He's going to marry Lord de Courcy's niece, and Lord de Courcywishes that his nephew should be in Parliament. There, that's theclaim which Mr Moffat has here on the people of Barchester. He's Lordde Courcy's nominee, and those who feel themselves bound hand andfoot, heart and soul, to Lord de Courcy, had better vote for him. Such men have my leave. If there are enough of such at Barchester tosend him to Parliament, the city in which I was born must be verymuch altered since I was a young man. " And so finishing his speech, Sir Roger retired within, and recruitedhimself in the usual manner. Such was the flood of eloquence at the Dragon of Wantly. At the WhiteHorse, meanwhile, the friends of the de Courcy interest were treatedperhaps to sounder political views; though not expressed in periodsso intelligibly fluent as those of Sir Roger. Mr Moffat was a young man, and there was no knowing to whatproficiency in the Parliamentary gift of public talking he might yetattain; but hitherto his proficiency was not great. He had, however, endeavoured to make up by study for any want of readiness of speech, and had come to Barchester daily, for the last four days, fortifiedwith a very pretty harangue, which he had prepared for himself inthe solitude of his chamber. On the three previous days mattershad been allowed to progress with tolerable smoothness, and he hadbeen permitted to deliver himself of his elaborate eloquence withfew other interruptions than those occasioned by his own want ofpractice. But on this, the day of days, the Barchesterian roughs werenot so complaisant. It appeared to Mr Moffat, when he essayed tospeak, that he was surrounded by enemies rather than friends; and inhis heart he gave great blame to Mr Nearthewinde for not managingmatters better for him. "Men of Barchester, " he began, in a voice which was every now andthen preternaturally loud, but which, at each fourth or fifth word, gave way from want of power, and descended to its natural weak tone. "Men of Barchester--electors and non-electors--" "We is hall electors; hall on us, my young kiddy. " "Electors and non-electors, I now ask your suffrages, not for thefirst time--" "Oh! we've tried you. We know what you're made on. Go on, Snip; don'tyou let 'em put you down. " "I've had the honour of representing you in Parliament for the lasttwo years and--" "And a deuced deal you did for us, didn't you?" "What could you expect from the ninth part of a man? Never mind, Snip--go on; don't you be out by any of them. Stick to your wax andthread like a man--like the ninth part of a man--go on a littlefaster, Snip. " "For the last two years--and--and--" Here Mr Moffat looked round tohis friends for some little support, and the Honourable George, whostood close behind him, suggested that he had gone through it like abrick. "And--and I went through it like a brick, " said Mr Moffat, with thegravest possible face, taking up in his utter confusion the wordsthat were put into his mouth. "Hurray!--so you did--you're the real brick. Well done, Snip; go itagain with the wax and thread!" "I am a thorough-paced reformer, " continued Mr Moffat, somewhatreassured by the effect of the opportune words which his friend hadwhispered into his ear. "A thorough-paced reformer--a thorough-pacedreformer--" "Go on, Snip. We all know what that means. " "A thorough-paced reformer--" "Never mind your paces, man; but get on. Tell us something new. We'reall reformers, we are. " Poor Mr Moffat was a little thrown back. It wasn't so easy to tellthese gentlemen anything new, harnessed as he was at this moment; sohe looked back at his honourable supporter for some further hint. "Say something about their daughters, " whispered George, whose ownflights of oratory were always on that subject. Had he counselled MrMoffat to say a word or two about the tides, his advice would nothave been less to the purpose. "Gentlemen, " he began again--"you all know that I am a thorough-pacedreformer--" "Oh, drat your reform. He's a dumb dog. Go back to your goose, Snippy; you never were made for this work. Go to Courcy Castle andreform that. " Mr Moffat, grieved in his soul, was becoming inextricably bewilderedby such facetiæ as these, when an egg, --and it may be feared not afresh egg, --flung with unerring precision, struck him on the openpart of his well-plaited shirt, and reduced him to speechlessdespair. An egg is a means of delightful support when properly administered;but it is not calculated to add much spirit to a man's eloquence, orto ensure his powers of endurance, when supplied in the manner abovedescribed. Men there are, doubtless, whose tongues would not bestopped even by such an argument as this; but Mr Moffat was not oneof them. As the insidious fluid trickled down beneath his waistcoat, he felt that all further powers of coaxing the electors out of theirvotes, by words flowing from his tongue sweeter than honey, wasfor that occasion denied to him. He could not be self-confident, energetic, witty, and good-humoured with a rotten egg drying throughhis clothes. He was forced, therefore, to give way, and with sadlydisconcerted air retired from the open window at which he had beenstanding. It was in vain that the Honourable George, Mr Nearthewinde, and Frankendeavoured again to bring him to the charge. He was like a beatenprize-fighter, whose pluck has been cowed out of him, and who, if hestands up, only stands up to fall. Mr Moffat got sulky also, and whenhe was pressed, said that Barchester and the people in it might bed----. "With all my heart, " said Mr Nearthewinde. "That wouldn't haveany effect on their votes. " But, in truth, it mattered very little whether Mr Moffat spoke, or whether he didn't speak. Four o'clock was the hour for closingthe poll, and that was now fast coming. Tremendous exertions hadbeen made about half-past three, by a safe emissary sent fromNearthewinde, to prove to Mr Reddypalm that all manner of contingentadvantages would accrue to the Brown Bear if it should turn out thatMr Moffat should take his seat for Barchester. No bribe was, ofcourse, offered or even hinted at. The purity of Barchester was notcontaminated during the day by one such curse as this. But a man, anda publican, would be required to do some great deed in the publicline; to open some colossal tap; to draw beer for the million; and noone would be so fit as Mr Reddypalm--if only it might turn out thatMr Moffat should, in the coming February, take his seat as member forBarchester. But Mr Reddypalm was a man of humble desires, whose ambitions soaredno higher than this--that his little bills should be duly settled. Itis wonderful what love an innkeeper has for his bill in its entirety. An account, with a respectable total of five or six pounds, isbrought to you, and you complain but of one article; that fire in thebedroom was never lighted; or that second glass of brandy and waterwas never called for. You desire to have the shilling expunged, andall your host's pleasure in the whole transaction is destroyed. Oh!my friends, pay for the brandy and water, though you never drank it;suffer the fire to pass, though it never warmed you. Why make a goodman miserable for such a trifle? It became notified to Reddypalm with sufficient clearness that hisbill for the past election should be paid without further question;and, therefore, at five o'clock the Mayor of Barchester proclaimedthe results of the contest in the following figures:-- Scatcherd 378 Moffat 376 Mr Reddypalm's two votes had decided the question. Mr Nearthewindeimmediately went up to town; and the dinner party at Courcy Castlethat evening was not a particularly pleasant meal. This much, however, had been absolutely decided before the yellowcommittee concluded their labour at the White Horse: there should bea petition. Mr Nearthewinde had not been asleep, and already knewsomething of the manner in which Mr Reddypalm's mind had beenquieted. CHAPTER XVIII The Rivals The intimacy between Frank and Miss Dunstable grew and prospered. That is to say, it prospered as an intimacy, though perhaps hardlyas a love affair. There was a continued succession of jokes betweenthem, which no one else in the castle understood; but the very factof there being such a good understanding between them rather stoodin the way of, than assisted, that consummation which the countessdesired. People, when they are in love with each other, or even whenthey pretend to be, do not generally show it by loud laughter. Nor isit frequently the case that a wife with two hundred thousand poundscan be won without some little preliminary despair. Now there was nodespair at all about Frank Gresham. Lady de Courcy, who thoroughly understood that portion of the worldin which she herself lived, saw that things were not going quite asthey should do, and gave much and repeated advice to Frank on thesubject. She was the more eager in doing this, because she imaginedFrank had done what he could to obey her first precepts. He had notturned up his nose at Miss Dunstable's curls, nor found fault withher loud voice: he had not objected to her as ugly, nor even shownany dislike to her age. A young man who had been so amenable toreason was worthy of further assistance; and so Lady de Courcy didwhat she could to assist him. "Frank, my dear boy, " she would say, "you are a little too noisy, Ithink. I don't mean for myself, you know; I don't mind it. But MissDunstable would like it better if you were a little more quiet withher. " "Would she, aunt?" said Frank, looking demurely up into thecountess's face. "I rather think she likes fun and noise, and thatsort of thing. You know she's not very quiet herself. " "Ah!--but Frank, there are times, you know, when that sort of thingshould be laid aside. Fun, as you call it, is all very well in itsplace. Indeed, no one likes it better than I do. But that's not theway to show admiration. Young ladies like to be admired; and ifyou'll be a little more soft-mannered with Miss Dunstable, I'm sureyou'll find it will answer better. " And so the old bird taught the young bird how to fly--veryneedlessly--for in this matter of flying, Nature gives her ownlessons thoroughly; and the ducklings will take the water, eventhough the maternal hen warn them against the perfidious elementnever so loudly. Soon after this, Lady de Courcy began to be not very well pleasedin the matter. She took it into her head that Miss Dunstable wassometimes almost inclined to laugh at her; and on one or twooccasions it almost seemed as though Frank was joining Miss Dunstablein doing so. The fact indeed was, that Miss Dunstable was fond offun; and, endowed as she was with all the privileges which twohundred thousand pounds may be supposed to give to a young lady, did not very much care at whom she laughed. She was able to make atolerably correct guess at Lady de Courcy's plan towards herself;but she did not for a moment think that Frank had any intentionof furthering his aunt's views. She was, therefore, not at allill-inclined to have her revenge on the countess. "How very fond your aunt is of you!" she said to him one wet morning, as he was sauntering through the house; now laughing, and almostromping with her--then teasing his sister about Mr Moffat--and thenbothering his lady-cousins out of all their propriety. "Oh, very!" said Frank: "she is a dear, good woman, is my Aunt deCourcy. " "I declare she takes more notice of you and your doings than of anyof your cousins. I wonder they ain't jealous. " "Oh! they're such good people. Bless me, they'd never be jealous. " "You are so much younger than they are, that I suppose she thinks youwant more of her care. " "Yes; that's it. You see she's fond of having a baby to nurse. " "Tell me, Mr Gresham, what was it she was saying to you last night? Iknow we had been misbehaving ourselves dreadfully. It was all yourfault; you would make me laugh so. " "That's just what I said to her. " "She was talking about me, then?" "How on earth should she talk of any one else as long as you arehere? Don't you know that all the world is talking about you?" "Is it?--dear me, how kind! But I don't care a straw about any worldjust at present but Lady de Courcy's world. What did she say?" "She said you were very beautiful--" "Did she?--how good of her!" "No; I forgot. It--it was I that said that; and she said--what wasit she said? She said, that after all, beauty was but skin deep--andthat she valued you for your virtues and prudence rather than yourgood looks. " "Virtues and prudence! She said I was prudent and virtuous?" "Yes. " "And you talked of my beauty? That was so kind of you. You didn'teither of you say anything about other matters?" "What other matters?" "Oh! I don't know. Only some people are sometimes valued rather forwhat they've got than for any good qualities belonging to themselvesintrinsically. " "That can never be the case with Miss Dunstable; especially not atCourcy Castle, " said Frank, bowing easily from the corner of the sofaover which he was leaning. "Of course not, " said Miss Dunstable; and Frank at once perceivedthat she spoke in a tone of voice differing much from thathalf-bantering, half-good-humoured manner that was customary withher. "Of course not: any such idea would be quite out of the questionwith Lady de Courcy. " She paused for a moment, and then addedin a tone different again, and unlike any that he had yet heardfrom her:--"It is, at any rate, out of the question with Mr FrankGresham--of that I am quite sure. " Frank ought to have understood her, and have appreciated the goodopinion which she intended to convey; but he did not entirely do so. He was hardly honest himself towards her; and he could not at firstperceive that she intended to say that she thought him so. He knewvery well that she was alluding to her own huge fortune, and wasalluding also to the fact that people of fashion sought her becauseof it; but he did not know that she intended to express a trueacquittal as regarded him of any such baseness. And did he deserve to be acquitted? Yes, upon the whole he did;--tobe acquitted of that special sin. His desire to make Miss Dunstabletemporarily subject to his sway arose, not from a hankering after herfortune, but from an ambition to get the better of a contest in whichother men around him seemed to be failing. For it must not be imagined that, with such a prize to be struggledfor, all others stood aloof and allowed him to have his own waywith the heiress, undisputed. The chance of a wife with two hundredthousand pounds is a godsend which comes in a man's life too seldomto be neglected, let that chance be never so remote. Frank was the heir to a large embarrassed property; and, therefore, the heads of families, putting their wisdoms together, had thought itmost meet that this daughter of Plutus should, if possible, fall tohis lot. But not so thought the Honourable George; and not so thoughtanother gentleman who was at that time an inmate of Courcy Castle. These suitors perhaps somewhat despised their young rival's efforts. It may be that they had sufficient worldly wisdom to know that soimportant a crisis of life is not settled among quips and jokes, andthat Frank was too much in jest to be in earnest. But be that as itmay, his love-making did not stand in the way of their love-making;nor his hopes, if he had any, in the way of their hopes. The Honourable George had discussed the matter with the HonourableJohn in a properly fraternal manner. It may be that John had alsoan eye to the heiress; but, if so, he had ceded his views to hisbrother's superior claims; for it came about that they understoodeach other very well, and John favoured George with salutary adviceon the occasion. "If it is to be done at all, it should be done very sharp, " saidJohn. "As sharp as you like, " said George. "I'm not the fellow to bestudying three months in what attitude I'll fall at a girl's feet. " "No: and when you are there you mustn't take three months more tostudy how you'll get up again. If you do it at all, you must do itsharp, " repeated John, putting great stress on his advice. "I have said a few soft words to her already, and she didn't seem totake them badly, " said George. "She's no chicken, you know, " remarked John; "and with a woman likethat, beating about the bush never does any good. The chances are shewon't have you--that's of course; plums like that don't fall into aman's mouth merely for shaking the tree. But it's possible she may;and if she will, she's as likely to take you to-day as this day sixmonths. If I were you I'd write her a letter. " "Write her a letter--eh?" said George, who did not altogether dislikethe advice, for it seemed to take from his shoulders the burden ofpreparing a spoken address. Though he was so glib in speaking aboutthe farmers' daughters, he felt that he should have some littledifficulty in making known his passion to Miss Dunstable by word ofmouth. "Yes; write a letter. If she'll take you at all, she'll take you thatway; half the matches going are made up by writing letters. Write hera letter and get it put on her dressing-table. " George said that hewould, and so he did. George spoke quite truly when he hinted that he had said a few softthings to Miss Dunstable. Miss Dunstable, however, was accustomed tohear soft things. She had been carried much about in society amongfashionable people since, on the settlement of her father's will, shehad been pronounced heiress to all the ointment of Lebanon; and manymen had made calculations respecting her similar to those which werenow animating the brain of the Honourable George de Courcy. She wasalready quite accustomed to being the target at which spendthriftsand the needy rich might shoot their arrows: accustomed to being shotat, and tolerably accustomed to protect herself without making scenesin the world, or rejecting the advantageous establishments offeredto her with any loud expressions of disdain. The Honourable George, therefore, had been permitted to say soft things very much as amatter of course. And very little more outward fracas arose from the correspondencewhich followed than had arisen from the soft things so said. Georgewrote the letter, and had it duly conveyed to Miss Dunstable'sbed-chamber. Miss Dunstable duly received it, and had her answerconveyed back discreetly to George's hands. The correspondence ran asfollows:-- Courcy Castle, Aug. --, 185--. MY DEAREST MISS DUNSTABLE, I cannot but flatter myself that you must have perceived from my manner that you are not indifferent to me. Indeed, indeed, you are not. I may truly say, and swear [these last strong words had been put in by the special counsel of the Honourable John], that if ever a man loved a woman truly, I truly love you. You may think it very odd that I should say this in a letter instead of speaking it out before your face; but your powers of raillery are so great ["touch her up about her wit" had been the advice of the Honourable John] that I am all but afraid to encounter them. Dearest, dearest Martha--oh do not blame me for so addressing you!--if you will trust your happiness to me you shall never find that you have been deceived. My ambition shall be to make you shine in that circle which you are so well qualified to adorn, and to see you firmly fixed in that sphere of fashion for which all your tastes adapt you. I may safely assert--and I do assert it with my hand on my heart--that I am actuated by no mercenary motives. Far be it from me to marry any woman--no, not a princess--on account of her money. No marriage can be happy without mutual affection; and I do fully trust--no, not trust, but hope--that there may be such between you and me, dearest Miss Dunstable. Whatever settlements you might propose, I should accede to. It is you, your sweet person, that I love, not your money. For myself, I need not remind you that I am the second son of my father; and that, as such, I hold no inconsiderable station in the world. My intention is to get into Parliament, and to make a name for myself, if I can, among those who shine in the House of Commons. My elder brother, Lord Porlock, is, you are aware, unmarried; and we all fear that the family honours are not likely to be perpetuated by him, as he has all manner of troublesome liaisons which will probably prevent his settling in life. There is nothing at all of that kind in my way. It will indeed be a delight to place a coronet on the head of my lovely Martha: a coronet which can give no fresh grace to her, but which will be so much adorned by her wearing it. Dearest Miss Dunstable, I shall wait with the utmost impatience for your answer; and now, burning with hope that it may not be altogether unfavourable to my love, I beg permission to sign myself-- Your own most devoted, GEORGE DE COURCY. The ardent lover had not to wait long for an answer from hismistress. She found this letter on her toilet-table one night as shewent to bed. The next morning she came down to breakfast and met herswain with the most unconcerned air in the world; so much so thathe began to think, as he munched his toast with rather a shamefacedlook, that the letter on which so much was to depend had not yet comesafely to hand. But his suspense was not of a prolonged duration. After breakfast, as was his wont, he went out to the stables with hisbrother and Frank Gresham; and while there, Miss Dunstable's man, coming up to him, touched his hat, and put a letter into his hand. Frank, who knew the man, glanced at the letter and looked at hiscousin; but he said nothing. He was, however, a little jealous, andfelt that an injury was done to him by any correspondence betweenMiss Dunstable and his cousin George. Miss Dunstable's reply was as follows; and it may be remarked thatit was written in a very clear and well-penned hand, and one whichcertainly did not betray much emotion of the heart:-- MY DEAR MR DE COURCY, I am sorry to say that I had not perceived from your manner that you entertained any peculiar feelings towards me; as, had I done so, I should at once have endeavoured to put an end to them. I am much flattered by the way in which you speak of me; but I am in too humble a position to return your affection; and can, therefore, only express a hope that you may be soon able to eradicate it from your bosom. A letter is a very good way of making an offer, and as such I do not think it at all odd; but I certainly did not expect such an honour last night. As to my raillery, I trust it has never yet hurt you. I can assure you it never shall. I hope you will soon have a worthier ambition than that to which you allude; for I am well aware that no attempt will ever make me shine anywhere. I am quite sure you have had no mercenary motives: such motives in marriage are very base, and quite below your name and lineage. Any little fortune that I may have must be a matter of indifference to one who looks forward, as you do, to put a coronet on his wife's brow. Nevertheless, for the sake of the family, I trust that Lord Porlock, in spite of his obstacles, may live to do the same for a wife of his own some of these days. I am glad to hear that there is nothing to interfere with your own prospects of domestic felicity. Sincerely hoping that you may be perfectly successful in your proud ambition to shine in Parliament, and regretting extremely that I cannot share that ambition with you, I beg to subscribe myself, with very great respect, -- Your sincere well-wisher, MARTHA DUNSTABLE. The Honourable George, with that modesty which so well became him, accepted Miss Dunstable's reply as a final answer to his littleproposition, and troubled her with no further courtship. As he saidto his brother John, no harm had been done, and he might have betterluck next time. But there was an intimate of Courcy Castle who wassomewhat more pertinacious in his search after love and wealth. Thiswas no other than Mr Moffat: a gentleman whose ambition was notsatisfied by the cares of his Barchester contest, or the possessionof one affianced bride. Mr Moffat was, as we have said, a man of wealth; but we all know, from the lessons of early youth, how the love of money increases andgains strength by its own success. Nor was he a man of so mean aspirit as to be satisfied with mere wealth. He desired also place andstation, and gracious countenance among the great ones of the earth. Hence had come his adherence to the de Courcys; hence his seat inParliament; and hence, also, his perhaps ill-considered match withMiss Gresham. There is no doubt but that the privilege of matrimony offersopportunities to money-loving young men which ought not to be lightlyabused. Too many young men marry without giving any consideration tothe matter whatever. It is not that they are indifferent to money, but that they recklessly miscalculate their own value, and omit tolook around and see how much is done by those who are more careful. A man can be young but once, and, except in cases of a specialinterposition of Providence, can marry but once. The chance oncethrown away may be said to be irrevocable! How, in after-life, domen toil and turmoil through long years to attain some prospect ofdoubtful advancement! Half that trouble, half that care, a tithe ofthat circumspection would, in early youth, have probably secured tothem the enduring comfort of a wife's wealth. You will see men labouring night and day to become bank directors;and even a bank direction may only be the road to ruin. Others willspend years in degrading subserviency to obtain a niche in a will;and the niche, when at last obtained and enjoyed, is but a sorrypayment for all that has been endured. Others, again, struggleharder still, and go through even deeper waters: they make wills forthemselves, forge stock-shares, and fight with unremitting, painfullabour to appear to be the thing that they are not. Now, in manyof these cases, all this might have been spared had the men madeadequate use of those opportunities which youth and youthful charmsafford once--and once only. There is no road to wealth so easy andrespectable as that of matrimony; that, is of course, provided thatthe aspirant declines the slow course of honest work. But then, wecan so seldom put old heads on young shoulders! In the case of Mr Moffat, we may perhaps say that a specimen wasproduced of this bird, so rare in the land. His shoulders werecertainly young, seeing that he was not yet six-and-twenty; buthis head had ever been old. From the moment when he was first putforth to go alone--at the age of twenty-one--his life had been onecalculation how he could make the most of himself. He had allowedhimself to be betrayed into no folly by an unguarded heart; noyouthful indiscretion had marred his prospects. He had made themost of himself. Without wit, or depth, or any mental gift--withouthonesty of purpose or industry for good work--he had been for twoyears sitting member for Barchester; was the guest of Lord de Courcy;was engaged to the eldest daughter of one of the best commoners'families in England; and was, when he first began to think of MissDunstable, sanguine that his re-election to Parliament was secure. When, however, at this period he began to calculate what his positionin the world really was, it occurred to him that he was doing anill-judged thing in marrying Miss Gresham. Why marry a pennilessgirl--for Augusta's trifle of a fortune was not a penny in hisestimation--while there was Miss Dunstable in the world to be won?His own six or seven thousand a year, quite unembarrassed as it was, was certainly a great thing; but what might he not do if to thathe could add the almost fabulous wealth of the great heiress? Wasshe not here, put absolutely in his path? Would it not be a wilfulthrowing away of a chance not to avail himself of it? He must, tobe sure, lose the de Courcy friendship; but if he should then havesecured his Barchester seat for the usual term of parliamentarysession, he might be able to spare that. He would also, perhaps, encounter some Gresham enmity: this was a point on which he did thinkmore than once: but what will not a man encounter for the sake of twohundred thousand pounds? It was thus that Mr Moffat argued with himself, with much prudence, and brought himself to resolve that he would at any rate become acandidate for the great prize. He also, therefore, began to saysoft things; and it must be admitted that he said them with moreconsiderate propriety than had the Honourable George. Mr Moffat hadan idea that Miss Dunstable was not a fool, and that in order tocatch her he must do more than endeavour to lay salt on her tail, in the guise of flattery. It was evident to him that she was a birdof some cunning, not to be caught by an ordinary gin, such as thosecommonly in use with the Honourable Georges of Society. It seemed to Mr Moffat, that though Miss Dunstable was so sprightly, so full of fun, and so ready to chatter on all subjects, she wellknew the value of her own money, and of her position as dependent onit: he perceived that she never flattered the countess, and seemedto be no whit absorbed by the titled grandeur of her host's family. He gave her credit, therefore, for an independent spirit: and anindependent spirit in his estimation was one that placed its soledependence on a respectable balance at its banker's. Working on these ideas, Mr Moffat commenced operations in such mannerthat his overtures to the heiress should not, if unsuccessful, interfere with the Greshamsbury engagement. He began by making commoncause with Miss Dunstable: their positions in the world, he said toher, were closely similar. They had both risen from the lower classby the strength of honest industry: they were both now wealthy, andhad both hitherto made such use of their wealth as to induce thehighest aristocracy of England to admit them into their circles. "Yes, Mr Moffat, " had Miss Dunstable remarked; "and if all that Ihear be true, to admit you into their very families. " At this Mr Moffat slightly demurred. He would not affect, he said, to misunderstand what Miss Dunstable meant. There had been somethingsaid on the probability of such an event; but he begged MissDunstable not to believe all that she heard on such subjects. "I do not believe much, " said she; "but I certainly did think thatthat might be credited. " Mr Moffat then went on to show how it behoved them both, in holdingout their hands half-way to meet the aristocratic overtures thatwere made to them, not to allow themselves to be made use of. Thearistocracy, according to Mr Moffat, were people of a very nicesort; the best acquaintance in the world; a portion of mankind to benoticed by whom should be one of the first objects in the life of theDunstables and the Moffats. But the Dunstables and Moffats should bevery careful to give little or nothing in return. Much, very much inreturn, would be looked for. The aristocracy, said Mr Moffat, werenot a people to allow the light of their countenance to shine forthwithout looking for a _quid pro quo_, for some compensating value. In all their intercourse with the Dunstables and Moffats, they wouldexpect a payment. It was for the Dunstables and Moffats to see that, at any rate, they did not pay more for the article they got than itsmarket value. They way in which she, Miss Dunstable, and he, Mr Moffat, would berequired to pay would be by taking each of them some poor scion ofthe aristocracy in marriage; and thus expending their hard-earnedwealth in procuring high-priced pleasures for some well-born pauper. Against this, peculiar caution was to be used. Of course, the furtherinduction to be shown was this: that people so circumstanced shouldmarry among themselves; the Dunstables and the Moffats each with theother, and not tumble into the pitfalls prepared for them. Whether these great lessons had any lasting effect on MissDunstable's mind may be doubted. Perhaps she had already made up hermind on the subject which Mr Moffat so well discussed. She was olderthan Mr Moffat, and, in spite of his two years of parliamentaryexperience, had perhaps more knowledge of the world with which shehad to deal. But she listened to what he said with complacency;understood his object as well as she had that of his aristocraticrival; was no whit offended; but groaned in her spirit as she thoughtof the wrongs of Augusta Gresham. But all this good advice, however, would not win the money for MrMoffat without some more decided step; and that step he soon decidedon taking, feeling assured that what he had said would have its dueweight with the heiress. The party at Courcy Castle was now soon about to be broken up. Themale de Courcys were going down to a Scotch mountain. The female deCourcys were to be shipped off to an Irish castle. Mr Moffat was togo up to town to prepare his petition. Miss Dunstable was again aboutto start on a foreign tour in behalf of her physician and attendants;and Frank Gresham was at last to be allowed to go to Cambridge; thatis to say, unless his success with Miss Dunstable should render sucha step on his part quite preposterous. "I think you may speak now, Frank, " said the countess. "I reallythink you may: you have known her now for a considerable time; and, as far as I can judge, she is very fond of you. " "Nonsense, aunt, " said Frank; "she doesn't care a button for me. " "I think differently; and lookers-on, you know, always understand thegame best. I suppose you are not afraid to ask her. " "Afraid!" said Frank, in a tone of considerable scorn. He almost madeup his mind that he would ask her to show that he was not afraid. His only obstacle to doing so was, that he had not the slightestintention of marrying her. There was to be but one other great event before the party broke up, and that was a dinner at the Duke of Omnium's. The duke had alreadydeclined to come to Courcy; but he had in a measure atoned for thisby asking some of the guests to join a great dinner which he wasabout to give to his neighbours. Mr Moffat was to leave Courcy Castle the day after the dinner-party, and he therefore determined to make his great attempt on the morningof that day. It was with some difficulty that he brought about anopportunity; but at last he did so, and found himself alone with MissDunstable in the walks of Courcy Park. "It is a strange thing, is it not, " said he, recurring to his oldview of the same subject, "that I should be going to dine with theDuke of Omnium--the richest man, they say, among the whole Englisharistocracy?" "Men of that kind entertain everybody, I believe, now and then, " saidMiss Dunstable, not very civilly. "I believe they do; but I am not going as one of the everybodies. I am going from Lord de Courcy's house with some of his own family. I have no pride in that--not the least; I have more pride in myfather's honest industry. But it shows what money does in thiscountry of ours. " "Yes, indeed; money does a great deal many queer things. " In sayingthis Miss Dunstable could not but think that money had done a veryqueer thing in inducing Miss Gresham to fall in love with Mr Moffat. "Yes; wealth is very powerful: here we are, Miss Dunstable, the mosthonoured guests in the house. " "Oh! I don't know about that; you may be, for you are a member ofParliament, and all that--" "No; not a member now, Miss Dunstable. " "Well, you will be, and that's all the same; but I have no such titleto honour, thank God. " They walked on in silence for a little while, for Mr Moffat hardlyknew how to manage the business he had in hand. "It is quitedelightful to watch these people, " he said at last; "now they accuseus of being tuft-hunters. " "Do they?" said Miss Dunstable. "Upon my word I didn't know thatanybody ever so accused me. " "I didn't mean you and me personally. " "Oh! I'm glad of that. " "But that is what the world says of persons of our class. Now itseems to me that the toadying is all on the other side. The countesshere does toady you, and so do the young ladies. " "Do they? if so, upon my word I didn't know it. But, to tell thetruth, I don't think much of such things. I live mostly to myself, MrMoffat. " "I see that you do, and I admire you for it; but, Miss Dunstable, youcannot always live so, " and Mr Moffat looked at her in a manner whichgave her the first intimation of his coming burst of tenderness. "That's as may be, Mr Moffat, " said she. He went on beating about the bush for some time--giving her tounderstand now necessary it was that persons situated as they wereshould live either for themselves or for each other, and that, above all things, they should beware of falling into the mouths ofvoracious aristocratic lions who go about looking for prey--till theycame to a turn in the grounds; at which Miss Dunstable declared herdetermination of going in. She had walked enough, she said. As bythis time Mr Moffat's immediate intentions were becoming visible shethought it prudent to retire. "Don't let me take you in, Mr Moffat;but my boots are a little damp, and Dr Easyman will never forgive meif I do not hurry in as fast as I can. " "Your feet damp?--I hope not: I do hope not, " said he, with a look ofthe greatest solicitude. "Oh! it's nothing to signify; but it's well to be prudent, you know. Good morning, Mr Moffat. " "Miss Dunstable!" "Eh--yes!" and Miss Dunstable stopped in the grand path. "I won't letyou return with me, Mr Moffat, because I know you were not coming inso soon. " "Miss Dunstable; I shall be leaving this to-morrow. " "Yes; and I go myself the day after. " "I know it. I am going to town and you are going abroad. It may belong--very long--before we meet again. " "About Easter, " said Miss Dunstable; "that is, if the doctor doesn'tknock up on the road. " "And I had, had wished to say something before we part for so long atime. Miss Dunstable--" "Stop!--Mr Moffat. Let me ask you one question. I'll hear anythingthat you have got to say, but on one condition: that is, that MissAugusta Gresham shall be by while you say it. Will you consent tothat?" "Miss Augusta Gresham, " said he, "has no right to listen to myprivate conversation. " "Has she not, Mr Moffat? then I think she should have. I, at anyrate, will not so far interfere with what I look on as her undoubtedprivileges as to be a party to any secret in which she may notparticipate. " "But, Miss Dunstable--" "And to tell you fairly, Mr Moffat, any secret that you do tell me, Ishall most undoubtedly repeat to her before dinner. Good morning, MrMoffat; my feet are certainly a little damp, and if I stay a momentlonger, Dr Easyman will put off my foreign trip for at least a week. "And so she left him standing alone in the middle of the gravel-walk. For a moment or two, Mr Moffat consoled himself in his misfortune bythinking how he might best avenge himself on Miss Dunstable. Soon, however, such futile ideas left his brain. Why should he give overthe chase because the rich galleon had escaped him on this, hisfirst cruise in pursuit of her? Such prizes were not to be won soeasily. Her present objection clearly consisted in his engagement toMiss Gresham, and in that only. Let that engagement be at an end, notoriously and publicly broken off, and this objection would fall tothe ground. Yes; ships so richly freighted were not to be run downin one summer morning's plain sailing. Instead of looking for hisrevenge on Miss Dunstable, it would be more prudent in him--more inkeeping with his character--to pursue his object, and overcome suchdifficulties as he might find in his way. CHAPTER XIX The Duke of Omnium The Duke of Omnium was, as we have said, a bachelor. Not the less onthat account did he on certain rare gala days entertain the beautyof the county at his magnificent rural seat, or the female fashionof London in Belgrave Square; but on this occasion the dinner atGatherum Castle--for such was the name of his mansion--was to beconfined to the lords of the creation. It was to be one of those dayson which he collected round his board all the notables of the county, in order that his popularity might not wane, or the established gloryof his hospitable house become dim. On such an occasion it was not probable that Lord de Courcy would beone of the guests. The party, indeed, who went from Courcy Castle wasnot large, and consisted of the Honourable George, Mr Moffat, andFrank Gresham. They went in a tax-cart, with a tandem horse, drivenvery knowingly by George de Courcy; and the fourth seat on the backof the vehicle was occupied by a servant, who was to look after thehorses at Gatherum. The Honourable George drove either well or luckily, for he reachedthe duke's house in safety; but he drove very fast. Poor MissDunstable! what would have been her lot had anything but goodhappened to that vehicle, so richly freighted with her three lovers!They did not quarrel as to the prize, and all reached Gatherum Castlein good humour with each other. The castle was new building of white stone, lately erected at anenormous cost by one of the first architects of the day. It was animmense pile, and seemed to cover ground enough for a moderate-sizedtown. But, nevertheless, report said that when it was completed, the noble owner found that he had no rooms to live in; and that, onthis account, when disposed to study his own comfort, he resided ina house of perhaps one-tenth the size, built by his grandfather inanother county. Gatherum Castle would probably be called Italian in its style ofarchitecture; though it may, I think, be doubted whether any suchedifice, or anything like it, was ever seen in any part of Italy. It was a vast edifice; irregular in height--or it appeared to beso--having long wings on each side too high to be passed over by theeye as mere adjuncts to the mansion, and a portico so large as tomake the house behind it look like another building of a greateraltitude. This portico was supported by Ionic columns, and was initself doubtless a beautiful structure. It was approached by aflight of steps, very broad and very grand; but, as an approach by aflight of steps hardly suits an Englishman's house, to the immediateentrance of which it is necessary that his carriage should drive, there was another front door in one of the wings which was commonlyused. A carriage, however, could on very stupendously grandoccasions--the visits, for instance, of queens and kings, and royaldukes--be brought up under the portico; as the steps had been soconstructed as to admit of a road, with a rather stiff ascent, beingmade close in front of the wing up into the very porch. Opening from the porch was the grand hall, which extended up to thetop of the house. It was magnificent, indeed; being decorated withmany-coloured marbles, and hung round with various trophies of thehouse of Omnium; banners were there, and armour; the sculptured bustsof many noble progenitors; full-length figures in marble of thosewho had been especially prominent; and every monument of glory thatwealth, long years, and great achievements could bring together. Ifonly a man could but live in his hall and be for ever happy there!But the Duke of Omnium could not live happily in his hall; and thefact was, that the architect, in contriving this magnificent entrancefor his own honour and fame, had destroyed the duke's house asregards most of the ordinary purposes of residence. Nevertheless, Gatherum Castle is a very noble pile; and, standing asit does on an eminence, has a very fine effect when seen from many adistant knoll and verdant-wooded hill. At seven o'clock Mr de Courcy and his friends got down from theirdrag at the smaller door--for this was no day on which to mount upunder the portico; nor was that any suitable vehicle to have beenentitled to such honour. Frank felt some excitement a little strongerthan that usual to him at such moments, for he had never yet been incompany with the Duke of Omnium; and he rather puzzled himself tothink on what points he would talk to the man who was the largestlandowner in that county in which he himself had so great aninterest. He, however, made up his mind that he would allow the duketo choose his own subjects; merely reserving to himself the right ofpointing out how deficient in gorse covers was West Barsetshire--thatbeing the duke's division. They were soon divested of their coats and hats, and, without entering on the magnificence of the great hall, wereconducted through rather a narrow passage into rather a smalldrawing-room--small, that is, in proportion to the number ofgentlemen there assembled. There might be about thirty, and Frank wasinclined to think that they were almost crowded. A man came forwardto greet them when their names were announced; but our hero at onceknew that he was not the duke; for this man was fat and short, whereas the duke was thin and tall. There was a great hubbub going on; for everybody seemed to be talkingto his neighbour; or, in default of a neighbour, to himself. Itwas clear that the exalted rank of their host had put very littleconstraint on his guests' tongues, for they chatted away with as muchfreedom as farmers at an ordinary. "Which is the duke?" at last Frank contrived to whisper to hiscousin. "Oh;--he's not here, " said George; "I suppose he'll be in presently. I believe he never shows till just before dinner. " Frank, of course, had nothing further to say; but he already began tofeel himself a little snubbed: he thought that the duke, duke thoughhe was, when he asked people to dinner should be there to tell themthat he was glad to see them. More people flashed into the room, and Frank found himself ratherclosely wedged in with a stout clergyman of his acquaintance. He wasnot badly off, for Mr Athill was a friend of his own, who had held aliving near Greshamsbury. Lately, however, at the lamented deceaseof Dr Stanhope--who had died of apoplexy at his villa in Italy--MrAthill had been presented with the better preferment of Eiderdown, and had, therefore, removed to another part of the county. He wassomewhat of a bon-vivant, and a man who thoroughly understooddinner-parties; and with much good nature he took Frank under hisspecial protection. "You stick to me, Mr Gresham, " he said, "when we go into thedining-room. I'm an old hand at the duke's dinners, and know how tomake a friend comfortable as well as myself. " "But why doesn't the duke come in?" demanded Frank. "He'll be here as soon as dinner is ready, " said Mr Athill. "Or, rather, the dinner will be ready as soon as he is here. I don't care, therefore, how soon he comes. " Frank did not understand this, but he had nothing to do but to waitand see how things went. He was beginning to be impatient, for the room was now nearly full, and it seemed evident that no other guests were coming; when suddenlya bell rang, and a gong was sounded, and at the same instant a doorthat had not yet been used flew open, and a very plainly dressed, plain, tall man entered the room. Frank at once knew that he was atlast in the presence of the Duke of Omnium. But his grace, late as he was in commencing the duties as host, seemed in no hurry to make up for lost time. He quietly stood on therug, with his back to the empty grate, and spoke one or two words ina very low voice to one or two gentlemen who stood nearest to him. The crowd, in the meanwhile, became suddenly silent. Frank, when hefound that the duke did not come and speak to him, felt that he oughtto go and speak to the duke; but no one else did so, and when hewhispered his surprise to Mr Athill, that gentleman told him thatthis was the duke's practice on all such occasions. "Fothergill, " said the duke--and it was the only word he had yetspoken out loud--"I believe we are ready for dinner. " Now MrFothergill was the duke's land-agent, and he it was who had greetedFrank and his friends at their entrance. Immediately the gong was again sounded, and another door leading outof the drawing-room into the dining-room was opened. The duke led theway, and then the guests followed. "Stick close to me, Mr Gresham, "said Athill, "we'll get about the middle of the table, where we shallbe cosy--and on the other side of the room, out of this dreadfuldraught--I know the place well, Mr Gresham; stick to me. " Mr Athill, who was a pleasant, chatty companion, had hardly seatedhimself, and was talking to Frank as quickly as he could, when MrFothergill, who sat at the bottom of the table, asked him to saygrace. It seemed to be quite out of the question that the duke shouldtake any trouble with his guests whatever. Mr Athill consequentlydropped the word he was speaking, and uttered a prayer--if it was aprayer--that they might all have grateful hearts for that which Godwas about to give them. If it was a prayer! As far as my own experience goes, such utterancesare seldom prayers, seldom can be prayers. And if not prayers, whatthen? To me it is unintelligible that the full tide of glibbestchatter can be stopped at a moment in the midst of profuse goodliving, and the Giver thanked becomingly in words of heartfeltpraise. Setting aside for the moment what one daily hears and sees, may not one declare that a change so sudden is not within the compassof the human mind? But then, to such reasoning one cannot but addwhat one does hear and see; one cannot but judge of the ceremony bythe manner in which one sees it performed--uttered, that is--andlistened to. Clergymen there are--one meets them now and then--whoendeavour to give to the dinner-table grace some of the solemnity ofa church ritual, and what is the effect? Much the same as though onewere to be interrupted for a minute in the midst of one of our churchliturgies to hear a drinking-song. And it will be argued, that a man need be less thankful because, atthe moment of receiving, he utters no thanksgiving? or will it bethought that a man is made thankful because what is called a grace isuttered after dinner? It can hardly be imagined that any one will soargue, or so think. Dinner-graces are, probably, the last remaining relic of certaindaily services [1] which the Church in olden days enjoined: nones, complines, and vespers were others. Of the nones and complines wehave happily got quit; and it might be well if we could get rid ofthe dinner-graces also. Let any man ask himself whether, on his ownpart, they are acts of prayer and thanksgiving--and if not that, whatthen? [Footnote 1: It is, I know, alleged that graces are said before dinner, because our Saviour uttered a blessing before his last supper. I cannot say that the idea of such analogy is pleasing to me. ] When the large party entered the dining-room one or two gentlemenmight be seen to come in from some other door and set themselves atthe table near to the duke's chair. These were guests of his own, whowere staying in the house, his particular friends, the men with whomhe lived: the others were strangers whom he fed, perhaps once a year, in order that his name might be known in the land as that of one whodistributed food and wine hospitably through the county. The foodand wine, the attendance also, and the view of the vast repositoryof plate he vouchsafed willingly to his county neighbours;--but itwas beyond his good nature to talk to them. To judge by the presentappearance of most of them, they were quite as well satisfied to beleft alone. Frank was altogether a stranger there, but Mr Athill knew every oneat the table. "That's Apjohn, " said he: "don't you know, Mr Apjohn, the attorneyfrom Barchester? he's always here; he does some of Fothergill's lawbusiness, and makes himself useful. If any fellow knows the value ofa good dinner, he does. You'll see that the duke's hospitality willnot be thrown away on him. " "It's very much thrown away upon me, I know, " said Frank, who couldnot at all put up with the idea of sitting down to dinner withouthaving been spoken to by his host. "Oh, nonsense!" said his clerical friend; "you'll enjoy yourselfamazingly by and by. There is not such champagne in any other housein Barsetshire; and then the claret--" And Mr Athill pressed his lipstogether, and gently shook his head, meaning to signify by the motionthat the claret of Gatherum Castle was sufficient atonement for anypenance which a man might have to go through in his mode of obtainingit. "Who's that funny little man sitting there, next but one to Mr deCourcy? I never saw such a queer fellow in my life. " "Don't you know old Bolus? Well, I thought every one in Barsetshireknew Bolus; you especially should do so, as he is such a dear friendof Dr Thorne. " "A dear friend of Dr Thorne?" "Yes; he was apothecary at Scarington in the old days, before DrFillgrave came into vogue. I remember when Bolus was thought to be avery good sort of doctor. " "Is he--is he--" whispered Frank, "is he by way of a gentleman?" "Ha! ha! ha! Well, I suppose we must be charitable, and say that heis quite as good, at any rate, as many others there are here--" andMr Athill, as he spoke, whispered into Frank's ear, "You see there'sFinnie here, another Barchester attorney. Now, I really think whereFinnie goes Bolus may go too. " "The more the merrier, I suppose, " said Frank. "Well, something a little like that. I wonder why Thorne is not here?I'm sure he was asked. " "Perhaps he did not particularly wish to meet Finnie and Bolus. Doyou know, Mr Athill, I think he was quite right not to come. As formyself, I wish I was anywhere else. " "Ha! ha! ha! You don't know the duke's ways yet; and what's more, you're young, you happy fellow! But Thorne should have more sense; heought to show himself here. " The gormandizing was now going on at a tremendous rate. Though thevolubility of their tongues had been for a while stopped by the firstshock of the duke's presence, the guests seemed to feel no suchconstraint upon their teeth. They fed, one may almost say, rabidly, and gave their orders to the servants in an eager manner; much moreimpressive than that usual at smaller parties. Mr Apjohn, who satimmediately opposite to Frank, had, by some well-planned manoeuvre, contrived to get before him the jowl of a salmon; but, unfortunately, he was not for a while equally successful in the article of sauce. Avery limited portion--so at least thought Mr Apjohn--had been put onhis plate; and a servant, with a huge sauce tureen, absolutely passedbehind his back inattentive to his audible requests. Poor Mr Apjohnin his despair turned round to arrest the man by his coat-tails; buthe was a moment too late, and all but fell backwards on the floor. Ashe righted himself he muttered an anathema, and looked with a face ofanguish at his plate. "Anything the matter, Apjohn?" said Mr Fothergill, kindly, seeingthe utter despair written on the poor man's countenance; "can I getanything for you?" "The sauce!" said Mr Apjohn, in a voice that would have melted ahermit; and as he looked at Mr Fothergill, he pointed at the nowdistant sinner, who was dispensing his melted ambrosia at least tenheads upwards, away from the unfortunate supplicant. Mr Fothergill, however, knew where to look for balm for such wounds, and in a minute or two, Mr Apjohn was employed quite to his heart'scontent. "Well, " said Frank to his neighbour, "it may be very well once in away; but I think that on the whole Dr Thorne is right. " "My dear Mr Gresham, see the world on all sides, " said Mr Athill, who had also been somewhat intent on the gratification of his ownappetite, though with an energy less evident than that of thegentleman opposite. "See the world on all sides if you have anopportunity; and, believe me, a good dinner now and then is a verygood thing. " "Yes; but I don't like eating it with hogs. " "Whish-h! softly, softly, Mr Gresham, or you'll disturb Mr Apjohn'sdigestion. Upon my word, he'll want it all before he has done. Now, Ilike this kind of thing once in a way. " "Do you?" said Frank, in a tone that was almost savage. "Yes; indeed I do. One sees so much character. And after all, whatharm does it do?" "My idea is that people should live with those whose society ispleasant to them. " "Live--yes, Mr Gresham--I agree with you there. It wouldn't do for meto live with the Duke of Omnium; I shouldn't understand, or probablyapprove, his ways. Nor should I, perhaps, much like the constantpresence of Mr Apjohn. But now and then--once in a year or so--I doown I like to see them both. Here's the cup; now, whatever you do, MrGresham, don't pass the cup without tasting it. " And so the dinner passed on, slowly enough as Frank thought, butall too quickly for Mr Apjohn. It passed away, and the wine camecirculating freely. The tongues again were loosed, the teeth beingreleased from their labours, and under the influence of the claretthe duke's presence was forgotten. But very speedily the coffee was brought. "This will soon be overnow, " said Frank, to himself, thankfully; for, though he be no meansdespised good claret, he had lost his temper too completely to enjoyit at the present moment. But he was much mistaken; the farce as yetwas only at its commencement. The duke took his cup of coffee, and sodid the few friends who sat close to him; but the beverage did notseem to be in great request with the majority of the guests. When theduke had taken his modicum, he rose up and silently retired, sayingno word and making no sign. And then the farce commenced. "Now, gentlemen, " said Mr Fothergill, cheerily, "we are all right. Apjohn, is there claret there? Mr Bolus, I know you stick to theMadeira; you are quite right, for there isn't much of it left, and mybelief is there'll never be more like it. " And so the duke's hospitality went on, and the duke's guests drankmerrily for the next two hours. "Shan't we see any more of him?" asked Frank. "Any more of whom?" said Mr Athill. "Of the duke?" "Oh, no; you'll see no more of him. He always goes when the coffeecomes. It's brought in as an excuse. We've had enough of the light ofhis countenance to last till next year. The duke and I are excellentfriends; and have been so these fifteen years; but I never see moreof him than that. " "I shall go away, " said Frank. "Nonsense. Mr de Courcy and your other friend won't stir for thishour yet. " "I don't care. I shall walk on, and they may catch me. I may bewrong; but it seems to me that a man insults me when he asks me todine with him and never speaks to me. I don't care if he be ten timesDuke of Omnium; he can't be more than a gentleman, and as such Iam his equal. " And then, having thus given vent to his feelings insomewhat high-flown language, he walked forth and trudged away alongthe road towards Courcy. Frank Gresham had been born and bred a Conservative, whereas theDuke of Omnium was well known as a consistent Whig. There is no oneso devoutly resolved to admit of no superior as your Conservative, born and bred, no one so inclined to high domestic despotism as yourthoroughgoing consistent old Whig. When he had proceeded about six miles, Frank was picked up by hisfriends; but even then his anger had hardly cooled. "Was the duke as civil as ever when you took your leave of him?" saidhe to his cousin George, as he took his seat on the drag. "The juke was jeuced jude wine--lem me tell you that, old fella, "hiccupped out the Honourable George, as he touched up the leaderunder the flank. CHAPTER XX The Proposal And now the departures from Courcy Castle came rapidly one afteranother, and there remained but one more evening before MissDunstable's carriage was to be packed. The countess, in the earlymoments of Frank's courtship, had controlled his ardour and checkedthe rapidity of his amorous professions; but as days, and at lastweeks, wore away, she found that it was necessary to stir the firewhich she had before endeavoured to slacken. "There will be nobody here to-night but our own circle, " said she tohim, "and I really think you should tell Miss Dunstable what yourintentions are. She will have fair ground to complain of you if youdo not. " Frank began to feel that he was in a dilemma. He had commenced makinglove to Miss Dunstable partly because he liked the amusement, andpartly from a satirical propensity to quiz his aunt by appearing tofall into her scheme. But he had overshot the mark, and did not knowwhat answer to give when he was thus called upon to make a downrightproposal. And then, although he did not care two rushes about MissDunstable in the way of love, he nevertheless experienced a sort ofjealousy 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 sidespalpably by way of fun, though Frank had told himself ten times aday that his heart was true to Mary Thorne, yet he had an undefinedfeeling that it behoved Miss Dunstable to be a little in love withhim. He was not quite at ease in that she was not a little melancholynow that his departure was so nigh; and, above all, he was anxious toknow what were the real facts about that letter. He had in his ownbreast threatened Miss Dunstable with a heartache; and now, when thetime for their separation came, he found that his own heart was themore likely to ache of the two. "I suppose I must say something to her, or my aunt will never besatisfied, " said he to himself as he sauntered into the littledrawing-room on that last evening. But at the very time he wasashamed 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, whowas quite on the alert, soon got them out of it, and Frank and MissDunstable 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 formyself I really am a little melancholy at the idea of parting;" andshe looked up at him with her laughing black eyes, as though shenever had, and never could have a care in the world. "Melancholy! oh, yes; you look so, " said Frank, who really did feelsomewhat lackadaisically sentimental. "But how thoroughly glad the countess must be that we are bothgoing, " continued she. "I declare we have treated her mostinfamously. Ever since we've been here we've had all the amusementto ourselves. I've sometimes thought she would turn me out of thehouse. " "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 rejoicedto 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, ofall my knights you are by far the best behaved, " said she, "and saymuch the prettiest things. " Frank became rather red in the face, andfelt 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 athim, and corresponding the while with his cousin George. Now FrankGresham already entertained a sort of contempt for his cousin, whichincreased the bitterness of his feelings. Could it really be possiblethat George had succeeded while he had utterly failed; that hisstupid cousin had touched the heart of the heiress while she wasplaying with him as with a boy? "Of all your knights! Is that the way you talk to me when we aregoing to part? When was it, Miss Dunstable, that George de Courcybecame one of them?" Miss Dunstable for a while looked serious enough. "What makes you askthat?" 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, orhave 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 itsusual happy smile. "Come, Mr Gresham, you are not going to quarrelwith me, I hope, even if I did write a letter to your cousin. Whyshould 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 willpromise to answer my letters. " Frank threw himself back on the sofa on which he was sitting, and, indoing so, brought himself somewhat nearer to his companion than hehad been; he then drew his hand slowly across his forehead, pushingback his thick hair, and as he did so he sighed somewhat plaintively. "I do not care, " said he, "for the privilege of correspondence onsuch terms. If my cousin George is to be a correspondent of yoursalso, I will give up my claim. " And then he sighed again, so that it was piteous to hear him. He wascertainly an arrant puppy, and an egregious ass into the bargain;but then, it must be remembered in his favour that he was onlytwenty-one, and that much had been done to spoil him. Miss Dunstabledid remember this, and therefore abstained from laughing at him. "Why, Mr Gresham, what on earth do you mean? In all human probabilityI shall never write another line to Mr de Courcy; but, if I did, whatpossible harm could it do you?" "Oh, Miss Dunstable! you do not in the least understand what myfeelings are. " "Don't I? Then I hope I never shall. I thought I did. I thought theywere the feelings of a good, true-hearted friend; feelings that Icould sometimes look back upon with pleasure as being honest whenso much that one meets is false. I have become very fond of you, MrGresham, and I should be sorry to think that I did not understandyour feelings. " This was almost worse and worse. Young ladies like MissDunstable--for she was still to be numbered in the category of youngladies--do not usually tell young gentlemen that they are very fondof them. To boys and girls they may make such a declaration. NowFrank Gresham regarded himself as one who had already fought hisbattles, and fought them not without glory; he could not thereforeendure to be thus openly told by Miss Dunstable that she was veryfond 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 putout his hand to take hold of hers. She then lifted up her own, andslapped him lightly on the knuckles. "And what can you have to say to Miss Dunstable that can make itnecessary that you should pinch her hand? I tell you fairly, MrGresham, if you make a fool of yourself, I shall come to a conclusionthat you are all fools, and that it is hopeless to look out for anyone worth caring for. " Such advice as this, so kindly given, so wisely meant, so clearlyintelligible, 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 muchregard for Miss Dunstable as to make it painful for me to know that Iam to see her no more: a fool: yes, of course I am a fool--a man isalways a fool when he loves. " Miss Dunstable could not pretend to doubt his meaning any longer; andwas determined to stop him, let it cost what it would. She now putout her hand, not over white, and, as Frank soon perceived, giftedwith a very fair allowance of strength. "Now, Mr Gresham, " said she, "before you go any further you shalllisten to me. Will you listen to me for a moment without interruptingme?" 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--tomake a profession of love. " "A profession!" said Frank making a slight unsuccessful effort to gethis hand free. "Yes; a profession--a false profession, Mr Gresham, --a falseprofession--a false profession. Look into your heart--into your heartof 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 thewoman whom he swears to love. " Frank was taken aback. So appealed to he found that he could not anylonger say that he did love her. He could only look into her facewith all his eyes, and sit there listening to her. "How is it possible that you should love me? I am Heaven knows howmany years your senior. I am neither young nor beautiful, nor have Ibeen brought up as she should be whom you in time will really loveand 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 imperativelycalled upon to utter something in his own defence. "Ah, Mr Gresham, I fear it is that. For what other reason can youhave 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 inthe way of friendship--that if money, money alone would make youhappy, 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 thatyou, you, you--so young, so gay, so bright--that you should havelooked for it in this way. From others I have taken it just as thewind that whistles;" and now two big slow tears escaped from hereyes, and would have rolled down her rosy cheeks were it not that shebrushed 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--" "You have; indeed you have. " "How can I have mistaken you? Were you not about to say that youloved me; to talk absolute nonsense; to make me an offer? If you werenot, if I have mistaken you indeed, I will beg your pardon. " Frank had nothing further to say in his own defence. He had notwanted Miss Dunstable's money--that was true; but he could not denythat he had been about to talk that absolute nonsense of which shespoke with so much scorn. "You would almost make me think that there are none honest in thisfashionable world of yours. I well know why Lady de Courcy has hadme here: how could I help knowing it? She has been so foolish inher plans that ten times a day she has told her own secret. But Ihave said to myself twenty times, that if she were crafty, you werehonest. " "And am I dishonest?" "I have laughed in my sleeve to see how she played her game, and tohear others around playing theirs; all of them thinking that theycould get the money of the poor fool who had come at their beck andcall; but I was able to laugh at them as long as I thought that I hadone true friend to laugh with me. But one cannot laugh with all theworld against one. " "I am not against you, Miss Dunstable. " "Sell yourself for money! why, if I were a man I would not sell onejot of liberty for mountains of gold. What! tie myself in the heydayof my youth to a person I could never love, for a price! perjuremyself, destroy myself--and not only myself, but her also, in orderthat I might live idly! Oh, heavens! Mr Gresham! can it be thatthe words of such a woman as your aunt have sunk so deeply in yourheart; have blackened you so foully as to make you think of such vilefolly as this? Have you forgotten your soul, your spirit, your man'senergy, the treasure of your heart? And you, so young! For shame, MrGresham! for shame--for shame. " Frank found the task before him by no means an easy one. He had tomake Miss Dunstable understand that he had never had the slightestidea of marrying her, and that he had made love to her merely withthe object of keeping his hand in for the work as it were; with thatobject, and the other equally laudable one of interfering with hiscousin George. And yet there was nothing for him but to get through this task asbest he might. He was goaded to it by the accusations which MissDunstable brought against him; and he began to feel, that though herinvective against him might be bitter when he had told the truth, they could not be so bitter as those she now kept hinting at underher mistaken impression as to his views. He had never had any strongpropensity for money-hunting; but now that offence appeared in hiseyes abominable, unmanly, and disgusting. Any imputation would bebetter than that. "Miss Dunstable, I never for a moment thought of doing whatyou accuse me of; on my honour, I never did. I have been veryfoolish--very wrong--idiotic, I believe; but I have never intendedthat. " "Then, Mr Gresham, what did you intend?" This was rather a difficult question to answer; and Frank was notvery quick in attempting it. "I know you will not forgive me, " hesaid at last; "and, indeed, I do not see how you can. I don't knowhow it came about; but this is certain, Miss Dunstable; I have neverfor a moment thought about your fortune; that is, thought about it inthe 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, andthen 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 thepoor beast that is soon to become carrion beneath its claws? You havenot counted me out as equal to so much land, and calculated on me asa balance at your banker's? Ah, Mr Gresham, " she continued, seeingthat he stared as though struck almost with awe by her stronglanguage; "you little guess what a woman situated as I am has tosuffer. " "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 niceto have a friend like you. There, I think I understand it now; youneed not tell me. " "It was half by way of making a fool of my aunt, " said Frank, in anapologetic tone. "There is merit in that, at any rate, " said Miss Dunstable. "Iunderstand it all now; you thought to make a fool of me in realearnest. Well, I can forgive that; at any rate it is not mean. " It may be, that Miss Dunstable did not feel much acute anger atfinding that this young man had addressed her with words of love inthe course of an ordinary flirtation, although that flirtation hadbeen unmeaning and silly. This was not the offence against which herheart and breast had found peculiar cause to arm itself; this was notthe injury from which she had hitherto experienced suffering. At any rate, she and Frank again became friends, and, before theevening was over, they perfectly understood each other. Twice duringthis long _tête-à-tête_ Lady de Courcy came into the room to see howthings were going on, and twice she went out almost unnoticed. Itwas quite clear to her that something uncommon had taken place, wastaking place, or would take place; and that should this be for wealor for woe, no good could now come from her interference. On eachoccasion, 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 hadgone to bed. Frank, in the meantime, had told to Miss Dunstable allhis love for Mary Thorne, and Miss Dunstable had enjoined him to betrue to his vows. To her eyes there was something of heavenly beautyin young, true love--of beauty that was heavenly because it had beenunknown to her. "Mind you let me hear, Mr Gresham, " said she. "Mind you do; and, MrGresham, never, never forget her for one moment; not for one moment, Mr Gresham. " Frank was about to swear that he never would--again, when thecountess, 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 amashamed 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 Dunstablepassed out. Then once again the aunt tapped her nephew with her fan. It was thelast time in her life that she did so. He looked up in her face, andhis look was enough to tell her that the acres of Greshamsbury werenot to be reclaimed by the ointment of Lebanon. Nothing further on the subject was said. On the following morningMiss Dunstable took her departure, not much heeding the rather coldwords of farewell which her hostess gave her; and on the followingday Frank started for Greshamsbury. CHAPTER XXI Mr Moffat Falls into Trouble We will now, with the reader's kind permission, skip over some monthsin our narrative. Frank returned from Courcy Castle to Greshamsbury, and having communicated to his mother--much in the same manner as hehad to the countess--the fact that his mission had been unsuccessful, he went up after a day or two to Cambridge. During his short stay atGreshamsbury he did not even catch a glimpse of Mary. He asked forher, of course, and was told that it was not likely that she would beat the house just at present. He called at the doctor's, but she wasdenied to him there; "she was out, " Janet said, --"probably with MissOriel. " He went to the parsonage and found Miss Oriel at home; butMary had not been seen that morning. He then returned to the house;and, having come to the conclusion that she had not thus vanishedinto air, otherwise than by preconcerted arrangement, he boldly taxedBeatrice on the subject. Beatrice looked very demure; declared that no one in the house hadquarrelled with Mary; confessed that it had been thought prudent thatshe should for a while stay away from Greshamsbury; and, of course, ended by telling her brother everything, including all the scenesthat had passed between Mary and herself. "It is out of the question your thinking of marrying her, Frank, "said she. "You must know that nobody feels it more strongly thanpoor Mary herself;" and Beatrice looked the very personification ofdomestic prudence. "I know nothing of the kind, " said he, with the headlong imperativeair that was usual with him in discussing matters with his sisters. "I know nothing of the kind. Of course I cannot say what Mary'sfeelings may be: a pretty life she must have had of it among you. Butyou may be sure of this, Beatrice, and so may my mother, that nothingon earth shall make me give her up--nothing. " And Frank, as he madethe protestation, strengthened his own resolution by thinking of allthe counsel that Miss Dunstable had given him. The brother and sister could hardly agree, as Beatrice was deadagainst the match. Not that she would not have liked Mary Thorne fora sister-in-law, but that she shared to a certain degree the feelingwhich was now common to all the Greshams--that Frank must marrymoney. It seemed, at any rate, to be imperative that he should eitherdo that or not marry at all. Poor Beatrice was not very mercenaryin her views: she had no wish to sacrifice her brother to anyMiss Dunstable; but yet she felt, as they all felt--Mary Thorneincluded--that such a match as that, of the young heir with thedoctor's niece, was not to be thought of;--not to be spoken of asa thing that was in any way possible. Therefore, Beatrice, thoughshe was Mary's great friend, though she was her brother's favouritesister, could give Frank no encouragement. Poor Frank! circumstanceshad made but one bride possible to him: he must marry money. His mother said nothing to him on the subject: when she learnt thatthe affair with Miss Dunstable was not to come off, she merelyremarked that it would perhaps be best for him to return to Cambridgeas soon as possible. Had she spoken her mind out, she would probablyhave also advised him to remain there as long as possible. Thecountess had not omitted to write to her when Frank left CourcyCastle; and the countess's letter certainly made the anxious motherthink that her son's education had hardly yet been completed. Withthis secondary object, but with that of keeping him out of the way ofMary Thorne in the first place, Lady Arabella was now quite satisfiedthat her son should enjoy such advantages as an education completedat the university might give him. With his father Frank had a long conversation; but, alas! the gist ofhis father's conversation was this, that it behoved him, Frank, tomarry money. The father, however, did not put it to him in the cold, callous way in which his lady-aunt had done, and his lady-mother. He did not bid him go and sell himself to the first female he couldfind possessed of wealth. It was with inward self-reproaches, andtrue grief of spirit, that the father told the son that it was notpossible for him to do as those who may do who are born really rich, or really poor. "If you marry a girl without a fortune, Frank, how are you to live?"the father asked, after having confessed how deep he himself hadinjured his own heir. "I don't care about money, sir, " said Frank. "I shall be just ashappy as if Boxall Hill had never been sold. I don't care a strawabout that sort of thing. " "Ah! my boy; but you will care: you will soon find that you do care. " "Let me go into some profession. Let me go to the Bar. I am sure Icould earn my own living. Earn it! of course I could, why not I aswell as others? I should like of all things to be a barrister. " There was much more of the same kind, in which Frank said all that hecould think of to lessen his father's regrets. In their conversationnot a word was spoken about Mary Thorne. Frank was not aware whetheror no his father had been told of the great family danger which wasdreaded in that quarter. That he had been told, we may surmise, asLady Arabella was not wont to confine the family dangers to her ownbosom. Moreover, Mary's presence had, of course, been missed. Thetruth was, that the squire had been told, with great bitterness, ofwhat had come to pass, and all the evil had been laid at his door. He it had been who hand encouraged Mary to be regarded almost as adaughter of the house of Greshamsbury; he it was who taught thatodious doctor--odious in all but his aptitude for good doctoring--tothink himself a fit match for the aristocracy of the county. It hadbeen his fault, this great necessity that Frank should marry money;and now it was his fault that Frank was absolutely talking ofmarrying a pauper. By no means in quiescence did the squire hear these charges broughtagainst him. The Lady Arabella, in each attack, got quite as much asshe gave, and, at last, was driven to retreat in a state of headache, which she declared to be chronic; and which, so she assured herdaughter Augusta, must prevent her from having any more lengthenedconversations with her lord--at any rate for the next three months. But though the squire may be said to have come off on the whole asvictor in these combats, they did not perhaps have, on that account, the less effect upon him. He knew it was true that he had done muchtowards ruining his son; and he also could think of no other remedythan matrimony. It was Frank's doom, pronounced even by the voice ofhis father, that he must marry money. And so, Frank went off again to Cambridge, feeling himself, as hewent, to be a much lesser man in Greshamsbury estimation than he hadbeen some two months earlier, when his birthday had been celebrated. Once during his short stay at Greshamsbury he had seen the doctor;but the meeting had been anything but pleasant. He had been afraidto ask after Mary; and the doctor had been too diffident of himselfto speak of her. They had met casually on the road, and, though eachin his heart loved the other, the meeting had been anything butpleasant. And so Frank went back to Cambridge; and, as he did so, he stoutlyresolved that nothing should make him untrue to Mary Thorne. "Beatrice, " said he, on the morning he went away, when she came intohis room to superintend his packing--"Beatrice, if she ever talksabout me--" "Oh, Frank, my darling Frank, don't think of it--it is madness; sheknows it is madness. " "Never mind; if she ever talks about me, tell her that the last wordI said was, that I would never forget her. She can do as she likes. " Beatrice made no promise, never hinted that she would give themessage; but it may be taken for granted that she had not been longin company with Mary Thorne before she did give it. And then there were other troubles at Greshamsbury. It had beendecided that Augusta's marriage was to take place in September; butMr Moffat had, unfortunately, been obliged to postpone the happy day. He himself had told Augusta--not, of course, without protestationsas to his regret--and had written to this effect to Mr Gresham, "Electioneering matters, and other troubles had, " he said, "made thispeculiarly painful postponement absolutely necessary. " Augusta seemed to bear her misfortune with more equanimity than is, we believe, usual with young ladies under such circumstances. Shespoke of it to her mother in a very matter-of-fact way, and seemedalmost contented at the idea of remaining at Greshamsbury tillFebruary; which was the time now named for the marriage. But LadyArabella was not equally well satisfied, nor was the squire. "I half believe that fellow is not honest, " he had once said out loudbefore Frank, and this set Frank a-thinking of what dishonesty in thematter it was probable that Mr Moffat might be guilty, and what wouldbe the fitting punishment for such a crime. Nor did he think on thesubject in vain; especially after a conference on the matter which hehad with his friend Harry Baker. This conference took place duringthe Christmas vacation. It should be mentioned, that the time spent by Frank at Courcy Castlehad not done much to assist him in his views as to an early degree, and that it had at last been settled that he should stay up atCambridge another year. When he came home at Christmas he found thatthe house was not peculiarly lively. Mary was absent on a visit withMiss Oriel. Both these young ladies were staying with Miss Oriel'saunt, in the neighbourhood of London; and Frank soon learnt thatthere was no chance that either of them would be home before hisreturn. No message had been left for him by Mary--none at least hadbeen left with Beatrice; and he began in his heart to accuse her ofcoldness and perfidy;--not, certainly, with much justice, seeing thatshe had never given him the slightest encouragement. The absence of Patience Oriel added to the dullness of the place. Itwas certainly hard upon Frank that all the attraction of the villageshould be removed to make way and prepare for his return--harder, perhaps, on them; for, to tell the truth, Miss Oriel's visit had beenentirely planned to enable her to give Mary a comfortable way ofleaving Greshamsbury during the time that Frank should remain athome. Frank thought himself cruelly used. But what did Mr Oriel thinkwhen doomed to eat his Christmas pudding alone, because the youngsquire would be unreasonable in his love? What did the doctor think, as he sat solitary by his deserted hearth--the doctor, who nolonger permitted himself to enjoy the comforts of the Greshamsburydining-table? Frank hinted and grumbled; talked to Beatrice of thedetermined constancy of his love, and occasionally consoled himselfby a stray smile from some of the neighbouring belles. The blackhorse was made perfect; the old grey pony was by no means discarded;and much that was satisfactory was done in the sporting line. Butstill the house was dull, and Frank felt that he was the cause ofits being so. Of the doctor he saw but little: he never came toGreshamsbury unless to see Lady Arabella as doctor, or to be closetedwith the squire. There were no social evenings with him; no animatedconfabulations at the doctor's house; no discourses between them, as there had wont to be, about the merits of the different covers, and the capacities of the different hounds. These were dull days onthe whole for Frank; and sad enough, we may say, for our friend thedoctor. In February, Frank again went back to college; having settled withHarry Baker certain affairs which weighed on his mind. He went backto Cambridge, promising to be home on the 20th of the month, so as tobe present at his sister's wedding. A cold and chilling time had beennamed for these hymeneal joys, but one not altogether unsuited to thefeelings of the happy pair. February is certainly not a warm month;but with the rich it is generally a cosy, comfortable time. Goodfires, winter cheer, groaning tables, and warm blankets, make afictitious summer, which, to some tastes, is more delightful thanthe long days and the hot sun. And some marriages are especiallywinter matches. They depend for their charm on the same substantialattractions: instead of heart beating to heart in sympathetic unison, purse chinks to purse. The rich new furniture of the new abode islooked to instead of the rapture of a pure embrace. The new carriageis depended on rather than the new heart's companion; and the firstbright gloss, prepared by the upholsterer's hands, stands in lieu ofthe rosy tints which young love lends to his true votaries. Mr Moffat had not spent his Christmas at Greshamsbury. That eternalelection petition, those eternal lawyers, the eternal care of hiswell-managed wealth, forbade him the enjoyment of any such pleasures. He could not come to Greshamsbury for Christmas, nor yet for thefestivities of the new year; but now and then he wrote prettilyworded notes, sending occasionally a silver-gilt pencil-case, or asmall brooch, and informed Lady Arabella that he looked forward tothe 20th of February with great satisfaction. But, in the meanwhile, the squire became anxious, and at last went up to London; and Frank, who was at Cambridge, bought the heaviest cutting whip to be found inthat town, and wrote a confidential letter to Harry Baker. Poor Mr Moffat! It is well known that none but the brave deserve thefair; but thou, without much excuse for bravery, had secured forthyself one who, at any rate, was fair enough for thee. Would itnot have been well hadst thou looked into thyself to see what realbravery might be in thee, before thou hadst prepared to desert thisfair one thou hadst already won? That last achievement, one may say, did require some special courage. Poor Mr Moffat! It is wonderful that as he sat in that gig, going toGatherum Castle, planning how he would be off with Miss Gresham andafterwards on with Miss Dunstable, it is wonderful that he should notthen have cast his eye behind him, and looked at that stalwart pairof shoulders which were so close to his own back. As he afterwardspondered on his scheme while sipping the duke's claret, it is oddthat he should not have observed the fiery pride of purpose and powerof wrath which was so plainly written on that young man's brow: or, when he matured, and finished, and carried out his purpose, that hedid not think of that keen grasp which had already squeezed his ownhand with somewhat too warm a vigour, even in the way of friendship. Poor Mr Moffat! it is probable that he forgot to think of Frank atall as connected with his promised bride; it is probable that helooked forward only to the squire's violence and the enmity of thehouse of Courcy; and that he found from enquiry at his heart'spulses, that he was man enough to meet these. Could he have guessedwhat a whip Frank Gresham would have bought at Cambridge--could hehave divined what a letter would have been written to Harry Baker--itis probable, nay, we think we may say certain, that Miss Greshamwould have become Mrs Moffat. Miss Gresham, however, never did become Mrs Moffat. About two daysafter Frank's departure for Cambridge--it is just possible that MrMoffat was so prudent as to make himself aware of the fact--but justtwo days after Frank's departure, a very long, elaborate, and clearlyexplanatory letter was received at Greshamsbury. Mr Moffat was quitesure that Miss Gresham and her very excellent parents would do himthe justice to believe that he was not actuated, &c. , &c. , &c. The long and the short of this was, that Mr Moffat signified hisintention of breaking off the match without offering any intelligiblereason. Augusta again bore her disappointment well: not, indeed, withoutsorrow and heartache, and inward, hidden tears; but still well. Sheneither raved, nor fainted, nor walked about by moonlight alone. Shewrote no poetry, and never once thought of suicide. When, indeed, sheremembered the rosy-tinted lining, the unfathomable softness of thatLong-acre carriage, her spirit did for one moment give way; but, onthe whole, she bore it as a strong-minded woman and a de Courcyshould do. But both Lady Arabella and the squire were greatly vexed. The formerhad made the match, and the latter, having consented to it, hadincurred deeper responsibilities to enable him to bring it about. The money which was to have been given to Mr Moffat was still to thefore; but alas! how much, how much that he could ill spare, had beenthrown away on bridal preparations! It is, moreover, an unpleasantthing for a gentleman to have his daughter jilted; perhaps peculiarlyso to have her jilted by a tailor's son. Lady Arabella's woe was really piteous. It seemed to her as thoughcruel fate were heaping misery after misery upon the wretched houseof Greshamsbury. A few weeks since things were going so well withher! Frank then was all but the accepted husband of almost untoldwealth--so, at least, she was informed by her sister-in-law--whereas, Augusta, was the accepted wife of wealth, not indeed untold, but ofdimensions quite sufficiently respectable to cause much joy in thetelling. Where now were her golden hopes? Where now the splendidfuture of her poor duped children? Augusta was left to pine alone;and Frank, in a still worse plight, insisted on maintaining his lovefor a bastard and a pauper. For Frank's affair she had received some poor consolation by layingall the blame on the squire's shoulders. What she had then saidwas now repaid to her with interest; for not only had she been themaker of Augusta's match, but she had boasted of the deed with all amother's pride. It was from Beatrice that Frank had obtained his tidings. This lastresolve on the part of Mr Moffat had not altogether been unsuspectedby some of the Greshams, though altogether unsuspected by the LadyArabella. Frank had spoken of it as a possibility to Beatrice, and was not quite unprepared when the information reached him. Heconsequently bought his big cutting whip, and wrote his confidentialletter to Harry Baker. On the following day Frank and Harry might have been seen, with theirheads nearly close together, leaning over one of the tables in thelarge breakfast-room at the Tavistock Hotel in Covent Garden. Theominous whip, to the handle of which Frank had already made his handwell accustomed, was lying on the table between them; and ever andanon Harry Baker would take it up and feel its weight approvingly. Oh, Mr Moffat! poor Mr Moffat! go not out into the fashionable worldto-day; above all, go not to that club of thine in Pall Mall; but, oh! especially go not there, as is thy wont to do, at three o'clockin the afternoon! With much care did those two young generals lay their plans ofattack. Let it not for a moment be thought that it was ever in theminds of either of them that two men should attack one. But itwas thought that Mr Moffat might be rather coy in coming out fromhis seclusion to meet the proffered hand of his once intendedbrother-in-law when he should see that hand armed with a heavy whip. Baker, therefore, was content to act as a decoy duck, and remarkedthat he might no doubt make himself useful in restraining the publicmercy, and, probably, in controlling the interference of policemen. "It will be deuced hard if I can't get five or six shies at him, "said Frank, again clutching his weapon almost spasmodically. Oh, MrMoffat! five or six shies with such a whip, and such an arm! Formyself, I would sooner join in a second Balaclava gallop thanencounter it. At ten minutes before four these two heroes might be seen walking upPall Mall, towards the ---- Club. Young Baker walked with an eagerdisengaged air. Mr Moffat did not know his appearance; he had, therefore, no anxiety to pass along unnoticed. But Frank had in somemysterious way drawn his hat very far over his forehead, and hadbuttoned his shooting-coat up round his chin. Harry had recommendedto him a great-coat, in order that he might the better conceal hisface; but Frank had found that the great-coat was an encumbrance tohis arm. He put it on, and when thus clothed he had tried the whip, he found that he cut the air with much less potency than in thelighter garment. He contented himself, therefore, with looking downon the pavement as he walked along, letting the long point of thewhip stick up from his pocket, and flattering himself that even MrMoffat would not recognise him at the first glance. Poor Mr Moffat!If he had but had the chance! And now, having arrived at the front of the club, the two friends fora moment separate: Frank remains standing on the pavement, under theshade of the high stone area-railing, while Harry jauntily skips upthree steps at a time, and with a very civil word of inquiry of thehall porter, sends in his card to Mr Moffat-- MR HARRY BAKER Mr Moffat, never having heard of such a gentleman in his life, unwittingly comes out into the hall, and Harry, with the sweetestsmile, addresses him. Now the plan of the campaign had been settled in this wise: Bakerwas to send into the club for Mr Moffat, and invite that gentlemandown into the street. It was probable that the invitation mightbe declined; and it had been calculated in such case that the twogentlemen would retire for parley into the strangers' room, which wasknown to be immediately opposite the hall door. Frank was to keep hiseye on the portals, and if he found that Mr Moffat did not appearas readily as might be desired, he also was to ascend the steps andhurry into the strangers' room. Then, whether he met Mr Moffat thereor elsewhere, or wherever he might meet him, he was to greet him withall the friendly vigour in his power, while Harry disposed of theclub porters. But fortune, who ever favours the brave, specially favoured FrankGresham on this occasion. Just as Harry Baker had put his cardinto the servant's hand, Mr Moffat, with his hat on, prepared forthe street, appeared in the hall; Mr Baker addressed him with hissweetest smile, and begged the pleasure of saying a word or two asthey descended into the street. Had not Mr Moffat been going thitherit would have been very improbable that he should have done so atHarry's instance. But, as it was, he merely looked rather solemnat his visitor--it was his wont to look solemn--and continued thedescent of the steps. Frank, his heart leaping the while, saw his prey, and retreated twosteps behind the area-railing, the dread weapon already well poisedin his hand. Oh! Mr Moffat! Mr Moffat! if there be any goddess tointerfere in thy favour, let her come forward now without delay; lether now bear thee off on a cloud if there be one to whom thou artsufficiently dear! But there is no such goddess. Harry smiled blandly till they were well on the pavement, saying somenothing, and keeping the victim's face averted from the avengingangel; and then, when the raised hand was sufficiently nigh, hewithdrew two steps towards the nearest lamp-post. Not for him was thehonour of the interview;--unless, indeed, succouring policemen mightgive occasion for some gleam of glory. But succouring policemen were no more to be come by than goddesses. Where were ye, men, when that savage whip fell about the ears of thepoor ex-legislator? In Scotland Yard, sitting dozing on your benches, or talking soft nothings to the housemaids round the corner; for yewere not walking on your beats, nor standing at coign of vantage, towatch the tumults of the day. But had ye been there what could yehave done? Had Sir Richard himself been on the spot Frank Greshamwould still, we may say, have had his five shies at that unfortunateone. When Harry Baker quickly seceded from the way, Mr Moffat at once sawthe fate before him. His hair doubtless stood on end, and his voicerefused to give the loud screech with which he sought to invoke theclub. An ashy paleness suffused his cheeks, and his tottering stepswere unable to bear him away in flight. Once, and twice, the cuttingwhip came well down across his back. Had he been wise enough to standstill and take his thrashing in that attitude, it would have beenwell for him. But men so circumstanced have never such prudence. After two blows he made a dash at the steps, thinking to get backinto the club; but Harry, who had by no means reclined in idlenessagainst the lamp-post, here stopped him: "You had better go back intothe street, " said Harry; "indeed you had, " giving him a shove fromoff the second step. Then of course Frank could not do other than hit him anywhere. When agentleman is dancing about with much energy it is hardly possible tostrike him fairly on his back. The blows, therefore, came now on hislegs and now on his head; and Frank unfortunately got more than hisfive or six shies before he was interrupted. The interruption however came, all too soon for Frank's idea ofjustice. Though there be no policeman to take part in a London row, there are always others ready enough to do so; amateur policemen, who generally sympathise with the wrong side, and, in nine casesout of ten, expend their generous energy in protecting thieves andpickpockets. When it was seen with what tremendous ardour thatdread weapon fell about the ears of the poor undefended gentleman, interference there was at last, in spite of Harry Baker's bestendeavours, and loudest protestations. "Do not interrupt them, sir, " said he; "pray do not. It is a familyaffair, and they will neither of them like it. " In the teeth, however, of these assurances, rude people didinterfere, and after some nine or ten shies Frank found himselfencompassed by the arms, and encumbered by the weight of a very stoutgentleman, who hung affectionately about his neck and shoulders;whereas, Mr Moffat was already receiving consolation from twomotherly females, sitting in a state of syncope on the good-naturedknees of a fishmonger's apprentice. Frank was thoroughly out of breath: nothing came from his lips buthalf-muttered expletives and unintelligible denunciations of theiniquity of his foe. But still he struggled to be at him again. Weall know how dangerous is the taste of blood; now cruelty will becomea custom even with the most tender-hearted. Frank felt that he hadhardly fleshed his virgin lash: he thought, almost with despair, thathe had not yet at all succeeded as became a man and a brother; hismemory told him of but one or two of the slightest touches that hadgone well home to the offender. He made a desperate effort to throwoff that incubus round his neck and rush again to the combat. "Harry--Harry; don't let him go--don't let him go, " he barelyarticulated. "Do you want to murder the man, sir; to murder him?" said the stoutgentleman over his shoulder, speaking solemnly into his very ear. "I don't care, " said Frank, struggling manfully but uselessly. "Letme out, I say; I don't care--don't let him go, Harry, whatever youdo. " "He has got it prettily tidily, " said Harry; "I think that willperhaps do for the present. " By this time there was a considerable concourse. The club steps werecrowded with the members; among whom there were many of Mr Moffat'sacquaintance. Policemen also now flocked up, and the question aroseas to what should be done with the originators of the affray. Frankand Harry found that they were to consider themselves under a gentlearrest, and Mr Moffat, in a fainting state, was carried into theinterior of the club. Frank, in his innocence, had intended to have celebrated this littleaffair when it was over by a light repast and a bottle of claretwith his friend, and then to have gone back to Cambridge by the mailtrain. He found, however, that his schemes in this respect werefrustrated. He had to get bail to attend at Marlborough Streetpolice-office should he be wanted within the next two or three days;and was given to understand that he would be under the eye of thepolice, at any rate until Mr Moffat should be out of danger. "Out of danger!" said Frank to his friend with a startled look. "Why I hardly got at him. " Nevertheless, they did have their slightrepast, and also their bottle of claret. On the second morning after this occurrence, Frank was again sittingin that public room at the Tavistock, and Harry was again sittingopposite to him. The whip was not now so conspicuously producedbetween them, having been carefully packed up and put away amongFrank's other travelling properties. They were so sitting, ratherglum, when the door swung open, and a heavy, quick step was heardadvancing towards them. It was the squire; whose arrival there hadbeen momentarily expected. "Frank, " said he--"Frank, what on earth is all this?" and as he spokehe stretched out both hands, the right to his son and the left to hisfriend. "He has given a blackguard a licking, that is all, " said Harry. Frank felt that his hand was held with a peculiarly warm grasp; andhe could not but think that his father's face, raised though hiseyebrows were--though there was on it an intended expression ofamazement and, perhaps, regret--nevertheless he could not but thinkthat his father's face looked kindly at him. "God bless my soul, my dear boy! what have you done to the man?" "He's not a ha'porth the worse, sir, " said Frank, still holding hisfather's hand. "Oh, isn't he!" said Harry, shrugging his shoulders. "He must be madeof some very tough article then. " "But my dear boys, I hope there's no danger. I hope there's nodanger. " "Danger!" said Frank, who could not yet induce himself to believethat he had been allowed a fair chance with Mr Moffat. "Oh, Frank! Frank! how could you be so rash? In the middle of PallMall, too. Well! well! well! All the women down at Greshamsbury willhave it that you have killed him. " "I almost wish I had, " said Frank. "Oh, Frank! Frank! But now tell me--" And then the father sat well pleased while he heard, chiefly fromHarry Baker, the full story of his son's prowess. And then they didnot separate without another slight repast and another bottle ofclaret. Mr Moffat retired to the country for a while, and then went abroad;having doubtless learnt that the petition was not likely to give hima seat for the city of Barchester. And this was the end of the wooingwith Miss Gresham. CHAPTER XXII Sir Roger Is Unseated After this, little occurred at Greshamsbury, or among Greshamsburypeople, which it will be necessary for us to record. Some notice was, of course, taking of Frank's prolonged absence from his college; andtidings, perhaps exaggerated tidings, of what had happened in PallMall were not slow to reach the High Street of Cambridge. But thataffair was gradually hushed up; and Frank went on with his studies. He went back to his studies: it then being an understood arrangementbetween him and his father that he should not return to Greshamsburytill the summer vacation. On this occasion, the squire and LadyArabella had, strange to say, been of the same mind. They both wishedto keep their son away from Miss Thorne; and both calculated, thatat his age and with his disposition, it was not probable that anypassion would last out a six months' absence. "And when the summercomes it will be an excellent opportunity for us to go abroad, " saidLady Arabella. "Poor Augusta will require some change to renovate herspirits. " To this last proposition the squire did not assent. It was, however, allowed to pass over; and this much was fixed, that Frank was not toreturn home till midsummer. It will be remembered that Sir Roger Scatcherd had been electedas sitting member for the city of Barchester; but it will also beremembered that a petition against his return was threatened. Hadthat petition depended solely on Mr Moffat, Sir Roger's seat no doubtwould have been saved by Frank Gresham's cutting whip. But suchwas not the case. Mr Moffat had been put forward by the de Courcyinterest; and that noble family with its dependants was not to go tothe wall because Mr Moffat had had a thrashing. No; the petition wasto go on; and Mr Nearthewinde declared, that no petition in his handshad half so good a chance of success. "Chance, no, but certainty, "said Mr Nearthewinde; for Mr Nearthewinde had learnt something withreference to that honest publican and the payment of his little bill. The petition was presented and duly backed; the recognisances weresigned, and all the proper formalities formally executed; and SirRoger found that his seat was in jeopardy. His return had been agreat triumph to him; and, unfortunately, he had celebrated thattriumph as he had been in the habit of celebrating most of the verytriumphant occasions of his life. Though he was than hardly yetrecovered from the effects of his last attack, he indulged in anotherviolent drinking bout; and, strange to say, did so without anyimmediate visible bad effects. In February he took his seat amidst the warm congratulations ofall men of his own class, and early in the month of April his casecame on for trial. Every kind of electioneering sin known to theelectioneering world was brought to his charge; he was accused offalseness, dishonesty, and bribery of every sort: he had, it was saidin the paper of indictment, bought votes, obtained them by treating, carried them off by violence, conquered them by strong drink, polledthem twice over, counted those of dead men, stolen them, forged them, and created them by every possible, fictitious contrivance: there wasno description of wickedness appertaining to the task of procuringvotes of which Sir Roger had not been guilty, either by himself orby his agents. He was quite horror-struck at the list of his ownenormities. But he was somewhat comforted when Mr Closerstil told himthat the meaning of it all was that Mr Romer, the barrister, had paida former bill due to Mr Reddypalm, the publican. "I fear he was indiscreet, Sir Roger; I really fear he was. Thoseyoung mean always are. Being energetic, they work like horses; butwhat's the use of energy without discretion, Sir Roger?" "But, Mr Closerstil, I knew nothing about it from first to last. " "The agency can be proved, Sir Roger, " said Mr Closerstil, shakinghis head. And then there was nothing further to be said on thematter. In these days of snow-white purity all political delinquency isabominable in the eyes of British politicians; but no delinquency isso abominable as that of venality at elections. The sin of bribery isdamnable. It is the one sin for which, in the House of Commons, therecan be no forgiveness. When discovered, it should render the culpritliable to political death, without hope of pardon. It is treasonagainst a higher throne than that on which the Queen sits. It is aheresy which requires an _auto-da-fé_. It is a pollution to the wholeHouse, which can only be cleansed by a great sacrifice. Anathemamaranatha! out with it from amongst us, even though the half of ourheart's blood be poured forth in the conflict! out with it, and forever! Such is the language of patriotic members with regard to bribery;and doubtless, if sincere, they are in the right. It is a bad thing, certainly, that a rich man should buy votes; bad also that a poor manshould sell them. By all means let us repudiate such a system withheartfelt disgust. With heartfelt disgust, if we can do so, by all means; but not withdisgust pretended only and not felt in the heart at all. The lawsagainst bribery at elections are now so stringent that an unfortunatecandidate may easily become guilty, even though actuated by thepurest intentions. But not the less on that account does anygentleman, ambitious of the honour of serving his country inParliament, think it necessary as a preliminary measure to providea round sum of money at his banker's. A candidate must pay for notreating, no refreshments, no band of music; he must give neitherribbons to the girls nor ale to the men. If a huzza be uttered inhis favour, it is at his peril; it may be necessary for him to provebefore a committee that it was the spontaneous result of Britishfeeling in his favour, and not the purchased result of British beer. He cannot safely ask any one to share his hotel dinner. Bribery hidesitself now in the most impalpable shapes, and may be effected by theoffer of a glass of sherry. But not the less on this account does apoor man find that he is quite unable to overcome the difficulties ofa contested election. We strain at our gnats with a vengeance, but we swallow our camelswith ease. For what purpose is it that we employ those peculiarlysafe men of business--Messrs Nearthewinde and Closerstil--when wewish to win our path through all obstacles into that sacred recess, if all be so open, all so easy, all so much above board? Alas! themoney is still necessary, is still prepared, or at any rate expended. The poor candidate of course knows nothing of the matter till theattorney's bill is laid before him, when all danger of petitions haspassed away. He little dreamed till then, not he, that there had beenbanquetings and junketings, secret doings and deep drinkings at hisexpense. Poor candidate! Poor member! Who was so ignorant as he!'Tis true he has paid such bills before; but 'tis equally true thathe specially begged his managing friend, Mr Nearthewinde, to bevery careful that all was done according to law! He pays the bill, however, and on the next election will again employ Mr Nearthewinde. Now and again, at rare intervals, some glimpse into the innersanctuary does reach the eyes of ordinary mortal men without;some slight accidental peep into those mysteries from whenceall corruption has been so thoroughly expelled; and then, howdelightfully refreshing is the sight, when, perhaps, some ex-member, hurled from his paradise like a fallen peri, reveals the secret ofthat pure heaven, and, in the agony of his despair, tells us allthat it cost him to sit for ---- through those few halcyon years! But Mr Nearthewinde is a safe man, and easy to be employed with butlittle danger. All these stringent bribery laws only enhance thevalue of such very safe men as Mr Nearthewinde. To him, stringentlaws against bribery are the strongest assurance of valuableemployment. Were these laws of a nature to be evaded with ease, anyindifferent attorney might manage a candidate's affairs and enablehim to take his seat with security. It would have been well for Sir Roger if he had trusted solely toMr Closerstil; well also for Mr Romer had he never fished in thosetroubled waters. In due process of time the hearing of the petitioncame on, and then who so happy, sitting at his ease at his LondonInn, blowing his cloud from a long pipe, with measureless content, asMr Reddypalm? Mr Reddypalm was the one great man of the contest. Alldepended on Mr Reddypalm; and well he did his duty. The result of the petition was declared by the committee to be asfollows:--that Sir Roger's election was null and void--that theelection altogether was null and void--that Sir Roger had, by hisagent, been guilty of bribery in obtaining a vote, by the paymentof a bill alleged to have been previously refused payment--that SirRoger himself knew nothing about it;--this is always a matter ofcourse;--but that Sir Roger's agent, Mr Romer, had been wittinglyguilty of bribery with reference to the transaction above described. Poor Sir Roger! Poor Mr Romer. Poor Mr Romer indeed! His fate was perhaps as sad as well might be, and as foul a blot to the purism of these very pure times in whichwe live. Not long after those days, it so happening that someconsiderable amount of youthful energy and quidnunc ability wererequired to set litigation afloat at Hong-Kong, Mr Romer was sentthither as the fittest man for such work, with rich assurance offuture guerdon. Who so happy then as Mr Romer! But even among thepure there is room for envy and detraction. Mr Romer had not yetceased to wonder at new worlds, as he skimmed among the islands ofthat southern ocean, before the edict had gone forth for his return. There were men sitting in that huge court of Parliament on whosebreasts it lay as an intolerable burden, that England should berepresented among the antipodes by one who had tampered with thepurity of the franchise. For them there was no rest till this greatdisgrace should be wiped out and atoned for. Men they were of thatcalibre, that the slightest reflection on them of such a stigmaseemed to themselves to blacken their own character. They could notbreak bread with satisfaction till Mr Romer was recalled. He wasrecalled, and of course ruined--and the minds of those just men werethen at peace. To any honourable gentleman who really felt his brow suffused witha patriotic blush, as he thought of his country dishonoured by MrRomer's presence at Hong-Kong--to any such gentleman, if any suchthere were, let all honour be given, even though the intensity of hispurity may create amazement to our less finely organised souls. Butif no such blush suffused the brow of any honourable gentleman; if MrRomer was recalled from quite other feelings--what then in lieu ofhonour shall we allot to those honourable gentlemen who were mostconcerned? Sir Roger, however, lost his seat, and, after three months of thejoys of legislation, found himself reduced by a terrible blow to thelow level of private life. And the blow to him was very heavy. Men but seldom tell the truth ofwhat is in them, even to their dearest friends; they are ashamed ofhaving feelings, or rather of showing that they are troubled by anyintensity of feeling. It is the practice of the time to treat allpursuits as though they were only half important to us, as thoughin what we desire we were only half in earnest. To be visibly eagerseems childish, and is always bad policy; and men, therefore, nowadays, though they strive as hard as ever in the service ofambition--harder than ever in that of mammon--usually do so witha pleasant smile on, as though after all they were but amusingthemselves with the little matter in hand. Perhaps it had been so with Sir Roger in those electioneering dayswhen he was looking for votes. At any rate, he had spoken of his seatin Parliament as but a doubtful good. "He was willing, indeed, tostand, having been asked; but the thing would interfere wonderfullywith his business; and then, what did he know about Parliament?Nothing on earth: it was the maddest scheme, but nevertheless, he wasnot going to hang back when called upon--he had always been rough andready when wanted, --and there he was now ready as ever, and roughenough too, God knows. " 'Twas thus that he had spoken of his coming parliamentary honours;and men had generally taken him at his word. He had been returned, and this success had been hailed as a great thing for the cause andclass to which he belonged. But men did not know that his inner heartwas swelling with triumph, and that his bosom could hardly containhis pride as he reflected that the poor Barchester stone-mason wasnow the representative in Parliament of his native city. And so, whenhis seat was attacked, he still laughed and joked. "They were welcometo it for him, " he said; "he could keep it or want it; and of thetwo, perhaps, the want of it would come most convenient to him. Hedid not exactly think that he had bribed any one; but if the bigwigschose to say so, it was all one to him. He was rough and ready, nowas ever, " &c. , &c. But when the struggle came, it was to him a fearful one; not theless fearful because there was no one, no, not one friend in all theworld, to whom he could open his mind and speak out honestly whatwas in his heart. To Dr Thorne he might perhaps have done so had hisintercourse with the doctor been sufficiently frequent; but it wasonly now and again when he was ill, or when the squire wanted toborrow money, that he saw Dr Thorne. He had plenty of friends, heapsof friends in the parliamentary sense; friends who talked abouthim, and lauded him at public meetings; who shook hands with him onplatforms, and drank his health at dinners; but he had no friendwho could sit with him over his own hearth, in true friendship, andlisten to, and sympathise with, and moderate the sighings of theinner man. For him there was no sympathy; no tenderness of love; noretreat, save into himself, from the loud brass band of the outerworld. The blow hit him terribly hard. It did not come altogetherunexpectedly, and yet, when it did come, it was all but unendurable. He had made so much of the power of walking into that august chamber, and sitting shoulder to shoulder in legislative equality with thesons of dukes and the curled darlings of the nation. Money had givenhim nothing, nothing but the mere feeling of brute power: with histhree hundred thousand pounds he had felt himself to be no morepalpably near to the goal of his ambition than when he had chippedstones for three shillings and sixpence a day. But when he was led upand introduced at that table, when he shook the old premier's handon the floor of the House of Commons, when he heard the honourablemember for Barchester alluded to in grave debate as the greatestliving authority on railway matters, then, indeed, he felt that hehad achieved something. And now this cup was ravished from his lips, almost before it wastasted. When he was first told as a certainty that the decision ofthe committee was against him, he bore up against the misfortune likea man. He laughed heartily, and declared himself well rid of a veryprofitless profession; cut some little joke about Mr Moffat and histhrashing, and left on those around him an impression that he wasa man so constituted, so strong in his own resolves, so steadilypursuant of his own work, that no little contentions of this kindcould affect him. Men admired his easy laughter, as, shuffling hishalf-crowns with both his hands in his trouser-pockets, he declaredthat Messrs Romer and Reddypalm were the best friends he had knownfor this many a day. But not the less did he walk out from the room in which he wasstanding a broken-hearted man. Hope could not buoy him up as she maydo other ex-members in similarly disagreeable circumstances. He couldnot afford to look forward to what further favours parliamentaryfuture might have in store for him after a lapse of five or sixyears. Five or six years! Why, his life was not worth four years'purchase; of that he was perfectly aware: he could not now livewithout the stimulus of brandy; and yet, while he took it, he knew hewas killing himself. Death he did not fear; but he would fain havewished, after his life of labour, to have lived, while yet he couldlive, in the blaze of that high world to which for a moment he hadattained. He laughed loud and cheerily as he left his parliamentary friends, and, putting himself into the train, went down to Boxall Hill. Helaughed loud and cheerily; but he never laughed again. It had notbeen his habit to laugh much at Boxall Hill. It was there he kept hiswife, and Mr Winterbones, and the brandy bottle behind his pillow. Hehad not often there found it necessary to assume that loud and cheerylaugh. On this occasion he was apparently well in health when he got home;but both Lady Scatcherd and Mr Winterbones found him more thanordinarily cross. He made an affectation at sitting very hard tobusiness, and even talked of going abroad to look at some of hisforeign contracts. But even Winterbones found that his patron did notwork as he had been wont to do; and at last, with some misgivings, hetold Lady Scatcherd that he feared that everything was not right. "He's always at it, my lady, always, " said Mr Winterbones. "Is he?" said Lady Scatcherd, well understanding what MrWinterbones's allusion meant. "Always, my lady. I never saw nothing like it. Now, there's me--I canalways go my half-hour when I've had my drop; but he, why, he don'tgo ten minutes, not now. " This was not cheerful to Lady Scatcherd; but what was the poor womanto do? When she spoke to him on any subject he only snarled at her;and now that the heavy fit was on him, she did not dare even tomention the subject of his drinking. She had never known him sosavage in his humour as he was now, so bearish in his habits, solittle inclined to humanity, so determined to rush headlong down, with his head between his legs, into the bottomless abyss. She thought of sending for Dr Thorne; but she did not know under whatguise to send for him, --whether as doctor or as friend: under neitherwould he now be welcome; and she well knew that Sir Roger was not theman to accept in good part either a doctor or a friend who might beunwelcome. She knew that this husband of hers, this man who, withall his faults, was the best of her friends, whom of all she lovedbest--she knew that he was killing himself, and yet she could donothing. Sir Roger was his own master, and if kill himself he would, kill himself he must. And kill himself he did. Not indeed by one sudden blow. He did nottake one huge dose of his consuming poison and then fall dead uponthe floor. It would perhaps have been better for himself, and betterfor those around him, had he done so. No; the doctors had time tocongregate around his bed; Lady Scatcherd was allowed a period ofnurse-tending; the sick man was able to say his last few words andbid adieu to his portion of the lower world with dying decency. Asthese last words will have some lasting effect upon the survivingpersonages of our story, the reader must be content to stand for ashort while by the side of Sir Roger's sick-bed, and help us to bidhim God-speed on the journey which lies before him. CHAPTER XXIII Retrospective It was declared in the early pages of this work that Dr Thorne was tobe our hero; but it would appear very much as though he had latterlybeen forgotten. Since that evening when he retired to rest withoutletting Mary share the grievous weight which was on his mind, we haveneither seen nor heard aught of him. It was then full midsummer, and it now early spring: and during theintervening months the doctor had not had a happy time of it. On thatnight, as we have before told, he took his niece to his heart; buthe could not then bring himself to tell her that which it was soimperative that she should know. Like a coward, he would put offthe evil hour till the next morning, and thus robbed himself of hisnight's sleep. But when the morning came the duty could not be postponed. LadyArabella had given him to understand that his niece would no longerbe a guest at Greshamsbury; and it was quite out of the question thatMary, after this, should be allowed to put her foot within the gateof the domain without having learnt what Lady Arabella had said. Sohe told it her before breakfast, walking round their little garden, she with her hand in his. He was perfectly thunderstruck by the collected--nay, cool way inwhich she received his tidings. She turned pale, indeed; he felt alsothat her hand somewhat trembled in his own, and he perceived thatfor a moment her voice shook; but no angry word escaped her lip, nordid she even deign to repudiate the charge, which was, as it were, conveyed in Lady Arabella's request. The doctor knew, or thought heknew--nay, he did know--that Mary was wholly blameless in the matter:that she had at least given no encouragement to any love on the partof the young heir; but, nevertheless, he had expected that she wouldavouch her own innocence. This, however, she by no means did. "Lady Arabella is quite right, " she said, "quite right; if she hasany fear of that kind, she cannot be too careful. " "She is a selfish, proud woman, " said the doctor; "quite indifferentto the feelings of others; quite careless how deeply she may hurt herneighbours, if, in doing so, she may possibly benefit herself. " "She will not hurt me, uncle, nor yet you. I can live without goingto Greshamsbury. " "But it is not to be endured that she should dare to cast animputation on my darling. " "On me, uncle? She casts no imputation on me. Frank has been foolish:I have said nothing of it, for it was not worth while to trouble you. But as Lady Arabella chooses to interfere, I have no right to blameher. He has said what he should not have said; he has been foolish. Uncle, you know I could not prevent it. " "Let her send him away then, not you; let her banish him. " "Uncle, he is her son. A mother can hardly send her son away soeasily: could you send me away, uncle?" He merely answered her by twining his arm round her waist andpressing her to his side. He was well sure that she was badlytreated; and yet now that she so unaccountably took Lady Arabella'spart, he hardly knew how to make this out plainly to be the case. "Besides, uncle, Greshamsbury is in a manner his own; how can he bebanished from his father's house? No, uncle; there is an end of myvisits there. They shall find that I will not thrust myself in theirway. " And then Mary, with a calm brow and steady gait, went in and made thetea. And what might be the feelings of her heart when she so sententiouslytold her uncle that Frank had been foolish? She was of the same agewith him; as impressionable, though more powerful in hiding suchimpressions, --as all women should be; her heart was as warm, herblood as full of life, her innate desire for the companionship ofsome much-loved object as strong as his. Frank had been foolish inavowing his passion. No such folly as that could be laid at her door. But had she been proof against the other folly? Had she been able towalk heart-whole by his side, while he chatted his commonplaces aboutlove? Yes, they are commonplaces when we read of them in novels;common enough, too, to some of us when we write them; but they are byno means commonplace when first heard by a young girl in the rich, balmy fragrance of a July evening stroll. Nor are they commonplaces when so uttered for the first or secondtime at least, or perhaps the third. 'Tis a pity that so heavenly apleasure should pall upon the senses. If it was so that Frank's folly had been listened to with a certainamount of pleasure, Mary did not even admit so much to herself. Butwhy should it have been otherwise? Why should she have been lessprone to love than he was? Had he not everything which girls do love?which girls should love? which God created noble, beautiful, all butgodlike, in order that women, all but goddesslike, might love? Tolove thoroughly, truly, heartily, with her whole body, soul, heart, and strength; should not that be counted for a merit in a woman? Andyet we are wont to make a disgrace of it. We do so most unnaturally, most unreasonably; for we expect our daughters to get themselvesmarried off our hands. When the period of that step comes, then loveis proper enough; but up to that--before that--as regards all thosepreliminary passages which must, we suppose, be necessary--in allthose it becomes a young lady to be icy-hearted as a river-god inwinter. O whistle and I'll come to you, my lad! O whistle and I'll come to you, my lad! Tho' father and mither and a' should go mad, O whistle and I'll come to you, my lad! This is the kind of love which a girl should feel before she puts herhand proudly in that of her lover, and consents that they two shallbe made one flesh. Mary felt no such love as this. She, too, had some inner perceptionof that dread destiny by which it behoved Frank Gresham to beforewarned. She, too--though she had never heard so much said inwords--had an almost instinctive knowledge that his fate required himto marry money. Thinking over this in her own way, she was not slowto convince herself that it was out of the question that she shouldallow herself to love Frank Gresham. However well her heart mightbe inclined to such a feeling, it was her duty to repress it. Sheresolved, therefore, to do so; and she sometimes flattered herselfthat she had kept her resolution. These were bad times for the doctor, and bad times for Mary too. Shehad declared that she could live without going to Greshamsbury; butshe did not find it so easy. She had been going to Greshamsbury allher life, and it was as customary with her to be there as at home. Such old customs are not broken without pain. Had she left the placeit would have been far different; but, as it was, she daily passedthe gates, daily saw and spoke to some of the servants, who knew heras well as they did the young ladies of the family--was in hourlycontact, as it were, with Greshamsbury. It was not only that shedid not go there, but that everyone knew that she had suddenlydiscontinued doing so. Yes, she could live without going toGreshamsbury; but for some time she had but a poor life of it. Shefelt, nay, almost heard, that every man and woman, boy and girl, inthe village was telling his and her neighbour that Mary Thorne nolonger went to the house because of Lady Arabella and the youngsquire. But Beatrice, of course, came to her. What was she to say toBeatrice? The truth! Nay, but it is not always so easy to say thetruth, even to one's dearest friends. "But you'll come up now he has gone?" said Beatrice. "No, indeed, " said Mary; "that would hardly be pleasant to LadyArabella, nor to me either. No, Trichy, dearest; my visits to dearold Greshamsbury are done, done, done: perhaps in some twenty years'time I may be walking down the lawn with your brother, and discussingour childish days--that is, always, if the then Mrs Gresham shallhave invited me. " "How can Frank have been so wrong, so unkind, so cruel?" saidBeatrice. This, however, was a light in which Miss Thorne did not take anypleasure in discussing the matter. Her ideas of Frank's fault, andunkindness, and cruelty, were doubtless different from those of hissister. Such cruelty was not unnaturally excused in her eyes by manycircumstances which Beatrice did not fully understand. Mary was quiteready to go hand in hand with Lady Arabella and the rest of theGreshamsbury fold in putting an end, if possible, to Frank's passion:she would give no one a right to accuse her of assisting to ruin theyoung heir; but she could hardly bring herself to admit that he wasso very wrong--no, nor yet even so very cruel. And then the squire came to see her, and this was a yet harder trialthan the visit of Beatrice. It was so difficult for her to speak tohim that she could not but wish him away; and yet, had he not come, had he altogether neglected her, she would have felt it to be unkind. She had ever been his pet, had always received kindness from him. "I am sorry for all this, Mary; very sorry, " said he, standing up, and holding both her hands in his. "It can't be helped, sir, " said she, smiling. "I don't know, " said he; "I don't know--it ought to be helpedsomehow--I am quite sure you have not been to blame. " "No, " said she, very quietly, as though the position was one quitea matter of course. "I don't think I have been very much to blame. There will be misfortunes sometimes when nobody is to blame. " "I do not quite understand it all, " said the squire; "but if Frank--" "Oh! we will not talk about him, " said she, still laughing gently. "You can understand, Mary, how dear he must be to me; but if--" "Mr Gresham, I would not for worlds be the cause of anyunpleasantness between you and him. " "But I cannot bear to think that we have banished you, Mary. " "It cannot be helped. Things will all come right in time. " "But you will be so lonely here. " "Oh! I shall get over all that. Here, you know, Mr Gresham, 'I ammonarch of all I survey;' and there is a great deal in that. " The squire did not quite catch her meaning, but a glimmering of itdid reach him. It was competent to Lady Arabella to banish her fromGreshamsbury; it was within the sphere of the squire's duties toprohibit his son from an imprudent match; it was for the Greshams toguard their Greshamsbury treasure as best they could within theirown territories: but let them beware that they did not attack her onhers. In obedience to the first expression of their wishes, she hadsubmitted herself to this public mark of their disapproval becauseshe had seen at once, with her clear intellect, that they were onlydoing that which her conscience must approve. Without a murmur, therefore, she consented to be pointed at as the young lady who hadbeen turned out of Greshamsbury because of the young squire. She hadno help for it. But let them take care that they did not go beyondthat. Outside those Greshamsbury gates she and Frank Gresham, sheand Lady Arabella met on equal terms; let them each fight their ownbattle. The squire kissed her forehead affectionately and took his leave, feeling, somehow, that he had been excused and pitied, and made muchof; whereas he had called on his young neighbour with the intentionof excusing, and pitying, and making much of her. He was notquite comfortable as he left the house; but, nevertheless, he wassufficiently honest-hearted to own to himself that Mary Thorne was afine girl. Only that it was so absolutely necessary that Frank shouldmarry money--and only, also, that poor Mary was such a birthlessfoundling in the world's esteem--only, but for these things, what awife she would have made for that son of his! To one person only did she talk freely on the subject, and that onewas Patience Oriel; and even with her the freedom was rather of themind than of the heart. She never said a word of her feeling withreference to Frank, but she said much of her position in the village, and of the necessity she was under to keep out of the way. "It is very hard, " said Patience, "that the offence should be allwith him, and the punishment all with you. " "Oh! as for that, " said Mary, laughing, "I will not confess to anyoffence, nor yet to any punishment; certainly not to any punishment. " "It comes to the same thing in the end. " "No, not so, Patience; there is always some little sting of disgracein punishment: now I am not going to hold myself in the leastdisgraced. " "But, Mary, you must meet the Greshams sometimes. " "Meet them! I have not the slightest objection on earth to meet all, or any of them. They are not a whit dangerous to me, my dear. 'TisI that am the wild beast, and 'tis they that must avoid me, " andthen she added, after a pause--slightly blushing--"I have not theslightest objection even to meet him if chance brings him in my way. Let them look to that. My undertaking goes no further than this, thatI will not be seen within their gates. " But the girls so far understood each other that Patience undertook, rather than promised, to give Mary what assistance she could; and, despite Mary's bravado, she was in such a position that she muchwanted the assistance of such a friend as Miss Oriel. After an absence of some six weeks, Frank, as we have seen, returnedhome. Nothing was said to him, except by Beatrice, as to these newGreshamsbury arrangements; and he, when he found Mary was not at theplace, went boldly to the doctor's house to seek her. But it has beenseen, also, that she discreetly kept out of his way. This she hadthought fit to do when the time came, although she had been so readywith her boast that she had no objection on earth to meet him. After that there had been the Christmas vacation, and Mary had againfound discretion to be the better part of valour. This was doubtlessdisagreeable enough. She had no particular wish to spend herChristmas with Miss Oriel's aunt instead of at her uncle's fireside. Indeed, her Christmas festivities had hitherto been kept atGreshamsbury, the doctor and herself having made a part of the familycircle there assembled. This was out of the question now; and perhapsthe absolute change to old Miss Oriel's house was better for her thanthe lesser change to her uncle's drawing-room. Besides, how could shehave demeaned herself when she met Frank in their parish church? Allthis had been fully understood by Patience, and, therefore, had thisChristmas visit been planned. And then this affair of Frank and Mary Thorne ceased for a while tobe talked of at Greshamsbury, for that other affair of Mr Moffat andAugusta monopolised the rural attention. Augusta, as we have said, bore it well, and sustained the public gaze without much flinching. Her period of martyrdom, however, did not last long, for soonthe news arrived of Frank's exploit in Pall Mall; and then theGreshamsburyites forgot to think much more of Augusta, being fullyoccupied in thinking of what Frank had done. The tale, as it was first told, declared the Frank had followed MrMoffat up into his club; had dragged him thence into the middle ofPall Mall, and had then slaughtered him on the spot. This was bydegrees modified till a sobered fiction became generally prevalent, that Mr Moffat was lying somewhere, still alive, but with all hisbones in a general state of compound fracture. This adventure againbrought Frank into the ascendant, and restored to Mary her formerposition as the Greshamsbury heroine. "One cannot wonder at his being very angry, " said Beatrice, discussing the matter with Mary--very imprudently. "Wonder--no; the wonder would have been if he had not been angry. Onemight have been quite sure that he would have been angry enough. " "I suppose it was not absolutely right for him to beat Mr Moffat, "said Beatrice, apologetically. "Not right, Trichy? I think he was very right. " "Not to beat him so very much, Mary!" "Oh, I suppose a man can't exactly stand measuring how much he doesthese things. I like your brother for what he has done, and I sayso frankly--though I suppose I ought to eat my tongue out before Ishould say such a thing, eh, Trichy?" "I don't know that there's any harm in that, " said Beatrice, demurely. "If you both liked each other there would be no harm inthat--if that were all. " "Wouldn't there?" said Mary, in a low tone of bantering satire; "thatis so kind, Trichy, coming from you--from one of the family, youknow. " "You are well aware, Mary, that if I could have my wishes--" "Yes: I am well aware what a paragon of goodness you are. If youcould have your way I should be admitted into heaven again; shouldn'tI? Only with this proviso, that if a stray angel should ever whisperto me with bated breath, mistaking me, perchance, for one of his ownclass, I should be bound to close my ears to his whispering, andremind him humbly that I was only a poor mortal. You would trust meso far, wouldn't you, Trichy?" "I would trust you in any way, Mary. But I think you are unkind insaying such things to me. " "Into whatever heaven I am admitted, I will go only on thisunderstanding: that I am to be as good an angel as any of thosearound me. " "But, Mary dear, why do you say this to me?" "Because--because--because--ah me! Why, indeed, but because I have noone else to say it to. Certainly not because you have deserved it. " "It seems as though you were finding fault with me. " "And so I am; how can I do other than find fault? How can I helpbeing sore? Trichy, you hardly realise my position; you hardly seehow I am treated; how I am forced to allow myself to be treatedwithout a sign of complaint. You don't see it all. If you did, youwould not wonder that I should be sore. " Beatrice did not quite see it all; but she saw enough of it to knowthat Mary was to be pitied; so, instead of scolding her friendfor being cross, she threw her arms round her and kissed heraffectionately. But the doctor all this time suffered much more than his niece did. He could not complain out loudly; he could not aver that his pet lambhad been ill treated; he could not even have the pleasure of openlyquarrelling with Lady Arabella; but not the less did he feel it tobe most cruel that Mary should have to live before the world as anoutcast, because it had pleased Frank Gresham to fall in love withher. But his bitterness was not chiefly against Frank. That Frank had beenvery foolish he could not but acknowledge; but it was a kind of follyfor which the doctor was able to find excuse. For Lady Arabella'scold propriety he could find no excuse. With the squire he had spoken no word on the subject up to thisperiod of which we are now writing. With her ladyship he had neverspoken on it since that day when she had told him that Mary wasto come no more to Greshamsbury. He never now dined or spent hisevenings at Greshamsbury, and seldom was to be seen at the house, except when called in professionally. The squire, indeed, hefrequently met; but he either did so in the village, or out onhorseback, or at his own house. When the doctor first heard that Sir Roger had lost his seat, and hadreturned to Boxall Hill, he resolved to go over and see him. But thevisit was postponed from day to day, as visits are postponed whichmay be made any day, and he did not in fact go till he was summonedthere somewhat peremptorily. A message was brought to him one eveningto say that Sir Roger had been struck by paralysis, and that not amoment was to be lost. "It always happens at night, " said Mary, who had more sympathy forthe living uncle whom she did know, than for the other dying unclewhom she did not know. "What matters?--there--just give me my scarf. In all probability Imay not be home to-night--perhaps not till late to-morrow. God blessyou, Mary!" and away the doctor went on his cold bleak ride to BoxallHill. "Who will be his heir?" As the doctor rode along, he could not quiterid his mind of this question. The poor man now about to die hadwealth enough to make many heirs. What if his heart should havesoftened towards his sister's child! What if Mary should be found ina few days to be possessed of such wealth that the Greshams should beagain be happy to welcome her at Greshamsbury! The doctor was not a lover of money--and he did his best to get ridof such pernicious thoughts. But his longings, perhaps, were not somuch that Mary should be rich, as that she should have the power ofheaping coals of fire upon the heads of those people who had soinjured her. CHAPTER XXIV Louis Scatcherd When Dr Thorne reached Boxall Hill he found Mr Rerechild fromBarchester there before him. Poor Lady Scatcherd, when her husbandwas stricken by the fit, hardly knew in her dismay what adequatesteps to take. She had, as a matter of course, sent for Dr Thorne;but she had thought that in so grave a peril the medical skill of noone man could suffice. It was, she knew, quite out of the questionfor her to invoke the aid of Dr Fillgrave, whom no earthly persuasionwould have brought to Boxall Hill; and as Mr Rerechild was supposedin the Barchester world to be second--though at a long interval--tothat great man, she had applied for his assistance. Now Mr Rerechild was a follower and humble friend of Dr Fillgrave;and was wont to regard anything that came from the Barchester doctoras sure light from the lamp of Æsculapius. He could not therefore beother than an enemy of Dr Thorne. But he was a prudent, discreet man, with a long family, averse to professional hostilities, as knowingthat he could make more by medical friends than medical foes, andnot at all inclined to take up any man's cudgel to his own detriment. He had, of course, heard of that dreadful affront which had beenput upon his friend, as had all the "medical world"--all themedical world at least of Barsetshire; and he had often expressedhis sympathy with Dr Fillgrave and his abhorrence of Dr Thorne'santi-professional practices. But now that he found himself about tobe brought in contact with Dr Thorne, he reflected that the Galenof Greshamsbury was at any rate equal in reputation to him ofBarchester; that the one was probably on the rise, whereas the otherwas already considered by some as rather antiquated; and he thereforewisely resolved that the present would be an excellent opportunityfor him to make a friend of Dr Thorne. Poor Lady Scatcherd had an inkling that Dr Fillgrave and Mr Rerechildwere accustomed to row in the same boat, and she was not altogetherfree from fear that there might be an outbreak. She therefore tookan opportunity before Dr Thorne's arrival to deprecate any wrathfultendency. "Oh, Lady Scatcherd! I have the greatest respect for Dr Thorne, "said he; "the greatest possible respect; a most skilfulpractitioner--something brusque certainly, and perhaps a littleobstinate. But what then? we all have our faults, Lady Scatcherd. " "Oh--yes; we all have, Mr Rerechild; that's certain. " "There's my friend Fillgrave--Lady Scatcherd. He cannot bear anythingof that sort. Now I think he's wrong; and so I tell him. " MrRerechild was in error here; for he had never yet ventured to tell DrFillgrave that he was wrong in anything. "We must bear and forbear, you know. Dr Thorne is an excellent man--in his way very excellent, Lady Scatcherd. " This little conversation took place after Mr Rerechild's first visitto his patient: what steps were immediately taken for the relief ofthe sufferer we need not describe. They were doubtless well intended, and were, perhaps, as well adapted to stave off the coming evil dayas any that Dr Fillgrave, or even the great Sir Omicron Pie mighthave used. And then Dr Thorne arrived. "Oh, doctor! doctor!" exclaimed Lady Scatcherd, almost hanging roundhis neck in the hall. "What are we to do? What are we to do? He'svery bad. " "Has he spoken?" "No; nothing like a word: he has made one or two muttered sounds;but, poor soul, you could make nothing of it--oh, doctor! doctor! hehas never been like this before. " It was easy to see where Lady Scatcherd placed any such faith as shemight still have in the healing art. "Mr Rerechild is here and hasseen him, " she continued. "I thought it best to send for two, forfear of accidents. He has done something--I don't know what. But, doctor, do tell the truth now; I look to you to tell me the truth. " Dr Thorne then went up and saw his patient; and had he literallycomplied with Lady Scatcherd's request, he might have told her atonce that there was no hope. As, however, he had not the heart to dothis, he mystified the case as doctors so well know how to do, andtold her that "there was cause to fear, great cause for fear; he wassorry to say, very great cause for much fear. " Dr Thorne promised to stay the night there, and, if possible, thefollowing night also; and then Lady Scatcherd became troubled in hermind as to what she should do with Mr Rerechild. He also declared, with much medical humanity, that, let the inconvenience be what itmight, he too would stay the night. "The loss, " he said, "of such aman as Sir Roger Scatcherd was of such paramount importance as tomake other matters trivial. He would certainly not allow the wholeweight to fall on the shoulders of his friend Dr Thorne: he alsowould stay at any rate that night by the sick man's bedside. By thefollowing morning some change might be expected. " "I say, Dr Thorne, " said her ladyship, calling the doctor into thehousekeeping-room, in which she and Hannah spent any time that theywere not required upstairs; "just come in, doctor: you couldn't tellhim we don't want him any more, could you?" "Tell whom?" said the doctor. "Why--Mr Rerechild: mightn't he go away, do you think?" Dr Thorne explained that Mr Rerechild certainly might go away if hepleased; but that it would by no means be proper for one doctor totell another to leave the house. And so Mr Rerechild was allowed toshare the glories of the night. In the meantime the patient remained speechless; but it soon becameevident that Nature was using all her efforts to make one finalrally. From time to time he moaned and muttered as though he wasconscious, and it seemed as though he strove to speak. He graduallybecame awake, at any rate to suffering, and Dr Thorne began to thinkthat the last scene would be postponed for yet a while longer. "Wonderful strong constitution--eh, Dr Thorne? wonderful!" said MrRerechild. "Yes; he has been a strong man. " "Strong as a horse, Dr Thorne. Lord, what that man would have been ifhe had given himself a chance! You know his constitution of course. " "Yes; pretty well. I've attended him for many years. " "Always drinking, I suppose; always at it--eh?" "He has not been a temperate man, certainly. " "The brain, you see, clean gone--and not a particle of coating leftto the stomach; and yet what a struggle he makes--an interestingcase, isn't it?" "It's very sad to see such an intellect so destroyed. " "Very sad, very sad indeed. How Fillgrave would have liked to haveseen this case. He is a clever man, is Fillgrave--in his way, youknow. " "I'm sure he is, " said Dr Thorne. "Not that he'd make anything of a case like this now--he's not, youknow, quite--quite--perhaps not quite up to the new time of day, ifone may say so. " "He has had a very extensive provincial practice, " said Dr Thorne. "Oh, very--very; and made a tidy lot of money too, has Fillgrave. He's worth six thousand pounds, I suppose; now that's a good deal ofmoney to put by in a little town like Barchester. " "Yes, indeed. " "What I say to Fillgrave is this--keep your eyes open; one shouldnever be too old to learn--there's always something new worth pickingup. But, no--he won't believe that. He can't believe that any newideas can be worth anything. You know a man must go to the wall inthat way--eh, doctor?" And then again they were called to their patient. "He's doing finely, finely, " said Mr Rerechild to Lady Scatcherd. "There's fair ground tohope he'll rally; fair ground, is there not, doctor?" "Yes; he'll rally; but how long that may last, that we can hardlysay. " "Oh, no, certainly not, certainly not--that is not with anycertainty; but still he's doing finely, Lady Scatcherd, consideringeverything. " "How long will you give him, doctor?" said Mr Rerechild to his newfriend, when they were again alone. "Ten days? I dare say ten days, or from that to a fortnight, not more; but I think he'll struggle onten days. " "Perhaps so, " said the doctor. "I should not like to say exactly toa day. " "No, certainly not. We cannot say exactly to a day; but I say tendays; as for anything like a recovery, that you know--" "Is out of the question, " said Dr Thorne, gravely. "Quite so; quite so; coating of the stomach clean gone, you know;brain destroyed: did you observe the periporollida? I never sawthem so swelled before: now when the periporollida are swollen likethat--" "Yes, very much; it's always the case when paralysis has been broughtabout by intemperance. " "Always, always; I have remarked that always; the periporollida insuch cases are always extended; most interesting case, isn't it? I dowish Fillgrave could have seen it. But, I believe you and Fillgravedon't quite--eh?" "No, not quite, " said Dr Thorne; who, as he thought of his lastinterview with Dr Fillgrave, and of that gentleman's exceeding angeras he stood in the hall below, could not keep himself from smiling, sad as the occasion was. Nothing would induce Lady Scatcherd to go to bed; but the two doctorsagreed to lie down, each in a room on one side of the patient. Howwas it possible that anything but good should come to him, being soguarded? "He is going on finely, Lady Scatcherd, quite finely, " werethe last words Mr Rerechild said as he left the room. And then Dr Thorne, taking Lady Scatcherd's hand and leading her outinto another chamber, told her the truth. "Lady Scatcherd, " said he, in his tenderest voice--and his voicecould be very tender when occasion required it--"Lady Scatcherd, donot hope; you must not hope; it would be cruel to bid you do so. " "Oh, doctor! oh, doctor!" "My dear friend, there is no hope. " "Oh, Dr Thorne!" said the wife, looking wildly up into hercompanion's face, though she hardly yet realised the meaning of whathe said, although her senses were half stunned by the blow. "Dear Lady Scatcherd, is it not better that I should tell you thetruth?" "Oh, I suppose so; oh yes, oh yes; ah me! ah me! ah me!" And then shebegan rocking herself backwards and forwards on her chair, with herapron up to her eyes. "What shall I do? what shall I do?" "Look to Him, Lady Scatcherd, who only can make such griefendurable. " "Yes, yes, yes; I suppose so. Ah me! ah me! But, Dr Thorne, theremust be some chance--isn't there any chance? That man says he's goingon so well. " "I fear there is no chance--as far as my knowledge goes there is nochance. " "Then why does that chattering magpie tell such lies to a woman? Ahme! ah me! ah me! oh, doctor! doctor! what shall I do? what shall Ido?" and poor Lady Scatcherd, fairly overcome by her sorrow, burstout crying like a great school-girl. And yet what had her husband done for her that she should thus weepfor him? Would not her life be much more blessed when this cause ofall her troubles should be removed from her? Would she not then be afree woman instead of a slave? Might she not then expect to begin totaste the comforts of life? What had that harsh tyrant of hers donethat was good or serviceable for her? Why should she thus weep forhim in paroxysms of truest grief? We hear a good deal of jolly widows; and the slanderous raillery ofthe world tells much of conjugal disturbances as a cure for whichwomen will look forward to a state of widowhood with not unwillingeyes. The raillery of the world is very slanderous. In our dailyjests we attribute to each other vices of which neither we, nor ourneighbours, nor our friends, nor even our enemies are ever guilty. It is our favourite parlance to talk of the family troubles of MrsGreen on our right, and to tell how Mrs Young on our left is stronglysuspected of having raised her hand to her lord and master. Whatright have we to make these charges? What have we seen in our ownpersonal walks through life to make us believe that women are devils?There may possibly have been a Xantippe here and there, but Imogenesare to be found under every bush. Lady Scatcherd, in spite of thelife she had led, was one of them. "You should send a message up to London for Louis, " said the doctor. "We did that, doctor; we did that to-day--we sent up a telegraph. Ohme! oh me! poor boy, what will he do? I shall never know what to dowith him, never! never!" And with such sorrowful wailings she satrocking herself through the long night, every now and then comfortingherself by the performance of some menial service in the sick man'sroom. Sir Roger passed the night much as he had passed the day, exceptthat he appeared gradually to be growing nearer to a state ofconsciousness. On the following morning they succeeded at last inmaking Mr Rerechild understand that they were not desirous of keepinghim longer from his Barchester practice; and at about twelve o'clockDr Thorne also went, promising that he would return in the evening, and again pass the night at Boxall Hill. In the course of the afternoon Sir Roger once more awoke to hissenses, and when he did so his son was standing at his bedside. LouisPhilippe Scatcherd--or as it may be more convenient to call him, Louis--was a young man just of the age of Frank Gresham. But therecould hardly be two youths more different in their appearance. Louis, though his father and mother were both robust persons, was short andslight, and now of a sickly frame. Frank was a picture of healthand strength; but, though manly in disposition, was by no meansprecocious either in appearance or manners. Louis Scatcherd lookedas though he was four years the other's senior. He had been sent toEton when he was fifteen, his father being under the impression thatthis was the most ready and best-recognised method of making him agentleman. Here he did not altogether fail as regarded the covetedobject of his becoming the companion of gentlemen. He had morepocket-money than any other lad in the school, and was possessed alsoof a certain effrontery which carried him ahead among boys of his ownage. He gained, therefore, a degree of éclat, even among those whoknew, and very frequently said to each other, that young Scatcherdwas not fit to be their companion except on such open occasions asthose of cricket-matches and boat-races. Boys, in this respect, areat least as exclusive as men, and understand as well the differencebetween an inner and an outer circle. Scatcherd had many companionsat school who were glad enough to go up to Maidenhead with him in hisboat; but there was not one among them who would have talked to himof his sister. Sir Roger was vastly proud of his son's success, and did his bestto stimulate it by lavish expenditure at the Christopher, wheneverhe could manage to run down to Eton. But this practice, thoughsufficiently unexceptionable to the boys, was not held in equaldelight by the masters. To tell the truth, neither Sir Roger nor hisson were favourites with these stern custodians. At last it was feltnecessary to get rid of them both; and Louis was not long in givingthem an opportunity, by getting tipsy twice in one week. On thesecond occasion he was sent away, and he and Sir Roger, though longtalked of, were seen no more at Eton. But the universities were still open to Louis Philippe, and before hewas eighteen he was entered as a gentleman-commoner at Trinity. As hewas, moreover, the eldest son of a baronet, and had almost unlimitedcommand of money, here also he was enabled for a while to shine. To shine! but very fitfully; and one may say almost with a ghastlyglare. The very lads who had eaten his father's dinners at Eton, andshared his four-oar at Eton, knew much better than to associate withhim at Cambridge now that they had put on the _toga virilis_. Theywere still as prone as ever to fun, frolic, and devilry--perhaps moreso than ever, seeing that more was in their power; but they acquiredan idea that it behoved them to be somewhat circumspect as to the menwith whom their pranks were perpetrated. So, in those days, LouisScatcherd was coldly looked on by his whilom Eton friends. But young Scatcherd did not fail to find companions at Cambridgealso. There are few places indeed in which a rich man cannot buycompanionship. But the set with whom he lived at Cambridge were theworst of the place. They were fast, slang men, who were fast andslang, and nothing else--men who imitated grooms in more than theirdress, and who looked on the customary heroes of race-courses as thehighest lords of the ascendant upon earth. Among those at collegeyoung Scatcherd did shine as long as such lustre was permitted him. Here, indeed, his father, who had striven only to encourage him atEton, did strive somewhat to control him. But that was not now easy. If he limited his son's allowance, he only drove him to do hisdebauchery on credit. There were plenty to lend money to the son ofthe great millionaire; and so, after eighteen months' trial of auniversity education, Sir Roger had no alternative but to withdrawhis son from his _alma mater_. What was he then to do with him? Unluckily it was considered quiteunnecessary to take any steps towards enabling him to earn hisbread. Now nothing on earth can be more difficult than bringing upwell a young man who has not to earn his own bread, and who has norecognised station among other men similarly circumstanced. Juveniledukes, and sprouting earls, find their duties and their places aseasily as embryo clergymen and sucking barristers. Provision ismade for their peculiar positions: and, though they may possibly goastray, they have a fair chance given to them of running within theposts. The same may be said of such youths as Frank Gresham. Thereare enough of them in the community to have made it necessary thattheir well-being should be a matter of care and forethought. Butthere are but few men turned out in the world in the position ofLouis Scatcherd; and, of those few, but very few enter the realbattle of life under good auspices. Poor Sir Roger, though he had hardly time with all his multitudinousrailways to look into this thoroughly, had a glimmering of it. Whenhe saw his son's pale face, and paid his wine bills, and heard of hisdoings in horse-flesh, he did know that things were not going well;he did understand that the heir to a baronetcy and a fortune of someten thousand a year might be doing better. But what was he to do? Hecould not watch over his boy himself; so he took a tutor for him andsent him abroad. Louis and the tutor got as far as Berlin, with what mutualsatisfaction to each other need not be specially described. But fromBerlin Sir Roger received a letter in which the tutor declined to goany further in the task which he had undertaken. He found that hehad no influence over his pupil, and he could not reconcile it tohis conscience to be the spectator of such a life as that which MrScatcherd led. He had no power in inducing Mr Scatcherd to leaveBerlin; but he would remain there himself till he should hear fromSir Roger. So Sir Roger had to leave the huge Government works whichhe was then erecting on the southern coast, and hurry off to Berlinto see what could be done with young Hopeful. The young Hopeful was by no means a fool; and in some matters wasmore than a match for his father. Sir Roger, in his anger, threatenedto cast him off without a shilling. Louis, with mixed penitence andeffrontery, reminded him that he could not change the descent of thetitle; promised amendment; declared that he had done only as do otheryoung men of fortune; and hinted that the tutor was a strait-lacedass. The father and the son returned together to Boxall Hill, andthree months afterwards Mr Scatcherd set up for himself in London. And now his life, if not more virtuous, was more crafty than it hadbeen. He had no tutor to watch his doings and complain of them, andhe had sufficient sense to keep himself from absolute pecuniary ruin. He lived, it is true, where sharpers and blacklegs had too oftenopportunities of plucking him; but, young as he was, he had beensufficiently long about the world to take care he was not openlyrobbed; and as he was not openly robbed, his father, in a certainsense, was proud of him. Tidings, however, came--came at least in those last days--which cutSir Roger to the quick; tidings of vice in the son which the fathercould not but attribute to his own example. Twice the mother wascalled up to the sick-bed of her only child, while he lay raving inthat horrid madness by which the outraged mind avenges itself on thebody! Twice he was found raging in delirium tremens, and twice thefather was told that a continuance of such life must end in an earlydeath. It may easily be conceived that Sir Roger was not a happy man. Lyingthere with that brandy bottle beneath his pillow, reflecting in hismoments of rest that that son of his had his brandy bottle beneathhis pillow, he could hardly have been happy. But he was not a man tosay much about his misery. Though he could restrain neither himselfnor his heir, he could endure in silence; and in silence he didendure, till, opening his eyes to the consciousness of death, he atlast spoke a few words to the only friend he knew. Louis Scatcherd was not a fool, nor was he naturally, perhaps, of adepraved disposition; but he had to reap the fruits of the worsteducation which England was able to give him. There were moments inhis life when he felt that a better, a higher, nay, a much happiercareer was open to him than that which he had prepared himself tolead. Now and then he would reflect what money and rank might havedone for him; he would look with wishful eyes to the proud doings ofothers of his age; would dream of quiet joys, of a sweet wife, of ahouse to which might be asked friends who were neither jockeys nordrunkards; he would dream of such things in his short intervals ofconstrained sobriety; but the dream would only serve to make himmoody. This was the best side of his character; the worst, probably, wasthat which was brought into play by the fact that he was not a fool. He would have a better chance of redemption in this world--perhapsalso in another--had he been a fool. As it was, he was no fool: hewas not to be done, not he; he knew, no one better, the value ofa shilling; he knew, also, how to keep his shillings, and how tospend them. He consorted much with blacklegs and such-like, becauseblacklegs were to his taste. But he boasted daily, nay, hourly tohimself, and frequently to those around him, that the leeches whowere stuck round him could draw but little blood from him. He couldspend his money freely; but he would so spend it that he himselfmight reap the gratification of the expenditure. He was acute, crafty, knowing, and up to every damnable dodge practised by men ofthe class with whom he lived. At one-and-twenty he was that mostodious of all odious characters--a close-fisted reprobate. He was a small man, not ill-made by Nature, but reduced to unnaturaltenuity by dissipation--a corporeal attribute of which he was aptto boast, as it enabled him, as he said, to put himself up at 7 st. 7 lb. Without any "d---- nonsense of not eating and drinking. " Thepower, however, was one of which he did not often avail himself, ashis nerves were seldom in a fit state for riding. His hair was darkred, and he wore red moustaches, and a great deal of red beardbeneath his chin, cut in a manner to make him look like an American. His voice also had a Yankee twang, being a cross between that of anAmerican trader and an English groom; and his eyes were keen andfixed, and cold and knowing. Such was the son whom Sir Roger saw standing at his bedside whenfirst he awoke to consciousness. It must not be supposed that SirRoger looked at him with our eyes. To him he was an only child, the heir of his wealth, the future bearer of his title; the mostheart-stirring remembrancer of those other days, when he had beenso much a poorer, and so much a happier man. Let that boy be bador good, he was all Sir Roger had; and the father was still ableto hope, when others thought that all ground for hope was gone. The mother also loved her son with a mother's natural love; but Louishad ever been ashamed of his mother, and had, as far as possible, estranged himself from her. Her heart, perhaps, fixed itself almostwith almost a warmer love on Frank Gresham, her foster-son. Frankshe saw but seldom, but when she did see him he never refused herembrace. There was, too, a joyous, genial lustre about Frank's facewhich always endeared him to women, and made his former nurse regardhim as the pet creation of the age. Though she but seldom interferedwith any monetary arrangement of her husband's, yet once or twice shehad ventured to hint that a legacy left to the young squire wouldmake her a happy woman. Sir Roger, however, on these occasions hadnot appeared very desirous of making his wife happy. "Ah, Louis! is that you?" ejaculated Sir Roger, in tones hardly morethan half-formed: afterwards, in a day or two that is, he fullyrecovered his voice; but just then he could hardly open his jaws, andspoke almost through his teeth. He managed, however, to put out hishand and lay it on the counterpane, so that his son could take it. "Why, that's well, governor, " said the son; "you'll be as right as atrivet in a day or two--eh, governor?" The "governor" smiled with a ghastly smile. He already pretty wellknew that he would never again be "right, " as his son called it, onthat side of the grave. It did not, moreover, suit him to say muchjust at that moment, so he contented himself with holding his son'shand. He lay still in this position for a moment, and then, turninground painfully on his side, endeavoured to put his hand to the placewhere his dire enemy usually was concealed. Sir Roger, however, wastoo weak now to be his own master; he was at length, though too late, a captive in the hands of nurses and doctors, and the bottle had nowbeen removed. Then Lady Scatcherd came in, and seeing that her husband was nolonger unconscious, she could not but believe that Dr Thorne had beenwrong; she could not but think that there must be some ground forhope. She threw herself on her knees at the bedside, bursting intotears as she did so, and taking Sir Roger's hand in hers covered itwith kisses. "Bother!" said Sir Roger. She did not, however, long occupy herself with the indulgence of herfeelings; but going speedily to work, produced such sustenance asthe doctors had ordered to be given when the patient might awake. Abreakfast-cup was brought to him, and a few drops were put into hismouth; but he soon made it manifest that he would take nothing moreof a description so perfectly innocent. "A drop of brandy--just a little drop, " said he, half-ordering, andhalf-entreating. "Ah, Roger!" said Lady Scatcherd. "Just a little drop, Louis, " said the sick man, appealing to his son. "A little will be good for him; bring the bottle, mother, " said theson. After some altercation the brandy bottle was brought, and Louis, withwhat he thought a very sparing hand, proceeded to pour about half awine-glassful into the cup. As he did so, Sir Roger, weak as he was, contrived to shake his son's arm, so as greatly to increase the dose. "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the sick man, and then greedily swallowed thedose. CHAPTER XXV Sir Roger Dies That night the doctor stayed at Boxall Hill, and the next night;so that it became a customary thing for him to sleep there duringthe latter part of Sir Roger's illness. He returned home daily toGreshamsbury; for he had his patients there, to whom he was asnecessary as to Sir Roger, the foremost of whom was Lady Arabella. Hehad, therefore, no slight work on his hands, seeing that his nightswere by no means wholly devoted to rest. Mr Rerechild had not been much wrong as to the remaining space oflife which he had allotted to the dying man. Once or twice Dr Thornehad thought that the great original strength of his patient wouldhave enabled him to fight against death for a somewhat longer period;but Sir Roger would give himself no chance. Whenever he was strongenough to have a will of his own, he insisted on having his verymedicine mixed with brandy; and in the hours of the doctor's absence, he was too often successful in his attempts. "It does not much matter, " Dr Thorne had said to Lady Scatcherd. "Dowhat you can to keep down the quantity, but do not irritate him byrefusing to obey. It does not much signify now. " So Lady Scatcherdstill administered the alcohol, and he from day to day inventedlittle schemes for increasing the amount, over which he chuckled withghastly laughter. Two or three times during these days Sir Roger essayed to speakseriously to his son; but Louis always frustrated him. He either gotout of the room on some excuse, or made his mother interfere on thescore that so much talking would be bad for his father. He alreadyknew with tolerable accuracy what was the purport of his father'swill, and by no means approved of it; but as he could not now hopeto induce his father to alter it so as to make it more favourable tohimself, he conceived that no conversation on matters of businesscould be of use to him. "Louis, " said Sir Roger, one afternoon to his son; "Louis, I have notdone by you as I ought to have done--I know that now. " "Nonsense, governor; never mind about that now; I shall do wellenough, I dare say. Besides, it isn't too late; you can make ittwenty-three years instead of twenty-five, if you like it. " "I do not mean as to money, Louis. There are things besides moneywhich a father ought to look to. " "Now, father, don't fret yourself--I'm all right; you may be sure ofthat. " "Louis, it's that accursed brandy--it's that that I'm afraid of: yousee me here, my boy, how I'm lying here now. " "Don't you be annoying yourself, governor; I'm all right--quiteright; and as for you, why, you'll be up and about yourself inanother month or so. " "I shall never be off this bed, my boy, till I'm carried into mycoffin, on those chairs there. But I'm not thinking of myself, Louis, but you; think what you may have before you if you can't avoid thataccursed bottle. " "I'm all right, governor; right as a trivet. It's very little I take, except at an odd time or so. " "Oh, Louis! Louis!" "Come, father, cheer up; this sort of thing isn't the thing for youat all. I wonder where mother is: she ought to be here with thebroth; just let me go, and I'll see for her. " The father understood it all. He saw that it was now much beyond hisfaded powers to touch the heart or conscience of such a youth as hisson had become. What now could he do for his boy except die? Whatelse, what other benefit, did his son require of him but to die; todie so that his means of dissipation might be unbounded? He let gothe unresisting hand which he held, and, as the young man crept outof the room, he turned his face to the wall. He turned his face tothe wall and held bitter commune with his own heart. To what had hebrought himself? To what had he brought his son? Oh, how happy wouldit have been for him could he have remained all his days a workingstone-mason in Barchester! How happy could he have died as such, years ago! Such tears as those which wet that pillow are thebitterest which human eyes can shed. But while they were dropping, the memoir of his life was in quickcourse of preparation. It was, indeed, nearly completed, withconsiderable detail. He had lingered on four days longer than mighthave been expected, and the author had thus had more than usual timefor the work. In these days a man is nobody unless his biographyis kept so far posted up that it may be ready for the nationalbreakfast-table on the morning after his demise. When it chances thatthe dead hero is one who was taken in his prime of life, of whosedeparture from among us the most far-seeing biographical scribe canhave no prophetic inkling, this must be difficult. Of great men, fullof years, who are ripe for the sickle, who in the course of Naturemust soon fall, it is of course comparatively easy for an activecompiler to have his complete memoir ready in his desk. But in orderthat the idea of omnipresent and omniscient information may be keptup, the young must be chronicled as quickly as the old. In some casesthis task must, one would say, be difficult. Nevertheless, it isdone. The memoir of Sir Roger Scatcherd was progressing favourably. Inthis it was told how fortunate had been his life; how, in his case, industry and genius combined had triumphed over the difficultieswhich humble birth and deficient education had thrown in his way;how he had made a name among England's great men; how the Queen haddelighted to honour him, and nobles had been proud to have him for aguest at their mansions. Then followed a list of all the great workswhich he had achieved, of the railroads, canals, docks, harbours, jails, and hospitals which he had constructed. His name was held upas an example to the labouring classes of his countrymen, and he waspointed at as one who had lived and died happy--ever happy, said thebiographer, because ever industrious. And so a great moral questionwas inculcated. A short paragraph was devoted to his appearance inParliament; and unfortunate Mr Romer was again held up for disgrace, for the thirtieth time, as having been the means of deprivingour legislative councils of the great assistance of Sir Roger'sexperience. "Sir Roger, " said the biographer in his concluding passage, "waspossessed of an iron frame; but even iron will yield to the repeatedblows of the hammer. In the latter years of his life he was known toovertask himself; and at length the body gave way, though the mindremained firm to the _last_. The subject of this memoir was onlyfifty-nine when he was taken from us. " And thus Sir Roger's life was written, while the tears wereyet falling on his pillow at Boxall Hill. It was a pity that aproof-sheet could not have been sent to him. No man was vainer ofhis reputation, and it would have greatly gratified him to know thatposterity was about to speak of him in such terms--to speak of himwith a voice that would be audible for twenty-four hours. Sir Roger made no further attempt to give counsel to his son. It wastoo evidently useless. The old dying lion felt that the lion's powerhad already passed from him, and that he was helpless in the handsof the young cub who was so soon to inherit the wealth of the forest. But Dr Thorne was more kind to him. He had something yet to say as tohis worldly hopes and worldly cares; and his old friend did not turna deaf ear to him. It was during the night that Sir Roger was most anxious to talk, andmost capable of talking. He would lie through the day in a statehalf-comatose; but towards evening he would rouse himself, and bymidnight he would be full of fitful energy. One night, as he laywakeful and full of thought, he thus poured forth his whole heart toDr Thorne. "Thorne, " said he, "I told you about my will, you know. " "Yes, " said the other; "and I have blamed myself greatly that I havenot again urged you to alter it. Your illness came too suddenly, Scatcherd; and then I was averse to speak of it. " "Why should I alter it? It is a good will; as good as I can make. Notbut that I have altered it since I spoke to you. I did it that dayafter you left me. " "Have you definitely named your heir in default of Louis?" "No--that is--yes--I had done that before; I have said Mary's eldestchild: I have not altered that. " "But, Scatcherd, you must alter it. " "Must! well then I won't; but I'll tell you what I have done. I haveadded a postscript--a codicil they call it--saying that you, and youonly, know who is her eldest child. Winterbones and Jack Martin havewitnessed that. " Dr Thorne was going to explain how very injudicious such anarrangement appeared to be; but Sir Roger would not listen to him. It was not about that that he wished to speak to him. To him it wasmatter of but minor interest who might inherit his money if his sonshould die early; his care was solely for his son's welfare. Attwenty-five the heir might make his own will--might bequeath all thiswealth according to his own fancy. Sir Roger would not bring himselfto believe that his son could follow him to the grave in so short atime. "Never mind that, doctor, now; but about Louis; you will be hisguardian, you know. " "Not his guardian. He is more than of age. " "Ah! but doctor, you will be his guardian. The property will not behis till he be twenty-five. You will not desert him?" "I will not desert him; but I doubt whether I can do much forhim--what can I do, Scatcherd?" "Use the power that a strong man has over a weak one. Use the powerthat my will will give you. Do for him as you would for a son of yourown if you saw him going in bad courses. Do as a friend should do fora friend that is dead and gone. I would do so for you, doctor, if ourplaces were changed. " "What I can do, that I will do, " said Thorne, solemnly, taking as hespoke the contractor's own in his own with a tight grasp. "I know you will; I know you will. Oh! doctor, may you never feel asI do now! May you on your death-bed have no dread as I have, as tothe fate of those you will leave behind you!" Doctor Thorne felt that he could not say much in answer to this. Thefuture fate of Louis Scatcherd was, he could not but own to himself, greatly to be dreaded. What good, what happiness, could be presagedfor such a one as he was? What comfort could he offer to the father?And then he was called on to compare, as it were, the prospects ofthis unfortunate with those of his own darling; to contrast all thatwas murky, foul, and disheartening, with all that was perfect--for tohim she was all but perfect; to liken Louis Scatcherd to the angelwho brightened his own hearthstone. How could he answer to such anappeal? He said nothing; but merely tightened his grasp of the other's hand, to signify that he would do, as best he could, all that was askedof him. Sir Roger looked up sadly into the doctor's face, as thoughexpecting some word of consolation. There was no comfort, noconsolation to come to him! "For three or four years he must greatly depend upon you, " continuedSir Roger. "I will do what I can, " said the doctor. "What I can do I will do. But he is not a child, Scatcherd: at his age he must stand or fallmainly by his own conduct. The best thing for him will be to marry. " "Exactly; that's just it, Thorne: I was coming to that. If he wouldmarry, I think he would do well yet, for all that has come and gone. If he married, of course you would let him have the command of hisown income. " "I will be governed entirely by your wishes: under any circumstanceshis income will, as I understand, be quite sufficient for him, married or single. " "Ah!--but, Thorne, I should like to think he should shine with thebest of them. For what I have made the money if not for that? Now ifhe marries--decently, that is--some woman you know that can assisthim in the world, let him have what he wants. It is not to save themoney that I put it into your hands. " "No, Scatcherd; not to save the money, but to save him. I think thatwhile you are yet with him you should advise him to marry. " "He does not care a straw for what I advise, not one straw. Whyshould he? How can I tell him to be sober when I have been a beastall my life myself? How can I advise him? That's where it is! It isthat that now kills me. Advise! Why, when I speak to him he treats melike a child. " "He fears that you are too weak, you know: he thinks that you shouldnot be allowed to talk. " "Nonsense! he knows better; you know better. Too weak! whatsignifies? Would I not give all that I have of strength at one blowif I could open his eyes to see as I see but for one minute?" Andthe sick man raised himself up in his bed as though he were actuallygoing to expend all that remained to him of vigour in the energy of amoment. "Gently, Scatcherd; gently. He will listen to you yet; but do not beso unruly. " "Thorne, you see that bottle there? Give me half a glass of brandy. " The doctor turned round in his chair; but he hesitated in doing as hewas desired. "Do as I ask you, doctor. It can do no harm now; you know that wellenough. Why torture me now?" "No, I will not torture you; but you will have water with it?" "Water! No; the brandy by itself. I tell you I cannot speak withoutit. What's the use of canting now? You know it can make nodifference. " Sir Roger was right. It could make no difference; and Dr Thorne gavehim the half glass of brandy. "Ah, well; you've a stingy hand, doctor; confounded stingy. You don'tmeasure your medicines out in such light doses. " "You will be wanting more before morning, you know. " "Before morning! indeed I shall; a pint or so before that. I rememberthe time, doctor, when I have drunk to my own cheek above two quartsbetween dinner and breakfast! aye, and worked all the day after it!" "You have been a wonderful man, Scatcherd, very wonderful. " "Aye, wonderful! well, never mind. It's over now. But what was Isaying?--about Louis, doctor; you'll not desert him?" "Certainly not. " "He's not strong; I know that. How should he be strong, living as hehas done? Not that it seemed to hurt me when I was his age. " "You had the advantage of hard work. " "That's it. Sometimes I wish that Louis had not a shilling in theworld; that he had to trudge about with an apron round his waist as Idid. But it's too late now to think of that. If he would only marry, doctor. " Dr Thorne again expressed an opinion that no step would be so likelyto reform the habits of the young heir as marriage; and repeated hisadvice to the father to implore his son to take a wife. "I'll tell you what, Thorne, " said he. And then, after a pause, hewent on. "I have not half told you as yet what is on my mind; and I'mnearly afraid to tell it; though, indeed, I don't know why I shouldbe. " "I never knew you afraid of anything yet, " said the doctor, smilinggently. "Well, then, I'll not end by turning coward. Now, doctor, tell thetruth to me; what do you expect me to do for that girl of yours thatwe were talking of--Mary's child?" There was a pause for a moment, for Thorne was slow to answer him. "You would not let me see her, you know, though she is my niece astruly as she is yours. " "Nothing, " at last said the doctor, slowly. "I expect nothing. Iwould not let you see her, and therefore, I expect nothing. " "She will have it all if poor Louis should die, " said Sir Roger. "If you intend it so you should put her name into the will, " said theother. "Not that I ask you or wish you to do so. Mary, thank God, cando without wealth. " "Thorne, on one condition I will put her name into it. I will alterit all on one condition. Let the two cousins be man and wife--letLouis marry poor Mary's child. " The proposition for a moment took away the doctor's breath, and hewas unable to answer. Not for all the wealth of India would he havegiven up his lamb to that young wolf, even though he had had thepower to do so. But that lamb--lamb though she was--had, as he wellknew, a will of her own on such a matter. What alliance could be moreimpossible, thought he to himself, than one between Mary Thorne andLouis Scatcherd? "I will alter it all if you will give me your hand upon it that youwill do your best to bring about this marriage. Everything shall behis on the day he marries her; and should he die unmarried, it shallall then be hers by name. Say the word, Thorne, and she shall comehere at once. I shall yet have time to see her. " But Dr Thorne did not say the word; just at the moment he saidnothing, but he slowly shook his head. "Why not, Thorne?" "My friend, it is impossible. " "Why impossible?" "Her hand is not mine to dispose of, nor is her heart. " "Then let her come over herself. " "What! Scatcherd, that the son might make love to her while thefather is so dangerously ill! Bid her come to look for a richhusband! That would not be seemly, would it?" "No; not for that: let her come merely that I may see her; that wemay all know her. I will leave the matter then in your hands if youwill promise me to do your best. " "But, my friend, in this matter I cannot do my best. I can donothing. And, indeed, I may say at once, that it is altogether out ofthe question. I know--" "What do you know?" said the baronet, turning on him almost angrily. "What can you know to make you say that it is impossible? Is she apearl of such price that a man may not win her?" "She is a pearl of great price. " "Believe me, doctor, money goes far in winning such pearls. " "Perhaps so; I know little about it. But this I do know, that moneywill not win her. Let us talk of something else; believe me it isuseless for us to think of this. " "Yes; if you set your face against it obstinately. You must thinkvery poorly of Louis if you suppose that no girl can fancy him. " "I have not said so, Scatcherd. " "To have the spending of ten thousand a year, and be a baronet'slady! Why, doctor, what is it you expect for this girl?" "Not much, indeed; not much. A quiet heart and a quiet home; not muchmore. " "Thorne, if you will be ruled by me in this, she shall be the mosttopping woman in this county. " "My friend, my friend, why thus grieve me? Why should you thus harassyourself? I tell you it is impossible. They have never seen eachother; they have nothing, and can have nothing in common; theirtastes, and wishes, and pursuits are different. Besides, Scatcherd, marriages never answer that are so made; believe me, it isimpossible. " The contractor threw himself back on his bed, and lay for some tenminutes perfectly quiet; so much so that the doctor began to thinkthat he was sleeping. So thinking, and wearied by the watching, Dr Thorne was beginning to creep quietly from the room, when hiscompanion again roused himself, almost with vehemence. "You won't do this thing for me, then?" said he. "Do it! It is not for you or me to do such things as that. Suchthings must be left to those concerned themselves. " "You will not even help me?" "Not in this thing, Sir Roger. " "Then, by ----, she shall not under any circumstances ever have ashilling of mine. Give me some of that stuff there, " and he againpointed to the brandy bottle which stood ever within his sight. The doctor poured out and handed to him another small modicum ofspirit. "Nonsense, man; fill the glass. I'll stand no nonsense now. I'll bemaster in my own house to the last. Give it here, I tell you. Tenthousand devils are tearing me within. You--you could have comfortedme; but you would not. Fill the glass I tell you. " "I should be killing you were I to do it. " "Killing me! killing me! you are always talking of killing me. Do yousuppose that I am afraid to die? Do not I know how soon it is coming?Give me the brandy, I say, or I will be out across the room to fetchit. " "No, Scatcherd. I cannot give it to you; not while I am here. Do youremember how you were engaged this morning?"--he had that morningtaken the sacrament from the parish clergyman--"you would not wish tomake me guilty of murder, would you?" "Nonsense! You are talking nonsense; habit is second nature. I tellyou I shall sink without it. Why, you know I always get it directlyyour back is turned. Come, I will not be bullied in my own house;give me that bottle, I say!"--and Sir Roger essayed, vainly enough, to raise himself from the bed. "Stop, Scatcherd; I will give it you--I will help you. It may bethat habit is second nature. " Sir Roger in his determined energyhad swallowed, without thinking of it, the small quantity which thedoctor had before poured out for him, and still held the empty glasswithin his hand. This the doctor now took and filled nearly to thebrim. "Come, Thorne, a bumper; a bumper for this once. 'Whatever the drink, it a bumper must be. ' You stingy fellow! I would not treat you so. Well--well. " "It's as full as you can hold it, Scatcherd. " "Try me; try me! my hand is a rock; at least at holding liquor. " Andthen he drained the contents of the glass, which were sufficient inquantity to have taken away the breath from any ordinary man. "Ah, I'm better now. But, Thorne, I do love a full glass, ha! ha!ha!" There was something frightful, almost sickening, in the peculiarhoarse guttural tone of his voice. The sounds came from him asthough steeped in brandy, and told, all too plainly, the havoc whichthe alcohol had made. There was a fire too about his eyes whichcontrasted with his sunken cheeks: his hanging jaw, unshorn beard, and haggard face were terrible to look at. His hands and arms werehot and clammy, but so thin and wasted! Of his lower limbs the lostuse had not returned to him, so that in all his efforts at vehemencehe was controlled by his own want of vitality. When he supportedhimself, half-sitting against the pillows, he was in a continualtremor; and yet, as he boasted, he could still lift his glasssteadily to his mouth. Such now was the hero of whom that readycompiler of memoirs had just finished his correct and succinctaccount. After he had had his brandy, he sat glaring a while at vacancy, asthough he was dead to all around him, and was thinking--thinking--thinking of things in the infinite distance of the past. "Shall I go now, " said the doctor, "and send Lady Scatcherd to you?" "Wait a while, doctor; just one minute longer. So you will do nothingfor Louis, then?" "I will do everything for him that I can do. " "Ah, yes! everything but the one thing that will save him. Well, Iwill not ask you again. But remember, Thorne, I shall alter my willto-morrow. " "Do so by all means; you may well alter it for the better. If Imay advise you, you will have down your own business attorney fromLondon. If you will let me send he will be here before to-morrownight. " "Thank you for nothing, Thorne: I can manage that matter myself. Nowleave me; but remember, you have ruined that girl's fortune. " The doctor did leave him, and went not altogether happy to his room. He could not but confess to himself that he had, despite himself asit were, fed himself with hope that Mary's future might be made moresecure, aye, and brighter too, by some small unheeded fraction brokenoff from the huge mass of her uncle's wealth. Such hope, if it hadamounted to hope, was now all gone. But this was not all, nor wasthis the worst of it. That he had done right in utterly repudiatingall idea of a marriage between Mary and her cousin--of that he wascertain enough; that no earthly consideration would have induced Maryto plight her troth to such a man--that, with him, was as certain asdoom. But how far had he done right in keeping her from the sight ofher uncle? How could he justify it to himself if he had thus robbedher of her inheritance, seeing that he had done so from a selfishfear lest she, who was now all his own, should be known to the worldas belonging to others rather than to him? He had taken upon him onher behalf to reject wealth as valueless; and yet he had no soonerdone so than he began to consume his hours with reflecting how greatto her would be the value of wealth. And thus, when Sir Roger toldhim, as he left the room, that he had ruined Mary's fortune, he washardly able to bear the taunt with equanimity. On the next morning, after paying his professional visit to hispatient, and satisfying himself that the end was now drawing nearwith steps terribly quickened, he went down to Greshamsbury. "How long is this to last, uncle?" said his niece, with sad voice, ashe again prepared to return to Boxall Hill. "Not long, Mary; do not begrudge him a few more hours of life. " "No, I do not, uncle. I will say nothing more about it. Is his sonwith him?" And then, perversely enough, she persisted in askingnumerous questions about Louis Scatcherd. "Is he likely to marry, uncle?" "I hope so, my dear. " "Will he be so very rich?" "Yes; ultimately he will be very rich. " "He will be a baronet, will he not?" "Yes, my dear. " "What is he like, uncle?" "Like--I never know what a young man is like. He is like a man withred hair. " "Uncle, you are the worst hand in describing I ever knew. If I'd seenhim for five minutes, I'd be bound to make a portrait of him; andyou, if you were describing a dog, you'd only say what colour hishair was. " "Well, he's a little man. " "Exactly, just as I should say that Mrs Umbleby had a red-hairedlittle dog. I wish I had known these Scatcherds, uncle. I do soadmire people that can push themselves in the world. I wish I hadknown Sir Roger. " "You will never know him now, Mary. " "I suppose not. I am so sorry for him. Is Lady Scatcherd nice?" "She is an excellent woman. " "I hope I may know her some day. You are so much there now, uncle; Iwonder whether you ever mention me to them. If you do, tell her fromme how much I grieve for her. " That same night Dr Thorne again found himself alone with Sir Roger. The sick man was much more tranquil, and apparently more at easethan he had been on the preceding night. He said nothing about hiswill, and not a word about Mary Thorne; but the doctor knew thatWinterbones and a notary's clerk from Barchester had been in thebedroom a great part of the day; and, as he knew also that the greatman of business was accustomed to do his most important work by thehands of such tools as these, he did not doubt but that the willhad been altered and remodelled. Indeed, he thought it more thanprobable, that when it was opened it would be found to be whollydifferent in its provisions from that which Sir Roger had alreadydescribed. "Louis is clever enough, " he said, "sharp enough, I mean. He won'tsquander the property. " "He has good natural abilities, " said the doctor. "Excellent, excellent, " said the father. "He may do well, very well, if he can only be kept from this;" and Sir Roger held up the emptywine-glass which stood by his bedside. "What a life he may havebefore him!--and to throw it away for this!" and as he spoke he tookthe glass and tossed it across the room. "Oh, doctor! would that itwere all to begin again!" "We all wish that, I dare say, Scatcherd. " "No, you don't wish it. You ain't worth a shilling, and yet youregret nothing. I am worth half a million in one way or the other, and I regret everything--everything--everything!" "You should not think in that way, Scatcherd; you need not think so. Yesterday you told Mr Clarke that you were comfortable in your mind. "Mr Clarke was the clergyman who had visited him. "Of course I did. What else could I say when he asked me? It wouldn'thave been civil to have told him that his time and words wereall thrown away. But, Thorne, believe me, when a man's heart issad--sad--sad to the core, a few words from a parson at the lastmoment will never make it all right. " "May He have mercy on you, my friend!--if you will think of Him, andlook to Him, He will have mercy on you. " "Well--I will try, doctor; but would that it were all to do again. You'll see to the old woman for my sake, won't you?" "What, Lady Scatcherd?" "Lady Devil! If anything angers me now it is that 'ladyship'--her tobe my lady! Why, when I came out of jail that time, the poor creaturehad hardly a shoe to her foot. But it wasn't her fault, Thorne; itwas none of her doing. She never asked for such nonsense. " "She has been an excellent wife, Scatcherd; and what is more, sheis an excellent woman. She is, and ever will be, one of my dearestfriends. " "Thank'ee, doctor, thank'ee. Yes; she has been a good wife--betterfor a poor man than a rich one; but then, that was what she was bornto. You won't let her be knocked about by them, will you, Thorne?" Dr Thorne again assured him, that as long as he lived Lady Scatcherdshould never want one true friend; in making this promise, however, he managed to drop all allusion to the obnoxious title. "You'll be with him as much as possible, won't you?" again asked thebaronet, after lying quite silent for a quarter of an hour. "With whom?" said the doctor, who was then all but asleep. "With my poor boy; with Louis. " "If he will let me, I will, " said the doctor. "And, doctor, when you see a glass at his mouth, dash it down; thrustit down, though you thrust out the teeth with it. When you see that, Thorne, tell him of his father--tell him what his father might havebeen but for that; tell him how his father died like a beast, becausehe could not keep himself from drink. " These, reader, were the last words spoken by Sir Roger Scatcherd. Ashe uttered them he rose up in bed with the same vehemence which hehad shown on the former evening. But in the very act of doing sohe was again struck by paralysis, and before nine on the followingmorning all was over. "Oh, my man--my own, own man!" exclaimed the widow, remembering inthe paroxysm of her grief nothing but the loves of their early days;"the best, the brightest, the cleverest of them all!" Some weeks after this Sir Roger was buried, with much pomp andceremony, within the precincts of Barchester Cathedral; and amonument was put up to him soon after, in which he was portrayed assmoothing a block of granite with a mallet and chisel; while hiseagle eye, disdaining such humble work, was fixed upon some intricatemathematical instrument above him. Could Sir Roger have seen ithimself, he would probably have declared, that no workman was everworth his salt who looked one way while he rowed another. Immediately after the funeral the will was opened, and Dr Thornediscovered that the clauses of it were exactly identical with thosewhich his friend had described to him some months back. Nothing hadbeen altered; nor had the document been unfolded since that strangecodicil was added, in which it was declared that Dr Thorne knew--andonly Dr Thorne--who was the eldest child of the testator's onlysister. At the same time, however, a joint executor with Dr Thornehad been named--one Mr Stock, a man of railway fame--and Dr Thornehimself was made a legatee to the humble extent of a thousand pounds. A life income of a thousand pounds a year was left to Lady Scatcherd. CHAPTER XXVI War We need not follow Sir Roger to his grave, nor partake of the bakedmeats which were furnished for his funeral banquet. Such men as SirRoger Scatcherd are always well buried, and we have already seen thathis glories were duly told to posterity in the graphic diction of hissepulchral monument. In a few days the doctor had returned to hisquiet home, and Sir Louis found himself reigning at Boxall Hill inhis father's stead--with, however, a much diminished sway, and, as hethought it, but a poor exchequer. We must soon return to him and saysomething of his career as a baronet; but for the present, we may goback to our more pleasant friends at Greshamsbury. But our friends at Greshamsbury had not been making themselvespleasant--not so pleasant to each other as circumstances would haveadmitted. In those days which the doctor had felt himself bound topass, if not altogether at Boxall Hill, yet altogether away from hisown home, so as to admit of his being as much as possible with hispatient, Mary had been thrown more than ever with Patience Oriel, and, also, almost more than ever with Beatrice Gresham. As regardedMary, she would doubtless have preferred the companionship ofPatience, though she loved Beatrice far the best; but she had nochoice. When she went to the parsonage Beatrice came there also, andwhen Patience came to the doctor's house Beatrice either accompaniedor followed her. Mary could hardly have rejected their society, evenhad she felt it wise to do so. She would in such case have been allalone, and her severance from the Greshamsbury house and household, from the big family in which she had for so many years been almost athome, would have made such solitude almost unendurable. And then these two girls both knew--not her secret: she had nosecret--but the little history of her ill-treatment. They knew thatthough she had been blameless in this matter, yet she had been theone to bear the punishment; and, as girls and bosom friends, theycould not but sympathise with her, and endow her with heroicattributes; make her, in fact, as we are doing, their little heroinefor the nonce. This was, perhaps, not serviceable for Mary; but itwas far from being disagreeable. The tendency to finding matter for hero-worship in Mary's endurancewas much stronger with Beatrice than with Miss Oriel. Miss Oriel wasthe elder, and naturally less afflicted with the sentimentation ofromance. She had thrown herself into Mary's arms because she hadseen that it was essentially necessary for Mary's comfort that sheshould do so. She was anxious to make her friend smile, and to smilewith her. Beatrice was quite as true in her sympathy; but she ratherwished that she and Mary might weep in unison, shed mutual tears, andbreak their hearts together. Patience had spoken of Frank's love as a misfortune, of his conductas erroneous, and to be excused only by his youth, and had neverappeared to surmise that Mary also might be in love as well as he. But to Beatrice the affair was a tragic difficulty, admitting of nosolution; a Gordian knot, not to be cut; a misery now and for ever. She would always talk about Frank when she and Mary were alone; and, to speak the truth, Mary did not stop her as she perhaps should havedone. As for a marriage between them, that was impossible; Beatricewas well sure of that: it was Frank's unfortunate destiny that hemust marry money--money, and, as Beatrice sometimes thoughtlesslyadded, cutting Mary to the quick, --money and family also. Under suchcircumstances a marriage between them was quite impossible; but notthe less did Beatrice declare, that she would have loved Mary as hersister-in-law had it been possible; and how worthy Frank was of agirl's love, had such love been permissible. "It is so cruel, " Beatrice would say; "so very, very, cruel. Youwould have suited him in every way. " "Nonsense, Trichy; I should have suited him in no possible way atall; nor he me. " "Oh, but you would--exactly. Papa loves you so well. " "And mamma; that would have been so nice. " "Yes; and mamma, too--that is, had you had a fortune, " said thedaughter, naïvely. "She always liked you personally, always. " "Did she?" "Always. And we all love you so. " "Especially Lady Alexandrina. " "That would not have signified, for Frank cannot endure the deCourcys himself. " "My dear, it does not matter one straw whom your brother can endureor not endure just at present. His character is to be formed, and histastes, and his heart also. " "Oh, Mary!--his heart. " "Yes, his heart; not the fact of his having a heart. I think he has aheart; but he himself does not yet understand it. " "Oh, Mary! you do not know him. " Such conversations were not without danger to poor Mary's comfort. It came soon to be the case that she looked rather for this sortof sympathy from Beatrice, than for Miss Oriel's pleasant but lesspiquant gaiety. So the days of the doctor's absence were passed, and so also thefirst week after his return. During this week it was almost dailynecessary that the squire should be with him. The doctor was now thelegal holder of Sir Roger's property, and, as such, the holder alsoof all the mortgages on Mr Gresham's property; and it was naturalthat they should be much together. The doctor would not, however, go up to Greshamsbury on any other than medical business; and ittherefore became necessary that the squire should be a good deal atthe doctor's house. Then the Lady Arabella became unhappy in her mind. Frank, it wastrue, was away at Cambridge, and had been successfully kept outof Mary's way since the suspicion of danger had fallen upon LadyArabella's mind. Frank was away, and Mary was systematicallybanished, with due acknowledgement from all the powers inGreshamsbury. But this was not enough for Lady Arabella as long asher daughter still habitually consorted with the female culprit, andas long as her husband consorted with the male culprit. It seemed toLady Arabella at this moment as though, in banishing Mary from thehouse, she had in effect banished herself from the most intimate ofthe Greshamsbury social circles. She magnified in her own mind theimportance of the conferences between the girls, and was not withoutsome fear that the doctor might be talking the squire over into verydangerous compliance. She resolved, therefore, on another duel with the doctor. In thefirst she had been pre-eminently and unexpectedly successful. Noyoung sucking dove could have been more mild than that terrible enemywhom she had for years regarded as being too puissant for attack. Inten minutes she had vanquished him, and succeeded in banishing bothhim and his niece from the house without losing the value of hisservices. As is always the case with us, she had begun to despisethe enemy she had conquered, and to think that the foe, once beaten, could never rally. Her object was to break off all confidential intercourse betweenBeatrice and Mary, and to interrupt, as far as she could do it, thatbetween the doctor and the squire. This, it may be said, could bemore easily done by skilful management within her own household. Shehad, however, tried that and failed. She had said much to Beatrice asto the imprudence of her friendship with Mary, and she had done thispurposely before the squire; injudiciously however, --for the squirehad immediately taken Mary's part, and had declared that he had nowish to see a quarrel between his family and that of the doctor; thatMary Thorne was in every way a good girl, and an eligible friend forhis own child; and had ended by declaring, that he would not haveMary persecuted for Frank's fault. This had not been the end, nornearly the end of what had been said on the matter at Greshamsbury;but the end, when it came, came in this wise, that Lady Arabelladetermined to say a few words to the doctor as to the expediencyof forbidding familiar intercourse between Mary and any of theGreshamsbury people. With this view Lady Arabella absolutely bearded the lion in his den, the doctor in his shop. She had heard that both Mary and Beatricewere to pass a certain afternoon at the parsonage, and took thatopportunity of calling at the doctor's house. A period of many yearshad passed since she had last so honoured that abode. Mary, indeed, had been so much one of her own family that the ceremony of callingon her had never been thought necessary; and thus, unless Mary hadbeen absolutely ill, there would have been nothing to bring herladyship to the house. All this she knew would add to the importanceof the occasion, and she judged it prudent to make the occasion asimportant as it might well be. She was so far successful that she soon found herself _tête-à-tête_with the doctor in his own study. She was no whit dismayed by thepair of human thigh-bones which lay close to his hand, and which, when he was talking in that den of his own, he was in the constanthabit of handling with much energy; nor was she frightened out of herpropriety even by the little child's skull which grinned at her fromoff the chimney-piece. "Doctor, " she said, as soon as the first complimentary greetings wereover, speaking in her kindest and most would-be-confidential tone, "Doctor, I am still uneasy about that boy of mine, and I have thoughtit best to come and see you at once, and tell you freely what Ithink. " The doctor bowed, and said that he was very sorry that she shouldhave any cause for uneasiness about his young friend Frank. "Indeed, I am very uneasy, doctor; and having, as I do have, suchreliance on your prudence, and such perfect confidence in yourfriendship, I have thought it best to come and speak to you openly:"thereupon the Lady Arabella paused, and the doctor bowed again. "Nobody knows so well as you do the dreadful state of the squire'saffairs. " "Not so very dreadful; not so very dreadful, " said the doctor, mildly: "that is, as far as I know. " "Yes they are, doctor; very dreadful; very dreadful indeed. You knowhow much he owes to this young man: I do not, for the squire nevertells anything to me; but I know that it is a very large sum ofmoney; enough to swamp the estate and ruin Frank. Now I call thatvery dreadful. " "No, no, not ruin him, Lady Arabella; not ruin him, I hope. " "However, I did not come to talk to you about that. As I said before, I know nothing of the squire's affairs, and, as a matter of course, I do not ask you to tell me. But I am sure you will agree with me inthis, that, as a mother, I cannot but be interested about my onlyson, " and Lady Arabella put her cambric handkerchief to her eyes. "Of course you are; of course you are, " said the doctor; "and, LadyArabella, my opinion of Frank is such, that I feel sure that hewill do well;" and, in his energy, Dr Thorne brandished one of thethigh-bones almost in the lady's face. "I hope he will; I am sure I hope he will. But, doctor, he has suchdangers to contend with; he is so warm and impulsive that I fearhis heart will bring him into trouble. Now, you know, unless Frankmarries money he is lost. " The doctor made no answer to this last appeal, but as he sat andlistened a slight frown came across his brow. "He must marry money, doctor. Now we have, you see, with yourassistance, contrived to separate him from dear Mary--" "With my assistance, Lady Arabella! I have given no assistance, norhave I meddled in the matter; nor will I. " "Well, doctor, perhaps not meddled; but you agreed with me, you know, that the two young people had been imprudent. " "I agreed to no such thing, Lady Arabella; never, never. I not onlynever agreed that Mary had been imprudent, but I will not agree to itnow, and will not allow any one to assert it in my presence withoutcontradicting it:" and then the doctor worked away at the thigh-bonesin a manner that did rather alarm her ladyship. "At any rate, you thought that the young people had better be keptapart. " "No; neither did I think that: my niece, I felt sure, was safe fromdanger. I knew that she would do nothing that would bring either heror me to shame. " "Not to shame, " said the lady, apologetically, as it were, using theword perhaps not exactly in the doctor's sense. "I felt no alarm for her, " continued the doctor, "and desired nochange. Frank is your son, and it is for you to look to him. Youthought proper to do so by desiring Mary to absent herself fromGreshamsbury. " "Oh, no, no, no!" said Lady Arabella. "But you did, Lady Arabella; and as Greshamsbury is your home, neither I nor my niece had any ground of complaint. We acquiesced, not without much suffering, but we did acquiesce; and you, I think, can have no ground of complaint against us. " Lady Arabella had hardly expected that the doctor would reply to hermild and conciliatory exordium with so much sternness. He had yieldedso easily to her on the former occasion. She did not comprehend thatwhen she uttered her sentence of exile against Mary, she had givenan order which she had the power of enforcing; but that obedience tothat order had now placed Mary altogether beyond her jurisdiction. She was, therefore, a little surprised, and for a few momentsoverawed by the doctor's manner; but she soon recovered herself, remembering, doubtless, that fortune favours none but the brave. "I make no complaint, Dr Thorne, " she said, after assuming a tonemore befitting a de Courcy than that hitherto used, "I make nocomplaint either as regards you or Mary. " "You are very kind, Lady Arabella. " "But I think that it is my duty to put a stop, a peremptory stop toanything like a love affair between my son and your niece. " "I have not the least objection in life. If there is such a loveaffair, put a stop to it--that is, if you have the power. " Here the doctor was doubtless imprudent. But he had begun to thinkthat he had yielded sufficiently to the lady; and he had begun toresolve, also, that though it would not become him to encourage eventhe idea of such a marriage, he would make Lady Arabella understandthat he thought his niece quite good enough for her son, and thatthe match, if regarded as imprudent, was to be regarded as equallyimprudent on both sides. He would not suffer that Mary and her heartand feelings and interest should be altogether postponed to thoseof the young heir; and, perhaps, he was unconsciously encouraged inthis determination by the reflection that Mary herself might perhapsbecome a young heiress. "It is my duty, " said Lady Arabella, repeating her words with even astronger de Courcy intonation; "and your duty also, Dr Thorne. " "My duty!" said he, rising from his chair and leaning on the tablewith the two thigh-bones. "Lady Arabella, pray understand at once, that I repudiate any such duty, and will have nothing whatever to dowith it. " "But you do not mean to say that you will encourage this unfortunateboy to marry your niece?" "The unfortunate boy, Lady Arabella--whom, by the by, I regard asa very fortunate young man--is your son, not mine. I shall take nosteps about his marriage, either one way or the other. " "You think it right, then, that your niece should throw herself inhis way?" "Throw herself in his way! What would you say if I came up toGreshamsbury, and spoke to you of your daughters in such language?What would my dear friend Mr Gresham say, if some neighbour's wifeshould come and so speak to him? I will tell you what he would say:he would quietly beg her to go back to her own home and meddle onlywith her own matters. " This was dreadful to Lady Arabella. Even Dr Thorne had never beforedared thus to lower her to the level of common humanity, and likenher to any other wife in the country-side. Moreover, she was notquite sure whether he, the parish doctor, was not desiring her, theearl's daughter, to go home and mind her own business. On this firstpoint, however, there seemed to be no room for doubt, of which shegave herself the benefit. "It would not become me to argue with you, Dr Thorne, " she said. "Not at least on this subject, " said he. "I can only repeat that I mean nothing offensive to our dear Mary;for whom, I think I may say, I have always shown almost a mother'scare. " "Neither am I, nor is Mary, ungrateful for the kindness she hasreceived at Greshamsbury. " "But I must do my duty: my own children must be my firstconsideration. " "Of course they must, Lady Arabella; that's of course. " "And, therefore, I have called on you to say that I think it isimprudent that Beatrice and Mary should be so much together. " The doctor had been standing during the latter part of thisconversation, but now he began to walk about, still holding the twobones like a pair of dumb-bells. "God bless my soul!" he said; "God bless my soul! Why, Lady Arabella, do you suspect your own daughter as well as your own son? Do youthink that Beatrice is assisting Mary in preparing this wickedclandestine marriage? I tell you fairly, Lady Arabella, the presenttone of your mind is such that I cannot understand it. " "I suspect nobody, Dr Thorne; but young people will be young. " "And old people must be old, I suppose; the more's the pity. LadyArabella, Mary is the same to me as my own daughter, and owes me theobedience of a child; but as I do not disapprove of your daughterBeatrice as an acquaintance for her, but rather, on the other hand, regard with pleasure their friendship, you cannot expect that Ishould take any steps to put an end to it. " "But suppose it should lead to renewed intercourse between Frank andMary?" "I have no objection. Frank is a very nice young fellow, gentleman-like in his manners, and neighbourly in his disposition. " "Dr Thorne--" "Lady Arabella--" "I cannot believe that you really intend to express a wish--" "You are quite right. I have not intended to express any wish; nor doI intend to do so. Mary is at liberty, within certain bounds--whichI am sure she will not pass--to choose her own friends. I think shehas not chosen badly as regards Miss Beatrice Gresham; and should sheeven add Frank Gresham to the number--" "Friends! why they were more than friends; they were declaredlovers. " "I doubt that, Lady Arabella, because I have not heard of it fromMary. But even if it were so, I do not see why I should object. " "Not object!" "As I said before, Frank is, to my thinking, an excellent young man. Why should I object?" "Dr Thorne!" said her ladyship, now also rising from her chair in astate of too evident perturbation. "Why should _I_ object? It is for you, Lady Arabella, to look afteryour lambs; for me to see that, if possible, no harm shall come tomine. If you think that Mary is an improper acquaintance for yourchildren, it is for you to guide them; for you and their father. Saywhat you think fit to your own daughter; but pray understand, oncefor all, that I will allow no one to interfere with my niece. " "Interfere!" said Lady Arabella, now absolutely confused by theseverity of the doctor's manner. "I will allow no one to interfere with her; no one, Lady Arabella. She has suffered very greatly from imputations which you have mostunjustly thrown on her. It was, however, your undoubted right to turnher out of your house if you thought fit;--though, as a woman whohad known her for so many years, you might, I think, have treatedher with more forbearance. That, however, was your right, and youexercised it. There your privilege stops; yes, and must stop, LadyArabella. You shall not persecute her here, on the only spot ofground she can call her own. " "Persecute her, Dr Thorne! You do not mean to say that I havepersecuted her?" "Ah! but I do mean to say so. You do persecute her, and wouldcontinue to do so did I not defend her. It is not sufficient thatshe is forbidden to enter your domain--and so forbidden with theknowledge of all the country round--but you must come here also withthe hope of interrupting all the innocent pleasures of her life. Fearing lest she should be allowed even to speak to your son, to heara word of him through his own sister, you would put her in prison, tie her up, keep her from the light of day--" "Dr Thorne! how can you--" But the doctor was not to be interrupted. "It never occurs to you to tie him up, to put him in prison. No; heis the heir of Greshamsbury; he is your son, an earl's grandson. Itis only natural, after all, that he should throw a few foolish wordsat the doctor's niece. But she! it is an offence not to be forgivenon her part that she should, however, unwillingly, have been forcedto listen to them! Now understand me, Lady Arabella; if any of yourfamily come to my house I shall be delighted to welcome them: if Maryshould meet any of them elsewhere I shall be delighted to hear of it. Should she tell me to-morrow that she was engaged to marry Frank, Ishould talk the matter over with her, quite coolly, solely with aview to her interest, as would be my duty; feeling, at the same time, that Frank would be lucky in having such a wife. Now you know mymind, Lady Arabella. It is so I should do my duty;--you can do yoursas you may think fit. " Lady Arabella had by this time perceived that she was not destined onthis occasion to gain any great victory. She, however, was angry aswell as the doctor. It was not the man's vehemence that provoked herso much as his evident determination to break down the prestige ofher rank, and place her on a footing in no respect superior to hisown. He had never before been so audaciously arrogant; and, as shemoved towards the door, she determined in her wrath that she wouldnever again have confidential intercourse with him in any relation oflife whatsoever. "Dr Thorne, " said she. "I think you have forgotten yourself. You mustexcuse me if I say that after what has passed I--I--I--" "Certainly, " said he, fully understanding what she meant; and bowinglow as he opened first the study-door, then the front-door, then thegarden-gate. And then Lady Arabella stalked off, not without full observation fromMrs Yates Umbleby and her friend Miss Gushing, who lived close by. CHAPTER XXVII Miss Thorne Goes on a Visit And now began the unpleasant things at Greshamsbury of which we havehere told. When Lady Arabella walked away from the doctor's houseshe resolved that, let it cost what it might, there should be war tothe knife between her and him. She had been insulted by him--so atleast she said to herself, and so she was prepared to say to othersalso--and it was not to be borne that a de Courcy should allow herparish doctor to insult her with impunity. She would tell her husbandwith all the dignity that she could assume, that it had now becomeabsolutely necessary that he should protect his wife by breakingentirely with his unmannered neighbour; and, as regarded the youngmembers of her family, she would use the authority of a mother, andabsolutely forbid them to hold any intercourse with Mary Thorne. Soresolving, she walked quickly back to her own house. The doctor, when left alone, was not quite satisfied with the part hehad taken in the interview. He had spoken from impulse rather thanfrom judgement, and, as is generally the case with men who do sospeak, he had afterwards to acknowledge to himself that he had beenimprudent. He accused himself probably of more violence than hehad really used, and was therefore unhappy; but, nevertheless, hisindignation was not at rest. He was angry with himself; but noton that account the less angry with Lady Arabella. She was cruel, overbearing, and unreasonable; cruel in the most cruel of manners, sohe thought; but not on that account was he justified in forgettingthe forbearance due from a gentleman to a lady. Mary, moreover, hadowed much to the kindness of this woman, and, therefore, Dr Thornefelt that he should have forgiven much. Thus the doctor walked about his room, much disturbed; now accusinghimself for having been so angry with Lady Arabella, and then feedinghis own anger by thinking of her misconduct. The only immediate conclusion at which he resolved was this, that itwas unnecessary that he should say anything to Mary on the subjectof her ladyship's visit. There was, no doubt, sorrow enough in storefor his darling; why should he aggravate it? Lady Arabella woulddoubtless not stop now in her course; but why should he acceleratethe evil which she would doubtless be able to effect? Lady Arabella, when she returned to the house, allowed no grass togrow under her feet. As she entered the house she desired that MissBeatrice should be sent to her directly she returned; and she desiredalso, that as soon as the squire should be in his room a message tothat effect might be immediately brought to her. "Beatrice, " she said, as soon as the young lady appeared before her, and in speaking she assumed her firmest tone of authority, "Beatrice, I am sorry, my dear, to say anything that is unpleasant to you, but Imust make it a positive request that you will for the future drop allintercourse with Dr Thorne's family. " Beatrice, who had received Lady Arabella's message immediately onentering the house, and had run upstairs imagining that some instanthaste was required, now stood before her mother rather out of breath, holding her bonnet by the strings. "Oh, mamma!" she exclaimed, "what on earth has happened?" "My dear, " said the mother, "I cannot really explain to you what hashappened; but I must ask you to give me your positive assurance thatyou will comply with my request. " "You don't mean that I am not to see Mary any more?" "Yes, I do, my dear; at any rate, for the present. When I tell youthat your brother's interest imperatively demands it, I am sure thatyou will not refuse me. " Beatrice did not refuse, but she did not appear too willing tocomply. She stood silent, leaning against the end of a sofa andtwisting her bonnet-strings in her hand. "Well, Beatrice--" "But, mamma, I don't understand. " Lady Arabella had said that she could not exactly explain: but shefound it necessary to attempt to do so. "Dr Thorne has openly declared to me that a marriage between poorFrank and Mary is all he could desire for his niece. After suchunparalleled audacity as that, even your father will see thenecessity of breaking with him. " "Dr Thorne! Oh, mamma, you must have misunderstood him. " "My dear, I am not apt to misunderstand people; especially when I amso much in earnest as I was in talking to Dr Thorne. " "But, mamma, I know so well what Mary herself thinks about it. " "And I know what Dr Thorne thinks about it; he, at any rate, has beencandid in what he said; there can be no doubt on earth that he hasspoken his true thoughts; there can be no reason to doubt him: ofcourse such a match would be all that he could wish. " "Mamma, I feel sure that there is some mistake. " "Very well, my dear. I know that you are infatuated about thesepeople, and that you are always inclined to contradict what I say toyou; but, remember, I expect that you will obey me when I tell younot to go to Dr Thorne's house any more. " "But, mamma--" "I expect you to obey me, Beatrice. Though you are so prone tocontradict, you have never disobeyed me; and I fully trust that youwill not do so now. " Lady Arabella had begun by exacting, or trying to exact a promise, but as she found that this was not forthcoming, she thought it betterto give up the point without a dispute. It might be that Beatricewould absolutely refuse to pay this respect to her mother'sauthority, and then where would she have been? At this moment a servant came up to say that the squire was in hisroom, and Lady Arabella was opportunely saved the necessity ofdiscussing the matter further with her daughter. "I am now, " shesaid, "going to see your father on the same subject; you may be quitesure, Beatrice, that I should not willingly speak to him on anymatter relating to Dr Thorne did I not find it absolutely necessaryto do so. " This Beatrice knew was true, and she did therefore feel convincedthat something terrible must have happened. While Lady Arabella opened her budget the squire sat quite silent, listening to her with apparent respect. She found it necessary thather description to him should be much more elaborate than that whichshe had vouchsafed to her daughter, and, in telling her grievance, she insisted most especially on the personal insult which had beenoffered to herself. "After what has now happened, " said she, not quite able to repress atone of triumph as she spoke, "I do expect, Mr Gresham, that youwill--will--" "Will what, my dear?" "Will at least protect me from the repetition of such treatment. " "You are not afraid that Dr Thorne will come here to attack you? Asfar as I can understand, he never comes near the place, unless whenyou send for him. " "No; I do not think that he will come to Greshamsbury any more. Ibelieve I have put a stop to that. " "Then what is it, my dear, that you want me to do?" Lady Arabella paused a minute before she replied. The game which shenow had to play was not very easy; she knew, or thought she knew, that her husband, in his heart of hearts, much preferred his friendto the wife of his bosom, and that he would, if he could, shuffle outof noticing the doctor's iniquities. It behoved her, therefore, toput them forward in such a way that they must be noticed. "I suppose, Mr Gresham, you do not wish that Frank should marry thegirl?" "I do not think there is the slightest chance of such a thing; and Iam quite sure that Dr Thorne would not encourage it. " "But I tell you, Mr Gresham, that he says he will encourage it. " "Oh, you have misunderstood him. " "Of course; I always misunderstand everything. I know that. Imisunderstood it when I told you how you would distress yourself ifyou took those nasty hounds. " "I have had other troubles more expensive than the hounds, " said thepoor squire, sighing. "Oh, yes; I know what you mean; a wife and family are expensive, ofcourse. It is a little too late now to complain of that. " "My dear, it is always too late to complain of any troubles when theyare no longer to be avoided. We need not, therefore, talk any moreabout the hounds at present. " "I do not wish to speak of them, Mr Gresham. " "Nor I. " "But I hope you will not think me unreasonable if I am anxious toknow what you intend to do about Dr Thorne. " "To do?" "Yes; I suppose you will do something: you do not wish to see yourson marry such a girl as Mary Thorne. " "As far as the girl herself is concerned, " said the squire, turningrather red, "I am not sure that he could do much better. I knownothing whatever against Mary. Frank, however, cannot afford to makesuch a match. It would be his ruin. " "Of course it would; utter ruin; he never could hold up his headagain. Therefore it is I ask, What do you intend to do?" The squire was bothered. He had no intention whatever of doinganything, and no belief in his wife's assertion as to Dr Thorne'siniquity. But he did not know how to get her out of the room. Sheasked him the same question over and over again, and on each occasionurged on him the heinousness of the insult to which she personallyhad been subjected; so that at last he was driven to ask her what itwas she wished him to do. "Well, then, Mr Gresham, if you ask me, I must say, that I think youshould abstain from any intercourse with Dr Thorne whatever. " "Break off all intercourse with him?" "Yes. " "What do you mean? He has been turned out of this house, and I'm notto go to see him at his own. " "I certainly think that you ought to discontinue your visits to DrThorne altogether. " "Nonsense, my dear; absolute nonsense. " "Nonsense! Mr Gresham; it is no nonsense. As you speak in that way, I must let you know plainly what I feel. I am endeavouring to domy duty by my son. As you justly observe, such a marriage as thiswould be utter ruin to him. When I found that the young people wereactually talking of being in love with each other, making vows andall that sort of thing, I did think it time to interfere. I did not, however, turn them out of Greshamsbury as you accuse me of doing. Inthe kindest possible manner--" "Well--well--well; I know all that. There, they are gone, and that'senough. I don't complain; surely that ought to be enough. " "Enough! Mr Gresham. No; it is not enough. I find that, in spiteof what has occurred, the closest intimacy exists between the twofamilies; that poor Beatrice, who is so very young, and not soprudent as she should be, is made to act as a go-between; and whenI speak to the doctor, hoping that he will assist me in preventingthis, he not only tells me that he means to encourage Mary in herplans, but positively insults me to my face, laughs at me for beingan earl's daughter, and tells me--yes, he absolutely told me--to getout of his house. " Let it be told with some shame as to the squire's conduct, that hisfirst feeling on hearing this was one of envy--of envy and regretthat he could not make the same uncivil request. Not that he wishedto turn his wife absolutely out of his house; but he would have beenvery glad to have had the power of dismissing her summarily from hisown room. This, however, was at present impossible; so he was obligedto make some mild reply. "You must have mistaken him, my dear. He could not have intended tosay that. " "Oh! of course, Mr Gresham. It is all a mistake, of course. It willbe a mistake, only a mistake when you find your son married to MaryThorne. " "Well, my dear, I cannot undertake to quarrel with Dr Thorne. " Thiswas true; for the squire could hardly have quarrelled with Dr Thorne, even had he wished it. "Then I think it right to tell you that I shall. And, Mr Gresham, Idid not expect much co-operation from you; but I did think that youwould have shown some little anger when you heard that I had been soill-treated. I shall, however, know how to take care of myself; andI shall continue to do the best I can to protect Frank from thesewicked intrigues. " So saying, her ladyship arose and left the room, having succeeded indestroying the comfort of all our Greshamsbury friends. It was verywell for the squire to declare that he would not quarrel with DrThorne, and of course he did not do so. But he, himself, had no wishwhatever that his son should marry Mary Thorne; and as a falling dropwill hollow a stone, so did the continual harping of his wife on thesubject give rise to some amount of suspicion in his own mind. Thenas to Beatrice, though she had made no promise that she would notagain visit Mary, she was by no means prepared to set her mother'sauthority altogether at defiance; and she also was sufficientlyuncomfortable. Dr Thorne said nothing of the matter to his niece, and she, therefore, would have been absolutely bewildered by Beatrice'sabsence, had she not received some tidings of what had taken place atGreshamsbury through Patience Oriel. Beatrice and Patience discussedthe matter fully, and it was agreed between them that it would bebetter that Mary should know what sterner orders respecting herhad gone forth from the tyrant at Greshamsbury, and that she mightunderstand that Beatrice's absence was compulsory. Patience was thusplaced in this position, that on one day she walked and talked withBeatrice, and on the next with Mary; and so matters went on for awhile at Greshamsbury--not very pleasantly. Very unpleasantly and very uncomfortably did the months of May andJune pass away. Beatrice and Mary occasionally met, drinking teatogether at the parsonage, or in some other of the ordinary meetingsof country society; but there were no more confidentially distressingconfidential discourses, no more whispering of Frank's name, no moresweet allusions to the inexpediency of a passion, which, accordingto Beatrice's views, would have been so delightful had it beenexpedient. The squire and the doctor also met constantly; there wereunfortunately many subjects on which they were obliged to meet. LouisPhilippe--or Sir Louis as we must call him--though he had no powerover his own property, was wide awake to all the coming privilegesof ownership, and he would constantly point out to his guardian themanner in which, according to his ideas, the most should be made ofit. The young baronet's ideas of good taste were not of the mostrefined description, and he did not hesitate to tell Dr Thorne thathis, the doctor's, friendship with Mr Gresham must be no bar to his, the baronet's, interest. Sir Louis also had his own lawyer, who gaveDr Thorne to understand that, according to his ideas, the sum dueon Mr Gresham's property was too large to be left on its presentfooting; the title-deeds, he said, should be surrendered or themortgage foreclosed. All this added to the sadness which now seemedto envelop the village of Greshamsbury. Early in July, Frank was to come home. The manner in which thecomings and goings of "poor Frank" were allowed to disturb thearrangements of all the ladies, and some of the gentlemen, ofGreshamsbury was most abominable. And yet it can hardly be said tohave been his fault. He would have been only too well pleased hadthings been allowed to go on after their old fashion. Things werenot allowed so to go on. At Christmas Miss Oriel had submitted to beexiled, in order that she might carry Mary away from the presence ofthe young Bashaw, an arrangement by which all the winter festivitiesof the poor doctor had been thoroughly sacrificed; and now it beganto be said that some similar plan for the summer must be suggested. It must not be supposed that any direction to this effect wasconveyed either to Mary or to the doctor. The suggestion came fromthem, and was mentioned only to Patience. But Patience, as a matterof course, told Beatrice, and Beatrice told her mother, somewhattriumphantly, hoping thereby to convince the she-dragon of Mary'sinnocence. Alas! she-dragons are not easily convinced of theinnocence of any one. Lady Arabella quite coincided the propriety ofMary's being sent off, --whither she never inquired, --in order thatthe coast might be clear for "poor Frank;" but she did not a whit themore abstain from talking of the wicked intrigues of those Thornes. As it turned out, Mary's absence caused her to talk all the more. The Boxall Hill property, including the house and furniture, had beenleft to the contractor's son; it being understood that the propertywould not be at present in his own hands, but that he might inhabitthe house if he chose to do so. It would thus be necessary for LadyScatcherd to find a home for herself, unless she could remain atBoxall Hill by her son's permission. In this position of affairs thedoctor had been obliged to make a bargain between them. Sir Louis didwish to have the comfort, or perhaps the honour, of a country house;but he did not wish to have the expense of keeping it up. He wasalso willing to let his mother live at the house; but not withouta consideration. After a prolonged degree of haggling, terms wereagreed upon; and a few weeks after her husband's death, LadyScatcherd found herself alone at Boxall Hill--alone as regardssociety in the ordinary sense, but not quite alone as concerned herladyship, for the faithful Hannah was still with her. The doctor was of course often at Boxall Hill, and never left itwithout an urgent request from Lady Scatcherd that he would bring hisniece over to see her. Now Lady Scatcherd was no fit companion forMary Thorne, and though Mary had often asked to be taken to BoxallHill, certain considerations had hitherto induced the doctor torefuse the request; but there was that about Lady Scatcherd, --a kindof homely honesty of purpose, an absence of all conceit as to her ownposition, and a strength of womanly confidence in the doctor as herfriend, which by degrees won upon his heart. When, therefore, both heand Mary felt that it would be better for her again to absent herselffor a while from Greshamsbury, it was, after much deliberation, agreed that she should go on a visit to Boxall Hill. To Boxall Hill, accordingly, she went, and was received almost as aprincess. Mary had all her life been accustomed to women of rank, andhad never habituated herself to feel much trepidation in the presenceof titled grandees; but she had prepared herself to be more thanordinarily submissive to Lady Scatcherd. Her hostess was a widow, wasnot a woman of high birth, was a woman of whom her uncle spoke well;and, for all these reasons, Mary was determined to respect her, andpay to her every consideration. But when she settled down in thehouse she found it almost impossible to do so. Lady Scatcherd treatedher as a farmer's wife might have treated some convalescent younglady who had been sent to her charge for a few weeks, in order thatshe might benefit by the country air. Her ladyship could hardly bringherself to sit still and eat her dinner tranquilly in her guest'spresence. And then nothing was good enough for Mary. Lady Scatcherdbesought her, almost with tears, to say what she liked best to eatand drink; and was in despair when Mary declared she didn't care, that she liked anything, and that she was in nowise particular insuch matters. "A roast fowl, Miss Thorne?" "Very nice, Lady Scatcherd. " "And bread sauce?" "Bread sauce--yes; oh, yes--I like bread sauce, "--and poor Mary triedhard to show a little interest. "And just a few sausages. We make them all in the house, Miss Thorne;we know what they are. And mashed potatoes--do you like them bestmashed or baked?" Mary finding herself obliged to vote, voted for mashed potatoes. "Very well. But, Miss Thorne, if you like boiled fowl better, witha little bit of ham, you know, I do hope you'll say so. And there'slamb in the house, quite beautiful; now do 'ee say something; do 'ee, Miss Thorne. " So invoked, Mary felt herself obliged to say something, and declaredfor the roast fowl and sausages; but she found it very difficult topay much outward respect to a person who would pay so much outwardrespect to her. A day or two after her arrival it was decided thatshe should ride about the place on a donkey; she was accustomed toriding, the doctor having generally taken care that one of his ownhorses should, when required, consent to carry a lady; but there wasno steed at Boxall Hill that she could mount; and when Lady Scatcherdhad offered to get a pony for her, she had willingly compromisedmatters by expressing the delight she would have in making a campaignon a donkey. Upon this, Lady Scatcherd had herself set off in questof the desired animal, much to Mary's horror; and did not return tillthe necessary purchase had been effected. Then she came back with thedonkey close at her heels, almost holding its collar, and stood thereat the hall-door till Mary came to approve. "I hope she'll do. I don't think she'll kick, " said Lady Scatcherd, patting the head of her purchase quite triumphantly. "Oh, you are so kind, Lady Scatcherd. I'm sure she'll do quitenicely; she seems very quiet, " said Mary. "Please, my lady, it's a he, " said the boy who held the halter. "Oh! a he, is it?" said her ladyship; "but the he-donkeys are quiteas quiet as the shes, ain't they?" "Oh, yes, my lady; a deal quieter, all the world over, and twice asuseful. " "I'm so glad of that, Miss Thorne, " said Lady Scatcherd, her eyesbright with joy. And so Mary was established with her donkey, who did all that couldbe expected from an animal in his position. "But, dear Lady Scatcherd, " said Mary, as they sat together at theopen drawing-room window the same evening, "you must not go oncalling me Miss Thorne; my name is Mary, you know. Won't you call meMary?" and she came and knelt at Lady Scatcherd's feet, and took holdof her, looking up into her face. Lady Scatcherd's cheeks became rather red, as though she was somewhatashamed of her position. "You are so very kind to me, " continued Mary, "and it seems so coldto hear you call me Miss Thorne. " "Well, Miss Thorne, I'm sure I'd call you anything to please you. Only I didn't know whether you'd like it from me. Else I do thinkMary is the prettiest name in all the language. " "I should like it very much. " "My dear Roger always loved that name better than any other; tentimes better. I used to wish sometimes that I'd been called Mary. " "Did he! Why?" "He once had a sister called Mary; such a beautiful creature! Ideclare I sometimes think you are like her. " "Oh, dear! then she must have been beautiful indeed!" said Mary, laughing. "She was very beautiful. I just remember her--oh, so beautiful! shewas quite a poor girl, you know; and so was I then. Isn't it odd thatI should have to be called 'my lady' now? Do you know Miss Thorne--" "Mary! Mary!" said her guest. "Ah, yes; but somehow, I hardly like to make so free; but, as I wassaying, I do so dislike being called 'my lady:' I always think thepeople are laughing at me; and so they are. " "Oh, nonsense. " "Yes, they are though: poor dear Roger, he used to call me 'my lady'just to make fun of me; I didn't mind it so much from him. But, MissThorne--" "Mary, Mary, Mary. " "Ah, well! I shall do it in time. But, Miss--Mary, ha! ha! ha! nevermind, let me alone. But what I want to say is this: do you think Icould drop it? Hannah says, that if I go the right way about it sheis sure I can. " "Oh! but, Lady Scatcherd, you shouldn't think of such a thing. " "Shouldn't I now?" "Oh, no; for your husband's sake you should be proud of it. He gainedgreat honour, you know. " "Ah, well, " said she, sighing after a short pause; "if you think itwill do him any good, of course I'll put up with it. And then I knowLouis would be mad if I talked of such a thing. But, Miss Thorne, dear, a woman like me don't like to have to be made a fool of all thedays of her life if she can help it. " "But, Lady Scatcherd, " said Mary, when this question of the title hadbeen duly settled, and her ladyship made to understand that she mustbear the burden for the rest of her life, "but, Lady Scatcherd, youwere speaking of Sir Roger's sister; what became of her?" "Oh, she did very well at last, as Sir Roger did himself; but inearly life she was very unfortunate--just at the time of my marriagewith dear Roger--, " and then, just as she was about to commence somuch as she knew of the history of Mary Scatcherd, she rememberedthat the author of her sister-in-law's misery had been a Thorne, abrother of the doctor; and, therefore, as she presumed, a relative ofher guest; and suddenly she became mute. "Well, " said Mary; "just as you were married, Lady Scatcherd?" Poor Lady Scatcherd had very little worldly knowledge, and did notin the least know how to turn the conversation or escape from thetrouble into which she had fallen. All manner of reflections began tocrowd upon her. In her early days she had known very little of theThornes, nor had she thought much of them since, except as regardedher friend the doctor; but at this moment she began for the firsttime to remember that she had never heard more than two brothers inthe family. Who then could have been Mary's father? She felt at oncethat it would be improper for to say anything as to Henry Thorne'sterrible faults and sudden fate;--improper also, to say more aboutMary Scatcherd; but she was quite unable to drop the matter otherwisethan abruptly, and with a start. "She was very unfortunate, you say, Lady Scatcherd?" "Yes, Miss Thorne; Mary, I mean--never mind me--I shall do it intime. Yes, she was; but now I think of it, I had better say nothingmore about it. There are reasons, and I ought not to have spoken ofit. You won't be provoked with me, will you?" Mary assured her that she would not be provoked, and of course askedno more questions about Mary Scatcherd; nor did she think much moreabout it. It was not so however with her ladyship, who could notkeep herself from reflecting that the old clergyman in the Close atBarchester certainly had but two sons, one of whom was now the doctorat Greshamsbury, and the other of whom had perished so wretchedly atthe gate of that farmyard. Who then was the father of Mary Thorne? The days passed very quietly at Boxall Hill. Every morning Mary wentout on her donkey, who justified by his demeanour all that had beensaid in his praise; then she would read or draw, then walk with LadyScatcherd, then dine, then walk again; and so the days passed quietlyaway. Once or twice a week the doctor would come over and drink histea there, riding home in the cool of the evening. Mary also receivedone visit from her friend Patience. So the days passed quietly away till the tranquillity of the housewas suddenly broken by tidings from London. Lady Scatcherd received aletter from her son, contained in three lines, in which he intimatedthat on the following day he meant to honour her with a visit. He hadintended, he said, to have gone to Brighton with some friends; but ashe felt himself a little out of sorts, he would postpone his marinetrip and do his mother the grace of spending a few days with her. This news was not very pleasant to Mary, by whom it had beenunderstood, as it had also by her uncle, that Lady Scatcherd wouldhave had the house to herself; but as there were no means ofpreventing the evil, Mary could only inform the doctor, and prepareherself to meet Sir Louis Scatcherd. CHAPTER XXVIII The Doctor Hears Something to His Advantage Sir Louis Scatcherd had told his mother that he was rather out ofsorts, and when he reached Boxall Hill it certainly did not appearthat he had given any exaggerated statement of his own maladies. Hecertainly was a good deal out of sorts. He had had more than oneattack of delirium tremens since his father's death, and had almostbeen at death's door. Nothing had been said about this by Dr Thorne at Boxall Hill; buthe was by no means ignorant of his ward's state. Twice he had goneup to London to visit him; twice he had begged him to go down intothe country and place himself under his mother's care. On the lastoccasion, the doctor had threatened him with all manner of pains andpenalties: with pains, as to his speedy departure from this world andall its joys; and with penalties, in the shape of poverty if thatdeparture should by any chance be retarded. But these threats hadat the moment been in vain, and the doctor had compromised mattersby inducing Sir Louis to promise that he would go to Brighton. Thebaronet, however, who was at length frightened by some renewedattack, gave up his Brighton scheme, and, without any notice to thedoctor, hurried down to Boxall Hill. Mary did not see him on the first day of his coming, but the doctordid. He received such intimation of the visit as enabled him to be atthe house soon after the young man's arrival; and, knowing that hisassistance might be necessary, he rode over to Boxall Hill. It wasa dreadful task to him, this of making the same fruitless endeavourfor the son that he had made for the father, and in the same house. But he was bound by every consideration to perform the task. He hadpromised the father that he would do for the son all that was in hispower; and he had, moreover, the consciousness, that should Sir Louissucceed in destroying himself, the next heir to all the property washis own niece, Mary Thorne. He found Sir Louis in a low, wretched, miserable state. Though hewas a drunkard as his father was, he was not at all such a drunkardas was his father. The physical capacities of the men were verydifferent. The daily amount of alcohol which the father had consumedwould have burnt up the son in a week; whereas, though the sonwas continually tipsy, what he swallowed would hardly have had aninjurious effect upon the father. "You are all wrong, quite wrong, " said Sir Louis, petulantly; "itisn't that at all. I have taken nothing this week past--literallynothing. I think it's the liver. " Dr Thorne wanted no one to tell him what was the matter with hisward. It was his liver; his liver, and his head, and his stomach, andhis heart. Every organ in his body had been destroyed, or was in thecourse of destruction. His father had killed himself with brandy;the son, more elevated in his tastes, was doing the same thing withcuraçoa, maraschino, and cherry-bounce. "Sir Louis, " said the doctor--he was obliged to be much morepunctilious with him than he had been with the contractor--"thematter is in your own hands entirely: if you cannot keep your lipsfrom that accursed poison, you have nothing in this world to lookforward to; nothing, nothing!" Mary proposed to return with her uncle to Greshamsbury, and he wasat first well inclined that she should do so. But this idea wasoverruled, partly in compliance with Lady Scatcherd's entreaties, andpartly because it would have seemed as though they had both thoughtthe presence of its owner had made the house an unfit habitation fordecent people. The doctor therefore returned, leaving Mary there; andLady Scatcherd busied herself between her two guests. On the next day Sir Louis was able to come down to a late dinner, andMary was introduced to him. He had dressed himself in his best array;and as he had--at any rate for the present moment--been frightenedout of his libations, he was prepared to make himself as agreeable aspossible. His mother waited on him almost as a slave might have done;but she seemed to do so with the fear of a slave rather than the loveof a mother. She was fidgety in her attentions, and worried him byendeavouring to make her evening sitting-room agreeable. But Sir Louis, though he was not very sweetly behaved under thesemanipulations from his mother's hands, was quite complaisant toMiss Thorne; nay, after the expiration of a week he was almost morethan complaisant. He piqued himself on his gallantry, and now foundthat, in the otherwise dull seclusion of Boxall Hill, he had a goodopportunity of exercising it. To do him justice it must be admittedthat he would not have been incapable of a decent career had hestumbled upon some girl who could have loved him before he stumbledupon his maraschino bottle. Such might have been the case with manya lost rake. The things that are bad are accepted because the thingsthat are good do not come easily in his way. How many a miserablefather reviles with bitterness of spirit the low tastes of his son, who has done nothing to provide his child with higher pleasures! Sir Louis--partly in the hopes of Mary's smiles, and partlyfrightened by the doctor's threats--did, for a while, keep himselfwithin decent bounds. He did not usually appear before Mary's eyestill three or four in the afternoon; but when he did come forth, hecame forth sober and resolute to please. His mother was delighted, and was not slow to sing his praises; and even the doctor, who nowvisited Boxall Hill more frequently than ever, began to have somehopes. One constant subject, I must not say of conversation, on the partof Lady Scatcherd, but rather of declamation, had hitherto been thebeauty and manly attributes of Frank Gresham. She had hardly ceasedto talk to Mary of the infinite good qualities of the young squire, and especially of his prowess in the matter of Mr Moffat. Mary hadlistened to all this eloquence, not perhaps with inattention, butwithout much reply. She had not been exactly sorry to hear Franktalked about; indeed, had she been so minded, she could herself havesaid something on the same subject; but she did not wish to take LadyScatcherd altogether into her confidence, and she had been unable tosay much about Frank Gresham without doing so. Lady Scatcherd had, therefore, gradually conceived the idea that her darling was not afavourite with her guest. Now, therefore, she changed the subject; and, as her own son wasbehaving with such unexampled propriety, she dropped Frank andconfined her eulogies to Louis. He had been a little wild, sheadmitted; young men so often were so; but she hoped that it was nowover. "He does still take a little drop of those French drinks in themorning, " said Lady Scatcherd, in her confidence; for she was toohonest to be false, even in her own cause. "He does do that, I know:but that's nothing, my dear, to swilling all day; and everythingcan't be done at once, can it, Miss Thorne?" On this subject Mary found her tongue loosened. She could not talkabout Frank Gresham, but she could speak with hope to the mother ofher only son. She could say that Sir Louis was still very young; thatthere was reason to trust that he might now reform; that his presentconduct was apparently good; and that he appeared capable of betterthings. So much she did say; and the mother took her sympathy formore than it was worth. On this matter, and on this matter perhaps alone, Sir Louis and LadyScatcherd were in accord. There was much to recommend Mary to thebaronet; not only did he see her to be beautiful, and perceive herto be attractive and ladylike; but she was also the niece of the manwho, for the present, held the purse-strings of his wealth. Mary, itis true, had no fortune. But Sir Louis knew that she was acknowledgedto be a lady; and he was ambitious that his "lady" should be a lady. There was also much to recommend Mary to the mother, to any mother;and thus it came to pass, that Miss Thorne had no obstacle betweenher and the dignity of being Lady Scatcherd the second;--no obstaclewhatever, if only she could bring herself to wish it. It was some time--two or three weeks, perhaps--before Mary's mind wasfirst opened to this new brilliancy in her prospects. Sir Louis atfirst was rather afraid of her, and did not declare his admirationin any very determined terms. He certainly paid her many complimentswhich, from any one else, she would have regarded as abominable. But she did not expect great things from the baronet's taste: sheconcluded that he was only doing what he thought a gentleman shoulddo; and she was willing to forgive much for Lady Scatcherd's sake. His first attempts were, perhaps, more ludicrous than passionate. Hewas still too much an invalid to take walks, and Mary was thereforesaved from his company in her rambles; but he had a horse of his ownat Boxall Hill, and had been advised to ride by the doctor. Maryalso rode--on a donkey only, it is true--but Sir Louis found himselfbound in gallantry to accompany her. Mary's steed had answered everyexpectation, and proved himself very quiet; so quiet, that withoutthe admonition of a cudgel behind him, he could hardly be persuadedinto the demurest trot. Now, as Sir Louis's horse was of a verydifferent mettle, he found it rather difficult not to stepfaster than his inamorata; and, let it him struggle as he would, was generally so far ahead as to be debarred the delights ofconversation. When for the second time he proposed to accompany her, Mary did whatshe could to hinder it. She saw that he had been rather ashamed ofthe manner in which his companion was mounted, and she herself wouldhave enjoyed her ride much more without him. He was an invalid, however; it was necessary to make much of him, and Mary did notabsolutely refuse his offer. "Lady Scatcherd, " said he, as they were standing at the door previousto mounting--he always called his mother Lady Scatcherd--"why don'tyou have a horse for Miss Thorne? This donkey is--is--really is, sovery--very--can't go at all, you know?" Lady Scatcherd began to declare that she would willingly have got apony if Mary would have let her do so. "Oh, no, Lady Scatcherd; not on any account. I do like the donkey somuch--I do indeed. " "But he won't go, " said Sir Louis. "And for a person who rides likeyou, Miss Thorne--such a horsewoman you know--why, you know, LadyScatcherd, it's positively ridiculous; d---- absurd, you know. " And then, with an angry look at his mother, he mounted his horse, andwas soon leading the way down the avenue. "Miss Thorne, " said he, pulling himself up at the gate, "if I hadknown that I was to be so extremely happy as to have found you here, I would have brought you down the most beautiful creature, an Arab. She belongs to my friend Jenkins; but I wouldn't have stood at anyprice in getting her for you. By Jove! if you were on that mare, I'dback you, for style and appearance, against anything in Hyde Park. " The offer of this sporting wager, which naturally would have beenvery gratifying to Mary, was lost upon her, for Sir Louis had againunwittingly got on in advance, but he stopped himself in time to hearMary again declare her passion was a donkey. "If you could only see Jenkins's little mare, Miss Thorne! Only sayone word, and she shall be down here before the week's end. Priceshall be no obstacle--none whatever. By Jove, what a pair you wouldbe!" This generous offer was repeated four or five times; but on eachoccasion Mary only half heard what was said, and on each occasion thebaronet was far too much in advance to hear Mary's reply. At last herecollected that he wanted to call on one of the tenants, and beggedhis companion to allow him to ride on. "If you at all dislike being left alone, you know--" "Oh dear no, not at all, Sir Louis. I am quite used to it. " "Because I don't care about it, you know; only I can't make thishorse walk the same pace as that brute. " "You mustn't abuse my pet, Sir Louis. " "It's a d---- shame on my mother's part;" said Sir Louis, who, evenwhen in his best behaviour, could not quite give up his ordinary modeof conversation. "When she was fortunate enough to get such a girl asyou to come and stay with her, she ought to have had something properfor her to ride upon; but I'll look to it as soon as I am a littlestronger, you see if I don't;" and, so saying, Sir Louis trotted off, leaving Mary in peace with her donkey. Sir Louis had now been living cleanly and forswearing sack for whatwas to him a very long period, and his health felt the good effectsof it. No one rejoiced at this more cordially than did the doctor. Torejoice at it was with him a point of conscience. He could not helptelling himself now and again that, circumstanced as he was, he wasmost specially bound to take joy in any sign of reformation whichthe baronet might show. Not to do so would be almost tantamountto wishing that he might die in order that Mary might inherit hiswealth; and, therefore, the doctor did with all his energy devotehimself to the difficult task of hoping and striving that Sir Louismight yet live to enjoy what was his own. But the task was altogethera difficult one, for as Sir Louis became stronger in health, soalso did he become more exorbitant in his demands on the doctor'spatience, and more repugnant to the doctor's tastes. In his worst fits of disreputable living he was ashamed to apply tohis guardian for money; and in his worst fits of illness he was, through fear, somewhat patient under his doctor's hands; but just atpresent he had nothing of which to be ashamed, and was not at allpatient. "Doctor, "--said he, one day, at Boxall Hill--"how about thoseGreshamsbury title-deeds?" "Oh, that will all be properly settled between my lawyer and yourown. " "Oh--ah--yes; no doubt the lawyers will settle it: settle it with afine bill of costs, of course. But, as Finnie says, "--Finnie was SirLouis's legal adviser--"I have got a tremendously large interest atstake in this matter; eighty thousand pounds is no joke. It ain'teverybody that can shell out eighty thousand pounds when they'rewanted; and I should like to know how the thing's going on. I've aright to ask, you know; eh, doctor?" "The title-deeds of a large portion of the Greshamsbury estate willbe placed with the mortgage-deeds before the end of next month. " "Oh, that's all right. I choose to know about these things; forthough my father did make such a con-found-ed will, that's no reasonI shouldn't know how things are going. " "You shall know everything that I know, Sir Louis. " "And now, doctor, what are we to do about money?" "About money?" "Yes; money, rhino, ready! 'put money in your purse and cut a dash;'eh, doctor? Not that I want to cut a dash. No, I'm going on the quietline altogether now: I've done with all that sort of thing. " "I'm heartily glad of it; heartily, " said the doctor. "Yes, I'm not going to make way for my far-away cousin yet; not if Iknow it, at least. I shall soon be all right now, doctor; shan't I?" "'All right' is a long word, Sir Louis. But I do hope you will be allright in time, if you will live with decent prudence. You shouldn'ttake that filth in the morning though. " "Filth in the morning! That's my mother, I suppose! That's herladyship! She's been talking, has she? Don't you believe her, doctor. There's not a young man in Barsetshire is going more regular, allright within the posts, than I am. " The doctor was obliged to acknowledge that there did seem to be someimprovement. "And now, doctor, how about money? Eh?" Doctor Thorne, like other guardians similarly circumstanced, began toexplain that Sir Louis had already had a good deal of money, and hadbegun also to promise that more should be forthcoming in the eventof good behaviour, when he was somewhat suddenly interrupted by SirLouis. "Well, now; I'll tell you what, doctor; I've got a bit of news foryou; something that I think will astonish you. " The doctor opened his eyes, and tried to look as though ready to besurprised. "Something that will really make you look about; and something, too, that will be very much to the hearer's advantage, --as the newspaperadvertisements say. " "Something to my advantage?" said the doctor. "Well, I hope you'll think so. Doctor, what would you think now of mygetting married?" "I should be delighted to hear of it--more delighted than I canexpress; that is, of course, if you were to marry well. It was yourfather's most eager wish that you should marry early. " "That's partly my reason, " said the young hypocrite. "But then, if Imarry I must have an income fit to live on; eh, doctor?" The doctor had some fear that his interesting protégée was desirousof a wife for the sake of the income, instead of desiring the incomefor the sake of the wife. But let the cause be what it would, marriage would probably be good for him; and he had no hesitation, therefore, in telling him, that if he married well, he should be putin possession of sufficient income to maintain the new Lady Scatcherdin a manner becoming her dignity. "As to marrying well, " said Sir Louis, "you, I take it, will the bethe last man, doctor, to quarrel with my choice. " "Shall I?" said the doctor, smiling. "Well, you won't disapprove, I guess, as the Yankee says. What wouldyou think of Miss Mary Thorne?" It must be said in Sir Louis's favour that he had probably no ideawhatever of the estimation in which such young ladies as Mary Thorneare held by those who are nearest and dearest to them. He had no sortof conception that she was regarded by her uncle as an inestimabletreasure, almost too precious to be rendered up to the arms of anyman; and infinitely beyond any price in silver and gold, baronets'incomes of eight or ten thousand a year, and such coins usuallycurrent in the world's markets. He was a rich man and a baronet, and Mary was an unmarried girl without a portion. In Sir Louis'sestimation he was offering everything, and asking for nothing. Hecertainly had some idea that girls were apt to be coy, and requireda little wooing in the shape of presents, civil speeches--perhapskisses also. The civil speeches he had, he thought, done, andimagined that they had been well received. The other things were tofollow; an Arab pony, for instance, --and the kisses probably with it;and then all these difficulties would be smoothed. But he did not for a moment conceive that there would be anydifficulty with the uncle. How should there be? Was he not a baronetwith ten thousand a year coming to him? Had he not everything whichfathers want for portionless daughters, and uncles for dependantnieces? Might he not well inform the doctor that he had something totell him for his advantage? And yet, to tell the truth, the doctor did not seem to be overjoyedwhen the announcement was first made to him. He was by no meansoverjoyed. On the contrary, even Sir Louis could perceive hisguardian's surprise was altogether unmixed with delight. What a question was this that was asked him! What would he think ofa marriage between Mary Thorne--his Mary and Sir Louis Scatcherd?Between the alpha of the whole alphabet, and him whom he could notbut regard as the omega! Think of it! Why he would think of it asthough a lamb and a wolf were to stand at the altar together. Had SirLouis been a Hottentot, or an Esquimaux, the proposal could not haveastonished him more. The two persons were so totally of a differentclass, that the idea of the one falling in love with the other hadnever occurred to him. "What would you think of Miss Mary Thorne?"Sir Louis had asked; and the doctor, instead of answering himwith ready and pleased alacrity, stood silent, thunderstruck withamazement. "Well, wouldn't she be a good wife?" said Sir Louis, rather in a toneof disgust at the evident disapproval shown at his choice. "I thoughtyou'd have been so delighted. " "Mary Thorne!" ejaculated the doctor at last. "Have you spoken to myniece about this, Sir Louis?" "Well, I have and yet I haven't; I haven't, and yet in a manner Ihave. " "I don't understand you, " said the doctor. "Why, you see, I haven't exactly popped to her yet; but I have beendoing the civil; and if she's up to snuff, as I take her to be, sheknows very well what I'm after by this time. " Up to snuff! Mary Thorne, his Mary Thorne, up to snuff! To snuff tooof such a very disagreeable description! "I think, Sir Louis, that you are in mistake about this. I think youwill find that Mary will not be disposed to avail herself of thegreat advantages--for great they undoubtedly are--which you are ableto offer to your intended wife. If you will take my advice, you willgive up thinking of Mary. She would not suit you. " "Not suit me! Oh, but I think she just would. She's got no money, youmean?" "No, I did not mean that. It will not signify to you whether yourwife has money or not. You need not look for money. But you shouldthink of some one more nearly of your own temperament. I am quitesure that my niece would refuse you. " These last words the doctor uttered with much emphasis. His intentionwas to make the baronet understand that the matter was quitehopeless, and to induce him if possible to drop it on the spot. Buthe did not know Sir Louis; he ranked him too low in the scale ofhuman beings, and gave him no credit for any strength of character. Sir Louis in his way did love Mary Thorne; and could not bringhimself to believe that Mary did not, or at any rate, would not soonreturn his passion. He was, moreover, sufficiently obstinate, firm weought perhaps to say, --for his pursuit in this case was certainly notan evil one, --and he at once made up his mind to succeed in spite ofthe uncle. "If she consents, however, you will do so too?" asked he. "It is impossible she should consent, " said the doctor. "Impossible! I don't see anything at all impossible. But if shedoes?" "But she won't. " "Very well, --that's to be seen. But just tell me this, if she does, will you consent?" "The stars would fall first. It's all nonsense. Give it up, my dearfriend; believe me you are only preparing unhappiness for yourself;"and the doctor put his hand kindly on the young man's arm. "She willnot, cannot accept such an offer. " "Will not! cannot!" said the baronet, thinking over all the reasonswhich in his estimation could possibly be inducing the doctor to beso hostile to his views, and shaking the hand off his arm. "Will not!cannot! But come, doctor, answer my question fairly. If she'll haveme for better or worse, you won't say aught against it; will you?" "But she won't have you; why should you give her and yourself thepain of a refusal?" "Oh, as for that, I must stand my chances like another. And as forher, why d----, doctor, you wouldn't have me believe that any younglady thinks it so very dreadful to have a baronet with ten thousandpounds a year at her feet, specially when that same baronet ain'tvery old, nor yet particularly ugly. I ain't so green as that, doctor. " "I suppose she must go through it, then, " said the doctor, musing. "But, Dr Thorne, I did look for a kinder answer from you, consideringall that you so often say about your great friendship with my father. I did think you'd at any rate answer me when I asked you a question. " But the doctor did not want to answer that special question. Couldit be possible that Mary should wish to marry this odious man, couldsuch a state of things be imagined to be the case, he would notrefuse his consent, infinitely as he would be disgusted by herchoice. But he would not give Sir Louis any excuse for telling Marythat her uncle approved of so odious a match. "I cannot say that in any case I should approve of such a marriage, Sir Louis. I cannot bring myself to say so; for I know it would makeyou both miserable. But on that matter my niece will choose whollyfor herself. " "And about the money, doctor?" "If you marry a decent woman you shall not want the means ofsupporting her decently, " and so saying the doctor walked away, leaving Sir Louis to his meditations. CHAPTER XXIX The Donkey Ride Sir Louis, when left to himself, was slightly dismayed and somewhatdiscouraged; but he was not induced to give up his object. The firsteffort of his mind was made in conjecturing what private motiveDr Thorne could possibly have in wishing to debar his niece frommarrying a rich young baronet. That the objection was personal tohimself, Sir Louis did not for a moment imagine. Could it be that thedoctor did not wish that his niece should be richer, and grander, andaltogether bigger than himself? Or was it possible that his guardianwas anxious to prevent him from marrying from some view of thereversion of the large fortune? That there was some such reason, SirLouis was well sure; but let it be what it might, he would get thebetter of the doctor. "He knew, " so he said to himself, "what stuffgirls were made of. Baronets did not grow like blackberries. " And so, assuring himself with such philosophy, he determined to make hisoffer. The time he selected for doing this was the hour before dinner; buton the day on which his conversation with the doctor had taken place, he was deterred by the presence of a strange visitor. To account forthis strange visit it will be necessary that we should return toGreshamsbury for a few minutes. Frank, when he returned home for his summer vacation, found thatMary had again flown; and the very fact of her absence added fuel tothe fire of his love, more perhaps then even her presence might havedone. For the flight of the quarry ever adds eagerness to the pursuitof the huntsman. Lady Arabella, moreover, had a bitter enemy; afoe, utterly opposed to her side in the contest, where she had oncefondly looked for her staunchest ally. Frank was now in the habitof corresponding with Miss Dunstable, and received from her mostenergetic admonitions to be true to the love which he had sworn. Trueto it he resolved to be; and therefore, when he found that Mary wasflown, he resolved to fly after her. He did not, however, do this till he had been in a measure provokedto it by it by the sharp-tongued cautions and blunted irony of hismother. It was not enough for her that she had banished Mary out ofthe parish, and made Dr Thorne's life miserable; not enough thatshe harassed her husband with harangues on the constant subject ofFrank's marrying money, and dismayed Beatrice with invectives againstthe iniquity of her friend. The snake was so but scotched; to kill itoutright she must induce Frank utterly to renounce Miss Thorne. This task she essayed, but not exactly with success. "Well, mother, "said Frank, at last turning very red, partly with shame, and partlywith indignation, as he made the frank avowal, "since you press meabout it, I tell you fairly that my mind is made up to marry Marysooner or later, if--" "Oh, Frank! good heavens! you wicked boy; you are saying thispurposely to drive me distracted. " "If, " continued Frank, not attending to his mother's interjections, "if she will consent. " "Consent!" said Lady Arabella. "Oh, heavens!" and falling into thecorner of the sofa, she buried her face in her handkerchief. "Yes, mother, if she will consent. And now that I have told you somuch, it is only just that I should tell you this also; that as faras I can see at present I have no reason to hope that she will doso. " "Oh, Frank, the girl is doing all she can to catch you, " said LadyArabella, --not prudently. "No, mother; there you wrong her altogether; wrong her most cruelly. " "You ungracious, wicked boy! you call me cruel!" "I don't call you cruel; but you wrong her cruelly, most cruelly. When I have spoken to her about this--for I have spoken to her--shehas behaved exactly as you would have wanted her to do; but not atall as I wished her. She has given me no encouragement. You haveturned her out among you"--Frank was beginning to be very bitternow--"but she has done nothing to deserve it. If there has been anyfault it has been mine. But it is well that we should all understandeach other. My intention is to marry Mary if I can. " And, sospeaking, certainly without due filial respect, he turned towards thedoor. "Frank, " said his mother, raising herself up with energy to make onelast appeal. "Frank, do you wish to see me die of a broken heart?" "You know, mother, I would wish to make you happy, if I could. " "If you wish to see me ever happy again, if you do not wish to seeme sink broken-hearted to my grave, you must give up this mad idea, Frank, "--and now all Lady Arabella's energy came out. "Frank there isbut one course left open to you. You MUST _marry money_. " And thenLady Arabella stood up before her son as Lady Macbeth might havestood, had Lady Macbeth lived to have a son of Frank's years. "Miss Dunstable, I suppose, " said Frank, scornfully. "No, mother; Imade an ass, and worse than an ass of myself once in that way, and Iwon't do it again. I hate money. " "Oh, Frank!" "I hate money. " "But, Frank, the estate?" "I hate the estate--at least I shall hate it if I am expected to buyit at such a price as that. The estate is my father's. " "Oh, no, Frank; it is not. " "It is in the sense I mean. He may do with it as he pleases; he willnever have a word of complaint from me. I am ready to go into aprofession to-morrow. I'll be a lawyer, or a doctor, or an engineer;I don't care what. " Frank, in his enthusiasm, probably overlookedsome of the preliminary difficulties. "Or I'll take a farm under him, and earn my bread that way; but, mother, don't talk to me any moreabout marrying money. " And, so saying, Frank left the room. Frank, it will be remembered, was twenty-one when he was firstintroduced to the reader; he is now twenty-two. It may be said thatthere was a great difference between his character then and now. Ayear at that period will make a great difference; but the change hasbeen, not in his character, but in his feelings. Frank went out from his mother and immediately ordered his blackhorse to be got ready for him. He would at once go over to BoxallHill. He went himself to the stables to give his orders; and as hereturned to get his gloves and whip he met Beatrice in the corridor. "Beatrice, " said he, "step in here, " and she followed him into hisroom. "I'm not going to bear this any longer; I'm going to BoxallHill. " "Oh, Frank! how can you be so imprudent?" "You, at any rate, have some decent feeling for Mary. I believe youhave some regard for her; and therefore I tell you. Will you send herany message?" "Oh, yes; my best, best love; that is if you will see her; but, Frank, you are very foolish, very; and she will be infinitelydistressed. " "Do not mention this, that is, not at present; not that I mean tomake any secret of it. I shall tell my father everything. I'm offnow!" and then, paying no attention to her remonstrance, he turneddown the stairs and was soon on horseback. He took the road to Boxall Hill, but he did not ride very fast: hedid not go jauntily as a jolly, thriving wooer; but musingly, andoften with diffidence, meditating every now and then whether itwould not be better for him to turn back: to turn back--but not fromfear of his mother; not from prudential motives; not because thatoften-repeated lesson as to marrying money was beginning to takeeffect; not from such causes as these; but because he doubted how hemight be received by Mary. He did, it is true, think something about his worldly prospects. Hehad talked rather grandiloquently to his mother as to his hatingmoney, and hating the estate. His mother's never-ceasing worldlycares on such subjects perhaps demanded that a little grandiloquenceshould be opposed to them. But Frank did not hate the estate; nor didhe at all hate the position of an English country gentleman. MissDunstable's eloquence, however, rang in his ears. For Miss Dunstablehad an eloquence of her own, even in her letters. "Never let themtalk you out of your own true, honest, hearty feelings, " she hadsaid. "Greshamsbury is a very nice place, I am sure; and I hope Ishall see it some day; but all its green knolls are not half so nice, should not be half so precious, as the pulses of your own heart. Thatis your own estate, your own, your very own--your own and another's;whatever may go to the money-lenders, don't send that there. Don'tmortgage that, Mr Gresham. " "No, " said Frank, pluckily, as he put his horse into a faster trot, "I won't mortgage that. They may do what they like with the estate;but my heart's my own, " and so speaking to himself, almost aloud, heturned a corner of the road rapidly and came at once upon the doctor. "Hallo, doctor! is that you?" said Frank, rather disgusted. "What! Frank! I hardly expected to meet you here, " said Dr Thorne, not much better pleased. They were now not above a mile from Boxall Hill, and the doctor, therefore, could not but surmise whither Frank was going. They hadrepeatedly met since Frank's return from Cambridge, both in thevillage and in the doctor's house; but not a word had been saidbetween them about Mary beyond what the merest courtesy had required. Not that each did not love the other sufficiently to make a fullconfidence between them desirable to both; but neither had had thecourage to speak out. Nor had either of them the courage to do so now. "Yes, " said Frank, blushing, "I am going to Lady Scatcherd's. Shall I find the ladies athome?" "Yes; Lady Scatcherd is there; but Sir Louis is there also--aninvalid: perhaps you would not wish to meet him. " "Oh! I don't mind, " said Frank, trying to laugh; "he won't bite, Isuppose?" The doctor longed in his heart to pray to Frank to return with him;not to go and make further mischief; not to do that which might causea more bitter estrangement between himself and the squire. But he hadnot the courage to do it. He could not bring himself to accuse Frankof being in love with his niece. So after a few more senseless wordson either side, words which each knew to be senseless as he utteredthem, they both rode on their own ways. And then the doctor silently, and almost unconsciously, made such acomparison between Louis Scatcherd and Frank Gresham as Hamlet madebetween the dead and live king. It was Hyperion to a satyr. Was itnot as impossible that Mary should not love the one, as that sheshould love the other? Frank's offer of his affections had at firstprobably been but a boyish ebullition of feeling; but if it shouldnow be, that this had grown into a manly and disinterested love, howcould Mary remain unmoved? What could her heart want more, better, more beautiful, more rich than such a love as his? Was he notpersonally all that a girl could like? Were not his disposition, mind, character, acquirements, all such as women most delight tolove? Was it not impossible that Mary should be indifferent to him? So meditated the doctor as he road along, with only too true aknowledge of human nature. Ah! it was impossible, it was quiteimpossible that Mary should be indifferent. She had never beenindifferent since Frank had uttered his first half-joking word oflove. Such things are more important to women than they are to men, to girls than they are to boys. When Frank had first told her that heloved her; aye, months before that, when he merely looked his love, her heart had received the whisper, had acknowledged the glance, unconscious as she was herself, and resolved as she was to rebuke hisadvances. When, in her hearing, he had said soft nothings to PatienceOriel, a hated, irrepressible tear had gathered in her eye. When hehad pressed in his warm, loving grasp the hand which she had offeredhim as a token of mere friendship, her heart had forgiven him thetreachery, nay, almost thanked him for it, before her eyes orher words had been ready to rebuke him. When the rumour of hisliaison with Miss Dunstable reached her ears, when she heard ofMiss Dunstable's fortune, she had wept, wept outright, in herchamber--wept, as she said to herself, to think that he should be somercenary; but she had wept, as she should have said to herself, atfinding that he was so faithless. Then, when she knew at last thatthis rumour was false, when she found that she was banished fromGreshamsbury for his sake, when she was forced to retreat with herfriend Patience, how could she but love him, in that he was notmercenary? How could she not love him in that was so faithful? It was impossible that she should not love him. Was he not thebrightest and the best of men that she had ever seen, or was liketo see?--that she could possibly ever see, she would have said toherself, could she have brought herself to own the truth? And then, when she heard how true he was, how he persisted against father, mother, and sisters, how could it be that that should not be a meritin her eyes which was so great a fault in theirs? When Beatrice, withwould-be solemn face, but with eyes beaming with feminine affection, would gravely talk of Frank's tender love as a terrible misfortune, as a misfortune to them all, to Mary herself as well as others, howcould Mary do other than love him? "Beatrice is his sister, " shewould say within her own mind, "otherwise she would never talk likethis; were she not his sister, she could not but know the value ofsuch love as this. " Ah! yes; Mary did love him; love him with all thestrength of her heart; and the strength of her heart was very great. And now by degrees, in those lonely donkey-rides at Boxall Hill, inthose solitary walks, she was beginning to own to herself the truth. And now that she did own it, what should be her course? What shouldshe do, how should she act if this loved one persevered in hislove? And, ah! what should she do, how should she act if he did notpersevere? Could it be that there should be happiness in store forher? Was it not too clear that, let the matter go how it would, therewas no happiness in store for her? Much as she might love FrankGresham, she could never consent to be his wife unless the squirewould smile on her as his daughter-in-law. The squire had beenall that was kind, all that was affectionate. And then, too, LadyArabella! As she thought of the Lady Arabella a sterner form ofthought came across her brow. Why should Lady Arabella rob her of herheart's joy? What was Lady Arabella that she, Mary Thorne, need quailbefore her? Had Lady Arabella stood only in her way, Lady Arabella, flanked by the de Courcy legion, Mary felt that she could havedemanded Frank's hand as her own before them all without a blush ofshame or a moment's hesitation. Thus, when her heart was all butready to collapse within her, would she gain some little strength bythinking of the Lady Arabella. "Please, my lady, here be young squoire Gresham, " said one of theuntutored servants at Boxall Hill, opening Lady Scatcherd's littleparlour door as her ladyship was amusing herself by pulling down andturning, and re-folding, and putting up again, a heap of householdlinen which was kept in a huge press for the express purpose ofsupplying her with occupation. Lady Scatcherd, holding a vast counterpane in her arms, looked backover her shoulders and perceived that Frank was in the room. Downwent the counterpane on the ground, and Frank soon found himself inthe very position which that useful article had so lately filled. "Oh! Master Frank! oh, Master Frank!" said her ladyship, almost in anhysterical fit of joy; and then she hugged and kissed him as she hadnever kissed and hugged her own son since that son had first left theparent nest. Frank bore it patiently and with a merry laugh. "But, LadyScatcherd, " said he, "what will they all say? you forget I am a mannow, " and he stooped his head as she again pressed her lips upon hisforehead. "I don't care what none of 'em say, " said her ladyship, quite goingback to her old days; "I will kiss my own boy; so I will. Eh, butMaster Frank, this is good of you. A sight of you is good for soreeyes; and my eyes have been sore enough too since I saw you;" and sheput her apron up to wipe away a tear. "Yes, " said Frank, gently trying to disengage himself, but notsuccessfully; "yes, you have had a great loss, Lady Scatcherd. I wasso sorry when I heard of your grief. " "You always had a soft, kind heart, Master Frank; so you had. God'sblessing on you! What a fine man you have grown! Deary me! Well, itseems as though it were only just t'other day like. " And she pushedhim a little off from her, so that she might look the better into hisface. "Well. Is it all right? I suppose you would hardly know me again nowI've got a pair of whiskers?" "Know you! I should know you well if I saw but the heel of yourfoot. Why, what a head of hair you have got, and so dark too! but itdoesn't curl as it used once. " And she stroked his hair, and lookedinto his eyes, and put her hand to his cheeks. "You'll think me anold fool, Master Frank: I know that; but you may think what you like. If I live for the next twenty years you'll always be my own boy; soyou will. " By degrees, slow degrees, Frank managed to change the conversation, and to induce Lady Scatcherd to speak on some other topic than hisown infantine perfections. He affected an indifference as he spoke ofher guest, which would have deceived no one but Lady Scatcherd; buther it did deceive; and then he asked where Mary was. "She's just gone out on her donkey--somewhere about the place. Sherides on a donkey mostly every day. But you'll stop and take a bit ofdinner with us? Eh, now do 'ee, Master Frank. " But Master Frank excused himself. He did not choose to pledge himselfto sit down to dinner with Mary. He did not know in what mood theymight return with regard to each other at dinner-time. He said, therefore, that he would walk out and, if possible, find Miss Thorne;and that he would return to the house again before he went. Lady Scatcherd then began making apologies for Sir Louis. He was aninvalid; the doctor had been with him all the morning, and he was notyet out of his room. These apologies Frank willingly accepted, and then made his way ashe could on to the lawn. A gardener, of whom he inquired, offered togo with him in pursuit of Miss Thorne. This assistance, however, hedeclined, and set forth in quest of her, having learnt what were hermost usual haunts. Nor was he directed wrongly; for after walkingabout twenty minutes, he saw through the trees the legs of a donkeymoving on the green-sward, at about two hundred yards from him. Onthat donkey doubtless sat Mary Thorne. The donkey was coming towards him; not exactly in a straight line, but so much so as to make it impossible that Mary should not see himif he stood still. He did stand still, and soon emerging from thetrees, Mary saw him all but close to her. Her heart gave a leap within her, but she was so far mistress ofherself as to repress any visible sign of outward emotion. She didnot fall from her donkey, or scream, or burst into tears. She merelyuttered the words, "Mr Gresham!" in a tone of not unnatural surprise. "Yes, " said he, trying to laugh, but less successful than she hadbeen in suppressing a show of feeling. "Mr Gresham! I have come overat last to pay my respects to you. You must have thought me veryuncourteous not to do so before. " This she denied. "She had not, " she said, "thought him at alluncivil. She had come to Boxall Hill to be out of the way; and, ofcourse, had not expected any such formalities. " As she uttered thisshe almost blushed at the abrupt truth of what she was saying. Butshe was taken so much unawares that she did not know how to make thetruth other than abrupt. "To be out of the way!" said Frank. "And why should you want to beout of the way?" "Oh! there were reasons, " said she, laughing. "Perhaps I havequarrelled dreadfully with my uncle. " Frank at the present moment had not about him a scrap of badinage. Hehad not a single easy word at his command. He could not answer herwith anything in guise of a joke; so he walked on, not answering atall. "I hope all my friends at Greshamsbury are well, " said Mary. "IsBeatrice quite well?" "Quite well, " said he. "And Patience?" "What, Miss Oriel; yes, I believe so. I haven't seen her this day ortwo. " How was it that Mary felt a little flush of joy, as Frank spokein this indifferent way about Miss Oriel's health? "I thought she was always a particular friend of yours, " said she. "What! who? Miss Oriel? So she is! I like her amazingly; so doesBeatrice. " And then he walked about six steps in silence, plucking upcourage for the great attempt. He did pluck up his courage and thenrushed at once to the attack. "Mary!" said he, and as he spoke he put his hand on the donkey'sneck, and looked tenderly into her face. He looked tenderly, and, asMary's ear at once told her, his voice sounded more soft than it hadever sounded before. "Mary, do you remember the last time that wewere together?" Mary did remember it well. It was on that occasion when he hadtreacherously held her hand; on that day when, according to law, hehad become a man; when he had outraged all the propriety of the deCourcy interest by offering his love to Mary in Augusta's hearing. Mary did remember it well; but how was she to speak of it? "It wasyour birthday, I think, " said she. "Yes, it was my birthday. I wonder whether you remember what I saidto you then?" "I remember that you were very foolish, Mr Gresham. " "Mary, I have come to repeat my folly;--that is, if it be folly. I told you then that I loved you, and I dare say that I did soawkwardly, like a boy. Perhaps I may be just as awkward now; but youought at any rate to believe me when you find that a year has notaltered me. " Mary did not think him at all awkward, and she did believe him. Buthow was she to answer him? She had not yet taught herself what answershe ought to make if he persisted in his suit. She had hitherto beencontent to run away from him; but she had done so because she wouldnot submit to be accused of the indelicacy of putting herself in hisway. She had rebuked him when he first spoke of his love; but she haddone so because she looked on what he said as a boy's nonsense. Shehad schooled herself in obedience to the Greshamsbury doctrines. Wasthere any real reason, any reason founded on truth and honesty, whyshe should not be a fitting wife to Frank Gresham, --Francis NewboldGresham, of Greshamsbury, though he was, or was to be? He was well born--as well born as any gentleman in England. Shewas basely born--as basely born as any lady could be. Was thissufficient bar against such a match? Mary felt in her heart that sometwelvemonth since, before she knew what little she did now know ofher own story, she would have said it was so. And would she indulgeher own love by inveigling him she loved into a base marriage? Butthen reason spoke again. What, after all, was this blood of which shehad taught herself to think so much? Would she have been more honest, more fit to grace an honest man's hearthstone, had she been thelegitimate descendant of a score of legitimate duchesses? Was it nother first duty to think of him--of what would make him happy? Then ofher uncle--what he would approve? Then of herself--what would bestbecome her modesty; her sense of honour? Could it be well that sheshould sacrifice the happiness of two persons to a theoretic love ofpure blood? So she had argued within herself; not now, sitting on the donkey, with Frank's hand before her on the tame brute's neck; but on otherformer occasions as she had ridden along demurely among those trees. So she had argued; but she had never brought her arguments to adecision. All manner of thoughts crowded on her to prevent her doingso. She would think of the squire, and resolve to reject Frank; andwould then remember Lady Arabella, and resolve to accept him. Herresolutions, however, were most irresolute; and so, when Frankappeared in person before her, carrying his heart in his hand, shedid not know what answer to make to him. Thus it was with her as withso many other maidens similarly circumstanced; at last she left itall to chance. "You ought, at any rate, to believe me, " said Frank, "when you findthat a year has not altered me. " "A year should have taught you to be wiser, " said she. "You shouldhave learnt by this time, Mr Gresham, that your lot and mine are notcast in the same mould; that our stations in life are different. Would your father or mother approve of your even coming here to seeme?" Mary, as she spoke these sensible words, felt that they were "flat, stale, and unprofitable. " She felt, also, that they were not true insense; that they did not come from her heart; that they were not suchas Frank deserved at her hands, and she was ashamed of herself. "My father I hope will approve of it, " said he. "That my mothershould disapprove of it is a misfortune which I cannot help; buton this point I will take no answer from my father or mother; thequestion is one too personal to myself. Mary, if you say that youwill not, or cannot return my love, I will go away;--not from hereonly, but from Greshamsbury. My presence shall not banish you fromall that you hold dear. If you can honestly say that I am nothing toyou, can be nothing to you, I will then tell my mother that she maybe at ease, and I will go away somewhere and get over it as I may. "The poor fellow got so far, looking apparently at the donkey's ears, with hardly a gasp of hope in his voice, and he so far carried Marywith him that she also had hardly a gasp of hope in her heart. Therehe paused for a moment, and then looking up into her face, he spokebut one word more. "But, " said he--and there he stopped. It wasclearly told in that "but. " Thus would he do if Mary would declarethat she did not care for him. If, however, she could not bringherself so to declare, then was he ready to throw his father andmother to the winds; then would he stand his ground; then would helook all other difficulties in the face, sure that they might finallybe overcome. Poor Mary! the whole onus of settling the matter wasthus thrown upon her. She had only to say that he was indifferent toher;--that was all. If "all the blood of the Howards" had depended upon it, she couldnot have brought herself to utter such a falsehood. Indifferent toher, as he walked there by her donkey's side, talking thus earnestlyof his love for her! Was he not to her like some god come from theheavens to make her blessed? Did not the sun shine upon him with ahalo, so that he was bright as an angel? Indifferent to her! Couldthe open unadulterated truth have been practicable for her, shewould have declared her indifference in terms that would truly haveastonished him. As it was, she found it easier to say nothing. Shebit her lips to keep herself from sobbing. She struggled hard, butin vain, to prevent her hands and feet from trembling. She seemed toswing upon her donkey as though like to fall, and would have givenmuch to be upon her own feet upon the sward. "_Si la jeunesse savait . . . _" There is so much in that wicked oldFrench proverb! Had Frank known more about a woman's mind--had he, that is, been forty-two instead of twenty-two--he would at once havebeen sure of his game, and have felt that Mary's silence told himall he wished to know. But then, had he been forty-two instead oftwenty-two, he would not have been so ready to risk the acres ofGreshamsbury for the smiles of Mary Thorne. "If you can't say one word to comfort me, I will go, " said he, disconsolately. "I made up my mind to tell you this, and so I cameover. I told Lady Scatcherd I should not stay, --not even for dinner. " "I did not know you were so hurried, " said she, almost in a whisper. On a sudden he stood still, and pulling the donkey's rein, caused himto stand still also. The beast required very little persuasion to beso guided, and obligingly remained meekly passive. "Mary, Mary!" said Frank, throwing his arms round her knees as shesat upon her steed, and pressing his face against her body. "Mary, you were always honest; be honest now. I love you with all my heart. Will you be my wife?" But still Mary said not a word. She no longer bit her lips; she wasbeyond that, and was now using all her efforts to prevent her tearsfrom falling absolutely on her lover's face. She said nothing. Shecould no more rebuke him now and send him from her than she couldencourage him. She could only sit there shaking and crying andwishing she was on the ground. Frank, on the whole, rather liked thedonkey. It enabled him to approach somewhat nearer to an embrace thanhe might have found practicable had they both been on their feet. Thedonkey himself was quite at his ease, and looked as though he wasapprovingly conscious of what was going on behind his ears. "I have a right to a word, Mary; say 'Go, ' and I will leave you atonce. " But Mary did not say "Go. " Perhaps she would have done so had shebeen able; but just at present she could say nothing. This came fromher having failed to make up her mind in due time as to what courseit would best become her to follow. "One word, Mary; one little word. There, if you will not speak, here is my hand. If you will have it, let it lie in yours;--if not, push it away. " So saying, he managed to get the end of his fingerson to her palm, and there it remained unrepulsed. "La jeunesse"was beginning to get a lesson; experience when duly sought aftersometimes comes early in life. In truth Mary had not strength to push the fingers away. "My love, my own, my own!" said Frank, presuming on this very negative sign ofacquiescence. "My life, my own one, my own Mary!" and then the handwas caught hold of and was at his lips before an effort could be madeto save it from such treatment. "Mary, look at me; say one word to me. " There was a deep sigh, and then came the one word--"Oh, Frank!" "Mr Gresham, I hope I have the honour of seeing you quite well, "said a voice close to his ear. "I beg to say that you are welcome toBoxall Hill. " Frank turned round and instantly found himself shakinghands with Sir Louis Scatcherd. How Mary got over her confusion Frank never saw, for he had enoughto do to get over his own. He involuntarily deserted Mary and begantalking very fast to Sir Louis. Sir Louis did not once look at MissThorne, but walked back towards the house with Mr Gresham, sulkyenough in temper, but still making some effort to do the finegentleman. Mary, glad to be left alone, merely occupied herself withsitting on the donkey; and the donkey, when he found that the twogentlemen went towards the house, for company's sake and for hisstable's sake, followed after them. Frank stayed but three minutes in the house; gave another kiss toLady Scatcherd, getting three in return, and thereby infinitelydisgusting Sir Louis, shook hands, anything but warmly, with theyoung baronet, and just felt the warmth of Mary's hand within hisown. He felt also the warmth of her eyes' last glance, and rode homea happy man. CHAPTER XXX Post Prandial Frank rode home a happy man, cheering himself, as successful loversdo cheer themselves, with the brilliancy of his late exploit: nor wasit till he had turned the corner into the Greshamsbury stables thathe began to reflect what he would do next. It was all very well tohave induced Mary to allow his three fingers to lie half a minutein her soft hand; the having done so might certainly be sufficientevidence that he had overcome one of the lions in his path; but itcould hardly be said that all his difficulties were now smoothed. Howwas he to make further progress? To Mary, also, the same ideas no doubt occurred--with many others. But, then, it was not for Mary to make any progress in the matter. Toher at least belonged this passive comfort, that at present no acthostile to the de Courcy interest would be expected from her. Allthat she could do would be to tell her uncle so much as it wasfitting that he should know. The doing this would doubtless be insome degree difficult; but it was not probable that there would bemuch difference, much of anything but loving anxiety for each other, between her and Dr Thorne. One other thing, indeed, she must do;Frank must be made to understand what her birth had been. "This, " shesaid to herself, "will give him an opportunity of retracting whathe has done should he choose to avail himself of it. It is well heshould have such opportunity. " But Frank had more than this to do. He had told Beatrice that hewould make no secret of his love, and he fully resolved to be as goodas his word. To his father he owed an unreserved confidence; and hewas fully minded to give it. It was, he knew, altogether out of thequestion that he should at once marry a portionless girl without hisfather's consent; probably out of the question that he should do soeven with it. But he would, at any rate, tell his father, and thendecide as to what should be done next. So resolving, he put his blackhorse into the stable and went in to dinner. After dinner he and hisfather would be alone. Yes; after dinner he and his father would be alone. He dressedhimself hurriedly, for the dinner-bell was almost on the stroke as heentered the house. He said this to himself once and again; but whenthe meats and the puddings, and then the cheese, were borne away, as the decanters were placed before his father, and Lady Arabellasipped her one glass of claret, and his sisters ate their portion ofstrawberries, his pressing anxiety for the coming interview began towax somewhat dull. His mother and sisters, however, rendered him no assistance byprolonging their stay. With unwonted assiduity he pressed a secondglass of claret on his mother. But Lady Arabella was not onlytemperate in her habits, but also at the present moment very angrywith her son. She thought that he had been to Boxall Hill, and wasonly waiting a proper moment to cross-question him sternly on thesubject. Now she departed, taking her train of daughters with her. "Give me one big gooseberry, " said Nina, as she squeezed herself inunder her brother's arm, prior to making her retreat. Frank wouldwillingly have given her a dozen of the biggest, had she wanted them;but having got the one, she squeezed herself out again and scamperedoff. The squire was very cheery this evening; from what cause cannot nowbe said. Perhaps he had succeeded in negotiating a further loan, thustemporarily sprinkling a drop of water over the ever-rising dust ofhis difficulties. "Well, Frank, what have you been after to-day? Peter told me you hadthe black horse out, " said he, pushing the decanter to his son. "Takemy advice, my boy, and don't give him too much summer road-work. Legswon't stand it, let them be ever so good. " "Why, sir, I was obliged to go out to-day, and therefore, it had tobe either the old mare or the young horse. " "Why didn't you take Ramble?" Now Ramble was the squire's own saddlehack, used for farm surveying, and occasionally for going to cover. "I shouldn't think of doing that, sir. " "My dear boy, he is quite at your service; for goodness' sake do letme have a little wine, Frank--quite at your service; any riding Ihave now is after the haymakers, and that's all on the grass. " "Thank'ee, sir. Well, perhaps I will take a turn out of Ramble shouldI want it. " "Do, and pray, pray take care of that black horse's legs. He'sturning out more of a horse than I took him to be, and I should besorry to see him injured. Where have you been to-day?" "Well, father, I have something to tell you. " "Something to tell me!" and then the squire's happy and gay look, which had been only rendered more happy and more gay by his assumedanxiety about the black horse, gave place to that heaviness of visagewhich acrimony and misfortune had made so habitual to him. "Somethingto tell me!" Any grave words like these always presaged some moneydifficulty to the squire's ears. He loved Frank with the tenderestlove. He would have done so under almost any circumstances; but, doubtless, that love had been made more palpable to himself by thefact that Frank had been a good son as regards money--not exigeantas was Lady Arabella, or selfishly reckless as was his nephew LordPorlock. But now Frank must be in difficulty about money. This washis first idea. "What is it, Frank; you have seldom had anythingto say that has not been pleasant for me to hear?" And then theheaviness of visage again gave way for a moment as his eye fell uponhis son. "I have been to Boxall Hill, sir. " The tenor of his father's thoughts was changed in an instant; and thedread of immediate temporary annoyance gave place to true anxiety forhis son. He, the squire, had been no party to Mary's exile from hisown domain; and he had seen with pain that she had now a second timebeen driven from her home: but he had never hitherto questioned theexpediency of separating his son from Mary Thorne. Alas! it becametoo necessary--too necessary through his own default--that Frankshould marry money! "At Boxall Hill, Frank! Has that been prudent? Or, indeed, has itbeen generous to Miss Thorne, who has been driven there, as it were, by your imprudence?" "Father, it is well that we should understand each other aboutthis--" "Fill your glass, Frank;" Frank mechanically did as he was told, andpassed the bottle. "I should never forgive myself were I to deceive you, or keepanything from you. " "I believe it is not in your nature to deceive me, Frank. " "The fact is, sir, that I have made up my mind that Mary Thorne shallbe my wife--sooner or later that is, unless, of course, she shouldutterly refuse. Hitherto, she has utterly refused me. I believe I maynow say that she has accepted me. " The squire sipped his claret, but at the moment said nothing. Therewas a quiet, manly, but yet modest determination about his sonthat he had hardly noticed before. Frank had become legally ofage, legally a man, when he was twenty-one. Nature, it seems, hadpostponed the ceremony till he was twenty-two. Nature often doespostpone the ceremony even to a much later age;--sometimes, altogether forgets to accomplish it. The squire continued to sip his claret; he had to think over thematter a while before he could answer a statement so deliberatelymade by his son. "I think I may say so, " continued Frank, with perhaps unnecessarymodesty. "She is so honest that, had she not intended it, shewould have said so honestly. Am I right, father, in thinking that, as regards Mary, personally, you would not reject her as adaughter-in-law?" "Personally!" said the squire, glad to have the subject presented tohim in a view that enabled him to speak out. "Oh, no; personally, Ishould not object to her, for I love her dearly. She is a good girl. I do believe she is a good girl in every respect. I have always likedher; liked to see her about the house. But--" "I know what you would say, father. " This was rather more than thesquire knew himself. "Such a marriage is imprudent. " "It is more than that, Frank; I fear it is impossible. " "Impossible! No, father; it is not impossible. " "It is impossible, Frank, in the usual sense. What are you to liveupon? What would you do with your children? You would not wish to seeyour wife distressed and comfortless. " "No, I should not like to see that. " "You would not wish to begin life as an embarrassed man and end itas a ruined man. If you were now to marry Miss Thorne such would, Ifear, doubtless be your lot. " Frank caught at the word "now. " "I don't expect to marry immediately. I know that would be imprudent. But I am pledged, father, and Icertainly cannot go back. And now that I have told you all this, whatis your advice to me?" The father again sat silent, still sipping his wine. There wasnothing in his son that he could be ashamed of, nothing that he couldmeet with anger, nothing that he could not love; but how should heanswer him? The fact was, that the son had more in him than thefather; this his mind and spirit were of a calibre not to be opposedsuccessfully by the mind and spirit of the squire. "Do you know Mary's history?" said Mr Gresham, at last; "the historyof her birth?" "Not a word of it, " said Frank. "I did not know she had a history. " "Nor does she know it; at least, I presume not. But you should knowit now. And, Frank, I will tell it you; not to turn you from her--notwith that object, though I think that, to a certain extent, it shouldhave that effect. Mary's birth was not such as would become your wifeand be beneficial to your children. " "If so, father, I should have known that sooner. Why was she broughtin here among us?" "True, Frank. The fault is mine; mine and your mother's. Circumstances brought it about years ago, when it never occurred tous that all this would arise. But I will tell you her history. And, Frank, remember this, though I tell it you as a secret, a secret tobe kept from all the world but one, you are quite at liberty to letthe doctor know that I have told you. Indeed, I shall be careful tolet him know myself should it ever be necessary that he and I shouldspeak together as to this engagement. " The squire then told his sonthe whole story of Mary's birth, as it is known to the reader. Frank sat silent, looking very blank; he also had, as had everyGresham, a great love for his pure blood. He had said to his motherthat he hated money, that he hated the estate; but he would have beenvery slow to say, even in his warmest opposition to her, that hehated the roll of the family pedigree. He loved it dearly, though heseldom spoke of it;--as men of good family seldom do speak of it. Itis one of those possessions which to have is sufficient. A man havingit need not boast of what he has, or show it off before the world. But on that account he values it more. He had regarded Mary as acutting duly taken from the Ullathorne tree; not, indeed, as agrafting branch, full of flower, just separated from the parentstalk, but as being not a whit the less truly endowed with the puresap of that venerable trunk. When, therefore, he heard her truehistory he sat awhile dismayed. "It is a sad story, " said the father. "Yes, sad enough, " said Frank, rising from his chair and standingwith it before him, leaning on the back of it. "Poor Mary, poor Mary!She will have to learn it some day. " "I fear so, Frank;" and then there was again a few moments' silence. "To me, father, it is told too late. It can now have no effect on me. Indeed, " said he, sighing as he spoke, but still relieving himself bythe very sigh, "it could have had no effect had I learned it ever sosoon. " "I should have told you before, " said the father; "certainly I oughtto have done so. " "It would have been no good, " said Frank. "Ah, sir, tell me this: whowere Miss Dunstable's parents? What was that fellow Moffat's family?" This was perhaps cruel of Frank. The squire, however, made no answerto the question. "I have thought it right to tell you, " said he. "I leave all commentary to yourself. I need not tell you what yourmother will think. " "What did she think of Miss Dunstable's birth?" said he, again morebitterly than before. "No, sir, " he continued, after a further pause. "All that can make no change; none at any rate now. It can't make mylove less, even if it could have prevented it. Nor, even, could it doso--which it can't least, not in the least--but could it do so, itcould not break my engagement. I am now engaged to Mary Thorne. " And then he again repeated his question, asking for his father'sadvice under the present circumstances. The conversation was a verylong one, as long as to disarrange all Lady Arabella's plans. Shehad determined to take her son most stringently to task that veryevening; and with this object had ensconced herself in the smalldrawing-room which had formerly been used for a similar purpose bythe august countess herself. Here she now sat, having desired Augustaand Beatrice, as well as the twins, to beg Frank to go to her as soonas he should come out of the dining-room. Poor lady! there she waitedtill ten o'clock, --tealess. There was not much of the Bluebeard aboutthe squire; but he had succeeded in making it understood through thehousehold that he was not to be interrupted by messages from his wifeduring the post-prandial hour, which, though no toper, he loved sowell. As a period of twelve months will now have to be passed over, theupshot of this long conversation must be told in as few words aspossible. The father found it impracticable to talk his son out ofhis intended marriage; indeed, he hardly attempted to do so by anydirect persuasion. He explained to him that it was impossible that heshould marry at once, and suggested that he, Frank, was very young. "You married, sir, before you were one-and-twenty, " said Frank. Yes, and repented before I was two-and-twenty. So did not say the squire. He suggested that Mary should have time to ascertain what would beher uncle's wishes, and ended by inducing Frank to promise, thatafter taking his degree in October he would go abroad for somemonths, and that he would not indeed return to Greshamsbury till hewas three-and-twenty. "He may perhaps forget her, " said the father to himself, as thisagreement was made between them. "He thinks that I shall forget her, " said Frank to himself at thesame time; "but he does not know me. " When Lady Arabella at last got hold of her son she found that thetime for her preaching was utterly gone by. He told her, almost with_sang-froid_, what his plans were; and when she came to understandthem, and to understand also what had taken place at Boxall Hill, shecould not blame the squire for what he had done. She also said toherself, more confidently than the squire had done, that Frank wouldquite forget Mary before the year was out. "Lord Buckish, " said sheto herself, rejoicingly, "is now with the ambassador at Paris"--LordBuckish was her nephew--"and with him Frank will meet women that arereally beautiful--women of fashion. When with Lord Buckish he willsoon forget Mary Thorne. " But not on this account did she change her resolve to follow upto the furthest point her hostility to the Thornes. She was fullyenabled now to do so, for Dr Fillgrave was already reinstalled atGreshamsbury as her medical adviser. One other short visit did Frank pay to Boxall Hill, and one interviewhad he with Dr Thorne. Mary told him all she knew of her own sadhistory, and was answered only by a kiss, --a kiss absolutely not inany way by her to be avoided; the first, the only one, that had everyet reached her lips from his. And then he went away. The doctor told him all the story. "Yes, " said Frank, "I knew it allbefore. Dear Mary, dearest Mary! Don't you, doctor, teach yourself tobelieve that I shall forget her. " And then also he went his way fromhim--went his way also from Greshamsbury, and was absent for the fullperiod of his allotted banishment--twelve months, namely, and a day. CHAPTER XXXI The Small End of the Wedge Frank Gresham was absent from Greshamsbury twelve months and a day: aday is always added to the period of such absences, as shown in thehistory of Lord Bateman and other noble heroes. We need not detailall the circumstances of his banishment, all the details of thecompact that was made. One detail of course was this, that thereshould be no corresponding; a point to which the squire found somedifficulty in bringing his son to assent. It must not be supposed that Mary Thorne or the doctor were in anyway parties to, or privy to these agreements. By no means. Theagreements were drawn out, and made, and signed, and sealed atGreshamsbury, and were known of nowhere else. The reader must notimagine that Lady Arabella was prepared to give up her son, ifonly his love could remain constant for one year. Neither did LadyArabella consent to any such arrangement, nor did the squire. It wassettled rather in this wise: that Frank should be subjected to notorturing process, pestered to give no promises, should in no way bebullied about Mary--that is, not at present--if he would go away fora year. Then, at the end of the year, the matter should again bediscussed. Agreeing to this, Frank took his departure, and was absentas per agreement. What were Mary's fortunes immediately after his departure must beshortly told, and then we will again join some of our Greshamsburyfriends at a period about a month before Frank's return. When Sir Louis saw Frank Gresham standing by Mary's donkey, withhis arms round Mary's knees, he began to fear that there must besomething in it. He had intended that very day to throw himselfat Mary's feet, and now it appeared to his inexperienced eyes asthough somebody else had been at the same work before him. This notunnaturally made him cross; so, after having sullenly wished thevisitor good-bye, he betook himself to his room, and there drankcuraçoa alone, instead of coming down to dinner. This he did for two or three days, and then, taking heart of grace, he remembered that, after all, he had very many advantages over youngGresham. In the first place, he was a baronet, and could make hiswife a "lady. " In the next place, Frank's father was alive and liketo live, whereas his own was dead. He possessed Boxall Hill in hisown right, but his rival had neither house nor land of his own. Afterall, might it not be possible for him also to put his arm roundMary's knees;--her knees, or her waist, or, perhaps, even her neck?Faint heart never won fair lady. At any rate, he would try. And he did try. With what result, as regards Mary, need hardly betold. He certainly did not get nearly so far as putting his hand evenupon her knee before he was made to understand that it "was no go, "as he graphically described it to his mother. He tried once andagain. On the first time Mary was very civil, though very determined. On the second, she was more determined, though less civil; and thenshe told him, that if he pressed her further he would drive her fromher mother's house. There was something then about Mary's eye, afixed composure round her mouth, and an authority in her face, whichwent far to quell him; and he did not press her again. He immediately left Boxall Hill, and, returning to London, had moreviolent recourse to the curaçoa. It was not long before the doctorheard of him, and was obliged to follow him, and then again occurredthose frightful scenes in which the poor wretch had to expiate, either in terrible delirium or more terrible prostration of spirits, the vile sin which his father had so early taught him. Then Mary returned to her uncle's home. Frank was gone, and shetherefore could resume her place at Greshamsbury. Yes, she came backto Greshamsbury; but Greshamsbury was by no means the same place thatit was formerly. Almost all intercourse was now over between thedoctor and the Greshamsbury people. He rarely ever saw the squire, and then only on business. Not that the squire had purposelyquarrelled with him; but Dr Thorne himself had chosen that it shouldbe so, since Frank had openly proposed for his niece. Frank was nowgone, and Lady Arabella was in arms against him. It should not besaid that he kept up any intimacy for the sake of aiding the loversin their love. No one should rightfully accuse him of inveigling theheir to marry his niece. Mary, therefore, found herself utterly separated from Beatrice. Shewas not even able to learn what Beatrice would think, or did think, of the engagement as it now stood. She could not even explain toher friend that love had been too strong for her, and endeavour toget some comfort from that friend's absolution from her sin. Thisestrangement was now carried so far that she and Beatrice did noteven meet on neutral ground. Lady Arabella made it known to MissOriel that her daughter could not meet Mary Thorne, even as strangersmeet; and it was made known to others also. Mrs Yates Umbleby, andher dear friend Miss Gushing, to whose charming tea-parties none ofthe Greshamsbury ladies went above once in a twelvemonth, talkedthrough the parish of this distressing difficulty. They would havebeen so happy to have asked dear Mary Thorne, only the Greshamsburyladies did not approve. Mary was thus tabooed from all society in the place in which atwelvemonth since she had been, of all its denizens, perhaps themost courted. In those days, no bevy of Greshamsbury young ladieshad fairly represented the Greshamsbury young ladyhood if MaryThorne was not there. Now she was excluded from all such bevies. Patience did not quarrel with her, certainly;--came to see herfrequently;--invited her to walk;--invited her frequently to theparsonage. But Mary was shy of acceding to such invitations, and atlast frankly told her friend Patience, that she would not again breakbread in Greshamsbury in any house in which she was not thought fitto meet the other guests who habitually resorted there. In truth, both the doctor and his niece were very sore, but theywere of that temperament that keeps all its soreness to itself. Marywalked out by herself boldly, looking at least as though she wereindifferent to all the world. She was, indeed, hardly treated. Youngladies' engagements are generally matters of profoundest secrecy, andare hardly known of by their near friends till marriage is a thingsettled. But all the world knew of Mary's engagement within a monthof that day on which she had neglected to expel Frank's finger fromher hand; it had been told openly through the country-side that shehad confessed her love for the young squire. Now it is disagreeablefor a young lady to walk about under such circumstances, especiallyso when she has no female friend to keep her in countenance, more especially so when the gentleman is such importance in theneighbourhood as Frank was in that locality. It was a matter ofmoment to every farmer, and every farmer's wife, which bride Frankshould marry of those bespoken for him; Mary, namely, or Money. Everyyokel about the place had been made to understand that, by somefeminine sleight of hand, the doctor's niece had managed to trapMaster Frank, and that Master Frank had been sent out of the way sothat he might, if yet possible, break through the trapping. All thismade life rather unpleasant for her. One day, walking solitary in the lanes, she met that sturdy farmer towhose daughter she had in former days been so serviceable. "God bless'ee, Miss Mary, " said he--he always did bid God bless her when he sawher. "And, Miss Mary, to say my mind out freely, thee be quite gudeenough for un, quite gude enough; so thee be'st tho'f he were tensquoires. " There may, perhaps, have been something pleasant in theheartiness of this; but it was not pleasant to have this heart affairof hers thus publicly scanned and talked over: to have it known toevery one that she had set her heart on marrying Frank Gresham, andthat all the Greshams had set their hearts on preventing it. And yetshe could in nowise help it. No girl could have been more staid anddemure, less demonstrative and boastful about her love. She had neveryet spoken freely, out of her full heart, to one human being. "Oh, Frank!" All her spoken sin had been contained in that. But Lady Arabella had been very active. It suited her better that itshould be known, far and wide, that a nameless pauper--Lady Arabellaonly surmised that her foe was nameless; but she did not scruple todeclare it--was intriguing to catch the heir of Greshamsbury. None ofthe Greshams must meet Mary Thorne; that was the edict sent about thecountry; and the edict was well understood. Those, therefore, werebad days for Miss Thorne. She had never yet spoken on the matter freely, out of her full heartto one human being. Not to one? Not to him? Not to her uncle? No, noteven to him, fully and freely. She had told him that that had passedbetween Frank and her which amounted, at any rate on his part, to aproposal. "Well, dearest, and what was your answer?" said her uncle, drawingher close to him, and speaking in his kindest voice. "I hardly made any answer, uncle. " "You did not reject him, Mary?" "No, uncle, " and then she paused;--he had never known her tremble asshe now trembled. "But if you say that I ought, I will, " she added, drawing every word from herself with difficulty. "I say you ought, Mary! Nay; but this question you must answeryourself. " "Must I?" said she, plaintively. And then she sat for the nexthalf hour with her head against his shoulder; but nothing more wassaid about it. They both acquiesced in the sentence that had beenpronounced against them, and went on together more lovingly thanbefore. The doctor was quite as weak as his niece; nay, weaker. She hesitatedfearfully as to what she ought to do: whether she should obey herheart or the dictates of Greshamsbury. But he had other doubts thanhers, which nearly set him wild when he strove to bring his mind toa decision. He himself was now in possession--of course as a trusteeonly--of the title-deeds of the estate; more of the estate, muchmore, belonged to the heirs under Sir Roger Scatcherd's will than tothe squire. It was now more than probable that that heir must be MaryThorne. His conviction became stronger and stronger that no humanefforts would keep Sir Louis in the land of the living till hewas twenty-five. Could he, therefore, wisely or honestly, in truefriendship to the squire, to Frank, or to his niece, take any stepsto separate two persons who loved each other, and whose marriagewould in all human probability be so suitable? And yet he could not bring himself to encourage it then. The ideaof "looking after dead men's shoes" was abhorrent to his mind, especially when the man whose death he contemplated had been sotrusted to him as had been Sir Louis Scatcherd. He could not speakof the event, even to the squire, as being possible. So he kept hispeace from day to day, and gave no counsel to Mary in the matter. And then he had his own individual annoyances, and very aggravatingannoyances they were. The carriage--or rather post-chaise--of DrFillgrave was now frequent in Greshamsbury, passing him constantlyin the street, among the lanes, and on the high roads. It seemed asthough Dr Fillgrave could never get to his patients at the big housewithout showing himself to his beaten rival, either on his waythither or on his return. This alone would, perhaps, not have hurtthe doctor much; but it did hurt him to know that Dr Fillgrave wasattending the squire for a little incipient gout, and that dear Ninawas in measles under those unloving hands. And then, also, the old-fashioned phaeton, of old-fashioned oldDr Century was seen to rumble up to the big house, and it becameknown that Lady Arabella was not very well. "Not very well, " whenpronounced in a low, grave voice about Lady Arabella, always meantsomething serious. And, in this case, something serious was meant. Lady Arabella was not only ill, but frightened. It appeared, even toher, that Dr Fillgrave himself hardly knew what he was about, that hewas not so sure in his opinion, so confident in himself, as Dr Thorneused to be. How should he be, seeing that Dr Thorne had medically hadLady Arabella in his hands for the last ten years? If sitting with dignity in his hired carriage, and stepping withauthority up the big front steps, would have done anything, DrFillgrave might have done much. Lady Arabella was greatly taken withhis looks when he first came to her, and it was only when she bydegrees perceived that the symptoms, which she knew so well, did notyield to him that she began to doubt those looks. After a while Dr Fillgrave himself suggested Dr Century. "Not thatI fear anything, Lady Arabella, " said he, --lying hugely, for he didfear; fear both for himself and for her. "But Dr Century has greatexperience, and in such a matter, when the interests are soimportant, one cannot be too safe. " So Dr Century came and toddled slowly into her ladyship's room. Hedid not say much; he left the talking to his learned brother, whocertainly was able to do that part of the business. But Dr Century, though he said very little, looked very grave, and by no meansquieted Lady Arabella's mind. She, as she saw the two putting theirheads together, already had misgivings that she had done wrong. Sheknew that she could not be safe without Dr Thorne at her bedside, andshe already felt that she had exercised a most injudicious courage indriving him away. "Well, doctor?" said she, as soon as Dr Century had toddleddownstairs to see the squire. "Oh! we shall be all right, Lady Arabella; all right, very soon. Butwe must be careful, very careful; I am glad I've had Century here, very; but there's nothing to alter; little or nothing. " There were but few words spoken between Dr Century and the squire;but few as they were, they frightened Mr Gresham. When Dr Fillgravecame down the grand stairs, a servant waited at the bottom to ask himalso to go to the squire. Now there never had been much cordialitybetween the squire and Dr Fillgrave, though Mr Gresham had consentedto take a preventative pill from his hands, and the little mantherefore swelled himself out somewhat more than ordinarily as hefollowed the servant. "Dr Fillgrave, " said the squire, at once beginning the conversation, "Lady Arabella, is, I fear, in danger?" "Well, no; I hope not in danger, Mr Gresham. I certainly believe Imay be justified in expressing a hope that she is not in danger. Herstate is, no doubt, rather serious--rather serious--as Dr Century hasprobably told you;" and Dr Fillgrave made a bow to the old man, whosat quiet in one of the dining-room arm-chairs. "Well, doctor, " said the squire, "I have not any grounds on which todoubt your judgement. " Dr Fillgrave bowed, but with the stiffest, slightest inclinationwhich a head could possibly make. He rather thought that Mr Greshamhad no ground for doubting his judgement. "Nor do I. " The doctor bowed, and a little, a very little less stiffly. "But, doctor, I think that something ought to be done. " The doctor this time did his bowing merely with his eyes and mouth. The former he closed for a moment, the latter he pressed; and thendecorously rubbed his hands one over the other. "I am afraid, Dr Fillgrave, that you and my friend Thorne are not thebest friends in the world. " "No, Mr Gresham, no; I may go so far as to say we are not. " "Well, I am sorry for it--" "Perhaps, Mr Gresham, we need hardly discuss it; but there have beencircumstances--" "I am not going to discuss anything, Dr Fillgrave; I say I am sorryfor it, because I believe that prudence will imperatively requireLady Arabella to have Doctor Thorne back again. Now, if you would notobject to meet him--" "Mr Gresham, I beg pardon; I beg pardon, indeed; but you must reallyexcuse me. Doctor Thorne has, in my estimation--" "But, Doctor Fillgrave--" "Mr Gresham, you really must excuse me; you really must, indeed. Anything else that I could do for Lady Arabella, I should be mosthappy to do; but after what has passed, I cannot meet Doctor Thorne;I really cannot. You must not ask me to do so; Mr Gresham. And, MrGresham, " continued the doctor, "I did understand from Lady Arabellathat his--that is, Dr Thorne's--conduct to her ladyship had beensuch--so very outrageous, I may say, that--that--that--of course, MrGresham, you know best; but I did think that Lady Arabella herselfwas quite unwilling to see Doctor Thorne again;" and Dr Fillgravelooked very big, and very dignified, and very exclusive. The squire did not ask again. He had no warrant for supposing thatLady Arabella would receive Dr Thorne if he did come; and he sawthat it was useless to attempt to overcome the rancour of a man sopig-headed as the little Galen now before him. Other propositionswere then broached, and it was at last decided that assistance shouldbe sought for from London, in the person of the great Sir OmicronPie. Sir Omicron came, and Drs Fillgrave and Century were there to meethim. When they all assembled in Lady Arabella's room, the poorwoman's heart almost sank within her, --as well it might, at sucha sight. If she could only reconcile it with her honour, herconsistency, with her high de Courcy principles, to send once morefor Dr Thorne. Oh, Frank! Frank! to what misery your disobediencebrought your mother! Sir Omicron and the lesser provincial lights had their consultation, and the lesser lights went their way to Barchester and Silverbridge, leaving Sir Omicron to enjoy the hospitality of Greshamsbury. "You should have Thorne back here, Mr Gresham, " said Sir Omicron, almost in a whisper, when they were quite alone. "Doctor Fillgraveis a very good man, and so is Dr Century; very good, I am sure. ButThorne has known her ladyship so long. " And then, on the followingmorning, Sir Omicron also went his way. And then there was a scene between the squire and her ladyship. LadyArabella had given herself credit for great good generalship when shefound that the squire had been induced to take that pill. We haveall heard of the little end of the wedge, and we have most of us anidea that the little end is the difficulty. That pill had been thelittle end of Lady Arabella's wedge. Up to that period she had beenstruggling in vain to make a severance between her husband and herenemy. That pill should do the business. She well knew how to makethe most of it; to have it published in Greshamsbury that the squirehad put his gouty toe into Dr Fillgrave's hands; how to let itbe known--especially at that humble house in the corner of thestreet--that Fillgrave's prescriptions now ran current through thewhole establishment. Dr Thorne did hear of it, and did suffer. He hadbeen a true friend to the squire, and he thought the squire shouldhave stood to him more staunchly. "After all, " said he himself, "perhaps it's as well--perhaps it willbe best that I should leave this place altogether. " And then hethought of Sir Roger and his will, and of Mary and her lover. Andthen of Mary's birth, and of his own theoretical doctrines as to pureblood. And so his troubles multiplied, and he saw no present daylightthrough them. Such had been the way in which Lady Arabella had got in the littleend of the wedge. And she would have triumphed joyfully had not herincreased doubts and fears as to herself then come in to check hertriumph and destroy her joy. She had not yet confessed to any oneher secret regret for the friend she had driven away. She hardly yetacknowledged to herself that she did regret him; but she was uneasy, frightened, and in low spirits. "My dear, " said the squire, sitting down by her bedside, "I want totell you what Sir Omicron said as he went away. " "Well?" said her ladyship, sitting up and looking frightened. "I don't know how you may take it, Bell; but I think it very goodnews:" the squire never called his wife Bell, except when he wantedher to be on particularly good terms with him. "Well?" said she again. She was not over-anxious to be gracious, anddid not reciprocate his familiarity. "Sir Omicron says that you should have Thorne back again, and upon myhonour, I cannot but agree with him. Now, Thorne is a clever man, avery clever man; nobody denies that; and then, you know--" "Why did not Sir Omicron say that to me?" said her ladyship, sharply, all her disposition in Dr Thorne's favour becoming wonderfully dampedby her husband's advocacy. "I suppose he thought it better to say it to me, " said the squire, rather curtly. "He should have spoken to myself, " said Lady Arabella, who, thoughshe did not absolutely doubt her husband's word, gave him creditfor having induced and led on Sir Omicron to the uttering of thisopinion. "Doctor Thorne has behaved to me in so gross, so indecent amanner! And then, as I understand, he is absolutely encouraging thatgirl--" "Now, Bell, you are quite wrong--" "Of course I am; I always am quite wrong. " "Quite wrong in mixing up two things; Doctor Thorne as anacquaintance, and Dr Thorne as a doctor. " "It is dreadful to have him here, even standing in the room with me. How can one talk to one's doctor openly and confidentially when onelooks upon him as one's worst enemy?" And Lady Arabella, softening, almost melted into tears. "My dear, you cannot wonder that I should be anxious for you. " Lady Arabella gave a little snuffle, which might be taken as a notvery eloquent expression of thanks for the squire's solicitude, or asan ironical jeer at his want of sincerity. "And, therefore, I have not lost a moment in telling you what SirOmicron said. 'You should have Thorne back here;' those were his verywords. You can think it over, my dear. And remember this, Bell; if heis to do any good no time should be lost. " And then the squire left the room, and Lady Arabella remained alone, perplexed by many doubts. CHAPTER XXXII Mr Oriel I must now, shortly--as shortly as it is in my power to doit--introduce a new character to my reader. Mention has been madeof the rectory of Greshamsbury; but, hitherto, no opportunity hasoffered itself for the Rev Caleb Oriel to come upon the boards. Mr Oriel was a man of family and fortune, who, having gone to Oxfordwith the usual views of such men, had become inoculated there withvery High-Church principles, and had gone into orders influenced by afeeling of enthusiastic love for the priesthood. He was by no meansan ascetic--such men, indeed, seldom are--nor was he a devotee. Hewas a man well able, and certainly willing, to do the work of aparish clergyman; and when he became one, he was efficacious in hisprofession. But it may perhaps be said of him, without speakingslanderously, that his original calling, as a young man, was ratherto the outward and visible signs of religion than to its inward andspiritual graces. He delighted in lecterns and credence-tables, in services at darkhours of winter mornings when no one would attend, in high waistcoatsand narrow white neckties, in chanted services and intoned prayers, and in all the paraphernalia of Anglican formalities which have givensuch offence to those of our brethren who live in daily fear of thescarlet lady. Many of his friends declared that Mr Oriel would sooneror later deliver himself over body and soul to that lady; but therewas no need to fear for him: for though sufficiently enthusiastic toget out of bed at five a. M. On winter mornings--he did so, at least, all through his first winter at Greshamsbury--he was not made ofthat stuff which is necessary for a staunch, burning, self-denyingconvert. It was not in him to change his very sleek black coat for aCapuchin's filthy cassock, nor his pleasant parsonage for some dirtyhole in Rome. And it was better so both for him and others. There arebut few, very few, to whom it is given to be a Huss, a Wickliffe, or a Luther; and a man gains but little by being a false Huss, or afalse Luther, --and his neighbours gain less. But certain lengths in self-privation Mr Oriel did go; at any rate, for some time. He eschewed matrimony, imagining that it became himas a priest to do so. He fasted rigorously on Fridays; and theneighbours declared that he scourged himself. Mr Oriel was, as it has been said, a man of fortune; that is to say, when he came of age he was master of thirty thousand pounds. When hetook it into his head to go into the Church, his friends bought forhim the next presentation to the living at Greshamsbury; and, a yearafter his ordination, the living falling in, Mr Oriel brought himselfand his sister to the rectory. Mr Oriel soon became popular. He was a dark-haired, good-lookingman, of polished manners, agreeable in society, not given to monkishausterities--except in the matter of Fridays--nor yet to theLow-Church severity of demeanour. He was thoroughly a gentleman, good-humoured, inoffensive, and sociable. But he had one fault: hewas not a marrying man. On this ground there was a feeling against him so strong as almost atone time to throw him into serious danger. It was not only that heshould be sworn against matrimony in his individual self--he whomfate had made so able to sustain the weight of a wife and family;but what an example he was setting! If other clergymen all aroundshould declare against wives and families, what was to become of thecountry? What was to be done in the rural districts? The religiousobservances, as regards women, of a Brigham Young were hardly so badas this! There were around Greshamsbury very many unmarried ladies--I believethere generally are so round most such villages. From the great househe did not receive much annoyance. Beatrice was then only just on theverge of being brought out, and was not perhaps inclined to thinkvery much of a young clergyman; and Augusta certainly intended to flyat higher game. But there were the Miss Athelings, the daughters ofa neighbouring clergyman, who were ready to go all lengths with himin High-Church matters, except as that one tremendously papal stepof celibacy; and the two Miss Hesterwells, of Hesterwell Park, theyounger of whom boldly declared her purpose of civilising the savage;and Mrs Opie Green, a very pretty widow, with a very pretty jointure, who lived in a very pretty house about a mile from Greshamsbury, andwho declared her opinion that Mr Oriel was quite right in his view ofa clergyman's position. How could a woman, situated as she was, havethe comfort of a clergyman's attention if he were to be regardedjust as any other man? She could now know in what light to regardMr Oriel, and would be able without scruple to avail herself of hiszeal. So she did avail herself of his zeal, --and that without anyscruple. And then there was Miss Gushing, --a young thing. Miss Gushing had agreat advantage over the other competitors for the civilisation ofMr Oriel, namely, in this--that she was able to attend his morningservices. If Mr Oriel was to be reached in any way, it was probablethat he might be reached in this way. If anything could civilisehim, this would do it. Therefore, the young thing, through all onelong, tedious winter, tore herself from her warm bed, and was tobe seen--no, not seen, but heard--entering Mr Oriel's church atsix o'clock. With indefatigable assiduity the responses were made, uttered from under a close bonnet, and out of a dark corner, in anenthusiastically feminine voice, through the whole winter. Nor did Miss Gushing altogether fail in her object. When aclergyman's daily audience consists of but one person, and thatperson is a young lady, it is hardly possible that he should notbecome personally intimate with her; hardly possible that he shouldnot be in some measure grateful. Miss Gushing's responses came fromher with such fervour, and she begged for ghostly advice with sucheager longing to have her scruples satisfied, that Mr Oriel hadnothing for it but to give way to a certain amount of civilisation. By degrees it came to pass that Miss Gushing could never get herfinal prayer said, her shawl and boa adjusted, and stow away hernice new Prayer-Book with the red letters inside, and the cross onthe back, till Mr Oriel had been into his vestry and got rid ofhis surplice. And then they met at the church-porch, and naturallywalked together till Mr Oriel's cruel gateway separated them. Theyoung thing did sometimes think that, as the parson's civilisationprogressed, he might have taken the trouble to walk with her as faras Mr Yates Umbleby's hall door; but she had hope to sustain her, anda firm resolve to merit success, even though she might not attain it. "Is it not ten thousand pities, " she once said to him, "that nonehere should avail themselves of the inestimable privilege which yourcoming has conferred upon us? Oh, Mr Oriel, I do so wonder at it! Tome it is so delightful! The morning service in the dark church is sobeautiful, so touching!" "I suppose they think it is a bore getting up so early, " said MrOriel. "Ah, a bore!" said Miss Gushing, in an enthusiastic tone ofdepreciation. "How insensate they must be! To me it gives a new charmto life. It quiets one for the day; makes one so much fitter forone's daily trials and daily troubles. Does it not, Mr Oriel?" "I look upon morning prayer as an imperative duty, certainly. " "Oh, certainly, a most imperative duty; but so delicious at the sametime. I spoke to Mrs Umbleby about it, but she said she could notleave the children. " "No: I dare say not, " said Mr Oriel. "And Mr Umbleby said his business kept him up so late at night. " "Very probably. I hardly expect the attendance of men of business. " "But the servants might come, mightn't they, Mr Oriel?" "I fear that servants seldom can have time for daily prayers inchurch. " "Oh, ah, no; perhaps not. " And then Miss Gushing began to bethinkherself of whom should be composed the congregation which it must bepresumed that Mr Oriel wished to see around him. But on this matterhe did not enlighten her. Then Miss Gushing took to fasting on Fridays, and made some futileattempts to induce her priest to give her the comfort of confessionalabsolution. But, unfortunately, the zeal of the master waxed coolas that of the pupil waxed hot; and, at last, when the young thingreturned to Greshamsbury from an autumn excursion which she had madewith Mrs Umbleby to Weston-super-Mare, she found that the deliciousmorning services had died a natural death. Miss Gushing did not onthat account give up the game, but she was bound to fight with noparticular advantage in her favour. Miss Oriel, though a good Churchwoman, was by no means a convert toher brother's extremist views, and perhaps gave but scanty creditto the Gushings, Athelings, and Opie Greens for the sincerity oftheir religion. But, nevertheless, she and her brother were staunchfriends; and she still hoped to see the day when he might be inducedto think that an English parson might get through his parish workwith the assistance of a wife better than he could do without suchfeminine encumbrance. The girl whom she selected for his bride wasnot the young thing, but Beatrice Gresham. And at last it seemed probable to Mr Oriel's nearest friends that hewas in a fair way to be overcome. Not that he had begun to make loveto Beatrice, or committed himself by the utterance of any opinion asto the propriety of clerical marriages; but he daily became looserabout his peculiar tenets, raved less immoderately than heretofore asto the atrocity of the Greshamsbury church pews, and was observed totake some opportunities of conversing alone with Beatrice. Beatricehad always denied the imputation--this had usually been made by Maryin their happy days--with vehement asseverations of anger; and MissGushing had tittered, and expressed herself as supposing that greatpeople's daughters might be as barefaced as they pleased. All this had happened previous to the great Greshamsbury feud. MrOriel gradually got himself into a way of sauntering up to the greathouse, sauntering into the drawing-room for the purpose, as I am surehe thought, of talking to Lady Arabella, and then of sauntering homeagain, having usually found an opportunity for saying a few words toBeatrice during the visit. This went on all through the feud up tothe period of Lady Arabella's illness; and then one morning, abouta month before the date fixed for Frank's return, Mr Oriel foundhimself engaged to Miss Beatrice Gresham. From the day that Miss Gushing heard of it--which was not howeverfor some considerable time after this--she became an IndependentMethodist. She could no longer, she said at first, have any faith inany religion; and for an hour or so she was almost tempted to swearthat she could no longer have any faith in any man. She had nearlycompleted a worked cover for a credence-table when the news reachedher, as to which, in the young enthusiasm of her heart, she had notbeen able to remain silent; it had already been promised to Mr Oriel;that promise she swore should not be kept. He was an apostate, shesaid, from his principles; an utter pervert; a false, designing man, with whom she would never have trusted herself alone on dark morningshad she known that he had such grovelling, worldly inclinations. SoMiss Gushing became an Independent Methodist; the credence-tablecovering was cut up into slippers for the preacher's feet; and theyoung thing herself, more happy in this direction than she had beenin the other, became the arbiter of that preacher's domestichappiness. But this little history of Miss Gushing's future life is premature. Mr Oriel became engaged demurely, nay, almost silently, to Beatrice, and no one out of their own immediate families was at the timeinformed of the matter. It was arranged very differently from thosetwo other matches--embryo, or not embryo, those, namely, of Augustawith Mr Moffat, and Frank with Mary Thorne. All Barsetshire had heardof them; but that of Beatrice and Mr Oriel was managed in a much moreprivate manner. "I do think you are a happy girl, " said Patience to her one morning. "Indeed I am. " "He is so good. You don't know how good he is as yet; he never thinksof himself, and thinks so much of those he loves. " Beatrice took her friend's hand in her own and kissed it. She wasfull of joy. When a girl is about to be married, when she maylawfully talk of her love, there is no music in her ears so sweet asthe praises of her lover. "I made up my mind from the first that he should marry you. " "Nonsense, Patience. " "I did, indeed. I made up my mind that he should marry; and therewere only two to choose from. " "Me and Miss Gushing, " said Beatrice, laughing. "No; not exactly Miss Gushing. I had not many fears for Caleb there. " "I declare she's very pretty, " said Beatrice, who could afford to begood-natured. Now Miss Gushing certainly was pretty; and would havebeen very pretty had her nose not turned up so much, and could shehave parted her hair in the centre. "Well, I am very glad you chose me;--if it was you who chose, " saidBeatrice, modestly; having, however, in her own mind a strong opinionthat Mr Oriel had chosen for himself, and had never had any doubt inthe matter. "And who was the other?" "Can't you guess?" "I won't guess any more; perhaps Mrs Green. " "Oh, no; certainly not a widow. I don't like widows marrying. But ofcourse you could guess if you would; of course it was Mary Thorne. But I soon saw Mary would not do, for two reasons; Caleb would neverhave liked her well enough nor would she ever have liked him. " "Not like him! oh I hope she will; I do so love Mary Thorne. " "So do I, dearly; and so does Caleb; but he could never have lovedher as he loves you. " "But, Patience, have you told Mary?" "No, I have told no one, and shall not without your leave. " "Ah, you must tell her. Tell it her with my best, and kindest, warmest love. Tell her how happy I am, and how I long to talk toher. Tell that I will have her for my bridesmaid. Oh! I do hope thatbefore that all this horrid quarrel will be settled. " Patience undertook the commission, and did tell Mary; did give heralso the message which Beatrice had sent. And Mary was rejoiced tohear it; for though, as Patience had said of her, she had neverherself felt any inclination to fall in love with Mr Oriel, shebelieved him to be one in whose hands her friend's happiness would besecure. Then, by degrees, the conversation changed from the loves ofMr Oriel and Beatrice to the troubles of Frank Gresham and herself. "She says, that let what will happen you shall be one of herbridesmaids. " "Ah, yes, dear Trichy! that was settled between us in auld lang syne;but those settlements are all unsettled now, must all be broken. No, I cannot be her bridesmaid; but I shall yet hope to see her oncebefore her marriage. " "And why not be her bridesmaid? Lady Arabella will hardly object tothat. " "Lady Arabella!" said Mary, curling her lip with deep scorn. "I donot care that for Lady Arabella, " and she let her silver thimble fallfrom her fingers on to the table. "If Beatrice invited me to herwedding, she might manage as to that; I should ask no question as toLady Arabella. " "Then why not come to it?" She remained silent for a while, and then boldly answered. "Though Ido not care for Lady Arabella, I do care for Mr Gresham:--and I docare for his son. " "But the squire always loved you. " "Yes, and therefore I will not be there to vex his sight. I will tellyou the truth, Patience. I can never be in that house again tillFrank Gresham is a married man, or till I am about to be a marriedwoman. I do not think they have treated me well, but I will not treatthem ill. " "I am sure you will not do that, " said Miss Oriel. "I will endeavour not to do so; and, therefore, will go to none oftheir fêtes! No, Patience. " And then she turned her head to the armof the sofa, and silently, without audible sobs, hiding her face, sheendeavoured to get rid of her tears unseen. For one moment she hadall but resolved to pour out the whole truth of her love into herfriend's ears; but suddenly she changed her mind. Why should she talkof her own unhappiness? Why should she speak of her own love when shewas fully determined not to speak of Frank's promises. "Mary, dear Mary. " "Anything but pity, Patience; anything but that, " said she, convulsively, swallowing down her sobs, and rubbing away her tears. "I cannot bear that. Tell Beatrice from me, that I wish her everyhappiness; and, with such a husband, I am sure she will be happy. Iwish her every joy; give her my kindest love; but tell her I cannotbe at her marriage. Oh, I should so like to see her; not there, youknow, but here, in my own room, where I still have liberty to speak. " "But why should you decide now? She is not to be married yet, youknow. " "Now, or this day twelvemonth, can make no difference. I will not gointo that house again, unless--but never mind; I will not go into itall; never, never again. If I could forgive her for myself, I couldnot forgive her for my uncle. But tell me, Patience, might notBeatrice now come here? It is so dreadful to see her every Sunday inchurch and never to speak to her, never to kiss her. She seems tolook away from me as though she too had chosen to quarrel with me. " Miss Oriel promised to do her best. She could not imagine, she said, that such a visit could be objected to on such an occasion. She wouldnot advise Beatrice to come without telling her mother; but shecould not think that Lady Arabella would be so cruel as to make anyobjection, knowing, as she could not but know, that her daughter, when married, would be at liberty to choose her own friends. "Good-bye, Mary, " said Patience. "I wish I knew how to say more tocomfort you. " "Oh, comfort! I don't want comfort. I want to be let alone. " "That's just it: you are so ferocious in your scorn, so unbending, sodetermined to take all the punishment that comes in your way. " "What I do take, I'll take without complaint, " said Mary; and thenthey kissed each other and parted. CHAPTER XXXIII A Morning Visit It must be remembered that Mary, among her miseries, had to sufferthis: that since Frank's departure, now nearly twelve months ago, shehad not heard a word about him; or rather, she had only heard that hewas very much in love with some lady in London. This news reached herin a manner so circuitous, and from such a doubtful source; it seemedto her to savour so strongly of Lady Arabella's precautions, thatshe attributed it at once to malice, and blew it to the winds. Itmight not improbably be the case that Frank was untrue to her; butshe would not take it for granted because she was now told so. Itwas more than probable that he should amuse himself with some one;flirting was his prevailing sin; and if he did flirt, the most wouldof course be made of it. But she found it to be very desolate to be thus left alone withouta word of comfort or a word of love; without being able to speak toany one of what filled her heart; doubting, nay, more than doubting, being all but sure that her passion must terminate in misery. Why hadshe not obeyed her conscience and her better instinct in that momentwhen the necessity for deciding had come upon her? Why had sheallowed him to understand that he was master of her heart? Did shenot know that there was everything against such a marriage as thatwhich he proposed? Had she not done wrong, very wrong, even to thinkof it? Had she not sinned deeply, against Mr Gresham, who had everbeen so kind to her? Could she hope, was it possible, that a boy likeFrank should be true to his first love? And, if he were true, if hewere ready to go to the altar with her to-morrow, ought she to allowhim to degrade himself by such a marriage? There was, alas! some truth about the London lady. Frank had takenhis degree, as arranged, and had then gone abroad for the winter, doing the fashionable things, going up the Nile, crossing over toMount Sinai, thence over the long desert to Jerusalem, and home byDamascus, Beyrout, and Constantinople, bringing back a long beard, ared cap, and a chibook, just as our fathers used to go through Italyand Switzerland, and our grandfathers to spend a season in Paris. Hehad then remained for a couple of months in London, going throughall the society which the de Courcys were able to open to him. Andit was true that a certain belle of the season, of that season andsome others, had been captivated--for the tenth time--by the silkensheen of his long beard. Frank had probably been more demonstrative, perhaps even more susceptible, than he should have been; andhence the rumour, which had all too willingly been forwarded toGreshamsbury. But young Gresham had also met another lady in London, namely MissDunstable. Mary would indeed have been grateful to Miss Dunstable, could she have known all that lady did for her. Frank's love wasnever allowed to flag. When he spoke of the difficulties in his way, she twitted him by being overcome by straws; and told him that noone was worth having who was afraid of every lion that he met in hispath. When he spoke of money, she bade him earn it; and always endedby offering to smooth for him any real difficulty which want of meansmight put in his way. "No, " Frank used to say to himself, when these offers were made, "Inever intended to take her and her money together; and, therefore, Icertainly will never take the money alone. " A day or two after Miss Oriel's visit, Mary received the followingnote from Beatrice. DEAREST, DEAREST MARY, I shall be so happy to see you, and will come to-morrow at twelve. I have asked mamma, and she says that, for once, she has no objection. You know it is not my fault that I have never been with you; don't you? Frank comes home on the 12th. Mr Oriel wants the wedding to be on the 1st of September; but that seems to be so very, very soon; doesn't it? However, mamma and papa are all on his side. I won't write about this, though, for we shall have such a delicious talk. Oh, Mary! I have been so unhappy without you. Ever your own affectionate, TRICHY Monday. Though Mary was delighted at the idea of once more having her friendin her arms, there was, nevertheless, something in this letter whichoppressed her. She could not put up with the idea that Beatriceshould have permission given to come to her--just for once. Shehardly wished to be seen by permission. Nevertheless, she did notrefuse the proffered visit, and the first sight of Beatrice's face, the first touch of the first embrace, dissipated for the moment allher anger. And then Beatrice fully enjoyed the delicious talk which she hadpromised herself. Mary let her have her way, and for two hoursall the delights and all the duties, all the comforts and all theresponsibilities of a parson's wife were discussed with almost equalardour on both sides. The duties and responsibilities were notexactly those which too often fall to the lot of the mistress ofan English vicarage. Beatrice was not doomed to make her husbandcomfortable, to educate her children, dress herself like a lady, andexercise open-handed charity on an income of two hundred pounds ayear. Her duties and responsibilities would have to spread themselvesover seven or eight times that amount of worldly burden. Living alsoclose to Greshamsbury, and not far from Courcy Castle, she would havethe full advantages and all the privileges of county society. Infact, it was all _couleur de rose_, and so she chatted deliciouslywith her friend. But it was impossible that they should separate without somethinghaving been said as to Mary's own lot. It would, perhaps, have beenbetter that they should do so; but this was hardly within the compassof human nature. "And Mary, you know, I shall be able to see you as often as Ilike;--you and Dr Thorne, too, when I have a house of my own. " Mary said nothing, but essayed to smile. It was but a ghastlyattempt. "You know how happy that will make me, " continued Beatrice. "Ofcourse 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 ofthat. " "You are very kind, Trichy, " said Mary; but she spoke in a tone verydifferent from that she would have used eighteen months ago. "Why, what is the matter, Mary? Shan't you be glad to come to seeus?" "I do not know, dearest; that must depend on circumstances. To seeyou, you yourself, your own dear, sweet, loving face must always bepleasant 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 thereshould be circumstances which should still make us enemies; shouldmake your friends and my friends--friend, I should say, for I haveonly one--should make them opposed to each other?" "Circumstances! What circumstances?" "You are going to be married, Trichy, to the man you love; are younot?" "Indeed, I am!" "And it is not pleasant? is it not a happy feeling?" "Pleasant! happy! yes, very pleasant; very happy. But, Mary, I am notat all in such a hurry as he is, " said Beatrice, naturally thinkingof 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 herfriend full in the face. Beatrice was somewhat astonished, and for the moment hardlyunderstood. "I am sure I hope you will, some day. " "No, Trichy; no, you hope the other way. I love your brother; I loveFrank Gresham; I love him quite as well, quite as warmly, as you loveCaleb Oriel. " "Do you?" said Beatrice, staring with all her eyes, and giving onelong sigh, as this new subject for sorrow was so distinctly putbefore her. "It that so odd?" said Mary. "You love Mr Oriel, though you have beenintimate with him hardly more than two years. Is it so odd that Ishould love your brother, whom I have known almost all my life?" "But, Mary, I thought it was always understood between usthat--that--I mean that you were not to care about him; not in theway of loving him, you know--I thought you always said so--I havealways told mamma so as if it came from yourself. " "Beatrice, do not tell anything to Lady Arabella as though it camefrom me; I do not want anything to be told to her, either of me orfrom me. Say what you like to me yourself; whatever you say will notanger me. Indeed, I know what you would say--and yet I love you. Oh, I love you, Trichy--Trichy, I do love you so much! Don't turn awayfrom me!" There was such a mixture in Mary's manner of tenderness and almostferocity, that poor Beatrice could hardly follow her. "Turn away fromyou, Mary! no never; but this does make me unhappy. " "It is better that you should know it all, and then you will not beled into fighting my battles again. You cannot fight them so that Ishould win; I do love your brother; love him truly, fondly, tenderly. I would wish to have him for my husband as you wish to have MrOriel. " "But, Mary, you cannot marry him!" "Why not?" said she, in a loud voice. "Why can I not marry him? Ifthe priest says a blessing over us, shall we not be married as wellas you and your husband?" "But you know he cannot marry unless his wife shall have money. " "Money--money; and he is to sell himself for money? Oh, Trichy! donot you talk about money. It is horrible. But, Trichy, I will grantit--I cannot marry him; but still, I love him. He has a name, a placein the world, and fortune, family, high blood, position, everything. He has all this, and I have nothing. Of course I cannot marry him. But yet I do love him. " "Are you engaged to him, Mary?" "He is not engaged to me; but I am to him. " "Oh, Mary, that is impossible!" "It is not impossible: it is the case--I am pledged to him; but he isnot pledged to me. " "But, Mary, don't look at me in that way. I do not quite understandyou. What is the good of your being engaged if you cannot marry him?" "Good! there is no good. But can I help it, if I love him? Can I makemyself not love him by just wishing it? Oh, I would do it if I could. But now you will understand why I shake my head when you talk of mycoming to your house. Your ways and my ways must be different. " Beatrice was startled, and, for a time, silenced. What Mary said ofthe difference of their ways was quite true. Beatrice had dearlyloved her friend, and had thought of her with affection through allthis long period in which they had been separated; but she had givenher love and her thoughts on the understanding, as it were, that theywere in unison as to the impropriety of Frank's conduct. She had always spoken, with a grave face, of Frank and his love as ofa great misfortune, even to Mary herself; and her pity for Mary hadbeen founded on the conviction of her innocence. Now all those ideashad to be altered. Mary owned her fault, confessed herself to beguilty of all that Lady Arabella so frequently laid to her charge, and confessed herself anxious to commit every crime as to whichBeatrice had been ever so ready to defend her. Had Beatrice up to this dreamed that Mary was in love with Frank, she would doubtless have sympathised with her more or less, sooneror later. As it was, is was beyond all doubt that she would soonsympathise with her. But, at the moment, the suddenness of thedeclaration seemed to harden her heart, and she forgot, as it were, to speak tenderly to her friend. She was silent, therefore, and dismayed; and looked as though shethought that her ways and Mary's ways must be different. Mary saw all that was passing in the other's mind: no, not all; allthe hostility, the disappointment, the disapproval, the unhappiness, she did see; but not the under-current of love, which was strongenough to well up and drown all these, if only time could be allowedfor it to do so. "I am glad I have told you, " said Mary, curbing herself, "for deceitand hypocrisy are detestable. " "It was a misunderstanding, not deceit, " said Beatrice. "Well, now we understand each other; now you know that I have a heartwithin me, which like those of some others has not always been undermy own control. Lady Arabella believes that I am intriguing to be themistress of Greshamsbury. You, at any rate, will not think that ofme. If it could be discovered to-morrow that Frank were not the heir, I might have some chance of happiness. " "But, Mary--" "Well?" "You say you love him. " "Yes; I do say so. " "But if he does not love you, will you cease to do so?" "If I have a fever, I will get rid of it if I can; in such case Imust do so, or die. " "I fear, " continued Beatrice, "you hardly know, perhaps do not think, what is Frank's real character. He is not made to settle down earlyin life; even now, I believe he is attached to some lady in London, whom, of course, he cannot marry. " Beatrice said this in perfect trueness of heart. She had heard ofFrank's new love-affair, and believing what she had heard, thoughtit best to tell the truth. But the information was not of a kind toquiet Mary's spirit. "Very well, " said she, "let it be so. I have nothing to say againstit. " "But are you not preparing wretchedness and unhappiness foryourself?" "Very likely. " "Oh, Mary, do not be so cold with me! you know how delighted I shouldbe to have you for a sister-in-law, if only it were possible. " "Yes, Trichy; but it is impossible, is it not? Impossible thatFrancis Gresham of Greshamsbury should disgrace himself by marryingsuch a poor creature as I am. Of course, I know it; of course, I amprepared for unhappiness and misery. He can amuse himself as he likeswith me or others--with anybody. It is his privilege. It is quiteenough to say that he is not made for settling down. I know my ownposition;--and yet I love him. " "But, Mary, has he asked you to be his wife? If so--" "You ask home-questions, Beatrice. Let me ask you one; has he evertold you that he has done so?" At this moment Beatrice was not disposed to repeat all that Frank hadsaid. A year ago, before he went away, he had told his sister a scoreof times that he meant to marry Mary Thorne if she would have him;but Beatrice now looked on all that as idle, boyish vapouring. Thepity was, that Mary should have looked on it differently. "We will each keep our secret, " said Mary. "Only remember this:should Frank marry to-morrow, I shall have no ground for blaming him. He is free as far I as am concerned. He can take the London lady ifhe likes. You may tell him so from me. But, Trichy, what else I havetold you, I have told you only. " "Oh, yes!" said Beatrice, sadly; "I shall say nothing of it toanybody. It is very sad, very, very; I was so happy when I came here, and now I am so wretched. " This was the end of that delicious talk towhich she had looked forward with so much eagerness. "Don't be wretched about me, dearest; I shall get through it. Isometimes think I was born to be unhappy, and that unhappiness agreeswith me best. Kiss me now, Trichy, and don't be wretched any more. You owe it to Mr Oriel to be as happy as the day is long. " And then they parted. Beatrice, as she went out, saw Dr Thorne in his little shop on theright-hand side of the passage, deeply engaged in some derogatorybranch of an apothecary's mechanical trade; mixing a dose, perhaps, for a little child. She would have passed him without speaking if shecould have been sure of doing so without notice, for her heart wasfull, and her eyes were red with tears; but it was so long since shehad been in his house that she was more than ordinarily anxious notto appear uncourteous or unkind to him. "Good morning, doctor, " she said, changing her countenance as bestshe might, and attempting a smile. "Ah, my fairy!" said he, leaving his villainous compounds, and comingout to her; "and you, too, are about to become a steady old lady. " "Indeed, I am not, doctor; I don't mean to be either steady or oldfor the next ten years. But who has told you? I suppose Mary has beena traitor. " "Well, I will confess, Mary was the traitor. But hadn't I a rightto be told, seeing how often I have brought you sugar-plums in mypocket? But I wish you joy with all my heart, --with all my heart. Oriel is an excellent, good fellow. " "Is he not, doctor?" "An excellent, good fellow. I never heard but of one fault that hehad. " "What was that one fault, Doctor Thorne?" "He thought that clergymen should not marry. But you have cured that, and now he's perfect. " "Thank you, doctor. I declare that you say the prettiest things ofall my friends. " "And none of your friends wish prettier things for you. I docongratulate you, Beatrice, and hope you may be happy with the manyou have chosen;" and taking both her hands in his, he pressed themwarmly, and bade God bless her. "Oh, doctor! I do so hope the time will come when we shall all befriends again. " "I hope it as well, my dear. But let it come, or let it not come, myregard for you will be the same:" and then she parted from him also, and went her way. Nothing was spoken of that evening between Dr Thorne and his nieceexcepting Beatrice's future happiness; nothing, at least, havingreference to what had passed that morning. But on the followingmorning circumstances led to Frank Gresham's name being mentioned. At the usual breakfast-hour the doctor entered the parlour with aharassed face. He had an open letter in his hand, and it was at onceclear to Mary that he was going to speak on some subject that vexedhim. "That unfortunate fellow is again in trouble. Here is a letter fromGreyson. " Greyson was a London apothecary, who had been appointed asmedical attendant to Sir Louis Scatcherd, and whose real businessconsisted in keeping a watch on the baronet, and reporting to DrThorne when anything was very much amiss. "Here is a letter fromGreyson; he has been drunk for the last three days, and is now laidup in a terribly nervous state. " "You won't go up to town again; will you, uncle?" "I hardly know what to do. No, I think not. He talks of coming downhere to Greshamsbury. " "Who, Sir Louis?" "Yes, Sir Louis. Greyson says that he will be down as soon as he canget out of his room. " "What! to this house?" "What other house can he come to?" "Oh, uncle! I hope not. Pray, pray do not let him come here. " "I cannot prevent it, my dear. I cannot shut my door on him. " They sat down to breakfast, and Mary gave him his tea in silence. "Iam going over to Boxall Hill before dinner, " said he. "Have you anymessage to send to Lady Scatcherd?" "Message! no, I have no message; not especially: give her my love, of course, " she said listlessly. And then, as though a thought hadsuddenly struck her, she spoke with more energy. "But, couldn't I goto Boxall Hill again? I should be so delighted. " "What! to run away from Sir Louis? No, dearest, we will have no morerunning away. He will probably also go to Boxall Hill, and he couldannoy you much more there than he can here. " "But, uncle, Mr Gresham will be home on the 12th, " she said, blushing. "What! Frank?" "Yes. Beatrice said he was to be here on the 12th. " "And would you run away from him too, Mary?" "I do not know: I do not know what to do. " "No; we will have no more running away: I am sorry that you ever didso. It was my fault, altogether my fault; but it was foolish. " "Uncle, I am not happy here. " As she said this, she put down the cupwhich she had held, and, leaning her elbows on the table, rested herforehead on her hands. "And would you be happier at Boxall Hill? It is not the place makesthe happiness. " "No, I know that; it is not the place. I do not look to be happy inany place; but I should be quieter, more tranquil elsewhere thanhere. " "I also sometimes think that it will be better for us to take up ourstaves and walk away out of Greshamsbury;--leave it altogether, andsettle elsewhere; miles, miles, miles away from here. Should you likethat, dearest?" Miles, miles, miles away from Greshamsbury! There was something inthe sound that fell very cold on Mary's ears, unhappy as she was. Greshamsbury had been so dear to her; in spite of all that hadpassed, was still so dear to her! Was she prepared to take up herstaff, as her uncle said, and walk forth from the place with thefull understanding that she was to return to it no more; with a mindresolved that there should be an inseparable gulf between her and itsinhabitants? Such she knew was the proposed nature of the walkingaway of which her uncle spoke. So she sat there, resting on her arms, and gave no answer to the question that had been asked her. "No, we will stay a while yet, " said her uncle. "It may come tothat, but this is not the time. For one season longer let us face--Iwill not say our enemies; I cannot call anybody my enemy who bearsthe name of Gresham. " And then he went on for a moment with hisbreakfast. "So Frank will be here on the 12th?" "Yes, uncle. " "Well, dearest, I have no questions to ask you: no directions togive. I know how good you are, and how prudent; I am anxious only foryour happiness; not at all--" "Happiness, uncle, is out of the question. " "I hope not. It is never out of the question, never can be out of thequestion. But, as I was saying, I am quite satisfied your conductwill be good, and, therefore, I have no questions to ask. We willremain here; and, whether good or evil come, we will not be ashamedto show our faces. " She sat for a while again silent, collecting her courage on thesubject that was nearest her heart. She would have given the worldthat he should ask her questions; but she could not bid him to do so;and she found it impossible to talk openly to him about Frank unlesshe did so. "Will he come here?" at last she said, in a low-tonedvoice. "Who? He, Louis? Yes, I think that in all probability he will. " "No; but Frank, " she said, in a still lower voice. "Ah! my darling, that I cannot tell; but will it be well that heshould come here?" "I do not know, " she said. "No, I suppose not. But, uncle, I don'tthink he will come. " She was now sitting on a sofa away from the table, and he got up, satdown beside her, and took her hands in his. "Mary, " said he, "youmust be strong now; strong to endure, not to attack. I think you havethat strength; but, if not, perhaps it will be better that we shouldgo away. " "I will be strong, " said she, rising up and going towards the door. "Never mind me, uncle; don't follow me; I will be strong. It will bebase, cowardly, mean, to run away; very base in me to make you doso. " "No, dearest, not so; it will be the same to me. " "No, " said she, "I will not run away from Lady Arabella. And, as forhim--if he loves this other one, he shall hear no reproach from me. Uncle, I will be strong;" and running back to him, she threw herarms round him and kissed him. And, still restraining her tears, shegot safely to her bedroom. In what way she may there have shown herstrength, it would not be well for us to inquire. CHAPTER XXXIV A Barouche and Four Arrives at Greshamsbury During the last twelve months Sir Louis Scatcherd had been veryefficacious in bringing trouble, turmoil, and vexation uponGreshamsbury. Now that it was too late to take steps to save himself, Dr Thorne found that the will left by Sir Roger was so made as toentail upon him duties that he would find it almost impossible toperform. Sir Louis, though his father had wished to make him stilla child in the eye of the law, was no child. He knew his own rightsand was determined to exact them; and before Sir Roger had been deadthree months, the doctor found himself in continual litigation witha low Barchester attorney, who was acting on behalf of his, thedoctor's, own ward. And if the doctor suffered so did the squire, and so did those whohad hitherto had the management of the squire's affairs. Dr Thornesoon perceived that he was to be driven into litigation, not onlywith Mr Finnie, the Barchester attorney, but with the squire himself. While Finnie harassed him, he was compelled to harass Mr Gresham. Hewas no lawyer himself; and though he had been able to manage verywell between the squire and Sir Roger, and had perhaps given himselfsome credit for his lawyer-like ability in so doing, he was utterlyunable to manage between Sir Louis and Mr Gresham. He had, therefore, to employ a lawyer on his own account, and itseemed probable that the whole amount of Sir Roger's legacy tohimself would by degrees be expended in this manner. And then, thesquire's lawyers had to take up the matter; and they did so greatlyto the detriment of poor Mr Yates Umbleby, who was found to have madea mess of the affairs entrusted to him. Mr Umbleby's accounts wereincorrect; his mind was anything but clear, and he confessed, whenput to it by the very sharp gentleman that came down from London, that he was "bothered;" and so, after a while, he was suspended fromhis duties, and Mr Gazebee, the sharp gentleman from London, reignedover the diminished rent-roll of the Greshamsbury estate. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury--with the oneexception of Mr Oriel and his love-suit. Miss Gushing attributedthe deposition of Mr Umbleby to the narrowness of the victory whichBeatrice had won in carrying off Mr Oriel. For Miss Gushing was arelation of the Umblebys, and had been for many years one of theirfamily. "If she had only chosen to exert herself as Miss Gresham haddone, she could have had Mr Oriel, easily; oh, too easily! but shehad despised such work, " so she said. "But though she had despisedit, the Greshams had not been less irritated, and, therefore, MrUmbleby had been driven out of his house. " We can hardly believethis, as victory generally makes men generous. Miss Gushing, however, stated it as a fact so often that it is probable she was induced tobelieve it herself. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury, and the squirehimself was especially a sufferer. Umbleby had at any rate been hisown man, and he could do what he liked with him. He could see himwhen he liked, and where he liked, and how he liked; could scold himif in an ill-humour, and laugh at him when in a good humour. All thisMr Umbleby knew, and bore. But Mr Gazebee was a very different sortof gentleman; he was the junior partner in the firm of Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, of Mount Street, a house that never defileditself with any other business than the agency business, and that inthe very highest line. They drew out leases, and managed propertyboth for the Duke of Omnium and Lord de Courcy; and ever since hermarriage, it had been one of the objects dearest to Lady Arabella'sheart, that the Greshamsbury acres should be superintended by thepolite skill and polished legal ability of that all but elegant firmin Mount Street. The squire had long stood firm, and had delighted in havingeverything done under his own eye by poor Mr Yates Umbleby. But now, alas! he could stand it no longer. He had put off the evil day aslong as he could; he had deferred the odious work of investigationtill things had seemed resolved on investigating themselves; andthen, when it was absolutely necessary that Mr Umbleby should go, there was nothing for him left but to fall into the ready hands ofMessrs Gumption, Gazebee and Gazebee. It must not be supposed that Messrs Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebeewere in the least like the ordinary run of attorneys. They wroteno letters for six-and-eightpence each: they collected no debts, filed no bills, made no charge per folio for "whereases" and "asaforesaids;" they did no dirty work, and probably were as ignorantof the interior of a court of law as any young lady living in theirMayfair vicinity. No; their business was to manage the property ofgreat people, draw up leases, make legal assignments, get the familymarriage settlements made, and look after wills. Occasionally, also, they had to raise money; but it was generally understood that thiswas done by proxy. The firm had been going on for a hundred and fifty years, and thedesignation had often been altered; but it always consisted ofGumptions and Gazebees differently arranged, and no less hallowednames had ever been permitted to appear. It had been Gazebee, Gazebee& Gumption; then Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee, Gumption &Gumption; then Gumption, Gumption & Gazebee; and now it was Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee. Mr Gazebee, the junior member of this firm, was a very elegant youngman. While looking at him riding in Rotten Row, you would hardly havetaken him for an attorney; and had he heard that you had so takenhim, he would have been very much surprised indeed. He was ratherbald; not being, as people say, quite so young as he was once. Hisexact age was thirty-eight. But he had a really remarkable pair ofjet-black whiskers, which fully made up for any deficiency as to hishead; he had also dark eyes, and a beaked nose, what may be called adistinguished mouth, and was always dressed in fashionable attire. The fact was, that Mr Mortimer Gazebee, junior partner in the firmGumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, by no means considered himself to bemade of that very disagreeable material which mortals call smallbeer. When this great firm was applied to, to get Mr Gresham through hisdifficulties, and when the state of his affairs was made known tothem, they at first expressed rather a disinclination for the work. But at last, moved doubtless by their respect for the de Courcyinterest, they assented; and Mr Gazebee, junior, went down toGreshamsbury. The poor squire passed many a sad day after that beforehe again felt himself to be master even of his own domain. Nevertheless, when Mr Mortimer Gazebee visited Greshamsbury, whichhe did on more than one or two occasions, he was always received _engrand seigneur_. To Lady Arabella he was by no means an unwelcomeguest, for she found herself able, for the first time in her life, tospeak confidentially on her husband's pecuniary affairs with the manwho had the management of her husband's property. Mr Gazebee also wasa pet with Lady de Courcy; and being known to be a fashionable man inLondon, and quite a different sort of person from poor Mr Umbleby, he was always received with smiles. He had a hundred little ways ofmaking himself agreeable, and Augusta declared to her cousin, theLady Amelia, after having been acquainted with him for a few months, that he would be a perfect gentleman, only, that his family hadnever been anything but attorneys. The Lady Amelia smiled in her ownpeculiarly aristocratic way, shrugged her shoulders slightly, andsaid, "that Mr Mortimer Gazebee was a very good sort of a person, very. " Poor Augusta felt herself snubbed, thinking perhaps of thetailor's son; but as there was never any appeal against the LadyAmelia, she said nothing more at that moment in favour of Mr MortimerGazebee. All these evils--Mr Mortimer Gazebee being the worst of them--had SirLouis Scatcherd brought down on the poor squire's head. There may bethose who will say that the squire had brought them on himself, byrunning into debt; and so, doubtless, he had; but it was not the lesstrue that the baronet's interference was unnecessary, vexatious, andone might almost say, malicious. His interest would have been quitesafe in the doctor's hands, and he had, in fact, no legal right tomeddle; but neither the doctor nor the squire could prevent him. MrFinnie knew very well what he was about, if Sir Louis did not; andso the three went on, each with his own lawyer, and each of themdistrustful, unhappy, and ill at ease. This was hard upon the doctor, for he was not in debt, and had borrowed no money. There was not much reason to suppose that the visit of Sir Louis toGreshamsbury would much improve matters. It must be presumed that hewas not coming with any amicable views, but with the object ratherof looking after his own; a phrase which was now constantly in hismouth. He might probably find it necessary while looking after hisown at Greshamsbury, to say some very disagreeable things to thesquire; and the doctor, therefore, hardly expected that the visitwould go off pleasantly. When last we saw Sir Louis, now nearly twelve months since, hewas intent on making a proposal of marriage to Miss Thorne. Thisintention he carried out about two days after Frank Gresham had donethe same thing. He had delayed doing so till he had succeeded inpurchasing his friend Jenkins's Arab pony, imagining that such apresent could not but go far in weaning Mary's heart from her otherlover. Poor Mary was put to the trouble of refusing both the baronetand the pony, and a very bad time she had of it while doing so. SirLouis was a man easily angered, and not very easily pacified, andMary had to endure a good deal of annoyance; from any other person, indeed, she would have called it impertinence. Sir Louis, however, had to bear his rejection as best he could, and, after a perseveranceof three days, returned to London in disgust; and Mary had not seenhim since. Mr Greyson's first letter was followed by a second; and the secondwas followed by the baronet in person. He also required to bereceived _en grand seigneur_, perhaps more imperatively than MrMortimer Gazebee himself. He came with four posters from theBarchester Station, and had himself rattled up to the doctor's doorin a way that took the breath away from all Greshamsbury. Why! thesquire himself for a many long year had been contented to come homewith a pair of horses; and four were never seen in the place, exceptwhen the de Courcys came to Greshamsbury, or Lady Arabella with allher daughters returned from her hard-fought metropolitan campaigns. Sir Louis, however, came with four, and very arrogant he looked, leaning back in the barouche belonging to the George and Dragon, and wrapped up in fur, although it was now midsummer. And up in thedicky behind was a servant, more arrogant, if possible, than hismaster--the baronet's own man, who was the object of Dr Thorne'sspecial detestation and disgust. He was a little fellow, chosenoriginally on account of his light weight on horseback; but if thatmay be considered a merit, it was the only one he had. His out-doorshow dress was a little tight frock-coat, round which a polishedstrap was always buckled tightly, a stiff white choker, leatherbreeches, top-boots, and a hat, with a cockade, stuck on one sideof his head. His name was Jonah, which his master and his master'sfriends shortened into Joe; none, however, but those who were veryintimate with his master were allowed to do so with impunity. This Joe was Dr Thorne's special aversion. In his anxiety to takeevery possible step to keep Sir Louis from poisoning himself, he hadat first attempted to enlist the baronet's "own man" in the cause. Joe had promised fairly, but had betrayed the doctor at once, andhad become the worst instrument of his master's dissipation. When, therefore, his hat and the cockade were seen, as the carriage dashedup to the door, the doctor's contentment was by no means increased. Sir Louis was now twenty-three years old, and was a great deal tooknowing to allow himself to be kept under the doctor's thumb. Ithad, indeed, become his plan to rebel against his guardian in almosteverything. He had at first been decently submissive, with the viewof obtaining increased supplies of ready money; but he had been sharpenough to perceive that, let his conduct be what it would, the doctorwould keep him out of debt; but that the doing so took so large a sumthat he could not hope for any further advances. In this respect SirLouis was perhaps more keen-witted than Dr Thorne. Mary, when she saw the carriage, at once ran up to her own bedroom. The doctor, who had been with her in the drawing-room, went down tomeet his ward, but as soon as he saw the cockade he darted almostinvoluntarily into his shop and shut the door. This protection, however, lasted only for a moment; he felt that decency required himto meet his guest, and so he went forth and faced the enemy. "I say, " said Joe, speaking to Janet, who stood curtsying at thegate, with Bridget, the other maid, behind her, "I say, are thereany chaps about the place to take these things--eh? come, look sharphere. " It so happened that the doctor's groom was not on the spot, and"other chaps" the doctor had none. "Take those things, Bridget, " he said, coming forward and offeringhis hand to the baronet. Sir Louis, when he saw his host, rousedhimself slowly from the back of his carriage. "How do, doctor?" saidhe. "What terrible bad roads you have here! and, upon my word, it'sas cold as winter:" and, so saying, he slowly proceeded to descend. Sir Louis was a year older than when we last saw him, and, in hisgeneration, a year wiser. He had then been somewhat humble before thedoctor; but now he was determined to let his guardian see that heknew how to act the baronet; that he had acquired the manners of agreat man; and that he was not to be put upon. He had learnt somelessons from Jenkins, in London, and other friends of the same sort, and he was about to profit by them. The doctor showed him to his room, and then proceeded to ask afterhis health. "Oh, I'm right enough, " said Sir Louis. "You mustn'tbelieve all that fellow Greyson tells you: he wants me to take saltsand senna, opodeldoc, and all that sort of stuff; looks after hisbill, you know--eh? like all the rest of you. But I won't haveit;--not at any price; and then he writes to you. " "I'm glad to see you able to travel, " said Dr Thorne, who could notforce himself to tell his guest that he was glad to see him atGreshamsbury. "Oh, travel; yes, I can travel well enough. But I wish you had somebetter sort of trap down in these country parts. I'm shaken to bits. And, doctor, would you tell your people to send that fellow of mineup here with hot water. " So dismissed, the doctor went his way, and met Joe swaggering in oneof the passages, while Janet and her colleague dragged along betweenthem a heavy article of baggage. "Janet, " said he, "go downstairs and get Sir Louis some hot water, and Joe, do you take hold of your master's portmanteau. " Joe sulkily did as he was bid. "Seems to me, " said he, turning tothe girl, and speaking before the doctor was out of hearing, "seemsto me, my dear, you be rather short-handed here; lots of work andnothing to get; that's about the ticket, ain't it?" Bridget was toodemurely modest to make any answer upon so short an acquaintance; so, putting her end of the burden down at the strange gentleman's door, she retreated into the kitchen. Sir Louis, in answer to the doctor's inquiries, had declared himselfto be all right; but his appearance was anything but all right. Twelve months since, a life of dissipation, or rather, perhaps, alife of drinking, had not had upon him so strong an effect but thatsome of the salt of youth was still left; some of the freshness ofyoung years might still be seen in his face. But this was now allgone; his eyes were sunken and watery, his cheeks were hollow andwan, his mouth was drawn and his lips dry; his back was even bent, and his legs were unsteady under him, so that he had been forced tostep down from his carriage as an old man would do. Alas, alas! hehad no further chance now of ever being all right again. Mary had secluded herself in her bedroom as soon as the carriage haddriven up to the door, and there she remained till dinner-time. Butshe could not shut herself up altogether. It would be necessary thatshe should appear at dinner; and, therefore, a few minutes before thehour, she crept out into the drawing-room. As she opened the door, she looked in timidly, expecting Sir Louis to be there; but whenshe saw that her uncle was the only occupant of the room, her browcleared, and she entered with a quick step. "He'll come down to dinner; won't he, uncle?" "Oh, I suppose so. " "What's he doing now?" "Dressing, I suppose; he's been at it this hour. " "But, uncle--" "Well?" "Will he come up after dinner, do you think?" Mary spoke of him as though he were some wild beast, whom her uncleinsisted on having in his house. "Goodness knows what he will do! Come up? Yes. He will not stay inthe dining-room all night. " "But, dear uncle, do be serious. " "Serious!" "Yes; serious. Don't you think that I might go to bed, instead ofwaiting?" The doctor was saved the trouble of answering by the entrance of thebaronet. He was dressed in what he considered the most fashionablestyle of the day. He had on a new dress-coat lined with satin, new dress-trousers, a silk waistcoat covered with chains, a whitecravat, polished pumps, and silk stockings, and he carried a scentedhandkerchief in his hand; he had rings on his fingers, and carbunclestuds in his shirt, and he smelt as sweet as patchouli could makehim. But he could hardly do more than shuffle into the room, andseemed almost to drag one of his legs behind him. Mary, in spite of her aversion, was shocked and distressed when shesaw him. He, however, seemed to think himself perfect, and was nowhit abashed by the unfavourable reception which twelve months sincehad been paid to his suit. Mary came up and shook hands with him, andhe received her with a compliment which no doubt he thought must beacceptable. "Upon my word, Miss Thorne, every place seems to agreewith you; one better than another. You were looking charming atBoxall Hill; but, upon my word, charming isn't half strong enoughnow. " Mary sat down quietly, and the doctor assumed a face of unutterabledisgust. This was the creature for whom all his sympathies had beendemanded, all his best energies put in requisition; on whose behalfhe was to quarrel with his oldest friends, lose his peace andquietness of life, and exercise all the functions of a loving friend!This was his self-invited guest, whom he was bound to foster, andwhom he could not turn from his door. Then dinner came, and Mary had to put her hand upon his arm. Shecertainly did not lean upon him, and once or twice felt inclined togive him some support. They reached the dining-room, however, thedoctor following them, and then sat down, Janet waiting in the room, as was usual. "I say, doctor, " said the baronet, "hadn't my man better come inand help? He's got nothing to do, you know. We should be more cosy, shouldn't we?" "Janet will manage pretty well, " said the doctor. "Oh, you'd better have Joe; there's nothing like a good servant attable. I say, Janet, just send that fellow in, will you?" "We shall do very well without him, " said the doctor, becoming ratherred about the cheek-bones, and with a slight gleam of determinationabout the eye. Janet, who saw how matters stood, made no attempt toobey the baronet's order. "Oh, nonsense, doctor; you think he's an uppish sort of fellow, Iknow, and you don't like to trouble him; but when I'm near him, he'sall right; just send him in, will you?" "Sir Louis, " said the doctor, "I'm accustomed to none but my own oldwoman here in my own house, and if you will allow me, I'll keep myold ways. I shall be sorry if you are not comfortable. " The baronetsaid nothing more, and the dinner passed off slowly and wearilyenough. When Mary had eaten her fruit and escaped, the doctor got into onearm-chair and the baronet into another, and the latter began the onlywork of existence of which he knew anything. "That's good port, " said he; "very fair port. " The doctor loved his port wine, and thawed a little in his manner. Heloved it not as a toper, but as a collector loves his pet pictures. He liked to talk about it, and think about it; to praise it, and hearit praised; to look at it turned towards the light, and to count overthe years it had lain in his cellar. "Yes, " said he, "it's pretty fair wine. It was, at least, when I gotit, twenty years ago, and I don't suppose time has hurt it;" and heheld the glass up to the window, and looked at the evening lightthrough the ruby tint of the liquid. "Ah, dear, there's not much ofit left; more's the pity. " "A good thing won't last for ever. I'll tell you what now; I wishI'd brought down a dozen or two of claret. I've some prime stuff inLondon; got it from Muzzle & Drug, at ninety-six shillings; it wasa great favour, though. I'll tell you what now, I'll send up for acouple of dozen to-morrow. I mustn't drink you out of house, high anddry; must I, doctor?" The doctor froze immediately. "I don't think I need trouble you, " said he; "I never drink claret, at least not here; and there's enough of the old bin left to lastsome little time longer yet. " Sir Louis drank two or three glasses of wine very quickly after eachother, and they immediately began to tell upon his weak stomach. Butbefore he was tipsy, he became more impudent and more disagreeable. "Doctor, " said he, "when are we to see any of this Greshamsburymoney? That's what I want to know. " "Your money is quite safe, Sir Louis; and the interest is paid to theday. " "Interest, yes; but how do I know how long it will be paid? I shouldlike to see the principal. A hundred thousand pounds, or somethinglike it, is a precious large stake to have in one man's hands, and hepreciously hard up himself. I'll tell you what, doctor--I shall lookthe squire up myself. " "Look him up?" "Yes; look him up; ferret him out; tell him a bit of my mind. I'llthank you to pass the bottle. D---- me doctor; I mean to know howthings are going on. " "Your money is quite safe, " repeated the doctor, "and, to my mind, could not be better invested. " "That's all very well; d---- well, I dare say, for you and SquireGresham--" "What do you mean, Sir Louis?" "Mean! why I mean that I'll sell the squire up; that's what Imean--hallo--beg pardon. I'm blessed if I haven't broken thewater-jug. That comes of having water on the table. Oh, d---- me, it's all over me. " And then, getting up, to avoid the flood hehimself had caused, he nearly fell into the doctor's arms. "You're tired with your journey, Sir Louis; perhaps you'd better goto bed. " "Well, I am a bit seedy or so. Those cursed roads of yours shake afellow so. " The doctor rang the bell, and, on this occasion, did request that Joemight be sent for. Joe came in, and, though he was much steadier thanhis master, looked as though he also had found some bin of which hehad approved. "Sir Louis wishes to go to bed, " said the doctor; "you had bettergive him your arm. " "Oh, yes; in course I will, " said Joe, standing immoveable abouthalf-way between the door and the table. "I'll just take one more glass of the old port--eh, doctor?" said SirLouis, putting out his hand and clutching the decanter. It is very hard for any man to deny his guest in his own house, andthe doctor, at the moment, did not know how to do it; so Sir Louisgot his wine, after pouring half of it over the table. "Come in, sir, and give Sir Louis your arm, " said the doctor, angrily. "So I will in course, if my master tells me; but, if you please, DrThorne, "--and Joe put his hand up to his hair in a manner that agreat deal more of impudence than reverence in it--"I just want to axone question: where be I to sleep?" Now this was a question which the doctor was not prepared to answeron the spur of the moment, however well Janet or Mary might have beenable to do so. "Sleep, " said he, "I don't know where you are to sleep, and don'tcare; ask Janet. " "That's all very well, master--" "Hold your tongue, sirrah!" said Sir Louis. "What the devil do youwant of sleep?--come here, " and then, with his servant's help, hemade his way up to his bedroom, and was no more heard of that night. "Did he get tipsy, " asked Mary, almost in a whisper, when her unclejoined her in the drawing-room. "Don't talk of it, " said he. "Poor wretch! poor wretch! Let'shave some tea now, Molly, and pray don't talk any more about himto-night. " Then Mary did make the tea, and did not talk any moreabout Sir Louis that night. What on earth were they to do with him? He had come thereself-invited; but his connexion with the doctor was such, that itwas impossible he should be told to go away, either he himself, orthat servant of his. There was no reason to disbelieve him when hedeclared that he had come down to ferret out the squire. Such was, doubtless, his intention. He would ferret out the squire. Perhaps hemight ferret out Lady Arabella also. Frank would be home in a fewdays; and he, too, might be ferreted out. But the matter took a very singular turn, and one quite unexpectedon the doctor's part. On the morning following the little dinner ofwhich we have spoken, one of the Greshamsbury grooms rode up to thedoctor's door with two notes. One was addressed to the doctor in thesquire's well-known large handwriting, and the other was for SirLouis. Each contained an invitation do dinner for the following day;and that to the doctor was in this wise:-- DEAR DOCTOR, Do come and dine here to-morrow, and bring Sir Louis Scatcherd with you. If you're the man I take you to be, you won't refuse me. Lady Arabella sends a note for Sir Louis. There will be nobody here but Oriel, and Mr Gazebee, who is staying in the house. Yours ever, F. N. GRESHAM. Greshamsbury, July, 185--. P. S. --I make a positive request that you'll come, and I think you will hardly refuse me. The doctor read it twice before he could believe it, and then orderedJanet to take the other note up to Sir Louis. As these invitationswere rather in opposition to the then existing Greshamsbury tactics, the cause of Lady Arabella's special civility must be explained. Mr Mortimer Gazebee was now at the house, and therefore, it mustbe presumed, that things were not allowed to go on after their oldfashion. Mr Gazebee was an acute as well as a fashionable man; onewho knew what he was about, and who, moreover, had determined to givehis very best efforts on behalf of the Greshamsbury property. Hisenergy, in this respect, will explain itself hereafter. It was notprobable that the arrival in the village of such a person as SirLouis Scatcherd should escape attention. He had heard of it beforedinner, and, before the evening was over, had discussed it with LadyArabella. Her ladyship was not at first inclined to make much of Sir Louis, andexpressed herself as but little inclined to agree with Mr Gazebeewhen that gentleman suggested that he should be treated with civilityat Greshamsbury. But she was at last talked over. She found itpleasant enough to have more to do with the secret management of theestate than Mr Gresham himself; and when Mr Gazebee proved to her, by sundry nods and winks, and subtle allusions to her own infinitegood sense, that it was necessary to catch this obscene bird whichhad come to prey upon the estate, by throwing a little salt upon histail, she also nodded and winked, and directed Augusta to prepare thesalt according to order. "But won't it be odd, Mr Gazebee, asking him out of Dr Thorne'shouse?" "Oh, we must have the doctor, too, Lady Arabella; by all means askthe doctor also. " Lady Arabella's brow grew dark. "Mr Gazebee, " she said, "you canhardly believe how that man has behaved to me. " "He is altogether beneath your anger, " said Mr Gazebee, with a bow. "I don't know: in one way he may be, but not in another. I really donot think I can sit down to table with Doctor Thorne. " But, nevertheless, Mr Gazebee gained his point. It was now about aweek since Sir Omicron Pie had been at Greshamsbury, and the squirehad, almost daily, spoken to his wife as to that learned man'sadvice. Lady Arabella always answered in the same tone: "You canhardly know, Mr Gresham, how that man has insulted me. " But, nevertheless, the physician's advice had not been disbelieved: ittallied too well with her own inward convictions. She was anxiousenough to have Doctor Thorne back at her bedside, if she could onlyget him there without damage to her pride. Her husband, she thought, might probably send the doctor there without absolute permission fromherself; in which case she would have been able to scold, and showthat she was offended; and, at the same time, profit by what had beendone. But Mr Gresham never thought of taking so violent a step asthis, and, therefore, Dr Fillgrave still came, and her ladyship's_finesse_ was wasted in vain. But Mr Gazebee's proposition opened a door by which her point mightbe gained. "Well, " said she, at last, with infinite self-denial, "ifyou think it is for Mr Gresham's advantage, and if he chooses to askDr Thorne, I will not refuse to receive him. " Mr Gazebee's next task was to discuss the matter with the squire. Norwas this easy, for Mr Gazebee was no favourite with Mr Gresham. Butthe task was at last performed successfully. Mr Gresham was so gladat heart to find himself able, once more, to ask his old friend tohis own house; and, though it would have pleased him better that thissign of relenting on his wife's part should have reached him by othermeans, he did not refuse to take advantage of it; and so he wrote theabove letter to Dr Thorne. The doctor, as we have said, read it twice; and he at once resolvedstoutly that he would not go. "Oh, do, do go!" said Mary. She well knew how wretched this feud hadmade her uncle. "Pray, pray go!" "Indeed, I will not, " said he. "There are some things a man shouldbear, and some he should not. " "You must go, " said Mary, who had taken the note from her uncle'shand, and read it. "You cannot refuse him when he asks you likethat. " "It will greatly grieve me; but I must refuse him. " "I also am angry, uncle; very angry with Lady Arabella; but for him, for the squire, I would go to him on my knees if he asked me in thatway. " "Yes; and had he asked you, I also would have gone. " "Oh! now I shall be so wretched. It is his invitation, not hers: MrGresham could not ask me. As for her, do not think of her; but do, dogo when he asks you like that. You will make me so miserable if youdo not. And then Sir Louis cannot go without you, "--and Mary pointedupstairs--"and you may be sure that he will go. " "Yes; and make a beast of himself. " This colloquy was cut short by a message praying the doctor to go upto Sir Louis's room. The young man was sitting in his dressing-gown, drinking a cup of coffee at his toilet-table, while Joe was preparinghis razor and hot water. The doctor's nose immediately told himthat there was more in the coffee-cup than had come out of his ownkitchen, and he would not let the offence pass unnoticed. "Are you taking brandy this morning, Sir Louis?" "Just a little _chasse-café_, " said he, not exactly understandingthe word he used. "It's all the go now; and a capital thing for thestomach. " "It's not a capital thing for your stomach;--about the least capitalthing you can take; that is, if you wish to live. " "Never mind about that now, doctor, but look here. This is what wecall the civil thing--eh?" and he showed the Greshamsbury note. "Notbut what they have an object, of course. I understand all that. Lotsof girls there--eh?" The doctor took the note and read it. "It is civil, " said he; "verycivil. " "Well; I shall go, of course. I don't bear malice because he can'tpay me the money he owes me. I'll eat his dinner, and look at thegirls. Have you an invite too, doctor?" "Yes; I have. " "And you'll go?" "I think not; but that need not deter you. But, Sir Louis--" "Well! eh! what is it?" "Step downstairs a moment, " said the doctor, turning to the servant, "and wait till you are called for. I wish to speak to your master. "Joe, for a moment, looked up at the baronet's face, as though hewanted but the slightest encouragement to disobey the doctor'sorders; but not seeing it, he slowly retired, and placed himself, ofcourse, at the keyhole. And then, the doctor began a long and very useless lecture. The firstobject of it was to induce his ward not to get drunk at Greshamsbury;but having got so far, he went on, and did succeed in frighteninghis unhappy guest. Sir Louis did not possess the iron nerves ofhis father--nerves which even brandy had not been able to subdue. The doctor spoke strongly, very strongly; spoke of quick, almostimmediate death in case of further excesses; spoke to him of thecertainty there would be that he could not live to dispose of his ownproperty if he could not refrain. And thus he did frighten Sir Louis. The father he had never been able to frighten. But there are menwho, though they fear death hugely, fear present suffering more;who, indeed, will not bear a moment of pain if there by any mode ofescape. Sir Louis was such: he had no strength of nerve, no courage, no ability to make a resolution and keep it. He promised the doctorthat he would refrain; and, as he did so, he swallowed down his cupof coffee and brandy, in which the two articles bore about equalproportions. The doctor did, at last, make up his mind to go. Whichever way hedetermined, he found that he was not contented with himself. He didnot like to trust Sir Louis by himself, and he did not like to showthat he was angry. Still less did he like the idea of breaking breadin Lady Arabella's house till some amends had been made to Mary. Buthis heart would not allow him to refuse the petition contained inthe squire's postscript, and the matter ended in his accepting theinvitation. This visit of his ward's was, in every way, pernicious to the doctor. He could not go about his business, fearing to leave such a man alonewith Mary. On the afternoon of the second day, she escaped to theparsonage for an hour or so, and then walked away among the lanes, calling on some of her old friends among the farmers' wives. But eventhen, the doctor was afraid to leave Sir Louis. What could such aman do, left alone in a village like Greshamsbury? So he stayed athome, and the two together went over their accounts. The baronet wasparticular about his accounts, and said a good deal as to havingFinnie over to Greshamsbury. To this, however, Dr Thorne positivelyrefused his consent. The evening passed off better than the preceding one; at least theearly part of it. Sir Louis did not get tipsy; he came up to tea, andMary, who did not feel so keenly on the subject as her uncle, almostwished that he had done so. At ten o'clock he went to bed. But after that new troubles came on. The doctor had gone downstairsinto his study to make up some of the time which he had lost, andhad just seated himself at his desk, when Janet, without announcingherself, burst into the room; and Bridget, dissolved in hystericaltears, with her apron to her eyes, appeared behind the seniordomestic. "Please, sir, " said Janet, driven by excitement much beyond herusual pace of speaking, and becoming unintentionally a little lessrespectful than usual, "please sir, that 'ere young man must go outof this here house; or else no respectable young 'ooman can't stophere; no, indeed, sir; and we be sorry to trouble you, Dr Thorne; sowe be. " "What young man? Sir Louis?" asked the doctor. "Oh, no! he abides mostly in bed, and don't do nothing amiss; leastway not to us. 'Tan't him, sir; but his man. " "Man!" sobbed Bridget from behind. "He an't no man, nor nothinglike a man. If Tummas had been here, he wouldn't have dared; so hewouldn't. " Thomas was the groom, and, if all Greshamsbury reportswere true, it was probable, that on some happy, future day, Thomasand Bridget would become one flesh and one bone. "Please sir, " continued Janet, "there'll be bad work here if that'ere young man doesn't quit this here house this very night, and I'msorry to trouble you, doctor; and so I am. But Tom, he be given tofight a'most for nothin'. He's hout now; but if that there young manbe's here when Tom comes home, Tom will be punching his head; I knowhe will. " "He wouldn't stand by and see a poor girl put upon; no more hewouldn't, " said Bridget, through her tears. After many futile inquiries, the doctor ascertained that Mr Jonah hadexpressed some admiration for Bridget's youthful charms, and had, inthe absence of Janet, thrown himself at the lady's feet in a mannerwhich had not been altogether pleasing to her. She had defendedherself stoutly and loudly, and in the middle of the row Janet hadcome down. "And where is he now?" said the doctor. "Why, sir, " said Janet, "the poor girl was so put about that she didgive him one touch across the face with the rolling-pin, and he beall bloody now, in the back kitchen. " At hearing this achievement ofhers thus spoken of, Bridget sobbed more hysterically than ever; butthe doctor, looking at her arm as she held her apron to her face, thought in his heart that Joe must have had so much the worst of it, that there could be no possible need for the interference of Thomasthe groom. And such turned out to be the case. The bridge of Joe's nose wasbroken; and the doctor had to set it for him in a little bedroom atthe village public-house, Bridget having positively refused to go tobed in the same house with so dreadful a character. "Quiet now, or I'll be serving thee the same way; thee see I've foundthe trick of it. " The doctor could not but hear so much as he madehis way into his own house by the back door, after finishing hissurgical operation. Bridget was recounting to her champion the fracasthat had occurred; and he, as was so natural, was expressing hisadmiration at her valour. CHAPTER XXXV Sir Louis Goes Out to Dinner The next day Joe did not make his appearance, and Sir Louis, withmany execrations, was driven to the terrible necessity of dressinghimself. Then came an unexpected difficulty: how were they to get upto the house? Walking out to dinner, though it was merely throughthe village and up the avenue, seemed to Sir Louis to be a thingimpossible. Indeed, he was not well able to walk at all, andpositively declared that he should never be able to make his way overthe gravel in pumps. His mother would not have thought half as muchof walking from Boxall Hill to Greshamsbury and back again. At last, the one village fly was sent for, and the matter was arranged. When they reached the house, it was easy to see that there was someunwonted bustle. In the drawing-room there was no one but Mr MortimerGazebee, who introduced himself to them both. Sir Louis, who knewthat he was only an attorney, did not take much notice of him, butthe doctor entered into conversation. "Have you heard that Mr Gresham has come home?" said Mr Gazebee. "Mr Gresham! I did not know that he had been away. " "Mr Gresham, junior, I mean. " No, indeed; the doctor had not heard. Frank had returned unexpectedly just before dinner, and he was nowundergoing his father's smiles, his mother's embraces, and hissisters' questions. "Quite unexpectedly, " said Mr Gazebee. "I don't know what has broughthim back before his time. I suppose he found London too hot. " "Deuced hot, " said the baronet. "I found it so, at least. I don'tknow what keeps men in London when it's so hot; except those fellowswho have business to do: they're paid for it. " Mr Mortimer Gazebee looked at him. He was managing an estate whichowed Sir Louis an enormous sum of money, and, therefore, he could notafford to despise the baronet; but he thought to himself, what a veryabject fellow the man would be if he were not a baronet, and had nota large fortune! And then the squire came in. His broad, honest face was covered witha smile when he saw the doctor. "Thorne, " he said, almost in a whisper, "you're the best fellowbreathing; I have hardly deserved this. " The doctor, as he took hisold friend's hand, could not but be glad that he had followed Mary'scounsel. "So Frank has come home?" "Oh, yes; quite unexpectedly. He was to have stayed a week longer inLondon. You would hardly know him if you met him. Sir Louis, I begyour pardon. " And the squire went up to his other guest, who hadremained somewhat sullenly standing in one corner of the room. He wasthe man of highest rank present, or to be present, and he expected tobe treated as such. "I am happy to have the pleasure of making your acquaintance, Mr Gresham, " said the baronet, intending to be very courteous. "Though we have not met before, I very often see your name in myaccounts--ha! ha! ha!" and Sir Louis laughed as though he had saidsomething very good. The meeting between Lady Arabella and the doctor was ratherdistressing to the former; but she managed to get over it. She shookhands with him graciously, and said that it was a fine day. Thedoctor said that it was fine, only perhaps a little rainy. And thenthey went into different parts of the room. When Frank came in, the doctor hardly did know him. His hair wasdarker than it had been, and so was his complexion; but his chiefdisguise was in a long silken beard, which hung down over his cravat. The doctor had hitherto not been much in favour of long beards, buthe could not deny that Frank looked very well with the appendage. "Oh, doctor, I am so delighted to find you here, " said he, coming upto him; "so very, very glad:" and, taking the doctor's arm, he ledhim away into a window, where they were alone. "And how is Mary?"said he, almost in a whisper. "Oh, I wish she were here! But, doctor, it shall all come in time. But tell me, doctor, there is no newsabout her, is there?" "News--what news?" "Oh, well; no news is good news: you will give her my love, won'tyou?" The doctor said that he would. What else could he say? It appearedquite clear to him that some of Mary's fears were groundless. Frank was again very much altered. It has been said, that thoughhe was a boy at twenty-one, he was a man at twenty-two. But now, at twenty-three, he appeared to be almost a man of the world. Hismanners were easy, his voice under his control, and words were at hiscommand: he was no longer either shy or noisy; but, perhaps, was opento the charge of seeming, at least, to be too conscious of his ownmerits. He was, indeed, very handsome; tall, manly, and powerfullybuilt, his form was such as women's eyes have ever loved to lookupon. "Ah, if he would but marry money!" said Lady Arabella toherself, taken up by a mother's natural admiration for her son. Hissisters clung round him before dinner, all talking to him at once. How proud a family of girls are of one, big, tall, burly brother! "You don't mean to tell me, Frank, that you are going to eat soupwith that beard?" said the squire, when they were seated round thetable. He had not ceased to rally his son as to this patriarchaladornment; but, nevertheless, any one could have seen, with half aneye, that he was as proud of it as were the others. "Don't I, sir? All I require is a relay of napkins for every course:"and he went to work, covering it with every spoonful, as men withbeards always do. "Well, if you like it!" said the squire, shrugging his shoulders. "But I do like it, " said Frank. "Oh, papa, you wouldn't have him cut it off, " said one of the twins. "It is so handsome. " "I should like to work it into a chair-back instead of floss-silk, "said the other twin. "Thank'ee, Sophy; I'll remember you for that. " "Doesn't it look nice, and grand, and patriarchal?" said Beatrice, turning to her neighbour. "Patriarchal, certainly, " said Mr Oriel. "I should grow one myself ifI had not the fear of the archbishop before my eyes. " What was next said to him was in a whisper, audible only to himself. "Doctor, did you know Wildman of the 9th. He was left as surgeon atScutari for two years. Why, my beard to his is only a little down. " "A little way down, you mean, " said Mr Gazebee. "Yes, " said Frank, resolutely set against laughing at Mr Gazebee'spun. "Why, his beard descends to his ankles, and he is obliged to tieit in a bag at night, because his feet get entangled in it when he isasleep!" "Oh, Frank!" said one of the girls. This was all very well for the squire, and Lady Arabella, and thegirls. They were all delighted to praise Frank, and talk about him. Neither did it come amiss to Mr Oriel and the doctor, who had both apersonal interest in the young hero. But Sir Louis did not like itat all. He was the only baronet in the room, and yet nobody took anynotice of him. He was seated in the post of honour, next to LadyArabella; but even Lady Arabella seemed to think more of her ownson than of him. Seeing how he was ill-used, he meditated revenge;but not the less did it behove him to make some effort to attractattention. "Was your ladyship long in London, this season?" said he. Lady Arabella had not been in London at all this year, and itwas a sore subject with her. "No, " said she, very graciously;"circumstances have kept us at home. " Sir Louis only understood one description of "circumstances. "Circumstances, in his idea, meant the want of money, and heimmediately took Lady Arabella's speech as a confession of poverty. "Ah, indeed! I am very sorry for that; that must be very distressingto a person like your ladyship. But things are mending, perhaps?" Lady Arabella did not in the least understand him. "Mending!" shesaid, in her peculiar tone of aristocratic indifference; and thenturned to Mr Gazebee, who was on the other side of her. Sir Louis was not going to stand this. He was the first man in theroom, and he knew his own importance. It was not to be borne thatLady Arabella should turn to talk to a dirty attorney, and leave him, a baronet, to eat his dinner without notice. If nothing else wouldmove her, he would let her know who was the real owner of theGreshamsbury title-deeds. "I think I saw your ladyship out to-day, taking a ride. " LadyArabella had driven through the village in her pony-chair. "I never ride, " said she, turning her head for one moment from MrGazebee. "In the one-horse carriage, I mean, my lady. I was delighted with theway you whipped him up round the corner. " Whipped him up round the corner! Lady Arabella could make no answerto this; so she went on talking to Mr Gazebee. Sir Louis, repulsed, but not vanquished--resolved not to be vanquished by any LadyArabella--turned his attention to his plate for a minute or two, andthen recommenced. "The honour of a glass of wine with you, Lady Arabella, " said he. "I never take wine at dinner, " said Lady Arabella. The man wasbecoming intolerable to her, and she was beginning to fear that itwould be necessary for her to fly the room to get rid of him. The baronet was again silent for a moment; but he was determined notto be put down. "This is a nice-looking country about her, " said he. "Yes; very nice, " said Mr Gazebee, endeavouring to relieve the ladyof the mansion. "I hardly know which I like best; this, or my own place at BoxallHill. You have the advantage here in trees, and those sort of things. But, as to the house, why, my box there is very comfortable, very. You'd hardly know the place now, Lady Arabella, if you haven't seenit since my governor bought it. How much do you think he spent aboutthe house and grounds, pineries included, you know, and those sort ofthings?" Lady Arabella shook her head. "Now guess, my lady, " said he. But it was not to be supposed thatLady Arabella should guess on such a subject. "I never guess, " said she, with a look of ineffable disgust. "What do you say, Mr Gazebee?" "Perhaps a hundred thousand pounds. " "What! for a house! You can't know much about money, nor yet aboutbuilding, I think, Mr Gazebee. " "Not much, " said Mr Gazebee, "as to such magnificent places as BoxallHill. " "Well, my lady, if you won't guess, I'll tell you. It cost twenty-twothousand four hundred and nineteen pounds four shillings andeightpence. I've all the accounts exact. Now, that's a tidy lot ofmoney for a house for a man to live in. " Sir Louis spoke this in a loud tone, which at least commanded theattention of the table. Lady Arabella, vanquished, bowed her head, and said that it was a large sum; Mr Gazebee went on sedulouslyeating his dinner; the squire was struck momentarily dumb in themiddle of a long chat with the doctor; even Mr Oriel ceased towhisper; and the girls opened their eyes with astonishment. Beforethe end of his speech, Sir Louis's voice had become very loud. "Yes, indeed, " said Frank; "a very tidy lot of money. I'd havegenerously dropped the four and eightpence if I'd been thearchitect. " "It wasn't all one bill; but that's the tot. I can show the bills:"and Sir Louis, well pleased with his triumph, swallowed a glass ofwine. Almost immediately after the cloth was removed, Lady Arabellaescaped, and the gentlemen clustered together. Sir Louis foundhimself next to Mr Oriel, and began to make himself agreeable. "A very nice girl, Miss Beatrice; very nice. " Now Mr Oriel was a modest man, and, when thus addressed as to hisfuture wife, found it difficult to make any reply. "You parsons always have your own luck, " said Sir Louis. "You get allthe beauty, and generally all the money, too. Not much of the latterin this case, though--eh?" Mr Oriel was dumbfounded. He had never said a word to any creature asto Beatrice's dowry; and when Mr Gresham had told him, with sorrow, that his daughter's portion must be small, he had at once passed awayfrom the subject as one that was hardly fit for conversation, evenbetween him and his future father-in-law; and now he was abruptlyquestioned on the subject by a man he had never before seen in hislife. Of course, he could make no answer. "The squire has muddled his matters most uncommonly, " continued SirLouis, filling his glass for the second time before he passed thebottle. "What do you suppose now he owes me alone; just at one lump, you know?" Mr Oriel had nothing for it but to run. He could make no answer, norwould he sit there to hear tidings as to Mr Gresham's embarrassments. So he fairly retreated, without having said one word to hisneighbour, finding such discretion to be the only kind of valour leftto him. "What, Oriel! off already?" said the squire. "Anything the matter?" "Oh, no; nothing particular. I'm not just quite--I think I'll go outfor a few minutes. " "See what it is to be in love, " said the squire, half-whispering toDr Thorne. "You're not in the same way, I hope?" Sir Louis then shifted his seat again, and found himself next toFrank. Mr Gazebee was opposite to him, and the doctor opposite toFrank. "Parson seems peekish, I think, " said the baronet. "Peekish?" said the squire, inquisitively. "Rather down on his luck. He's decently well off himself, isn't he?" There was another pause, and nobody seemed inclined to answer thequestion. "I mean, he's got something more than his bare living. " "Oh, yes, " said Frank, laughing. "He's got what will buy him breadand cheese when the Rads shut up the Church:--unless, indeed, theyshut up the Funds too. " "Ah, there's nothing like land, " said Sir Louis: "nothing like thedirty acres; is there, squire?" "Land is a very good investment, certainly, " said the Mr Gresham. "The best going, " said the other, who was now, as people say whenthey mean to be good-natured, slightly under the influence of liquor. "The best going--eh, Gazebee?" Mr Gazebee gathered himself up, and turned away his head, looking outof the window. "You lawyers never like to give an opinion without money, ha! ha! ha!Do they, Mr Gresham? You and I have had to pay for plenty of them, and will have to pay for plenty more before they let us alone. " Here Mr Gazebee got up, and followed Mr Oriel out of the room. He wasnot, of course, on such intimate terms in the house as was Mr Oriel;but he hoped to be forgiven by the ladies in consequence of theseverity of the miseries to which he was subjected. He and Mr Orielwere soon to be seen through the dining-room window, walking aboutthe grounds with the two eldest Miss Greshams. And Patience Oriel, who had also been of the party, was also to be seen with the twins. Frank looked at his father with almost a malicious smile, and beganto think that he too might be better employed out among the walks. Did he think then of a former summer evening, when he had half brokenMary's heart by walking there too lovingly with Patience Oriel? Sir Louis, if he continued his brilliant career of success, wouldsoon be left the cock of the walk. The squire, to be sure, couldnot bolt, nor could the doctor very well; but they might be equallyvanquished, remaining there in their chairs. Dr Thorne, during allthis time, was sitting with tingling ears. Indeed, it may be saidthat his whole body tingled. He was in a manner responsible for thishorrid scene; but what could he do to stop it? He could not take SirLouis up bodily and carry him away. One idea did occur to him. Thefly had been ordered for ten o'clock. He could rush out and send forit instantly. "You're not going to leave me?" said the squire, in a voice ofhorror, as he saw the doctor rising from his chair. "Oh, no, no, no, " said the doctor; and then he whispered the purposeof his mission. "I will be back in two minutes. " The doctor wouldhave given twenty pounds to have closed the scene at once; but he wasnot the man to desert his friend in such a strait as that. "He's a well-meaning fellow, the doctor, " said Sir Louis, when hisguardian was out of the room, "very; but he's not up to trap--not atall. " "Up to trap--well, I should say he was; that is, if I know what trapmeans, " said Frank. "Ah, but that's just the ticket. Do you know? Now I say Dr Thorne'snot a man of the world. " "He's about the best man I know, or ever heard of, " said the squire. "And if any man ever had a good friend, you have got one in him; andso have I:" and the squire silently drank the doctor's health. "All very true, I dare say; but yet he's not up to trap. Now lookhere, squire--" "If you don't mind, sir, " said Frank, "I've got something veryparticular--perhaps, however--" "Stay till Thorne returns, Frank. " Frank did stay till Thorne returned, and then escaped. "Excuse me, doctor, " said he, "but I've something very particular tosay; I'll explain to-morrow. " And then the three were left alone. Sir Louis was now becoming almost drunk, and was knocking his wordstogether. The squire had already attempted to stop the bottle; butthe baronet had contrived to get hold of a modicum of Madeira, andthere was no preventing him from helping himself; at least, none atthat moment. "As we were saying about lawyers, " continued Sir Louis. "Let's see, what were we saying? Why, squire, it's just here. Those fellows willfleece us both if we don't mind what we are after. " "Never mind about lawyers now, " said Dr Thorne, angrily. "Ah, but I do mind; most particularly. That's all very well for you, doctor; you've nothing to lose. You've no great stake in the matter. Why, now, what sum of money of mine do you think those d---- doctorsare handling?" "D---- doctors!" said the squire in a tone of dismay. "Lawyers, I mean, of course. Why, now, Gresham; we're all tottednow, you see; you're down in my books, I take it, for pretty near ahundred thousand pounds. " "Hold your tongue, sir, " said the doctor, getting up. "Hold my tongue!" said Sir Louis. "Sir Louis Scatcherd, " said the squire, slowly rising from his chair, "we will not, if you please, talk about business at the presentmoment. Perhaps we had better go to the ladies. " This latter proposition had certainly not come from the squire'sheart: going to the ladies was the very last thing for which SirLouis was now fit. But the squire had said it as being the onlyrecognised formal way he could think of for breaking up thesymposium. "Oh, very well, " hiccupped the baronet, "I'm always ready for theladies, " and he stretched out his hand to the decanter to get a lastglass of Madeira. "No, " said the doctor, rising stoutly, and speaking with a determinedvoice. "No; you will have no more wine:" and he took the decanterfrom him. "What's all this about?" said Sir Louis, with a drunken laugh. "Of course he cannot go into the drawing-room, Mr Gresham. If youwill leave him here with me, I will stay with him till the flycomes. Pray tell Lady Arabella from me, how sorry I am that this hasoccurred. " The squire would not leave his friend, and they sat together till thefly came. It was not long, for the doctor had dispatched hismessenger with much haste. "I am so heartily ashamed of myself, " said the doctor, almost withtears. The squire took him by the hand affectionately. "I've seen a tipsyman before to-night, " said he. "Yes, " said the doctor, "and so have I, but--" He did not express therest of his thoughts. CHAPTER XXXVI Will He Come Again? Long before the doctor returned home after the little dinner-partyabove described, Mary had learnt that Frank was already atGreshamsbury. She had heard nothing of him or from him, not a word, nothing in the shape of a message, for twelve months; and at her agetwelve months is a long period. Would he come and see her in spite ofhis mother? Would he send her any tidings of his return, or noticeher in any way? If he did not, what would she do? and if he did, whatthen would she do? It was so hard to resolve; so hard to be deserted;and so hard to dare to wish that she might not be deserted! Shecontinued to say to herself, that it would be better that they shouldbe strangers; and she could hardly keep herself from tears in thefear that they might be so. What chance could there be that he shouldcare for her, after an absence spent in travelling over the world?No; she would forget that affair of his hand; and then, immediatelyafter having so determined, she would confess to herself that it wasa thing not to be forgotten, and impossible of oblivion. On her uncle's return, she would hear some word about him; and soshe sat alone, with a book before her, of which she could not reada line. She expected them about eleven, and was, therefore, rathersurprised when the fly stopped at the door before nine. She immediately heard her uncle's voice, loud and angry, callingfor Thomas. Both Thomas and Bridget were unfortunately out, being, at this moment, forgetful of all sublunary cares, and seated inhappiness under a beech-tree in the park. Janet flew to the littlegate, and there found Sir Louis insisting that he would be taken atonce to his own mansion at Boxall Hill, and positively swearing thathe would no longer submit to the insult of the doctor's surveillance. In the absence of Thomas, the doctor was forced to apply forassistance to the driver of the fly. Between them the baronet wasdragged out of the vehicle, the windows suffered much, and thedoctor's hat also. In this way, he was taken upstairs, and was atlast put to bed, Janet assisting; nor did the doctor leave the roomtill his guest was asleep. Then he went into the drawing-room toMary. It may easily be conceived that he was hardly in a humour totalk much about Frank Gresham. "What am I to do with him?" said he, almost in tears: "what am I todo with him?" "Can you not send him to Boxall Hill?" asked Mary. "Yes; to kill himself there! But it is no matter; he will killhimself somewhere. Oh! what that family have done for me!" And then, suddenly remembering a portion of their doings, he took Mary in hisarms, and kissed and blessed her; and declared that, in spite of allthis, he was a happy man. There was no word about Frank that night. The next morning the doctorfound Sir Louis very weak, and begging for stimulants. He was worsethan weak; he was in such a state of wretched misery and mentalprostration; so low in heart, in such collapse of energy and spirit, that Dr Thorne thought it prudent to remove his razors from hisreach. "For God's sake do let me have a little _chasse-café_; I'm alwaysused to it; ask Joe if I'm not! You don't want to kill me, do you?"And the baronet cried piteously, like a child, and, when the doctorleft him for the breakfast-table, abjectly implored Janet to get himsome curaçoa which he knew was in one of his portmanteaus. Janet, however, was true to her master. The doctor did give him some wine; and then, having left strictorders as to his treatment--Bridget and Thomas being now both in thehouse--went forth to some of his too much neglected patients. Then Mary was again alone, and her mind flew away to her lover. Howshould she be able to compose herself when she should first see him?See him she must. People cannot live in the same village withoutmeeting. If she passed him at the church-door, as she often passedLady Arabella, what should she do? Lady Arabella always smileda peculiar, little, bitter smile, and this, with half a nod ofrecognition, carried off the meeting. Should she try the bittersmile, the half-nod with Frank? Alas! she knew it was not in her tobe so much mistress of her own heart's blood. As she thus thought, she stood at the drawing-room window, lookingout into her garden; and, as she leant against the sill, her head wassurrounded by the sweet creepers. "At any rate, he won't come here, "she said: and so, with a deep sigh, she turned from the window intothe room. There he was, Frank Gresham himself standing there in her immediatepresence, beautiful as Apollo. Her next thought was how she mightescape from out of his arms. How it happened that she had fallen intothem, she never knew. "Mary! my own, own love! my own one! sweetest! dearest! best! Mary!dear Mary! have you not a word to say to me?" No; she had not a word, though her life had depended on it. Theexertion necessary for not crying was quite enough for her. This, then, was the bitter smile and the half-nod that was to pass betweenthem; this was the manner in which estrangement was to grow intoindifference; this was the mode of meeting by which she was to provethat she was mistress of her conduct, if not her heart! There he heldher close bound to his breast, and she could only protect her face, and that all ineffectually, with her hands. "He loves another, "Beatrice had said. "At any rate, he will not love me, " her own hearthad said also. Here was now the answer. "You know you cannot marry him, " Beatrice had said, also. Ah! if thatreally were so, was not this embrace deplorable for them both? Andyet how could she not be happy? She endeavoured to repel him; butwith what a weak endeavour! Her pride had been wounded to the core, not by Lady Arabella's scorn, but by the conviction which had grownon her, that though she had given her own heart absolutely away, had parted with it wholly and for ever, she had received nothing inreturn. The world, her world, would know that she had loved, andloved in vain. But here now was the loved one at her feet; the firstmoment that his enforced banishment was over, had brought him there. How could she not be happy? They all said that she could not marry him. Well, perhaps it mightbe so; nay, when she thought of it, must not that edict too probablybe true? But if so, it would not be his fault. He was true to her, and that satisfied her pride. He had taken from her, by surprise, a confession of her love. She had often regretted her weakness inallowing him to do so; but she could not regret it now. She couldendure to suffer; nay, it would not be suffering while he sufferedwith her. "Not one word, Mary? Then after all my dreams, after all my patience, you do not love me at last?" Oh, Frank! notwithstanding what has been said in thy praise, what afool thou art! Was any word necessary for thee? Had not her heartbeat against thine? Had she not borne thy caresses? Had there beenone touch of anger when she warded off thy threatened kisses?Bridget, in the kitchen, when Jonah became amorous, smashed his nosewith the rolling-pin. But when Thomas sinned, perhaps as deeply, sheonly talked of doing so. Miss Thorne, in the drawing-room, had sheneeded self-protection, could doubtless have found the means, thoughthe process would probably have been less violent. At last Mary succeeded in her efforts at enfranchisement, and she andFrank stood at some little distance from each other. She could notbut marvel at him. That long, soft beard, which just now had been soclose to her face, was all new; his whole look was altered; his mien, and gait, and very voice were not the same. Was this, indeed, thevery Frank who had chattered of his boyish love, two years since, inthe gardens at Greshamsbury? "Not one word of welcome, Mary?" "Indeed, Mr Gresham, you are welcome home. " "Mr Gresham! Tell me, Mary--tell me, at once--has anything happened?I could not ask up there. " "Frank, " she said, and then stopped; not being able at the moment toget any further. "Speak to me honestly, Mary; honestly and bravely. I offered you myhand once before; there it is again. Will you take it?" She looked wistfully up in his eyes; she would fain have taken it. But though a girl may be honest in such a case, it is so hard for herto be brave. He still held out his hand. "Mary, " said he, "if you can value it, it shall be yours through good fortune or ill fortune. There may bedifficulties; but if you can love me, we will get over them. I am afree man; free to do as I please with myself, except so far as I ambound to you. There is my hand. Will you have it?" And then he, too, looked into her eyes, and waited composedly, as though determined tohave an answer. She slowly raised her hand, and, as she did so, her eyes fell to theground. It then drooped again, and was again raised; and, at last, her light tapering fingers rested on his broad open palm. They were soon clutched, and the whole hand brought absolutely withinhis grasp. "There, now you are my own!" he said, "and none of themshall part us; my own Mary, my own wife. " "Oh, Frank, is not this imprudent? Is it not wrong?" "Imprudent! I am sick of prudence. I hate prudence. And as forwrong--no. I say it is not wrong; certainly not wrong if we love eachother. And you do love me, Mary--eh? You do! don't you?" He would not excuse her, or allow her to escape from saying it in somany words; and when the words did come at last, they came freely. "Yes, Frank, I do love you; if that were all you would have no causefor fear. " "And I will have no cause for fear. " "Ah; but your father, Frank, and my uncle. I can never bring myselfto do anything that shall bring either of them to sorrow. " Frank, of course, ran through all his arguments. He would go into aprofession, or take a farm and live in it. He would wait; that is, for a few months. "A few months, Frank!" said Mary. "Well, perhapssix. " "Oh, Frank!" But Frank would not be stopped. He would doanything that his father might ask him. Anything but the one thing. He would not give up the wife he had chosen. It would not bereasonable, or proper, or righteous that he should be asked to do so;and here he mounted a somewhat high horse. Mary had no arguments which she could bring from her heart to offerin opposition to all this. She could only leave her hand in his, andfeel that she was happier than she had been at any time since the dayof that donkey-ride at Boxall Hill. "But, Mary, " continued he, becoming very grave and serious. "We mustbe true to each other, and firm in this. Nothing that any of them cansay shall drive me from my purpose; will you say as much?" Her hand was still in his, and so she stood, thinking for a momentbefore she answered him. But she could not do less for him than hewas willing to do for her. "Yes, " said she--said in a very low voice, and with a manner perfectly quiet--"I will be firm. Nothing that theycan say shall shake me. But, Frank, it cannot be soon. " Nothing further occurred in this interview which needs recording. Frank had been three times told by Mary that he had better go beforehe did go; and, at last, she was obliged to take the matter into herown hands, and lead him to the door. "You are in a great hurry to get rid of me, " said he. "You have been here two hours, and you must go now; what will theyall think?" "Who cares what they think? Let them think the truth: that after ayear's absence, I have much to say to you. " However, at last, he didgo, and Mary was left alone. Frank, although he had been so slow to move, had a thousand otherthings to do, and went about them at once. He was very much in love, no doubt; but that did not interfere with his interest in otherpursuits. In the first place, he had to see Harry Baker, and HarryBaker's stud. Harry had been specially charged to look after theblack horse during Frank's absence, and the holiday doings ofthat valuable animal had to be inquired into. Then the kennel ofthe hounds had to be visited, and--as a matter of second-rateimportance--the master. This could not be done on the same day; but aplan for doing so must be concocted with Harry--and then there weretwo young pointer pups. Frank, when he left his betrothed, went about these things quite asvehemently as though he were not in love at all; quite as vehementlyas though he had said nothing as to going into some profession whichmust necessarily separate him from horses and dogs. But Mary satthere at her window, thinking of her love, and thinking of nothingelse. It was all in all to her now. She had pledged herself not to beshaken from her troth by anything, by any person; and it would behoveher to be true to this pledge. True to it, though all the Greshamsbut one should oppose her with all their power; true to it, eventhough her own uncle should oppose her. And how could she have done any other than so pledge herself, invokedto it as she had been? How could she do less for him than he was soanxious to do for her? They would talk to her of maiden delicacy, andtell her that she had put a stain on that snow-white coat of proof, in confessing her love for one whose friends were unwilling toreceive her. Let them so talk. Honour, honesty, and truth, out-spokentruth, self-denying truth, and fealty from man to man, are worth morethan maiden delicacy; more, at any rate, than the talk of it. Itwas not for herself that this pledge had been made. She knew herposition, and the difficulties of it; she knew also the value of it. He had much to offer, much to give; she had nothing but herself. Hehad name, and old repute, family, honour, and what eventually wouldat least be wealth to her. She was nameless, fameless, portionless. He had come there with all his ardour, with the impulse of hischaracter, and asked for her love. It was already his own. He hadthen demanded her troth, and she acknowledged that he had a right todemand it. She would be his if ever it should be in his power to takeher. But there let the bargain end. She would always remember, that thoughit was in her power to keep her pledge, it might too probably not bein his power to keep his. That doctrine, laid down so imperativelyby the great authorities of Greshamsbury, that edict, which demandedthat Frank should marry money, had come home also to her with acertain force. It would be sad that the fame of Greshamsbury shouldperish, and that the glory should depart from the old house. It mightbe, that Frank also should perceive that he must marry money. Itwould be a pity that he had not seen it sooner; but she, at any rate, would not complain. And so she stood, leaning on the open window, with her book unnoticedlying beside her. The sun had been in the mid-sky when Frank had lefther, but its rays were beginning to stream into the room from thewest before she moved from her position. Her first thought in themorning had been this: Would he come to see her? Her last now wasmore soothing to her, less full of absolute fear: Would it be rightthat he should come again? The first sounds she heard were the footsteps of her uncle, as hecame up to the drawing-room, three steps at a time. His step wasalways heavy; but when he was disturbed in spirit, it was slow; whenmerely fatigued in body by ordinary work, it was quick. "What a broiling day!" he said, and he threw himself into a chair. "For mercy's sake give me something to drink. " Now the doctor was agreat man for summer-drinks. In his house, lemonade, currant-juice, orange-mixtures, and raspberry-vinegar were used by the quart. Hefrequently disapproved of these things for his patients, as being aptto disarrange the digestion; but he consumed enough himself to throwa large family into such difficulties. "Ha--a!" he ejaculated, after a draught; "I'm better now. Well, what's the news?" "You've been out, uncle; you ought to have the news. How's MrsGreen?" "Really as bad as ennui and solitude can make her. " "And Mrs Oaklerath?" "She's getting better, because she has ten children to look after, and twins to suckle. What has he been doing?" And the doctor pointedtowards the room occupied by Sir Louis. Mary's conscience struck her that she had not even asked. She hadhardly remembered, during the whole day, that the baronet was in thehouse. "I do not think he has been doing much, " she said. "Janet hasbeen with him all day. " "Has he been drinking?" "Upon my word, I don't know, uncle. I think not, for Janet has beenwith him. But, uncle--" "Well, dear--but just give me a little more of that tipple. " Mary prepared the tumbler, and, as she handed it to him, she said, "Frank Gresham has been here to-day. " The doctor swallowed his draught, and put down the glass before hemade any reply, and even then he said but little. "Oh! Frank Gresham. " "Yes, uncle. " "You thought him looking pretty well?" "Yes, uncle; he was very well, I believe. " Dr Thorne had nothing more to say, so he got up and went to hispatient in the next room. "If he disapproves of it, why does he not say so?" said Mary toherself. "Why does he not advise me?" But it was not so easy to give advice while Sir Louis Scatcherd waslying there in that state. CHAPTER XXXVII Sir Louis Leaves Greshamsbury Janet had been sedulous in her attentions to Sir Louis, and had nottroubled her mistress; but she had not had an easy time of it. Herorders had been, that either she or Thomas should remain in the roomthe whole day, and those orders had been obeyed. Immediately after breakfast, the baronet had inquired after his ownservant. "His confounded nose must be right by this time, I suppose?" "It was very bad, Sir Louis, " said the old woman, who imagined thatit might be difficult to induce Jonah to come into the house again. "A man in such a place as his has no business to be laid up, " saidthe master, with a whine. "I'll see and get a man who won't break hisnose. " Thomas was sent to the inn three or four times, but in vain. The manwas sitting up, well enough, in the tap-room; but the middle of hisface was covered with streaks of plaster, and he could not bringhimself to expose his wounds before his conqueror. Sir Louis began by ordering the woman to bring him _chasse-café_. Sheoffered him coffee, as much as he would; but no _chasse_. "A glass ofport wine, " she said, "at twelve o'clock, and another at three hadbeen ordered for him. " "I don't care a ---- for the orders, " said Sir Louis; "send me myown man. " The man was again sent for; but would not come. "There'sa bottle of that stuff that I take, in that portmanteau, in theleft-hand corner--just hand it to me. " But Janet was not to be done. She would give him no stuff, exceptwhat the doctor had ordered, till the doctor came back. The doctorwould then, no doubt, give him anything that was proper. Sir Louis swore a good deal, and stormed as much as he could. Hedrank, however, his two glasses of wine, and he got no more. Once ortwice he essayed to get out of bed and dress; but, at every effort, he found that he could not do it without Joe: and there he was, stillunder the clothes when the doctor returned. "I'll tell you what it is, " said he, as soon as his guardian enteredthe room, "I'm not going to be made a prisoner of here. " "A prisoner! no, surely not. " "It seems very much like it at present. Your servant here--thatold woman--takes it upon her to say she'll do nothing without yourorders. " "Well; she's right there. " "Right! I don't know what you call right; but I won't stand it. Youare not going to make a child of me, Dr Thorne; so you need not thinkit. " And then there was a long quarrel between them, and but anindifferent reconciliation. The baronet said that he would go toBoxall Hill, and was vehement in his intention to do so because thedoctor opposed it. He had not, however, as yet ferreted out thesquire, or given a bit of his mind to Mr Gazebee, and it behoved himto do this before he took himself off to his own country mansion. Heended, therefore, by deciding to go on the next day but one. "Let it be so, if you are well enough, " said the doctor. "Well enough!" said the other, with a sneer. "There's nothing to makeme ill that I know of. It certainly won't be drinking too much here. " On the next day, Sir Louis was in a different mood, and in one moredistressing for the doctor to bear. His compelled abstinence fromintemperate drinking had, no doubt, been good for him; but his mindhad so much sunk under the pain of the privation, that his state waspiteous to behold. He had cried for his servant, as a child criesfor its nurse, till at last the doctor, moved to pity, had himselfgone out and brought the man in from the public-house. But when hedid come, Joe was of but little service to his master, as he wasaltogether prevented from bringing him either wine or spirits; andwhen he searched for the liqueur-case, he found that even that hadbeen carried away. "I believe you want me to die, " he said, as the doctor, sittingby his bedside, was trying, for the hundredth time, to make himunderstand that he had but one chance of living. The doctor was not the least irritated. It would have been as wise tobe irritated by the want of reason in a dog. "I am doing what I can to save your life, " he said calmly; "but, asyou said just now, I have no power over you. As long as you are ableto move and remain in my house, you certainly shall not have themeans of destroying yourself. You will be very wise to stay herefor a week or ten days: a week or ten days of healthy living might, perhaps, bring you round. " Sir Louis again declared that the doctor wished him to die, and spokeof sending for his attorney, Finnie, to come to Greshamsbury to lookafter him. "Send for him if you choose, " said the doctor. "His coming will costyou three or four pounds, but can do no other harm. " "And I will send for Fillgrave, " threatened the baronet. "I'm notgoing to die here like a dog. " It was certainly hard upon Dr Thorne that he should be obliged toentertain such a guest in the house;--to entertain him, and fosterhim, and care for him, almost as though he were a son. But he had noalternative; he had accepted the charge from Sir Roger, and he mustgo through with it. His conscience, moreover, allowed him no rest inthis matter: it harassed him day and night, driving him on sometimesto great wretchedness. He could not love this incubus that was on hisshoulders; he could not do other than be very far from loving him. Ofwhat use or value was he to any one? What could the world make of himthat would be good, or he of the world? Was not an early death hiscertain fate? The earlier it might be, would it not be the better? Were he to linger on yet for two years longer--and such a space oflife was possible for him--how great would be the mischief that hemight do; nay, certainly would do! Farewell then to all hopes forGreshamsbury, as far as Mary was concerned. Farewell then to thatdear scheme which lay deep in the doctor's heart, that hope that hemight, in his niece's name, give back to the son the lost property ofthe father. And might not one year--six months be as fatal. Frank, they all said, must marry money; and even he--he the doctor himself, much as he despised the idea for money's sake--even he could not butconfess that Frank, as the heir to an old, but grievously embarrassedproperty, had no right to marry, at his early age, a girl withouta shilling. Mary, his niece, his own child, would probably be theheiress of this immense wealth; but he could not tell this to Frank;no, nor to Frank's father while Sir Louis was yet alive. What, if byso doing he should achieve this marriage for his niece, and that thenSir Louis should live to dispose of his own? How then would he facethe anger of Lady Arabella? "I will never hanker after a dead man's shoes, neither for myself norfor another, " he had said to himself a hundred times; and as oftendid he accuse himself of doing so. One path, however, was plainlyopen before him. He would keep his peace as to the will; and woulduse such efforts as he might use for a son of his own loins topreserve the life that was so valueless. His wishes, his hopes, his thoughts, he could not control; but his conduct was at his owndisposal. "I say, doctor, you don't really think that I'm going to die?" SirLouis said, when Dr Thorne again visited him. "I don't think at all; I am sure you will kill yourself if youcontinue to live as you have lately done. " "But suppose I go all right for a while, and live--live just as youtell me, you know?" "All of us are in God's hands, Sir Louis. By so doing you will, atany rate, give yourself the best chance. " "Best chance? Why, d----n, doctor! there are fellows have done tentimes worse than I; and they are not going to kick. Come, now, I knowyou are trying to frighten me; ain't you, now?" "I am trying to do the best I can for you. " "It's very hard on a fellow like me; I have nobody to say a kind wordto me; no, not one. " And Sir Louis, in his wretchedness, began toweep. "Come, doctor; if you'll put me once more on my legs, I'll letyou draw on the estate for five hundred pounds; by G----, I will. " The doctor went away to his dinner, and the baronet also had his inbed. He could not eat much, but he was allowed two glasses of wine, and also a little brandy in his coffee. This somewhat invigoratedhim, and when Dr Thorne again went to him, in the evening, he did notfind him so utterly prostrated in spirit. He had, indeed, made up hismind to a great resolve; and thus unfolded his final scheme for hisown reformation:-- "Doctor, " he began again, "I believe you are an honest fellow; I doindeed. " Dr Thorne could not but thank him for his good opinion. "You ain't annoyed at what I said this morning, are you?" The doctor had forgotten the particular annoyance to which Sir Louisalluded; and informed him that his mind might be at rest on any suchmatter. "I do believe you'd be glad to see me well; wouldn't you, now?" The doctor assured him that such was in very truth the case. "Well, now, I'll tell you what: I've been thinking about it a greatdeal to-day; indeed, I have, and I want to do what's right. Mightn'tI have a little drop more of that stuff, just in a cup of coffee?" The doctor poured him out a cup of coffee, and put about ateaspoonful of brandy in it. Sir Louis took it with a disconsolateface, not having been accustomed to such measures in the use of hisfavourite beverage. "I do wish to do what's right--I do, indeed; only, you see, I'm solonely. As to those fellows up in London, I don't think that one ofthem cares a straw about me. " Dr Thorne was of the same way of thinking, and he said so. He couldnot but feel some sympathy with the unfortunate man as he thus spokeof his own lot. It was true that he had been thrown on the worldwithout any one to take care of him. "My dear friend, I will do the best I can in every way; I will, indeed. I do believe that your companions in town have been too readyto lead you astray. Drop them, and you may yet do well. " "May I though, doctor? Well, I will drop them. There's Jenkins; he'sthe best of them; but even he is always wanting to make money of me. Not but what I'm up to the best of them in that way. " "You had better leave London, Sir Louis, and change your old mode oflife. Go to Boxall Hill for a while; for two or three years or so;live with your mother there and take to farming. " "What! farming?" "Yes; that's what all country gentlemen do: take the land there intoyour own hand, and occupy your mind upon it. " "Well, doctor, I will--upon one condition. " Dr Thorne sat still and listened. He had no idea what the conditionmight be, but he was not prepared to promise acquiescence till heheard it. "You know what I told you once before, " said the baronet. "I don't remember at this moment. " "About my getting married, you know. " The doctor's brow grew black, and promised no help to the poorwretch. Bad in every way, wretched, selfish, sensual, unfeeling, purse-proud, ignorant as Sir Louis Scatcherd was, still, there wasleft to him the power of feeling something like sincere love. It maybe presumed that he did love Mary Thorne, and that he was at the timeearnest in declaring, that if she could be given to him, he wouldendeavour to live according to her uncle's counsel. It was only atrifle he asked; but, alas! that trifle could not be vouchsafed. "I should much approve of your getting married, but I do not know howI can help you. " "Of course, I mean to Miss Mary: I do love her; I really do, DrThorne. " "It is quite impossible, Sir Louis; quite. You do my niece muchhonour; but I am able to answer for her, positively, that such aproposition is quite out of the question. " "Look here now, Dr Thorne; anything in the way of settlements--" "I will not hear a word on the subject: you are very welcome to theuse of my house as long as it may suit you to remain here; but I mustinsist that my niece shall not be troubled on this matter. " "Do you mean to say she's in love with that young Gresham?" This was too much for the doctor's patience. "Sir Louis, " said he, "I can forgive you much for your father's sake. I can also forgivesomething on the score of your own ill health. But you ought to know, you ought by this time to have learnt, that there are some thingswhich a man cannot forgive. I will not talk to you about my niece;and remember this, also, I will not have her troubled by you:" and, so saying, the doctor left him. On the next day the baronet was sufficiently recovered to be able toresume his braggadocio airs. He swore at Janet; insisted on beingserved by his own man; demanded in a loud voice, but in vain, that his liqueur-case should be restored to him; and desired thatpost-horses might be ready for him on the morrow. On that day hegot up and ate his dinner in his bedroom. On the next morning hecountermanded the horses, informing the doctor that he did so becausehe had a little bit of business to transact with Squire Greshambefore he left the place! With some difficulty, the doctor made himunderstand that the squire would not see him on business; and it wasat last decided, that Mr Gazebee should be invited to call on him atthe doctor's house; and this Mr Gazebee agreed to do, in order toprevent the annoyance of having the baronet up at Greshamsbury. On this day, the evening before Mr Gazebee's visit, Sir Louiscondescended to come down to dinner. He dined, however, _tête-à-tête_with the doctor. Mary was not there, nor was anything said as to herabsence. Sir Louis Scatcherd never set eyes upon her again. He bore himself very arrogantly on that evening, having resumed theairs and would-be dignity which he thought belonged to him as a manof rank and property. In his periods of low spirits, he was abjectand humble enough; abject, and fearful of the lamentable destinywhich at these moments he believed to be in store for him. But itwas one of the peculiar symptoms of his state, that as he partiallyrecovered his bodily health, the tone of his mind recovered itselfalso, and his fears for the time were relieved. There was very little said between him and the doctor that evening. The doctor sat guarding the wine, and thinking when he should havehis house to himself again. Sir Louis sat moody, every now and thenuttering some impertinence as to the Greshams and the Greshamsburyproperty, and, at an early hour, allowed Joe to put him to bed. The horses were ordered on the next day for three, and, as two, MrGazebee came to the house. He had never been there before, nor had heever met Dr Thorne except at the squire's dinner. On this occasion heasked only for the baronet. "Ah! ah! I'm glad you're come, Mr Gazebee; very glad, " said SirLouis; acting the part of the rich, great man with all the power hehad. "I want to ask you a few questions so as to make it all clearsailing between us. " "As you have asked to see me, I have come, Sir Louis, " said theother, putting on much dignity as he spoke. "But would it not bebetter that any business there may be should be done among thelawyers?" "The lawyers are very well, I dare say; but when a man has so large astake at interest as I have in this Greshamsbury property, why, yousee, Mr Gazebee, he feels a little inclined to look after it himself. Now, do you know, Mr Gazebee, how much it is that Mr Gresham owesme?" Mr Gazebee, of course, did know very well; but he was not going todiscuss the subject with Sir Louis, if he could help it. "Whatever claim your father's estate may have on that of Mr Greshamis, as far as I understand, vested in Dr Thorne's hands as trustee. I am inclined to believe that you have not yourself at present anyclaim on Greshamsbury. The interest, as it becomes due, is paid toDr Thorne; and if I may be allowed to make a suggestion, I would saythat it will not be expedient to make any change in that arrangementtill the property shall come into your own hands. " "I differ from you entirely, Mr Gazebee; _in toto_, as we used to sayat Eton. What you mean to say is--I can't go to law with Mr Gresham;I'm not so sure of that; but perhaps not. But I can compel Dr Thorneto look after my interests. I can force him to foreclose. And to tellyou the truth, Gazebee, unless some arrangement is proposed to mewhich I shall think advantageous, I shall do so at once. There isnear a hundred thousand pounds owing to me; yes to me. Thorne is onlya name in the matter. The money is my money; and, by ----, I mean tolook after it. " "Have you any doubt, Sir Louis, as to the money being secure?" "Yes, I have. It isn't so easy to have a hundred thousand poundssecured. The squire is a poor man, and I don't choose to allow a poorman to owe me such a sum as that. Besides, I mean to invest it inland. I tell you fairly, therefore, I shall foreclose. " Mr Gazebee, using all the perspicuity which his professionaleducation had left to him, tried to make Sir Louis understand that hehad no power to do anything of the kind. "No power! Mr Gresham shall see whether I have no power. When a manhas a hundred thousand pounds owing to him he ought to have somepower; and, as I take it, he has. But we will see. Perhaps you knowFinnie, do you?" Mr Gazebee, with a good deal of scorn in his face, said that he hadnot that pleasure. Mr Finnie was not in his line. "Well, you will know him then, and you'll find he's sharp enough;that is, unless I have some offer made to me that I may choose toaccept. " Mr Gazebee declared that he was not instructed to make anyoffer, and so he took his leave. On that afternoon, Sir Louis went off to Boxall Hill, transferringthe miserable task of superintending his self-destruction from theshoulders of the doctor to those of his mother. Of Lady Scatcherd, the baronet took no account in his proposed sojourn in the country, nor did he take much of the doctor in leaving Greshamsbury. He againwrapped himself in his furs, and, with tottering steps, climbed upinto the barouche which was to carry him away. "Is my man up behind?" he said to Janet, while the doctor wasstanding at the little front garden-gate, making his adieux. "No, sir, he's not up yet, " said Janet, respectfully. "Then send him out, will you? I can't lose my time waiting here allday. " "I shall come over to Boxall Hill and see you, " said the doctor, whose heart softened towards the man, in spite of his brutality, asthe hour of his departure came. "I shall be happy to see you if you like to come, of course; that is, in the way of visiting, and that sort of thing. As for doctoring, ifI want any I shall send for Fillgrave. " Such were his last words asthe carriage, with a rush, went off from the door. The doctor, as he re-entered the house, could not avoid smiling, forhe thought of Dr Fillgrave's last patient at Boxall Hill. "It's aquestion to me, " said he to himself, "whether Dr Fillgrave will everbe induced to make another visit to that house, even with the objectof rescuing a baronet out of my hands. " "He's gone; isn't he, uncle?" said Mary, coming out of her room. "Yes, my dear; he's gone, poor fellow. " "He may be a poor fellow, uncle; but he's a very disagreeable inmatein a house. I have not had any dinner these two days. " "And I haven't had what can be called a cup of tea since he's been inthe house. But I'll make up for that to-night. " CHAPTER XXXVIII De Courcy Precepts and de Courcy Practice There is a mode of novel-writing which used to be much in vogue, butwhich has now gone out of fashion. It is, nevertheless, one which isvery expressive when in good hands, and which enables the author totell his story, or some portion of his story, with more natural trustthan any other, I mean that of familiar letters. I trust I shall beexcused if I attempt it as regards this one chapter; though, it maybe, that I shall break down and fall into the commonplace narrative, even before the one chapter be completed. The correspondents are theLady Amelia de Courcy and Miss Gresham. I, of course, give precedenceto the higher rank, but the first epistle originated with thelatter-named young lady. Let me hope that they will explainthemselves. Miss Gresham to Lady Amelia de Courcy Greshamsbury House, June, 185--. MY DEAREST AMELIA, I wish to consult you on a subject which, as you will perceive, is of a most momentous nature. You know how much reliance I place in your judgement and knowledge of what is proper, and, therefore, I write to you before speaking to any other living person on the subject: not even to mamma; for, although her judgement is good too, she has so many cares and troubles, that it is natural that it should be a little warped when the interests of her children are concerned. Now that it is all over, I feel that it may possibly have been so in the case of Mr Moffat. You are aware that Mr Mortimer Gazebee is now staying here, and that he has been here for nearly two months. He is engaged in managing poor papa's affairs, and mamma, who likes him very much, says that he is a most excellent man of business. Of course, you know that he is the junior partner in the very old firm of Gumption, Gazebee, & Gazebee, who, I understand, do not undertake any business at all, except what comes to them from peers, or commoners of the very highest class. I soon perceived, dearest Amelia, that Mr Gazebee paid me more than ordinary attention, and I immediately became very guarded in my manner. I certainly liked Mr Gazebee from the first. His manners are quite excellent, his conduct to mamma is charming, and, as regards myself, I must say that there has been nothing in his behaviour of which even _you_ could complain. He has never attempted the slightest familiarity, and I will do him the justice to say, that, though he has been very attentive, he has also been very respectful. I must confess that, for the last three weeks, I have thought that he meant something. I might, perhaps, have done more to repel him; or I might have consulted you earlier as to the propriety of keeping altogether out of his way. But you know, Amelia, how often these things lead to nothing, and though I thought all along that Mr Gazebee was in earnest, I hardly liked to say anything about it even to you till I was quite certain. If you had advised me, you know, to accept his offer, and if, after that, he had never made it, I should have felt so foolish. But now he has made it. He came to me yesterday just before dinner, in the little drawing-room, and told me, in the most delicate manner, in words that even you could not have but approved, that his highest ambition was to be thought worthy of my regard, and that he felt for me the warmest love, and the most profound admiration, and the deepest respect. You may say, Amelia, that he is only an attorney, and I believe that he is an attorney; but I am sure you would have esteemed him had you heard the very delicate way in which he expressed his sentiments. Something had given me a presentiment of what he was going to do when I saw him come into the room, so that I was on my guard. I tried very hard to show no emotion; but I suppose I was a little flurried, as I once detected myself calling him Mr Mortimer: his name, you know, is Mortimer Gazebee. I ought not to have done so, certainly; but it was not so bad as if I had called him Mortimer without the Mr, was it? I don't think there could possibly be a prettier Christian name than Mortimer. Well, Amelia, I allowed him to express himself without interruption. He once attempted to take my hand; but even this was done without any assumption of familiarity; and when he saw that I would not permit it, he drew back, and fixed his eyes on the ground as though he were ashamed even of that. Of course, I had to give him an answer; and though I had expected that something of this sort would take place, I had not made up my mind on the subject. I would not, certainly, under any circumstances, accept him without consulting you. If I really disliked him, of course there would be no doubt; but I can't say, dearest Amelia, that I do absolutely dislike him; and I really think that we would make each other very happy, if the marriage were suitable as regarded both our positions. I collected myself as well as I could, and I really do think that you would have said that I did not behave badly, though the position was rather trying. I told him that, of course, I was flattered by his sentiments, though much surprised at hearing them; that since I knew him, I had esteemed and valued him as an acquaintance, but that, looking on him as a man of business, I had never expected anything more. I then endeavoured to explain to him, that I was not perhaps privileged, as some other girls might be, to indulge my own feelings altogether: perhaps that was saying too much, and might make him think that I was in love with him; but, from the way I said it, I don't think he would, for I was very much guarded in my manner, and very collected; and then I told him, that in any proposal of marriage that might be made to me, it would be my duty to consult my family as much, if not more than myself. He said, of course; and asked whether he might speak to papa. I tried to make him understand, that in talking of my family, I did not exactly mean papa, or even mamma. Of course I was thinking of what was due to the name of Gresham. I know very well what papa would say. He would give his consent in half a minute; he is so broken-hearted by these debts. And, to tell you the truth, Amelia, I think mamma would too. He did not seem quite to comprehend what I meant; but he did say that he knew it was a high ambition to marry into the family of the Greshams. I am sure you would confess that he has the most proper feelings; and as for expressing them no man could do it better. He owned that it was ambition to ally himself with a family above his own rank in life, and that he looked to doing so as a means of advancing himself. Now this was at any rate honest. That was one of his motives, he said; though, of course, not his first: and then he declared how truly attached he was to me. In answer to this, I remarked, that he had known me only a very short time. This, perhaps, was giving him too much encouragement; but, at that moment, I hardly knew what to say, for I did not wish to hurt his feelings. He then spoke of his income. He has fifteen hundred a year from the business, and that will be greatly increased when his father leaves it; and his father is much older then Mr Gumption, though he is only the second partner. Mortimer Gazebee will be the senior partner himself before very long; and perhaps that does alter his position a little. He has a very nice place down somewhere in Surrey; I have heard mamma say it is quite a gentleman's place. It is let now; but he will live there when he is married. And he has property of his own besides which he can settle. So, you see, he is quite as well off as Mr Oriel; better, indeed; and if a man is in a profession, I believe it is considered that it does not much matter what. Of course, a clergyman can be a bishop; but then, I think I have heard that one attorney did once become Lord Chancellor. I should have my carriage, you know; I remember his saying that, especially, though I cannot recollect how he brought it in. I told him, at last, that I was so much taken by surprise that I could not give him an answer then. He was going up to London, he said, on the next day, and might he be permitted to address me on the same subject when he returned? I could not refuse him, you know; and so now I have taken the opportunity of his absence to write to you for your advice. You understand the world so very well, and know so exactly what one ought to do in such a strange position! I hope I have made it intelligible, at least, as to what I have written about. I have said nothing as to my own feelings, because I wish you to think on the matter without consulting them. If it would be derogatory to accept Mr Gazebee, I certainly would not do so because I happen to like him. If we were to act in that way, what would the world come to, Amelia? Perhaps my ideas may be overstrained; if so, you will tell me. When Mr Oriel proposed for Beatrice, nobody seemed to make any objection. It all seemed to go as a matter of course. She says that his family is excellent; but as far as I can learn, his grandfather was a general in India, and came home very rich. Mr Gazebee's grandfather was a member of the firm, and so, I believe, was his great-grandfather. Don't you think this ought to count for something? Besides, they have no business except with the most aristocratic persons, such as uncle de Courcy, and the Marquis of Kensington Gore, and that sort. I mention the marquis, because Mr Mortimer Gazebee is there now. And I know that one of the Gumptions was once in Parliament; and I don't think that any of the Oriels ever were. The name of attorney is certainly very bad, is it not, Amelia? but they certainly do not seem to be all the same, and I do think that this ought to make a difference. To hear Mr Mortimer Gazebee talk of some attorney at Barchester, you would say that there is quite as much difference between them as between a bishop and a curate. And so I think there is. I don't wish at all to speak of my own feelings; but if he were not an attorney, he is, I think, the sort of man I should like. He is very nice in every way, and if you were not told, I don't think you'd know he was an attorney. But, dear Amelia, I will be guided by you altogether. He is certainly much nicer than Mr Moffat, and has a great deal more to say for himself. Of course, Mr Moffat having been in Parliament, and having been taken up by uncle de Courcy, was in a different sphere; but I really felt almost relieved when he behaved in that way. With Mortimer Gazebee, I think it would be different. I shall wait so impatiently for your answer, so do pray write at once. I hear some people say that these sort of things are not so much thought of now as they were once, and that all manner of marriages are considered to be _comme il faut_. I do not want, you know, to make myself foolish by being too particular. Perhaps all these changes are bad, and I rather think they are; but if the world changes, one must change too; one can't go against the world. So do write and tell me what you think. Do not suppose that I dislike the man, for I really cannot say that I do. But I would not for anything make an alliance for which any one bearing the name of de Courcy would have to blush. Always, dearest Amelia, Your most affectionate cousin, AUGUSTA GRESHAM. P. S. --I fear Frank is going to be very foolish with Mary Thorne. You know it is absolutely important that Frank should marry money. It strikes me as quite possible that Mortimer Gazebee may be in Parliament some of these days. He is just the man for it. Poor Augusta prayed very hard for her husband; but she prayed to abosom that on this subject was as hard as a flint, and she prayedin vain. Augusta Gresham was twenty-two, Lady Amelia de Courcy wasthirty-four; was it likely that Lady Amelia would permit Augustato marry, the issue having thus been left in her hands? Why shouldAugusta derogate from her position by marrying beneath herself, seeing that Lady Amelia had spent so many more years in the worldwithout having found it necessary to do so? Augusta's letter waswritten on two sheets of note-paper, crossed all over; and LadyAmelia's answer was almost equally formidable. Lady Amelia de Courcy to Miss Augusta Gresham Courcy Castle, June, 185--. MY DEAR AUGUSTA, I received your letter yesterday morning, but I have put off answering it till this evening, as I have wished to give it very mature consideration. The question is one which concerns, not only your character, but happiness for life, and nothing less than very mature consideration would justify me in giving a decided opinion on the subject. In the first place, I may tell you, that I have not a word to say against Mr Mortimer Gazebee. [When Augusta had read as far as this, her heart sank within her; the rest was all leather and prunella; she saw at once that the fiat had gone against her, and that her wish to become Mrs Mortimer Gazebee was not to be indulged. ] I have known him for a long time, and I believe him to be a very respectable person, and I have no doubt a good man of business. The firm of Messrs Gumption & Gazebee stands probably quite among the first attorneys in London, and I know that papa has a very high opinion of them. All of these would be excellent arguments to use in favour of Mr Gazebee as a suitor, had his proposals been made to any one in his own rank of life. But you, in considering the matter, should, I think, look on it in a very different light. The very fact that you pronounce him to be so much superior to other attorneys, shows in how very low esteem you hold the profession in general. It shows also, dear Augusta, how well aware you are that they are a class of people among whom you should not seek a partner for life. My opinion is, that you should make Mr Gazebee understand--very courteously, of course--that you cannot accept his hand. You observe that he himself confesses, that in marrying you he would seek a wife in a rank above his own. Is it not, therefore, clear, that in marrying him, you would descend to a rank below your own? I shall be very sorry if this grieves you; but still it will be better that you should bear the grief of overcoming a temporary fancy, than take a step which may so probably make you unhappy; and which some of your friends would certainly regard as disgraceful. It is not permitted to us, my dear Augusta, to think of ourselves in such matters. As you truly say, if we were to act in that way, what would the world come to? It has been God's pleasure that we should be born with high blood in our veins. This is a great boon which we both value, but the boon has its responsibilities as well as its privileges. It is established by law, that the royal family shall not intermarry with subjects. In our case there is no law, but the necessity is not the less felt; we should not intermarry with those who are probably of a lower rank. Mr Mortimer Gazebee is, after all, only an attorney; and, although you speak of his great-grandfather, he is a man of no blood whatsoever. You must acknowledge that such an admixture should be looked on by a de Courcy, or even by a Gresham, as a pollution. [Here Augusta got very red, and she felt almost inclined to be angry with her cousin. ] Beatrice's marriage with Mr Oriel is different; though, remember, I am by no means defending that; it may be good or bad, and I have had no opportunity of inquiring respecting Mr Oriel's family. Beatrice, moreover, has never appeared to me to feel what was due to herself in such matters; but, as I said, her marriage with Mr Oriel is very different. Clergymen--particularly the rectors and vicars of country parishes--do become privileged above other professional men. I could explain why, but it would be too long in a letter. Your feelings on the subject altogether do you great credit. I have no doubt that Mr Gresham, if asked, would accede to the match; but that is just the reason why he should not be asked. It would not be right that I should say anything against your father to you; but it is impossible for any of us not to see that all through life he has thrown away every advantage, and sacrificed his family. Why is he now in debt, as you say? Why is he not holding the family seat in Parliament? Even though you are his daughter, you cannot but feel that you would not do right to consult him on such a subject. As to dear aunt, I feel sure, that were she in good health, and left to exercise her own judgement, she would not wish to see you married to the agent for the family estate. For, dear Augusta, that is the real truth. Mr Gazebee often comes here in the way of business; and though papa always receives him as a gentleman--that is, he dines at table and all that--he is not on the same footing in the house as the ordinary guests and friends of the family. How would you like to be received at Courcy Castle in the same way? You will say, perhaps, that you would still be papa's niece; so you would. But you know how strict in such matters papa is, and you must remember, that the wife always follows the rank of the husband. Papa is accustomed to the strict etiquette of a court, and I am sure that no consideration would induce him to receive the estate-agent in the light of a nephew. Indeed, were you to marry Mr Gazebee, the house to which he belongs would, I imagine, have to give up the management of this property. Even were Mr Gazebee in Parliament--and I do not see how it is probable that he should get there--it would not make any difference. You must remember, dearest, that I never was an advocate for the Moffat match. I acquiesced in it, because mamma did so. If I could have had my own way, I would adhere to all our old prescriptive principles. Neither money nor position can atone to me for low birth. But the world, alas! is retrograding; and, according to the new-fangled doctrines of the day, a lady of blood is not disgraced by allying herself to a man of wealth, and what may be called quasi-aristocratic position. I wish it were otherwise; but so it is. And, therefore, the match with Mr Moffat was not disgraceful, though it could not be regarded as altogether satisfactory. But with Mr Gazebee the matter would be altogether different. He is a man earning his bread; honestly, I dare say, but in a humble position. You say he is very respectable: I do not doubt it; and so is Mr Scraggs, the butcher at Courcy. You see, Augusta, to what such arguments reduce you. I dare say he may be nicer than Mr Moffat, in one way. That is, he may have more small-talk at his command, and be more clever in all those little pursuits and amusements which are valued by ordinary young ladies. But my opinion is, that neither I nor you would be justified in sacrificing ourselves for such amusements. We have high duties before us. It may be that the performance of those duties will prohibit us from taking a part in the ordinary arena of the feminine world. It is natural that girls should wish to marry; and, therefore, those who are weak, take the first that come. Those who have more judgement, make some sort of selection. But the strongest-minded are, perhaps, those who are able to forgo themselves and their own fancies, and to refrain from any alliance that does not tend to the maintenance of high principles. Of course, I speak of those who have blood in their veins. You and I need not dilate as to the conduct of others. I hope what I have said will convince you. Indeed, I know that it only requires that you and I should have a little cousinly talk on this matter to be quite in accord. You must now remain at Greshamsbury till Mr Gazebee shall return. Immediately that he does so, seek an interview with him; do not wait till he asks for it; then tell him, that when he addressed you, the matter had taken you so much by surprise, that you were not at the moment able to answer him with that decision that the subject demanded. Tell him, that you are flattered--in saying this, however, you must keep a collected countenance, and be very cold in your manner--but that family reasons would forbid you to avail yourself of his offer, even did no other cause prevent it. And then, dear Augusta, come to us here. I know you will be a little down-hearted after going through this struggle; but I will endeavour to inspirit you. When we are both together, you will feel more sensibly the value of that high position which you will preserve by rejecting Mr Gazebee, and will regret less acutely whatever you may lose. Your very affectionate cousin, AMELIA DE COURCY. P. S. --I am greatly grieved about Frank; but I have long feared that he would do some very silly thing. I have heard lately that Miss Mary Thorne is not even the legitimate niece of your Dr Thorne, but is the daughter of some poor creature who was seduced by the doctor, in Barchester. I do not know how true this may be, but I think your brother should be put on his guard: it might do good. Poor Augusta! She was in truth to be pitied, for her efforts weremade with the intention of doing right according to her lights. ForMr Moffat she had never cared a straw; and when, therefore, she lostthe piece of gilding for which she had been instructed by her motherto sell herself, it was impossible to pity her. But Mr Gazebee shewould have loved with that sort of love which it was in her powerto bestow. With him she would have been happy, respectable, andcontented. She had written her letter with great care. When the offer was madeto her, she could not bring herself to throw Lady Amelia to the windsand marry the man, as it were, out of her own head. Lady Amelia hadbeen the tyrant of her life, and so she strove hard to obtain hertyrant's permission. She used all her little cunning in showingthat, after all, Mr Gazebee was not so very plebeian. All her littlecunning was utterly worthless. Lady Amelia's mind was too strong tobe caught with such chaff. Augusta could not serve God and Mammon. She must either be true to the god of her cousin's idolatry, andremain single, or serve the Mammon of her own inclinations, and marryMr Gazebee. When refolding her cousin's letter, after the first perusal, she didfor a moment think of rebellion. Could she not be happy at the niceplace in Surrey, having, as she would have, a carriage, even thoughall the de Courcys should drop her? It had been put to her thatshe would not like to be received at Courcy Castle with the scantcivility which would be considered due to a Mrs Mortimer Gazebee; butwhat if she could put up without being received at Courcy Castle atall? Such ideas did float through her mind, dimly. But her courage failed her. It is so hard to throw off a tyrant; somuch easier to yield, when we have been in the habit of yielding. This third letter, therefore, was written; and it is the end of thecorrespondence. Miss Augusta Gresham to Lady Amelia de Courcy Greshamsbury House, July, 185--. MY DEAREST AMELIA, I did not answer your letter before, because I thought it better to delay doing so till Mr Gazebee had been here. He came the day before yesterday, and yesterday I did, as nearly as possible, what you advised. Perhaps, on the whole, it will be better. As you say, rank has its responsibilities as well as its privileges. I don't quite understand what you mean about clergymen, but we can talk that over when we meet. Indeed, it seems to me that if one is to be particular about family--and I am sure I think we ought--one ought to be so without exception. If Mr Oriel be a _parvenu_, Beatrice's children won't be well born merely because their father was a clergyman, even though he is a rector. Since my former letter, I have heard that Mr Gazebee's great-great-great-grandfather established the firm; and there are many people who were nobodies then who are thought to have good blood in their veins now. But I do not say this because I differ from you. I agree with you so fully, that I at once made up my mind to reject the man; and, consequently, I have done so. When I told him I could not accept him from family considerations, he asked me whether I had spoken to papa. I told him, no; and that it would be no good, as I had made up my own mind. I don't think he quite understood me; but it did not perhaps much matter. You told me to be very cold, and I think that perhaps he thought me less gracious than before. Indeed, I fear that when he first spoke, I may seem to have given him too much encouragement. However, it is all over now; quite over! [As Augusta wrote this, she barely managed to save the paper beneath her hand from being moistened with the tear which escaped from her eye. ] I do not mind confessing now, [she continued] at any rate to you, that I did like Mr Gazebee a little. I think his temper and disposition would have suited me. But I am quite satisfied that I have done right. He tried very hard to make me change my mind. That is, he said a great many things as to whether I would not put off my decision. But I was quite firm. I must say that he behaved very well, and that I really do think he liked me honestly and truly; but, of course, I could not sacrifice family considerations on that account. Yes, rank has its responsibilities as well as its privileges. I will remember that. It is necessary to do so, as otherwise one would be without consolation for what one has to suffer. For I find that one has to suffer, Amelia. I know papa would have advised me to marry this man; and so, I dare say, mamma would, and Frank, and Beatrice, if they knew that I liked him. It would not be so bad if we all thought alike about it; but it is hard to have the responsibilities all on one's own shoulder; is it not? But I will go over to you, and you will comfort me. I always feel stronger on this subject at Courcy than at Greshamsbury. We will have a long talk about it, and then I shall be happy again. I purpose going on next Friday, if that will suit you and dear aunt. I have told mamma that you all wanted me, and she made no objection. Do write at once, dearest Amelia, for to hear from you now will be my only comfort. Yours, ever most affectionately and obliged, AUGUSTA GRESHAM. P. S. --I told mamma what you said about Mary Thorne, and she said, "Yes; I suppose all the world knows it now; and if all the world did know it, it makes no difference to Frank. " She seemed very angry; so you see it was true. Though, by so doing, we shall somewhat anticipate the end of ourstory, it may be desirable that the full tale of Mr Gazebee's lovesshould be told here. When Mary is breaking her heart on her death-bedin the last chapter, or otherwise accomplishing her destiny, we shallhardly find a fit opportunity of saying much about Mr Gazebee and hisaristocratic bride. For he did succeed at last in obtaining a bride in whose veins ranthe noble ichor of de Courcy blood, in spite of the high doctrinepreached so eloquently by the Lady Amelia. As Augusta had truly said, he had failed to understand her. He was led to think, by her mannerof receiving his first proposal--and justly so, enough--that sheliked him, and would accept him; and he was, therefore, ratherperplexed by his second interview. He tried again and again, andbegged permission to mention the matter to Mr Gresham; but Augustawas very firm, and he at last retired in disgust. Augusta went toCourcy Castle, and received from her cousin that consolation andre-strengthening which she so much required. Four years afterwards--long after the fate of Mary Thorne had fallen, like a thunderbolt, on the inhabitants of Greshamsbury; when Beatricewas preparing for her second baby, and each of the twins had heraccepted lover--Mr Mortimer Gazebee went down to Courcy Castle; ofcourse, on matters of business. No doubt he dined at the table, andall that. We have the word of Lady Amelia, that the earl, with hisusual good-nature, allowed him such privileges. Let us hope that henever encroached on them. But on this occasion, Mr Gazebee stayed a long time at the castle, and singular rumours as to the cause of his prolonged visit becamecurrent in the little town. No female scion of the present family ofCourcy had, as yet, found a mate. We may imagine that eagles find itdifficult to pair when they become scarce in their localities; andwe all know how hard it has sometimes been to get _comme il faut_husbands when there has been any number of Protestant princesses onhand. Some such difficulty had, doubtless, brought it about that thecountess was still surrounded by her full bevy of maidens. Rank hasits responsibilities as well as its privileges, and these youngladies' responsibilities seemed to have consisted in rejecting anysuitor who may have hitherto kneeled to them. But now it was toldthrough Courcy, that one suitor had kneeled, and not in vain; fromCourcy the rumour flew to Barchester, and thence came down toGreshamsbury, startling the inhabitants, and making one poor heartthrob with a violence that would have been piteous had it been known. The suitor, so named, was Mr Mortimer Gazebee. Yes; Mr Mortimer Gazebee had now awarded to him many other privilegesthan those of dining at the table, and all that. He rode with theyoung ladies in the park, and they all talked to him very familiarlybefore company; all except the Lady Amelia. The countess even calledhim Mortimer, and treated him quite as one of the family. At last came a letter from the countess to her dear sister Arabella. It should be given at length, but that I fear to introduce anotherepistle. It is such an easy mode of writing, and facility is alwaysdangerous. In this letter it was announced with much preliminaryambiguity, that Mortimer Gazebee--who had been found to be a treasurein every way; quite a paragon of men--was about to be taken into thede Courcy bosom as a child of that house. On that day fortnight, hewas destined to lead to the altar--the Lady Amelia. The countess then went on to say, that dear Amelia did notwrite herself, being so much engaged by her coming duties--theresponsibilities of which she doubtless fully realised, as well asthe privileges; but she had begged her mother to request that thetwins should come and act as bridesmaids on the occasion. DearAugusta, she knew, was too much occupied in the coming event in MrOriel's family to be able to attend. Mr Mortimer Gazebee was taken into the de Courcy family, and did leadthe Lady Amelia to the altar; and the Gresham twins did go there andact as bridesmaids. And, which is much more to say for human nature, Augusta did forgive her cousin, and, after a certain interval, wenton a visit to that nice place in Surrey which she had once hopedwould be her own home. It would have been a very nice place, Augustathought, had not Lady Amelia Gazebee been so very economical. We must presume that there was some explanation between them. If so, Augusta yielded to it, and confessed it to be satisfactory. She hadalways yielded to her cousin, and loved her with that sort of lovewhich is begotten between fear and respect. Anything was better thanquarrelling with her cousin Amelia. And Mr Mortimer Gazebee did not altogether make a bad bargain. Henever received a shilling of dowry, but that he had not expected. Nor did he want it. His troubles arose from the overstrained economyof his noble wife. She would have it, that as she had married apoor man--Mr Gazebee, however, was not a poor man--it behovedher to manage her house with great care. Such a match as thatshe had made--this she told in confidence to Augusta--had itsresponsibilities as well as its privileges. But, on the whole, Mr Gazebee did not repent his bargain; when heasked his friends to dine, he could tell them that Lady Amelia wouldbe very glad to see them; his marriage gave him some éclat at hisclub, and some additional weight in the firm to which he belonged;he gets his share of the Courcy shooting, and is asked about toGreshamsbury and other Barsetshire houses, not only "to dine at tableand all that, " but to take his part in whatever delights countrysociety there has to offer. He lives with the great hope thathis noble father-in-law may some day be able to bring him intoParliament. CHAPTER XXXIX What the World Says about Blood "Beatrice, " said Frank, rushing suddenly into his sister's room, "Iwant you to do me one especial favour. " This was three or four daysafter Frank had seen Mary Thorne. Since that time he had spoken tonone of his family on the subject; but he was only postponing fromday to day the task of telling his father. He had now completed hisround of visits to the kennel, master huntsman, and stables of thecounty hunt, and was at liberty to attend to his own affairs. So hehad decided on speaking to the squire that very day; but he firstmade his request to his sister. "I want you to do me one especial favour. " The day for Beatrice'smarriage had now been fixed, and it was not to be very distant. Mr Oriel had urged that their honeymoon trip would lose half itsdelights if they did not take advantage of the fine weather; andBeatrice had nothing to allege in answer. The day had just beenfixed, and when Frank ran into her room with his special request, she was not in a humour to refuse him anything. "If you wish me to be at your wedding, you must do it, " said he. "Wish you to be there! You must be there, of course. Oh, Frank! whatdo you mean? I'll do anything you ask; if it is not to go to themoon, or anything of that sort. " Frank was too much in earnest to joke. "You must have Mary for one ofyour bridesmaids, " he said. "Now, mind; there may be some difficulty, but you must insist on it. I know what has been going on; but it isnot to be borne that she should be excluded on such a day as that. You that have been like sisters all your lives till a year ago!" "But, Frank--" "Now, Beatrice, don't have any buts; say that you will do it, and itwill be done: I am sure Oriel will approve, and so will my father. " "But, Frank, you won't hear me. " "Not if you make objections; I have set my heart on your doing it. " "But I had set my heart on the same thing. " "Well?" "And I went to Mary on purpose; and told her just as you tell me now, that she must come. I meant to make mamma understand that I could notbe happy unless it were so; but Mary positively refused. " "Refused! What did she say?" "I could not tell you what she said; indeed, it would not be right ifI could; but she positively declined. She seemed to feel, that afterall that had happened, she never could come to Greshamsbury again. " "Fiddlestick!" "But, Frank, those are her feelings; and, to tell the truth, I couldnot combat them. I know she is not happy; but time will cure that. And, to tell you the truth, Frank--" "It was before I came back that you asked her, was it not?" "Yes; just the day before you came, I think. " "Well, it's all altered now. I have seen her since that. " "Have you Frank?" "What do you take me for? Of course, I have. The very first day Iwent to her. And now, Beatrice, you may believe me or not, as youlike; but if I ever marry, I shall marry Mary Thorne; and if ever shemarries, I think I may say, she will marry me. At any rate, I haveher promise. And now, you cannot be surprised that I should wishher to be at your wedding; or that I should declare, that if she isabsent, I will be absent. I don't want any secrets, and you may tellmy mother if you like it--and all the de Courcys too, for anything Icare. " Frank had ever been used to command his sisters: and they, especiallyBeatrice, had ever been used to obey. On this occasion, she was wellinclined to do so, if she only knew how. She again remembered howMary had once sworn to be at her wedding, to be near her, and totouch her--even though all the blood of the de Courcys should becrowded before the altar railings. "I should be so happy that she should be there; but what am I to do, Frank, if she refuses? I have asked her, and she has refused. " "Go to her again; you need not have any scruples with her. Donot I tell you she will be your sister? Not come here again toGreshamsbury! Why, I tell you that she will be living here while youare living there at the parsonage, for years and years to come. " Beatrice promised that she would go to Mary again, and that she wouldendeavour to talk her mother over if Mary would consent to come. Butshe could not yet make herself believe that Mary Thorne would everbe mistress of Greshamsbury. It was so indispensably necessary thatFrank should marry money! Besides, what were those horrid rumourswhich were now becoming rife as to Mary's birth; rumours more horridthan any which had yet been heard? Augusta had said hardly more than the truth when she spoke of herfather being broken-hearted by his debts. His troubles were becomingalmost too many for him; and Mr Gazebee, though no doubt he was anexcellent man of business, did not seem to lessen them. Mr Gazebee, indeed, was continually pointing out how much he owed, and in whata quagmire of difficulties he had entangled himself. Now, to do MrYates Umbleby justice, he had never made himself disagreeable in thismanner. Mr Gazebee had been doubtless right, when he declared that Sir LouisScatcherd had not himself the power to take any steps hostile to thesquire; but Sir Louis had also been right, when he boasted that, in spite of his father's will, he could cause others to move inthe matter. Others did move, and were moving, and it began to beunderstood that a moiety, at least, of the remaining Greshamsburyproperty must be sold. Even this, however, would by no means leavethe squire in undisturbed possession of the other moiety. And thus, Mr Gresham was nearly broken-hearted. Frank had now been at home a week, and his father had not as yetspoken to him about the family troubles; nor had a word as yet beensaid between them as to Mary Thorne. It had been agreed that Frankshould go away for twelve months, in order that he might forget her. He had been away the twelvemonth, and had now returned, not havingforgotten her. It generally happens, that in every household, one subject ofimportance occupies it at a time. The subject of importance nowmostly thought of in the Greshamsbury household, was the marriage ofBeatrice. Lady Arabella had to supply the trousseau for her daughter;the squire had to supply the money for the trousseau; Mr Gazebee hadthe task of obtaining the money for the squire. While this was goingon, Mr Gresham was not anxious to talk to his son, either about hisown debts or his son's love. There would be time for these thingswhen the marriage-feast should be over. So thought the father, but the matter was precipitated by Frank. Healso had put off the declaration which he had to make, partly froma wish to spare the squire, but partly also with a view to sparehimself. We have all some of that cowardice which induces us topostpone an inevitably evil day. At this time the discussions asto Beatrice's wedding were frequent in the house, and at one ofthem Frank had heard his mother repeat the names of the proposedbridesmaids. Mary's name was not among them, and hence had arisen hisattack on his sister. Lady Arabella had had her reason for naming the list before her son;but she overshot her mark. She wished to show him how totally Marywas forgotten at Greshamsbury; but she only inspired him with aresolve that she should not be forgotten. He accordingly went to hissister; and then, the subject being full on his mind, he resolved atonce to discuss it with his father. "Sir, are you at leisure for five minutes?" he said, entering theroom in which the squire was accustomed to sit majestically, toreceive his tenants, scold his dependants, and in which, in formerhappy days, he had always arranged the meets of the Barsetshire hunt. Mr Gresham was quite at leisure: when was he not so? But had he beenimmersed in the deepest business of which he was capable, he wouldgladly have put it aside at his son's instance. "I don't like to have any secret from you, sir, " said Frank; "nor, for the matter of that, from anybody else"--the anybody else wasintended to have reference to his mother--"and, therefore, I wouldrather tell you at once what I have made up my mind to do. " Frank's address was very abrupt, and he felt it was so. He was ratherred in the face, and his manner was fluttered. He had quite made uphis mind to break the whole affair to his father; but he had hardlymade up his mind as to the best mode of doing so. "Good heavens, Frank! what do you mean? you are not going to doanything rash? What is it you mean, Frank?" "I don't think it is rash, " said Frank. "Sit down, my boy; sit down. What is it that you say you are going todo?" "Nothing immediately, sir, " said he, rather abashed; "but as I havemade up my mind about Mary Thorne, --quite made up my mind, I think itright to tell you. " "Oh, about Mary, " said the squire, almost relieved. And then Frank, in voluble language, which he hardly, however, hadquite under his command, told his father all that had passed betweenhim and Mary. "You see, sir, " said he, "that it is fixed now, andcannot be altered. Nor must it be altered. You asked me to go awayfor twelve months, and I have done so. It has made no difference, yousee. As to our means of living, I am quite willing to do anythingthat may be best and most prudent. I was thinking, sir, of taking afarm somewhere near here, and living on that. " The squire sat quite silent for some moments after this communicationhad been made to him. Frank's conduct, as a son, had been such thathe could not find fault with it; and, in this special matter of hislove, how was it possible for him to find fault? He himself wasalmost as fond of Mary as of a daughter; and, though he too wouldhave been desirous that his son should relieve the estate from itsembarrassments by a rich marriage, he did not at all share LadyArabella's feelings on the subject. No Countess de Courcy had everengraved it on the tablets of his mind that the world would come toruin if Frank did not marry money. Ruin there was, and would be, butit had been brought about by no sin of Frank's. "Do you remember about her birth, Frank?" he said, at last. "Yes, sir; everything. She told me all she knew; and Dr Thornefinished the story. " "And what do you think of it?" "It is a pity, and a misfortune. It might, perhaps, have been areason why you or my mother should not have had Mary in the housemany years ago; but it cannot make any difference now. " Frank had not meant to lean so heavily on his father; but he did doso. The story had never been told to Lady Arabella; was not evenknown to her now, positively, and on good authority. But Mr Greshamhad always known it. If Mary's birth was so great a stain upon her, why had he brought her into his house among his children? "It is a misfortune, Frank; a very great misfortune. It will notdo for you and me to ignore birth; too much of the value of one'sposition depends upon it. " "But what was Mr Moffat's birth?" said Frank, almost with scorn; "orwhat Miss Dunstable's?" he would have added, had it not been that hisfather had not been concerned in that sin of wedding him to the oilof Lebanon. "True, Frank. But yet, what you would mean to say is not true. Wemust take the world as we find it. Were you to marry a rich heiress, were her birth even as low as that of poor Mary--" "Don't call her poor Mary, father; she is not poor. My wife will havea right to take rank in the world, however she was born. " "Well, --poor in that way. But were she an heiress, the world wouldforgive her birth on account of her wealth. " "The world is very complaisant, sir. " "You must take it as you find it, Frank. I only say that such is thefact. If Porlock were to marry the daughter of a shoeblack, without afarthing, he would make a _mésalliance_; but if the daughter of theshoeblack had half a million of money, nobody would dream of sayingso. I am stating no opinion of my own: I am only giving you theworld's opinion. " "I don't give a straw for the world. " "That is a mistake, my boy; you do care for it, and would be veryfoolish if you did not. What you mean is, that, on this particularpoint, you value your love more than the world's opinion. " "Well, yes, that is what I mean. " But the squire, though he had been very lucid in his definition, hadnot got no nearer to his object; had not even yet ascertained whathis own object was. This marriage would be ruinous to Greshamsbury;and yet, what was he to say against it, seeing that the ruin had beenhis fault, and not his son's? "You could let me have a farm; could you not, sir? I was thinkingof about six or seven hundred acres. I suppose it could be managedsomehow?" "A farm?" said the father, abstractedly. "Yes, sir. I must do something for my living. I should make less ofa mess of that than of anything else. Besides, it would take such atime to be an attorney, or a doctor, or anything of that sort. " Do something for his living! And was the heir of Greshamsbury come tothis--the heir and only son? Whereas, he, the squire, had succeededat an earlier age than Frank's to an unembarrassed income of fourteenthousand pounds a year! The reflection was very hard to bear. "Yes: I dare say you could have a farm:" and then he threw himselfback in his chair, closing his eyes. Then, after a while, rose again, and walked hurriedly about the room. "Frank, " he said, at last, standing opposite to his son, "I wonder what you think of me?" "Think of you, sir?" ejaculated Frank. "Yes; what do you think of me, for having thus ruined you. I wonderwhether you hate me?" Frank, jumping up from his chair, threw his arms round his father'sneck. "Hate you, sir? How can you speak so cruelly? You know wellthat I love you. And, father, do not trouble yourself about theestate for my sake. I do not care for it; I can be just as happywithout it. Let the girls have what is left, and I will make my ownway in the world, somehow. I will go to Australia; yes, sir, thatwill be best. I and Mary will both go. Nobody will care about herbirth there. But, father, never say, never think, that I do not loveyou!" The squire was too much moved to speak at once, so he sat down again, and covered his face with his hands. Frank went on pacing the room, till, gradually, his first idea recovered possession of his mind, andthe remembrance of his father's grief faded away. "May I tell Mary, "he said at last, "that you consent to our marriage? It will make herso happy. " But the squire was not prepared to say this. He was pledged to hiswife to do all that he could to oppose it; and he himself thought, that if anything could consummate the family ruin, it would be thismarriage. "I cannot say that, Frank; I cannot say that. What would you bothlive on? It would be madness. " "We would go to Australia, " answered he, bitterly. "I have just saidso. " "Oh, no, my boy; you cannot do that. You must not throw the old placeup altogether. There is no other one but you, Frank; and we havelived here now for so many, many years. " "But if we cannot live here any longer, father?" "But for this scheme of yours, we might do so. I will give upeverything to you, the management of the estate, the park, all theland we have in hand, if you will give up this fatal scheme. For, Frank, it is fatal. You are only twenty-three; why should you be insuch a hurry to marry?" "You married at twenty-one, sir. " Frank was again severe on his father, but unwittingly. "Yes, I did, "said Mr Gresham; "and see what has come of it! Had I waited ten yearslonger, how different would everything have been! No, Frank, I cannotconsent to such a marriage; nor will your mother. " "It is your consent I ask, sir; and I am asking for nothing but yourconsent. " "It would be sheer madness; madness for you both. My own Frank, mydear, dear boy, do not drive me to distraction! Give it up for fouryears. " "Four years!" "Yes; for four years. I ask it as a personal favour; as an obligationto myself, in order that we may be saved from ruin; you, your mother, and sisters, your family name, and the old house. I do not talk aboutmyself; but were such a marriage to take place, I should be driven todespair. " Frank found it very hard to resist his father, who now had hold ofhis hand and arm, and was thus half retaining him, and half embracinghim. "Frank, say that you will forget this for four years--say forthree years. " But Frank would not say so. To postpone his marriage for four years, or for three, seemed to him to be tantamount to giving up Maryaltogether; and he would not acknowledge that any one had the rightto demand of him to do that. "My word is pledged, sir, " he said. "Pledged! Pledged to whom?" "To Miss Thorne. " "But I will see her, Frank;--and her uncle. She was alwaysreasonable. I am sure she will not wish to bring ruin on her oldfriends at Greshamsbury. " "Her old friends at Greshamsbury have done but little lately todeserve her consideration. She has been treated shamefully. I knowit has not been by you, sir; but I must say so. She has already beentreated shamefully; but I will not treat her falsely. " "Well, Frank, I can say no more to you. I have destroyed the estatewhich should have been yours, and I have no right to expect youshould regard what I say. " Frank was greatly distressed. He had not any feeling of animosityagainst his father with reference to the property, and would havedone anything to make the squire understand this, short of giving uphis engagement to Mary. His feeling rather was, that, as each had acase against the other, they should cry quits; that he should forgivehis father for his bad management, on condition that he himself wasto be forgiven with regard to his determined marriage. Not that heput it exactly in that shape, even to himself; but could he haveunravelled his own thoughts, he would have found that such was theweb on which they were based. "Father, I do regard what you say; but you would not have me befalse. Had you doubled the property instead of lessening it, I couldnot regard what you say any more. " "I should be able to speak in a very different tone; I feel that, Frank. " "Do not feel it any more, sir; say what you wish, as you would havesaid it under any other circumstances; and pray believe this, theidea never occurs to me, that I have ground of complaint as regardsthe property; never. Whatever troubles we may have, do not let thattrouble you. " Soon after this Frank left him. What more was there that could besaid between them? They could not be of one accord; but even yet itmight not be necessary that they should quarrel. He went out, androamed by himself through the grounds, rather more in meditation thanwas his wont. If he did marry, how was he to live? He talked of a profession; buthad he meant to do as others do, who make their way in professions, he should have thought of that a year or two ago!--or, rather, havedone more than think of it. He spoke also of a farm, but even thatcould not be had in a moment; nor, if it could, would it produce aliving. Where was his capital? Where his skill? and he might haveasked also, where the industry so necessary for such a trade? Hemight set his father at defiance, and if Mary were equally headstrongwith himself, he might marry her. But, what then? As he walked slowly about, cutting off the daisies with his stick, hemet Mr Oriel, going up to the house, as was now his custom, to dinethere and spend the evening, close to Beatrice. "How I envy you, Oriel!" he said. "What would I not give to have sucha position in the world as yours!" "Thou shalt not covet a man's house, nor his wife, " said Mr Oriel;"perhaps it ought to have been added, nor his position. " "It wouldn't have made much difference. When a man is tempted, theCommandments, I believe, do not go for much. " "Do they not, Frank? That's a dangerous doctrine; and one which, ifyou had my position, you would hardly admit. But what makes you somuch out of sorts? Your own position is generally considered aboutthe best which the world has to give. " "Is it? Then let me tell you that the world has very little to give. What can I do? Where can I turn? Oriel, if there be an empty, lyinghumbug in the world, it is the theory of high birth and pure bloodwhich some of us endeavour to maintain. Blood, indeed! If my fatherhad been a baker, I should know by this time where to look for mylivelihood. As it is, I am told of nothing but my blood. Will myblood ever get me half a crown?" And then the young democrat walked on again in solitude, leaving MrOriel in doubt as to the exact line of argument which he had meant toinculcate. CHAPTER XL The Two Doctors Change Patients Dr Fillgrave still continued his visits to Greshamsbury, for LadyArabella had not yet mustered the courage necessary for swallowingher pride and sending once more for Dr Thorne. Nothing pleased DrFillgrave more than those visits. He habitually attended grander families, and richer people; but then, he had attended them habitually. Greshamsbury was a prize taken fromthe enemy; it was his rock of Gibraltar, of which he thought muchmore than of any ordinary Hampshire or Wiltshire which had alwaysbeen within his own kingdom. He was just starting one morning with his post-horses forGreshamsbury, when an impudent-looking groom, with a crooked nose, trotted up to his door. For Joe still had a crooked nose, all thedoctor's care having been inefficacious to remedy the evil effectsof Bridget's little tap with the rolling-pin. Joe had no writtencredentials, for his master was hardly equal to writing, andLady Scatcherd had declined to put herself into further personalcommunication with Dr Fillgrave; but he had effrontery enough todeliver any message. "Be you Dr Fillgrave?" said Joe, with one finger just raised to hiscocked hat. "Yes, " said Dr Fillgrave, with one foot on the step of the carriage, but pausing at the sight of so well-turned-out a servant. "Yes; I amDr Fillgrave. " "Then you be to go to Boxall Hill immediately; before anywhere else. " "Boxall Hill!" said the doctor, with a very angry frown. "Yes; Boxall Hill: my master's place--my master is Sir LouisScatcherd, baronet. You've heard of him, I suppose?" Dr Fillgrave had not his mind quite ready for such an occasion. So hewithdrew his foot from the carriage step, and rubbing his hands oneover another, looked at his own hall door for inspiration. A singleglance at his face was sufficient to show that no ordinary thoughtswere being turned over within his breast. "Well!" said Joe, thinking that his master's name had not altogetherproduced the magic effect which he had expected; remembering, also, how submissive Greyson had always been, who, being a London doctor, must be supposed to be a bigger man than this provincial fellow. "Do you know as how my master is dying, very like, while you standthere?" "What is your master's disease?" said the doctor, facing Joe, slowly, and still rubbing his hands. "What ails him? What is the matter withhim?" "Oh; the matter with him? Well, to say it out at once then, he dotake a drop too much at times, and then he has the horrors--what isit they call it? delicious beam-ends, or something of that sort. " "Oh, ah, yes; I know; and tell me, my man, who is attending him?" "Attending him? why, I do, and his mother, that is, her ladyship. " "Yes; but what medical attendant: what doctor?" "Why, there was Greyson, in London, and--" "Greyson!" and the doctor looked as though a name so medicinallyhumble had never before struck the tympanum of his ear. "Yes; Greyson. And then, down at what's the name of the place, therewas Thorne. " "Greshamsbury?" "Yes; Greshamsbury. But he and Thorne didn't hit it off; and so sincethat he has had no one but myself. " "I will be at Boxall Hill in the course of the morning, " said DrFillgrave; "or, rather, you may say, that I will be there at once: Iwill take it in my way. " And having thus resolved, he gave his ordersthat the post-horses should make such a detour as would enable himto visit Boxall Hill on his road. "It is impossible, " said he tohimself, "that I should be twice treated in such a manner in the samehouse. " He was not, however, altogether in a comfortable frame of mind as hewas driven up to the hall door. He could not but remember the smileof triumph with which his enemy had regarded him in that hall; hecould not but think how he had returned fee-less to Barchester, andhow little he had gained in the medical world by rejecting LadyScatcherd's bank-note. However, he also had had his triumphs sincethat. He had smiled scornfully at Dr Thorne when he had seen him inthe Greshamsbury street; and had been able to tell, at twenty housesthrough the county, how Lady Arabella had at last been obliged toplace herself in his hands. And he triumphed again when he foundhimself really standing by Sir Louis Scatcherd's bedside. As for LadyScatcherd, she did not even show herself. She kept in her own littleroom, sending out Hannah to ask him up the stairs; and she only justgot a peep at him through the door as she heard the medical creak ofhis shoes as he again descended. We need say but little of his visit to Sir Louis. It matterednothing now, whether it was Thorne, or Greyson, or Fillgrave. And DrFillgrave knew that it mattered nothing: he had skill at least forthat--and heart enough also to feel that he would fain have beenrelieved from this task; would fain have left this patient in thehands even of Dr Thorne. The name which Joe had given to his master's illness was certainlynot a false one. He did find Sir Louis "in the horrors. " If anyfather have a son whose besetting sin is a passion for alcohol, lethim take his child to the room of a drunkard when possessed by "thehorrors. " Nothing will cure him if not that. I will not disgust my reader by attempting to describe the poorwretch in his misery: the sunken, but yet glaring eyes; the emaciatedcheeks; the fallen mouth; the parched, sore lips; the face, now dryand hot, and then suddenly clammy with drops of perspiration; theshaking hand, and all but palsied limbs; and worse than this, thefearful mental efforts, and the struggles for drink; struggles towhich it is often necessary to give way. Dr Fillgrave soon knew what was to be the man's fate; but he did whathe might to relieve it. There, in one big, best bedroom, looking outto the north, lay Sir Louis Scatcherd, dying wretchedly. There, inthe other big, best bedroom, looking out to the south, had died theother baronet about a twelvemonth since, and each a victim to thesame sin. To this had come the prosperity of the house of Scatcherd! And then Dr Fillgrave went on to Greshamsbury. It was a long day'swork, both for himself and the horses; but then, the triumph of beingdragged up that avenue compensated for both the expense and thelabour. He always put on his sweetest smile as he came near the halldoor, and rubbed his hands in the most complaisant manner of which heknew. It was seldom that he saw any of the family but Lady Arabella;but then he desired to see none other, and when he left her in a goodhumour, was quite content to take his glass of sherry and eat hislunch by himself. On this occasion, however, the servant at once asked him to go intothe dining-room, and there he found himself in the presence of FrankGresham. The fact was, that Lady Arabella, having at last decided, had sent for Dr Thorne; and it had become necessary that some oneshould be entrusted with the duty of informing Dr Fillgrave. Thatsome one must be the squire, or Frank. Lady Arabella would doubtlesshave preferred a messenger more absolutely friendly to her own sideof the house; but such messenger there was none: she could not sendMr Gazebee to see her doctor, and so, of the two evils, she chose theleast. "Dr Fillgrave, " said Frank, shaking hands with him very cordially ashe came up, "my mother is so much obliged to you for all your careand anxiety on her behalf! and, so indeed, are we all. " The doctor shook hands with him very warmly. This little expressionof a family feeling on his behalf was the more gratifying, as he hadalways thought that the males of the Greshamsbury family were stillwedded to that pseudo-doctor, that half-apothecary who lived in thevillage. "It has been awfully troublesome to you, coming over all this way, Iam sure. Indeed, money could not pay for it; my mother feels that. Itmust cut up your time so much. " "Not at all, Mr Gresham; not at all, " said the Barchester doctor, rising up on his toes proudly as he spoke. "A person of your mother'simportance, you know! I should be happy to go any distance to seeher. " "Ah! but, Dr Fillgrave, we cannot allow that. " "Mr Gresham, don't mention it. " "Oh, yes; but I must, " said Frank, who thought that he had doneenough for civility, and was now anxious to come to the point. "Thefact is, doctor, that we are very much obliged for what you havedone; but, for the future, my mother thinks she can trust to suchassistance as she can get here in the village. " Frank had been particularly instructed to be very careful how hementioned Dr Thorne's name, and, therefore, cleverly avoided it. Get what assistance she wanted in the village! What words were thosethat he heard? "Mr Gresham, eh--hem--perhaps I do not completely--"Yes, alas! he had completely understood what Frank had meant that heshould understand. Frank desired to be civil, but he had no idea ofbeating unnecessarily about the bush on such an occasion as this. "It's by Sir Omicron's advice, Dr Fillgrave. You see, this manhere"--and he nodded his head towards the doctor's house, being stillanxious not to pronounce the hideous name--"has known my mother'sconstitution for so many years. " "Oh, Mr Gresham; of course, if it is wished. " "Yes, Dr Fillgrave, it is wished. Lunch is coming directly:" andFrank rang the bell. "Nothing, I thank you, Mr Gresham. " "Do take a glass of sherry. " "Nothing at all, I am very much obliged to you. " "Won't you let the horses get some oats?" "I will return at once, if you please, Mr Gresham. " And the doctordid return, taking with him, on this occasion, the fee that wasoffered to him. His experience had at any rate taught him so much. But though Frank could do this for Lady Arabella, he could notreceive Dr Thorne on her behalf. The bitterness of that interview hadto be borne by herself. A messenger had been sent for him, and he wasupstairs with her ladyship while his rival was receiving his _congé_downstairs. She had two objects to accomplish, if it might bepossible: she had found that high words with the doctor were ofno avail; but it might be possible that Frank could be saved byhumiliation on her part. If she humbled herself before this man, would he consent to acknowledge that his niece was not the fit bridefor the heir of Greshamsbury? The doctor entered the room where she was lying on her sofa, andwalking up to her with a gentle, but yet not constrained step, took the seat beside her little table, just as he had always beenaccustomed to do, and as though there had been no break in theirintercourse. "Well, doctor, you see that I have come back to you, " she said, witha faint smile. "Or, rather I have come back to you. And, believe me, Lady Arabella, I am very happy to do so. There need be no excuses. You were, doubtless, right to try what other skill could do; and I hope it hasnot been tried in vain. " She had meant to have been so condescending; but now all that was putquite beyond her power. It was not easy to be condescending to thedoctor: she had been trying all her life, and had never succeeded. "I have had Sir Omicron Pie, " she said. "So I was glad to hear. Sir Omicron is a clever man, and has a goodname. I always recommend Sir Omicron myself. " "And Sir Omicron returns the compliment, " said she, smilinggracefully, "for he recommends you. He told Mr Gresham that I wasvery foolish to quarrel with my best friend. So now we are friendsagain, are we not? You see how selfish I am. " And she put out herhand to him. The doctor took her hand cordially, and assured her that he bore herno ill-will; that he fully understood her conduct--and that he hadnever accused her of selfishness. This was all very well and verygracious; but, nevertheless, Lady Arabella felt that the doctorkept the upper hand in those sweet forgivenesses. Whereas, she hadintended to keep the upper hand, at least for a while, so that herhumiliation might be more effective when it did come. And then the doctor used his surgical lore, as he well knew how touse it. There was an assured confidence about him, an air whichseemed to declare that he really knew what he was doing. Thesewere very comfortable to his patients, but they were wanting in DrFillgrave. When he had completed his examinations and questions, and she had completed her little details and made her answer, shecertainly was more at ease than she had been since the doctor hadlast left her. "Don't go yet for a moment, " she said. "I have one word to say toyou. " He declared that he was not the least in a hurry. He desired nothingbetter, he said, than to sit there and talk to her. "And I owe you amost sincere apology, Lady Arabella. " "A sincere apology!" said she, becoming a little red. Was he going tosay anything about Mary? Was he going to own that he, and Mary, andFrank had all been wrong? "Yes, indeed. I ought not to have brought Sir Louis Scatcherd here: Iought to have known that he would have disgraced himself. " "Oh! it does not signify, " said her ladyship in a tone almost ofdisappointment. "I had forgotten it. Mr Gresham and you had moreinconvenience than we had. " "He is an unfortunate, wretched man--most unfortunate; with animmense fortune which he can never live to possess. " "And who will the money go to, doctor?" This was a question for which Dr Thorne was hardly prepared. "Go to?"he repeated. "Oh, some member of the family, I believe. There areplenty of nephews and nieces. " "Yes; but will it be divided, or all go to one?" "Probably to one, I think. Sir Roger had a strong idea of leavingit all in one hand. " If it should happen to be a girl, thought LadyArabella, what an excellent opportunity would that be for Frank tomarry money! "And now, doctor, I want to say one word to you; considering the verylong time that we have known each other, it is better that I shouldbe open with you. This estrangement between us and dear Mary hasgiven us all so much pain. Cannot we do anything to put an end toit?" "Well, what can I say, Lady Arabella? That depends so wholly onyourself. " "If it depends on me, it shall be done at once. " The doctor bowed. And though he could hardly be said to do sostiffly, he did it coldly. His bow seemed to say, "Certainly; if youchoose to make a proper _amende_ it can be done. But I think it isvery unlikely that you will do so. " "Beatrice is just going to be married, you know that, doctor. " Thedoctor said that he did know it. "And it will be so pleasant thatMary should make one of us. Poor Beatrice; you don't know what shehas suffered. " "Yes, " said the doctor, "there has been suffering, I am sure;suffering on both sides. " "You cannot wonder that we should be so anxious about Frank, DrThorne; an only son, and the heir to an estate that has been so verylong in the family:" and Lady Arabella put her handkerchief to hereyes, as though these facts were in themselves melancholy, and notto be thought of by a mother without some soft tears. "Now I wishyou could tell me what your views are, in a friendly manner, betweenourselves. You won't find me unreasonable. " "My views, Lady Arabella?" "Yes, doctor; about your niece, you know: you must have views of somesort; that's of course. It occurs to me, that perhaps we are all inthe dark together. If so, a little candid speaking between you and memay set it all right. " Lady Arabella's career had not hitherto been conspicuous for candour, as far as Dr Thorne had been able to judge of it; but that was noreason why he should not respond to so very becoming an invitationon her part. He had no objection to a little candid speaking; atleast, so he declared. As to his views with regard to Mary, they weremerely these: that he would make her as happy and comfortable as hecould while she remained with him; and that he would give her hisblessing--for he had nothing else to give her--when she left him;--ifever she should do so. Now, it will be said that the doctor was not very candid in this;not more so, perhaps, than was Lady Arabella herself. But when oneis specially invited to be candid, one is naturally set upon one'sguard. Those who by disposition are most open, are apt to becomecrafty when so admonished. When a man says to you, "Let us be candidwith each other, " you feel instinctively that he desires to squeezeyou without giving a drop of water himself. "Yes; but about Frank, " said Lady Arabella. "About Frank!" said the doctor, with an innocent look, which herladyship could hardly interpret. "What I mean is this: can you give me your word that these youngpeople do not intend to do anything rash? One word like that fromyou will set my mind quite at rest. And then we could be so happytogether again. " "Ah! who is to answer for what rash things a young man will do?" saidthe doctor, smiling. Lady Arabella got up from the sofa, and pushed away the little table. The man was false, hypocritical, and cunning. Nothing could be madeof him. They were all in a conspiracy together to rob her of her son;to make him marry without money! What should she do? Where shouldshe turn for advice or counsel? She had nothing more to say to thedoctor; and he, perceiving that this was the case, took his leave. This little attempt to achieve candour had not succeeded. Dr Thorne had answered Lady Arabella as had seemed best to him on thespur of the moment; but he was by no means satisfied with himself. As he walked away through the gardens, he bethought himself whetherit would be better for all parties if he could bring himself to bereally candid. Would it not be better for him at once to tell thesquire what were the future prospects of his niece, and let thefather agree to the marriage, or not agree to it, as he might thinkfit. But then, if so, if he did do this, would he not in fact say, "There is my niece, there is this girl of whom you have been talkingfor the last twelvemonth, indifferent to what agony of mind you mayhave occasioned to her; there she is, a probable heiress! It may beworth your son's while to wait a little time, and not cast her offtill he shall know whether she be an heiress or no. If it shall turnout that she is rich, let him take her; if not, why, he can deserther then as well as now. " He could not bring himself to put his nieceinto such a position as this. He was anxious enough that she shouldbe Frank Gresham's wife, for he loved Frank Gresham; he was anxiousenough, also, that she should give to her husband the means of savingthe property of his family. But Frank, though he might find her rich, was bound to take her while she was poor. Then, also, he doubted whether he would be justified in speakingof this will at all. He almost hated the will for the trouble andvexation it had given him, and the constant stress it had laid on hisconscience. He had spoken of it as yet to no one, and he thought thathe was resolved not to do so while Sir Louis should yet be in theland of the living. On reaching home, he found a note from Lady Scatcherd, informing himthat Dr Fillgrave had once more been at Boxall Hill, and that, onthis occasion, he had left the house without anger. "I don't know what he has said about Louis, " she added, "for, totell the truth, doctor, I was afraid to see him. But he comes againto-morrow, and then I shall be braver. But I fear that my poor boy isin a bad way. " CHAPTER XLI Doctor Thorne Won't Interfere At this period there was, as it were, a truce to the ordinary littleskirmishes which had been so customary between Lady Arabella andthe squire. Things had so fallen out, that they neither of them hadmuch spirit for a contest; and, moreover, on that point which atthe present moment was most thought of by both of them, they werestrangely in unison. For each of them was anxious to prevent thethreatened marriage of their only son. It must, moreover, be remembered, that Lady Arabella had carried agreat point in ousting Mr Yates Umbleby and putting the management ofthe estate into the hands of her own partisan. But then the squirehad not done less in getting rid of Fillgrave and reinstating DrThorne in possession of the family invalids. The losses, therefore, had been equal; the victories equal; and there was a mutual object. And it must be confessed, also, that Lady Arabella's taste forgrandeur was on the decline. Misfortune was coming too near to her toleave her much anxiety for the gaieties of a London season. Thingswere not faring well with her. When her eldest daughter was going tomarry a man of fortune, and a member of Parliament, she had thoughtnothing of demanding a thousand pounds or so for the extraordinaryexpenses incident to such an occasion. But now, Beatrice was tobecome the wife of a parish parson, and even that was thought to bea fortunate event; she had, therefore, no heart for splendour. "The quieter we can do it the better, " she wrote to hercountess-sister. "Her father wanted to give him at least a thousandpounds; but Mr Gazebee has told me confidentially that it literallycannot be done at the present moment! Ah, my dear Rosina! how thingshave been managed! If one or two of the girls will come over, weshall all take it as a favour. Beatrice would think it very kind ofthem. But I don't think of asking you or Amelia. " Amelia was alwaysthe grandest of the de Courcy family, being almost on an equalitywith--nay, in some respect superior to--the countess herself. Butthis, of course, was before the days of the nice place in Surrey. Such, and so humble being the present temper of the lady ofGreshamsbury, it will not be thought surprising that she and MrGresham should at last come together in their efforts to reclaimtheir son. At first Lady Arabella urged upon the squire the duty of being veryperemptory and very angry. "Do as other fathers do in such cases. Make him understand that he will have no allowance to live on. " "Heunderstands that well enough, " said Mr Gresham. "Threaten to cut him off with a shilling, " said her ladyship, withspirit. "I haven't a shilling to cut him off with, " answered thesquire, bitterly. But Lady Arabella herself soon perceived, that this line would notdo. As Mr Gresham himself confessed, his own sins against his son hadbeen too great to allow of his taking a high hand with him. Besides, Mr Gresham was not a man who could ever be severe with a son whoseindividual conduct had been so good as Frank's. This marriage was, inhis view, a misfortune to be averted if possible, --to be averted byany possible means; but, as far as Frank was concerned, it was to beregarded rather as a monomania than a crime. "I did feel so certain that he would have succeeded with MissDunstable, " said the mother, almost crying. "I thought it impossible but that at his age a twelvemonth's knockingabout the world would cure him, " said the father. "I never heard of a boy being so obstinate about a girl, " said themother. "I'm sure he didn't get it from the de Courcys:" and then, again, they talked it over in all its bearings. "But what are they to live upon?" said Lady Arabella, appealing, asit were, to some impersonation of reason. "That's what I want him totell me. What are they to live upon?" "I wonder whether de Courcy could get him into some embassy?" saidthe father. "He does talk of a profession. " "What! with the girl and all?" asked Lady Arabella with horror, alarmed at the idea of such an appeal being made to her noblebrother. "No; but before he marries. He might be broken of it that way. " "Nothing will break him, " said the wretched mother;"nothing--nothing. For my part, I think that he is possessed. Why wasshe brought here? Oh, dear! oh, dear! Why was she ever brought intothis house?" This last question Mr Gresham did not think it necessary to answer. That evil had been done, and it would be useless to dispute it. "I'lltell you what I'll do, " said he. "I'll speak to the doctor himself. " "It's not the slightest use, " said Lady Arabella. "He will not assistus. Indeed, I firmly believe it's all his own doing. " "Oh, nonsense! that really is nonsense, my love. " "Very well, Mr Gresham. What I say is always nonsense, I know; youhave always told me so. But yet, see how things have turned out. Iknew how it would be when she was first brought into the house. " Thisassertion was rather a stretch on the part of Lady Arabella. "Well, it is nonsense to say that Frank is in love with the girl atthe doctor's bidding. " "I think you know, Mr Gresham, that I don't mean that. What I say isthis, that Dr Thorne, finding what an easy fool Frank is--" "I don't think he's at all easy, my love; and certainly is not afool. " "Very well, have it your own way. I'll not say a word more. I'mstruggling to do my best, and I'm browbeaten on every side. God knowsI am not in a state of health to bear it!" And Lady Arabella bowedher head into her pocket-handkerchief. "I think, my dear, if you were to see Mary herself it might do somegood, " said the squire, when the violence of his wife's grief hadsomewhat subsided. "What! go and call upon this girl?" "Yes; you can send Beatrice to give her notice, you know. She neverwas unreasonable, and I do not think that you would find her so. Youshould tell her, you know--" "Oh, I should know very well what to tell her, Mr Gresham. " "Yes, my love; I'm sure you would; nobody better. But what I mean is, that if you are to do any good, you should be kind in your manner. Mary Thorne has a spirit that you cannot break. You may perhaps lead, but nobody can drive her. " As this scheme originated with her husband, Lady Arabella could not, of course, confess that there was much in it. But, nevertheless, she determined to attempt it, thinking that if anything could beefficacious for good in their present misfortunes, it would be herown diplomatic powers. It was, therefore, at last settled betweenthem, that he should endeavour to talk over the doctor, and that shewould do the same with Mary. "And then I will speak to Frank, " said Lady Arabella. "As yet he hasnever had the audacity to open his mouth to me about Mary Thorne, though I believe he declares his love openly to every one else in thehouse. " "And I will get Oriel to speak to him, " said the squire. "I think Patience might do more good. I did once think he was gettingfond of Patience, and I was quite unhappy about it then. Ah, dear! Ishould be almost pleased at that now. " And thus it was arranged that all the artillery of Greshamsbury wasto be brought to bear at once on Frank's love, so as to crush it, asit were, by the very weight of metal. It may be imagined that the squire would have less scruple inaddressing the doctor on this matter than his wife would feel; andthat his part of their present joint undertaking was less difficultthan hers. For he and the doctor had ever been friends at heart. But, nevertheless, he did feel much scruple, as, with his stick in hand, he walked down to the little gate which opened out near the doctor'shouse. This feeling was so strong, that he walked on beyond this door to theentrance, thinking of what he was going to do, and then back again. It seemed to be his fate to be depending always on the clemency orconsideration of Dr Thorne. At this moment the doctor was imposingthe only obstacle which was offered to the sale of a great part ofhis estate. Sir Louis, through his lawyer, was pressing the doctor tosell, and the lawyer was loudly accusing the doctor of delaying to doso. "He has the management of your property, " said Mr Finnie; "but hemanages it in the interest of his own friend. It is quite clear, andwe will expose it. " "By all means, " said Sir Louis. "It is a d----dshame, and it shall be exposed. " Of all this the squire was aware. When he reached the doctor's house, he was shown into thedrawing-room, and found Mary there alone. It had always been hishabit to kiss her forehead when he chanced to meet her about thehouse at Greshamsbury. She had been younger and more childish then;but even now she was but a child to him, so he kissed her as he hadbeen wont to do. She blushed slightly as she looked up into his face, and said: "Oh, Mr Gresham, I am so glad to see you here again. " As he looked at her he could not but acknowledge that it was naturalthat Frank should love her. He had never before seen that she wasattractive;--had never had an opinion about it. She had grown upas a child under his eye; and as she had not had the name of beingespecially a pretty child, he had never thought on the subject. Nowhe saw before him a woman whose every feature was full of spirit andanimation; whose eye sparkled with more than mere brilliancy; whoseface was full of intelligence; whose very smile was eloquent. Was itto be wondered at that Frank should have learned to love her? Miss Thorne wanted but one attribute which many consider essentialto feminine beauty. She had no brilliancy of complexion, no pearlywhiteness, no vivid carnation; nor, indeed, did she possess the darkbrilliance of a brunette. But there was a speaking earnestness in herface; an expression of mental faculty which the squire now for thefirst time perceived to be charming. And then he knew how good she was. He knew well what was her nature;how generous, how open, how affectionate, and yet how proud! Herpride was her fault; but even that was not a fault in his eyes. Outof his own family there was no one whom he had loved, and could love, as he loved her. He felt, and acknowledged that no man could have abetter wife. And yet he was there with the express object of rescuinghis son from such a marriage! "You are looking very well, Mary, " he said, almost involuntarily. "Am I?" she answered, smiling. "It's very nice at any rate to becomplimented. Uncle never pays me any compliments of that sort. " In truth, she was looking well. She would say to herself overand over again, from morning to night, that Frank's love for herwould be, must be, unfortunate; could not lead to happiness. But, nevertheless, it did make her happy. She had before his return madeup her mind to be forgotten, and it was so sweet to find that he hadbeen so far from forgetting her. A girl may scold a man in words forrashness in his love, but her heart never scolds him for such anoffence as that. She had not been slighted, and her heart, therefore, still rose buoyant within her breast. The doctor entered the room. As the squire's visit had been expectedby him, he had of course not been out of the house. "And now Isuppose I must go, " said Mary; "for I know you are going to talkabout business. But, uncle, Mr Gresham says I'm looking very well. Why have you not been able to find that out?" "She's a dear, good girl, " said the squire, as the door shut behindher; "a dear good girl;" and the doctor could not fail to see thathis eyes were filled with tears. "I think she is, " said he, quietly. And then they both sat silent, asthough each was waiting to hear whether the other had anything moreto say on that subject. The doctor, at any rate, had nothing more tosay. "I have come here specially to speak to you about her, " said thesquire. "About Mary?" "Yes, doctor; about her and Frank: something must be done, somearrangement made: if not for our sakes, at least for theirs. " "What arrangement, squire?" "Ah! that is the question. I take it for granted that either Frank orMary has told you that they have engaged themselves to each other. " "Frank told me so twelve months since. " "And has not Mary told you?" "Not exactly that. But, never mind; she has, I believe, no secretfrom me. Though I have said but little to her, I think I know itall. " "Well, what then?" The doctor shook his head and put up his hands. He had nothing tosay; no proposition to make; no arrangement to suggest. The thing wasso, and he seemed to say that, as far as he was concerned, there wasan end of it. The squire sat looking at him, hardly knowing how to proceed. Itseemed to him, that the fact of a young man and a young lady being inlove with each other was not a thing to be left to arrange itself, particularly, seeing the rank of life in which they were placed. Butthe doctor seemed to be of a different opinion. "But, Dr Thorne, there is no man on God's earth who knows my affairsas well as you do; and in knowing mine, you know Frank's. Do youthink it possible that they should marry each other?" "Possible; yes, it is possible. You mean, will it be prudent?" "Well, take it in that way; would it not be most imprudent?" "At present, it certainly would be. I have never spoken to either ofthem on the subject; but I presume they do not think of such a thingfor the present. " "But, doctor--" The squire was certainly taken aback by the coolnessof the doctor's manner. After all, he, the squire, was Mr Greshamof Greshamsbury, generally acknowledged to be the first commoner inBarsetshire; after all, Frank was his heir, and, in process of time, he would be Mr Gresham of Greshamsbury. Crippled as the estate was, there would be something left, and the rank at any rate remained. Butas to Mary, she was not even the doctor's daughter. She was not onlypenniless, but nameless, fatherless, worse than motherless! It wasincredible that Dr Thorne, with his generally exalted ideas as tofamily, should speak in this cold way as to a projected marriagebetween the heir of Greshamsbury and his brother's bastard child! "But, doctor, " repeated the squire. The doctor put one leg over the other, and began to rub his calf. "Squire, " said he. "I think I know all that you would say, all thatyou mean. And you don't like to say it, because you would not wish topain me by alluding to Mary's birth. " "But, independently of that, what would they live on?" said thesquire, energetically. "Birth is a great thing, a very great thing. You and I think exactly alike about that, so we need have no dispute. You are quite as proud of Ullathorne as I am of Greshamsbury. " "I might be if it belonged to me. " "But you are. It is no use arguing. But, putting that asidealtogether, what would they live on? If they were to marry, whatwould they do? Where would they go? You know what Lady Arabellathinks of such things; would it be possible that they should live upat the house with her? Besides, what a life would that be for both ofthem! Could they live here? Would that be well for them?" The squire looked at the doctor for an answer; but he still went onrubbing his calf. Mr Gresham, therefore, was constrained to continuehis expostulation. "When I am dead there will still, I hope, be something;--somethingleft for the poor fellow. Lady Arabella and the girls would be betteroff, perhaps, than now, and I sometimes wish, for Frank's sake, thatthe time had come. " The doctor could not now go on rubbing his leg. He was moved tospeak, and declared that, of all events, that was the one which wouldbe furthest from Frank's heart. "I know no son, " said he, "who loveshis father more dearly than he does. " "I do believe it, " said the squire; "I do believe it. But yet, Icannot but feel that I am in his way. " "No, squire, no; you are in no one's way. You will find yourselfhappy with your son yet, and proud of him. And proud of his wife, too. I hope so, and I think so: I do, indeed, or I should not say so, squire; we will have many a happy day yet together, when we shalltalk of all these things over the dining-room fire at Greshamsbury. " The squire felt it kind in the doctor that he should thus endeavourto comfort him; but he could not understand, and did not inquire, onwhat basis these golden hopes was founded. It was necessary, however, to return to the subject which he had come to discuss. Would thedoctor assist him in preventing this marriage? That was now the onething necessary to be kept in view. "But, doctor, about the young people; of course they cannot marry, you are aware of that. " "I don't know that exactly. " "Well, doctor, I must say I thought you would feel it. " "Feel what, squire?" "That, situated as they are, they ought not to marry. " "That is quite another question. I have said nothing about thateither to you or to anybody else. The truth is, squire, I have neverinterfered in this matter one way or the other; and I have no wish todo so now. " "But should you not interfere? Is not Mary the same to you as yourown child?" Dr Thorne hardly knew how to answer this. He was aware that hisargument about not interfering was in fact absurd. Mary could notmarry without his interference; and had it been the case that shewas in danger of making an improper marriage, of course he wouldinterfere. His meaning was, that he would not at the present momentexpress any opinion; he would not declare against a match whichmight turn out to be in every way desirable; nor, if he spoke infavour of it, could he give his reasons for doing so. Under thesecircumstances, he would have wished to say nothing, could that onlyhave been possible. But as it was not possible, and as he must say something, he answeredthe squire's last question by asking another. "What is yourobjection, squire?" "Objection! Why, what on earth would they live on?" "Then I understand, that if that difficulty were over, you would notrefuse your consent merely because of Mary's birth?" This was a manner in which the squire had by no means expected tohave the affair presented to him. It seemed so impossible that anysound-minded man should take any but his view of the case, that hehad not prepared himself for argument. There was every objection tohis son marrying Miss Thorne; but the fact of their having no incomebetween them, did certainly justify him in alleging that first. "But that difficulty can't be got over, doctor. You know, however, that it would be cause of grief to us all to see Frank marry muchbeneath his station; that is, I mean, in family. You should not pressme to say this, for you know that I love Mary dearly. " "But, my dear friend, it is necessary. Wounds sometimes must beopened in order that they may be healed. What I mean is this;--and, squire, I'm sure I need not say to you that I hope for an honestanswer, --were Mary Thorne an heiress; had she, for instance, suchwealth as that Miss Dunstable that we hear of; in that case would youobject to the match?" When the doctor declared that he expected an honest answer the squirelistened with all his ears; but the question, when finished, seemedto have no bearing on the present case. "Come, squire, speak your mind faithfully. There was some talk onceof Frank's marrying Miss Dunstable; did you mean to object to thatmatch?" "Miss Dunstable was legitimate; at least, I presume so. " "Oh, Mr Gresham! has it come to that? Miss Dunstable, then, wouldhave satisfied your ideas of high birth?" Mr Gresham was rather posed, and regretted, at the moment, hisallusion to Miss Dunstable's presumed legitimacy. But he soonrecovered himself. "No, " said he, "it would not. And I am willingto admit, as I have admitted before, that the undoubted advantagesarising from wealth are taken by the world as atoning for whatotherwise would be a _mésalliance_. But--" "You admit that, do you? You acknowledge that as your conviction onthe subject?" "Yes. But--" The squire was going on to explain the propriety of thisopinion, but the doctor uncivilly would not hear him. "Then squire, I will not interfere in this matter one way or theother. " "How on earth can such an opinion--" "Pray excuse me, Mr Gresham; but my mind is now quite made up. It wasvery nearly so before. I will do nothing to encourage Frank, nor willI say anything to discourage Mary. " "That is the most singular resolution that a man of sense like youever came to. " "I can't help it, squire; it is my resolution. " "But what has Miss Dunstable's fortune to do with it?" "I cannot say that it has anything; but, in this matter, I will notinterfere. " The squire went on for some time, but it was all to no purpose;and at last he left the house, considerably in dudgeon. The onlyconclusion to which he could come was, that Dr Thorne had thought thechance on his niece's behalf too good to be thrown away, and had, therefore, resolved to act in this very singular way. "I would not have believed it of him, though all Barsetshire had toldme, " he said to himself as he entered the great gates; and he went onrepeating the same words till he found himself in his own room. "No, not if all Barsetshire had told me!" He did not, however, communicate the ill result of his visit to theLady Arabella. CHAPTER XLII What Can You Give in Return? In spite of the family troubles, these were happy days for Beatrice. It so seldom happens that young ladies on the eve of their marriagehave their future husbands living near them. This happiness was hers, and Mr Oriel made the most of it. She was constantly being coaxeddown to the parsonage by Patience, in order that she might give heropinion, in private, as to some domestic arrangement, some piece offurniture, or some new carpet; but this privacy was always invaded. What Mr Oriel's parishioners did in these halcyon days, I will notask. His morning services, however, had been altogether given up, andhe had provided himself with a very excellent curate. But one grief did weigh heavily on Beatrice. She continually heardher mother say things which made her feel that it would be more thanever impossible that Mary should be at her wedding; and yet she hadpromised her brother to ask her. Frank had also repeated his threat, that if Mary were not present, he would absent himself. Beatrice did what most girls do in such a case; what all would do whoare worth anything; she asked her lover's advice. "Oh! but Frank can't be in earnest, " said the lover. "Of course he'llbe at our wedding. " "You don't know him, Caleb. He is so changed that no one hardlywould know him. You can't conceive how much in earnest he is, howdetermined and resolute. And then, I should like to have Mary so muchif mamma would let her come. " "Ask Lady Arabella, " said Caleb. "Well, I suppose I must do that; but I know what she'll say, andFrank will never believe that I have done my best. " Mr Orielcomforted her with such little whispered consolations as he was ableto afford, and then she went away on her errand to her mother. She was indeed surprised at the manner in which her prayer wasreceived. She could hardly falter forth her petition; but when shehad done so, Lady Arabella answered in this wise:-- "Well my dear, I have no objection, none the least; that is, ofcourse, if Mary is disposed to behave herself properly. " "Oh, mamma! of course she will, " said Beatrice; "she always did andalways does. " "I hope she will, my love. But, Beatrice, when I say that I shall beglad to see her, of course I mean under certain conditions. I neverdisliked Mary Thorne, and if she would only let Frank understand thatshe will not listen to his mad proposals, I should be delighted tosee her at Greshamsbury just as she used to be. " Beatrice could say nothing in answer to this; but she felt very surethat Mary, let her intention be what it might, would not undertake tomake Frank understand anything at anybody's bidding. "I will tell you what I will do, my dear, " continued Lady Arabella;"I will call on Mary myself. " "What! at Dr Thorne's house?" "Yes; why not? I have been at Dr Thorne's house before now. " AndLady Arabella could not but think of her last visit thither, and thestrong feeling she had, as she came out, that she would never againenter those doors. She was, however, prepared to do anything onbehalf of her rebellious son. "Oh, yes! I know that, mamma. " "I will call upon her, and I can possibly manage it, I will ask hermyself to make one of your party. If so, you can go to her afterwardsand make your own arrangements. Just write her a note, my dear, andsay that I will call to-morrow at twelve. It might fluster her if Iwere to go in without notice. " Beatrice did as she was bid, but with a presentiment that no goodwould come of it. The note was certainly unnecessary for the purposeassigned by Lady Arabella, as Mary was not given to be flustered bysuch occurrences; but, perhaps, it was as well that it was written, as it enabled her to make up her mind steadily as to what informationshould be given, and what should not be given to her coming visitor. On the next morning, at the appointed hour, Lady Arabella walked downto the doctor's house. She never walked about the village withoutmaking some little disturbance among the inhabitants. With thesquire, himself, they were quite familiar, and he could appear andreappear without creating any sensation; but her ladyship had notmade herself equally common in men's sight. Therefore, when shewent in at the doctor's little gate, the fact was known through allGreshamsbury in ten minutes, and before she had left the house, MrsUmbleby and Miss Gushing had quite settled between them what was theexact cause of the very singular event. The doctor, when he had heard what was going to happen, carefullykept out of the way: Mary, therefore, had the pleasure ofreceiving Lady Arabella alone. Nothing could exceed her ladyship'saffability. Mary thought that it perhaps might have savoured lessof condescension; but then, on this subject, Mary was probablyprejudiced. Lady Arabella smiled and simpered, and asked after thedoctor, and the cat, and Janet, and said everything that could havebeen desired by any one less unreasonable than Mary Thorne. "And now, Mary, I'll tell you why I have called. " Mary bowed herhead slightly, as much to say, that she would be glad to receive anyinformation that Lady Arabella could give her on that subject. "Ofcourse you know that Beatrice is going to be married very shortly. " Mary acknowledged that she had heard so much. "Yes: we think it will be in September--early in September--and thatis coming very soon now. The poor girl is anxious that you should beat her wedding. " Mary turned slightly red; but she merely said, andthat somewhat too coldly, that she was much indebted to Beatrice forher kindness. "I can assure you, Mary, that she is very fond of you, as much so asever; and so, indeed, am I, and all of us are so. You know that MrGresham was always your friend. " "Yes, he always was, and I am grateful to Mr Gresham, " answered Mary. It was well for Lady Arabella that she had her temper under command, for had she spoken her mind out there would have been very littlechance left for reconciliation between her and Mary. "Yes, indeed he was; and I think we all did what little we couldto make you welcome at Greshamsbury, Mary, till those unpleasantoccurrences took place. " "What occurrences, Lady Arabella?" "And Beatrice is so very anxious on this point, " said her ladyship, ignoring for the moment Mary's question. "You two have been so muchtogether, that she feels she cannot be quite happy if you are notnear her when she is being married. " "Dear Beatrice!" said Mary, warmed for the moment to an expression ofgenuine feeling. "She came to me yesterday, begging that I would waive any objection Imight have to your being there. I have made her no answer yet. Whatanswer do you think I ought to make her?" Mary was astounded at this question, and hesitated in her reply. "What answer ought you to make her?" she said. "Yes, Mary. What answer do you think I ought to give? I wish to askyou the question, as you are the person the most concerned. " Mary considered for a while, and then did give her opinion on thematter in a firm voice. "I think you should tell Beatrice, that asyou cannot at present receive me cordially in your house, it will bebetter that you should not be called on to receive me at all. " This was certainly not the sort of answer that Lady Arabellaexpected, and she was now somewhat astounded in her turn. "But, Mary, " she said, "I should be delighted to receive you cordially ifI could do so. " "But it seems you cannot, Lady Arabella; and so there must be an endof it. " "Oh, but I do not know that:" and she smiled her sweetest smile. "Ido not know that. I want to put an end to all this ill-feeling if Ican. It all depends upon one thing, you know. " "Does it, Lady Arabella?" "Yes, upon one thing. You won't be angry if I ask you anotherquestion--eh, Mary?" "No; at least I don't think I will. " "Is there any truth in what we hear about your being engaged toFrank?" Mary made no immediate answer to this, but sat quite silent, lookingLady Arabella in the face; not but that she had made up her mind asto what answer she would give, but the exact words failed her at themoment. "Of course you must have heard of such a rumour, " continued LadyArabella. "Oh, yes, I have heard of it. " "Yes, and you have noticed it, and I must say very properly. When youwent to Boxall Hill, and before that with Miss Oriel's to her aunt's, I thought you behaved extremely well. " Mary felt herself glow withindignation, and began to prepare words that should be sharp anddecisive. "But, nevertheless, people talk; and Frank, who is stillquite a boy" (Mary's indignation was not softened by this allusionto Frank's folly), "seems to have got some nonsense in his head. Igrieve to say it, but I feel myself in justice bound to do so, thatin this matter he has not acted as well as you have done. Now, therefore, I merely ask you whether there is any truth in the report. If you tell me that there is none, I shall be quite contented. " "But it is altogether true, Lady Arabella; I am engaged to FrankGresham. " "Engaged to be married to him?" "Yes; engaged to be married to him. " What was to say or do now? Nothing could be more plain, more decided, or less embarrassed with doubt than Mary's declaration. And as shemade it she looked her visitor full in the face, blushing indeed, forher cheeks were now suffused as well as her forehead; but boldly, and, as it were, with defiance. "And you tell me so to my face, Miss Thorne?" "And why not? Did you not ask me the question; and would you have meanswer you with a falsehood? I am engaged to him. As you would putthe question to me, what other answer could I make? The truth is, that I am engaged to him. " The decisive abruptness with which Mary declared her own iniquityalmost took away her ladyship's breath. She had certainly believedthat they were engaged, and had hardly hoped that Mary would deny it;but she had not expected that the crime would be acknowledged, or, atany rate, if acknowledged, that the confession would be made withoutsome show of shame. On this Lady Arabella could have worked; butthere was no such expression, nor was there the slightest hesitation. "I am engaged to Frank Gresham, " and having so said, Mary looked hervisitor full in the face. "Then it is indeed impossible that you should be received atGreshamsbury. " "At present, quite so, no doubt: in saying so, Lady Arabella, youonly repeat the answer I made to your first question. I can now goto Greshamsbury only in one light: that of Mr Gresham's accepteddaughter-in-law. " "And that is perfectly out of the question; altogether out of thequestion, now and for ever. " "I will not dispute with you about that; but, as I said before, mybeing at Beatrice's wedding is not to be thought of. " Lady Arabella sat for a while silent, that she might meditate, ifpossible, calmly as to what line of argument she had now better take. It would be foolish in her, she thought, to return home, havingmerely expressed her anger. She had now an opportunity of talking toMary which might not again occur: the difficulty was in deciding inwhat special way she should use the opportunity. Should she threaten, or should she entreat? To do her justice, it should be stated, thatshe did actually believe that the marriage was all but impossible;she did not think that it could take place. But the engagement mightbe the ruin of her son's prospects, seeing how he had before him oneimperative, one immediate duty--that of marrying money. Having considered all this as well as her hurry would allow her, she determined first to reason, then to entreat, and lastly, ifnecessary, to threaten. "I am astonished! you cannot be surprised at that, Miss Thorne: I amastonished at hearing so singular a confession made. " "Do you think my confession singular, or is it the fact of my beingengaged to your son?" "We will pass over that for the present. But do let me ask you, doyou think it possible, I say possible, that you and Frank should bemarried?" "Oh, certainly; quite possible. " "Of course you know that he has not a shilling in the world. " "Nor have I, Lady Arabella. " "Nor will he have were he to do anything so utterly hostile to hisfather's wishes. The property, you are aware, is altogether at MrGresham's disposal. " "I am aware of nothing about the property, and can say nothing aboutit except this, that it has not been, and will not be inquired afterby me in this matter. If I marry Frank Gresham, it will not be forthe property. I am sorry to make such an apparent boast, but youforce me to do it. " "On what then are you to live? You are too old for love in a cottage, I suppose?" "Not at all too old; Frank, you know is 'still quite a boy. '" Impudent hussy! forward, ill-conditioned saucy minx! such werethe epithets which rose to Lady Arabella's mind; but she politelysuppressed them. "Miss Thorne, this subject is of course to me very serious; veryill-adapted for jesting. I look upon such a marriage as absolutelyimpossible. " "I do not know what you mean by impossible, Lady Arabella. " "I mean, in the first place, that you two could not get yourselvesmarried. " "Oh, yes; Mr Oriel would manage that for us. We are his parishioners, and he would be bound to do it. " "I beg your pardon; I believe that under all the circumstances itwould be illegal. " Mary smiled; but she said nothing. "You may laugh, Miss Thorne, but Ithink you will find that I am right. There are still laws to preventsuch fearful distress as would be brought about by such a marriage. " "I hope that nothing I shall do will bring distress on the family. " "Ah, but it would; don't you know that it would? Think of it, MissThorne. Think of Frank's state, and of his father's state. You knowenough of that, I am sure, to be well aware that Frank is not in acondition to marry without money. Think of the position which MrGresham's only son should hold in the county; think of the old name, and the pride we have in it; you have lived among us enough tounderstand all this; think of these things, and then say whether itis possible such a marriage should take place without family distressof the deepest kind. Think of Mr Gresham; if you truly love my son, you could not wish to bring on him all this misery and ruin. " Mary now was touched, for there was truth in what Lady Arabella said. But she had no power of going back; her troth was plighted, andnothing that any human being could say should shake her from it. Ifhe, indeed, chose to repent, that would be another thing. "Lady Arabella, " she said, "I have nothing to say in favour of thisengagement, except that he wishes it. " "And is that a reason, Mary?" "To me it is; not only a reason, but a law. I have given him mypromise. " "And you will keep your promise even to his own ruin?" "I hope not. Our engagement, unless he shall choose to break it off, must necessarily be a long one; but the time will come--" "What! when Mr Gresham is dead?" "Before that, I hope. " "There is no probability of it. And because he is headstrong, you, who have always had credit for so much sense, will hold him to thismad engagement?" "No, Lady Arabella; I will not hold him to anything to which he doesnot wish to be held. Nothing that you can say shall move me: nothingthat anybody can say shall induce me to break my promise to him. Buta word from himself will do it. One look will be sufficient. Let himgive me to understand, in any way, that his love for me is injuriousto him--that he has learnt to think so--and then I will renounce mypart in this engagement as quickly as you could wish it. " There was much in this promise, but still not so much as LadyArabella wished to get. Mary, she knew, was obstinate, but yetreasonable; Frank, she thought, was both obstinate and unreasonable. It might be possible to work on Mary's reason, but quite impossibleto touch Frank's irrationality. So she persevered--foolishly. "Miss Thorne--that, is, Mary, for I still wish to be thought yourfriend--" "I will tell you the truth, Lady Arabella: for some considerable timepast I have not thought you so. " "Then you have wronged me. But I will go on with what I was saying. You quite acknowledge that this is a foolish affair?" "I acknowledge no such thing. " "Something very much like it. You have not a word in its defence. " "Not to you: I do not choose to be put on my defence by you. " "I don't know who has more right; however, you promise that if Frankwishes it, you will release him from his engagement. " "Release him! It is for him to release me, that is, if he wishes it. " "Very well; at any rate, you give him permission to do so. But willit not be more honourable for you to begin?" "No; I think not. " "Ah, but it would. If he, in his position, should be the first tospeak, the first to suggest that this affair between you is a foolishone, what would people say?" "They would say the truth. " "And what would you yourself say?" "Nothing. " "What would he think of himself?" "Ah, that I do not know. It is according as that may be, that he willor will not act at your bidding. " "Exactly; and because you know him to be high-minded, because youthink that he, having so much to give, will not break his word toyou--to you who have nothing to give in return--it is, therefore, that you say that the first step must be taken by him. Is thatnoble?" Then Mary rose from her seat, for it was no longer possible for herto speak what it was in her to say, sitting there leisurely on hersofa. Lady Arabella's worship of money had not hitherto been sobrought forward in the conversation as to give her unpardonableoffence; but now she felt that she could no longer restrain herindignation. "To you who have nothing to give in return!" Had she notgiven all that she possessed? Had she not emptied his store into herlap? that heart of hers, beating with such genuine life, capable ofsuch perfect love, throbbing with so grand a pride; had she not giventhat? And was it not that, between him and her, more than twentyGreshamsburys, nobler than any pedigree? "To you who have nothing togive, " indeed! This to her who was so ready to give everything! "Lady Arabella, " she said, "I think that you do not understand me, and that it is not likely that you should. If so, our further talkingwill be worse than useless. I have taken no account of what will begiven between your son and me in your sense of the word giving. Buthe has professed to--to love me"--as she spoke, she still looked onthe lady's face, but her eyelashes for a moment screened her eyes, and her colour was a little heightened--"and I have acknowledged thatI also love him, and so we are engaged. To me my promise is sacred. Iwill not be threatened into breaking it. If, however, he shall wishto change his mind, he can do so. I will not upbraid him; will not, if I can help it, think harshly of him. So much you may tell him ifit suits you; but I will not listen to your calculations as to howmuch or how little each of us may have to give to the other. " She was still standing when she finished speaking, and so shecontinued to stand. Her eyes were fixed on Lady Arabella, and herposition seemed to say that sufficient words had been spoken, andthat it was time that her ladyship should go; and so Lady Arabellafelt it. Gradually she also rose; slowly, but tacitly, sheacknowledged that she was in the presence of a spirit superior to herown; and so she took her leave. "Very well, " she said, in a tone that was intended to begrandiloquent, but which failed grievously; "I will tell him that hehas your permission to think a second time on this matter. I do notdoubt but that he will do so. " Mary would not condescend to answer, but curtsied low as her visitor left the room. And so the interviewwas over. The interview was over, and Mary was alone. She remained standing aslong as she heard the footsteps of Frank's mother on the stairs; notimmediately thinking of what had passed, but still buoying herself upwith her hot indignation, as though her work with Lady Arabella wasnot yet finished; but when the footfall was no longer heard, and thesound of the closing door told her that she was in truth alone, shesank back in her seat, and, covering her face with her hands, burstinto bitter tears. All that doctrine about money was horrible to her; that insolentpretence, that she had caught at Frank because of his worldlyposition, made her all but ferocious; but Lady Arabella had not theless spoken much that was true. She did think of the position whichthe heir of Greshamsbury should hold in the county, and of the factthat a marriage would mar that position so vitally; she did think ofthe old name, and the old Gresham pride; she did think of the squireand his deep distress: it was true that she had lived among themlong enough to understand these things, and to know that it was notpossible that this marriage should take place without deep familysorrow. And then she asked herself whether, in consenting to accept Frank'shand, she had adequately considered this; and she was forced toacknowledge that she had not considered it. She had ridiculed LadyArabella for saying that Frank was still a boy; but was it not truethat his offer had been made with a boy's energy, rather than a man'sforethought? If so, if she had been wrong to accede to that offerwhen made, would she not be doubly wrong to hold him to it now thatshe saw their error? It was doubtless true that Frank himself could not be the first todraw back. What would people say of him? She could now calmly askherself the question that had so angered her when asked by LadyArabella. If he could not do it, and if, nevertheless, it behovedthem to break off this match, by whom was it to be done if notby her? Was not Lady Arabella right throughout, right in herconclusions, though so foully wrong in her manner of drawing them? And then she did think for one moment of herself. "You who havenothing to give in return!" Such had been Lady Arabella's mainaccusation against her. Was it in fact true that she had nothing togive? Her maiden love, her feminine pride, her very life, and spirit, and being--were these things nothing? Were they to be weighed againstpounds sterling per annum? and, when so weighed, were they ever tokick the beam like feathers? All these things had been nothing toher when, without reflection, governed wholly by the impulse of themoment, she had first allowed his daring hand to lie for an instantin her own. She had thought nothing of these things when that othersuitor came, richer far than Frank, to love whom it was as impossibleto her as it was not to love him. Her love had been pure from all such thoughts; she was consciousthat it ever would be pure from them. Lady Arabella was unable tocomprehend this, and, therefore, was Lady Arabella so utterlydistasteful to her. Frank had once held her close to his warm breast; and her very soulhad thrilled with joy to feel that he so loved her, --with a joy whichshe had hardly dared to acknowledge. At that moment, her maidenlyefforts had been made to push him off, but her heart had grown tohis. She had acknowledged him to be master of her spirit; her bosom'slord; the man whom she had been born to worship; the human being towhom it was for her to link her destiny. Frank's acres had been of noaccount; nor had his want of acres. God had brought them two togetherthat they should love each other; that conviction had satisfied her, and she had made it a duty to herself that she would love him withher very soul. And now she was called upon to wrench herself asunderfrom him because she had nothing to give in return! Well, she would wrench herself asunder, as far as such wrenchingmight be done compatibly with her solemn promise. It might be rightthat Frank should have an opportunity offered him, so that he mightescape from his position without disgrace. She would endeavour togive him this opportunity. So, with one deep sigh, she arose, tookherself pen, ink, and paper, and sat herself down again so that thewrenching might begin. And then, for a moment, she thought of her uncle. Why had he notspoken to her of all this? Why had he not warned her? He who had everbeen so good to her, why had he now failed her so grievously? She hadtold him everything, had had no secret from him; but he had neveranswered her a word. "He also must have known, " she said to herself, piteously, "he also must have known that I could give nothing inreturn. " Such accusation, however, availed her not at all, so she satdown and slowly wrote her letter. "Dearest Frank, " she began. She had at first written "dear MrGresham;" but her heart revolted against such useless coldness. Shewas not going to pretend she did not love him. DEAREST FRANK, Your mother has been here talking to me about our engagement. I do not generally agree with her about such matters; but she has said some things to-day which I cannot but acknowledge to be true. She says, that our marriage would be distressing to your father, injurious to all your family, and ruinous to yourself. If this be so, how can I, who love you, wish for such a marriage? I remember my promise, and have kept it. I would not yield to your mother when she desired me to disclaim our engagement. But I do think it will be more prudent if you will consent to forget all that has passed between us--not, perhaps, to forget it; that may not be possible for us--but to let it pass by as though it had never been. If so, if you think so, dear Frank, do not have any scruples on my account. What will be best for you, must be best for me. Think what a reflection it would ever be to me, to have been the ruin of one that I love so well. Let me have but one word to say that I am released from my promise, and I will tell my uncle that the matter between us is over. It will be painful for us at first; those occasional meetings which must take place will distress us, but that will wear off. We shall always think well of each other, and why should we not be friends? This, doubtless, cannot be done without inward wounds; but such wounds are in God's hands, and He can cure them. I know what your first feelings will be on reading this letter; but do not answer it in obedience to first feelings. Think over it, think of your father, and all you owe him, of your old name, your old family, and of what the world expects from you. [Mary was forced to put her hand to her eyes, to save her paper from her falling tears, as she found herself thus repeating, nearly word for word, the arguments that had been used by Lady Arabella. ] Think of these things, coolly, if you can, but, at any rate, without passion: and then let me have one word in answer. One word will suffice. I have but to add this: do not allow yourself to think that my heart will ever reproach you. It cannot reproach you for doing that which I myself suggest. [Mary's logic in this was very false; but she was not herself aware of it. ] I will never reproach you either in word or thought; and as for all others, it seems to me that the world agrees that we have hitherto been wrong. The world, I hope, will be satisfied when we have obeyed it. God bless you, dearest Frank! I shall never call you so again; but it would be a pretence were I to write otherwise in this letter. Think of this, and then let me have one line. Your affectionate friend, MARY THORNE. P. S. --Of course I cannot be at dear Beatrice's marriage; but when they come back to the parsonage, I shall see her. I am sure they will both be happy, because they are so good. I need hardly say that I shall think of them on their wedding day. When she had finished her letter, she addressed it plainly, in herown somewhat bold handwriting, to Francis N. Gresham, Jun. , Esq. , andthen took it herself to the little village post-office. There shouldbe nothing underhand about her correspondence: all the Greshamsburyworld should know of it--that world of which she had spoken in herletter--if that world so pleased. Having put her penny label on it, she handed it, with an open brow and an unembarrassed face, to thebaker's wife, who was Her Majesty's postmistress at Greshamsbury;and, having so finished her work, she returned to see the tableprepared for her uncle's dinner. "I will say nothing to him, " saidshe to herself, "till I get the answer. He will not talk to me aboutit, so why should I trouble him?" CHAPTER XLIII The Race of Scatcherd Becomes Extinct It will not be imagined, at any rate by feminine readers, that Mary'sletter was written off at once, without alterations and changes, orthe necessity for a fair copy. Letters from one young lady to anotherare doubtless written in this manner, and even with them it mightsometimes be better if more patience had been taken; but with Mary'sfirst letter to her lover--her first love-letter, if love-letter itcan be called--much more care was used. It was copied and re-copied, and when she returned from posting it, it was read and re-read. "It is very cold, " she said to herself; "he will think I have noheart, that I have never loved him!" And then she all but resolved torun down to the baker's wife, and get back her letter, that she mightalter it. "But it will be better so, " she said again. "If I touchedhis feelings now, he would never bring himself to leave me. It isright that I should be cold to him. I should be false to myself ifI tried to move his love--I, who have nothing to give him in returnfor it. " And so she made no further visit to the post-office, and theletter went on its way. We will now follow its fortunes for a short while, and explain howit was that Mary received no answer for a week; a week, it may wellbe imagined, of terrible suspense to her. When she took it to thepost-office, she doubtless thought that the baker's wife had nothingto do but to send it up to the house at Greshamsbury, and that Frankwould receive it that evening, or, at latest, early on the followingmorning. But this was by no means so. The epistle was posted on aFriday afternoon, and it behoved the baker's wife to send it intoSilverbridge--Silverbridge being the post-town--so that all dueformalities, as ordered by the Queen's Government, might there beperfected. Now, unfortunately, the post-boy had taken his departurebefore Mary reached the shop, and it was not, therefore, dispatchedtill Saturday. Sunday was always a _dies non_ with the GreshamsburyMercury, and, consequently, Frank's letter was not delivered at thehouse till Monday morning; at which time Mary had for two long daysbeen waiting with weary heart for the expected answer. Now Frank had on that morning gone up to London by the early train, with his future brother-in-law, Mr Oriel. In order to accomplishthis, they had left Greshamsbury for Barchester exactly as thepostboy was leaving Silverbridge for Greshamsbury. "I should like to wait for my letters, " Mr Oriel had said, when thejourney was being discussed. "Nonsense, " Frank had answered. "Who ever got a letter that was worthwaiting for?" and so Mary was doomed to a week of misery. When the post-bag arrived at the house on Monday morning, it wasopened as usual by the squire himself at the breakfast-table. "Hereis a letter for Frank, " said he, "posted in the village. You hadbetter send it to him:" and he threw the letter across the table toBeatrice. "It's from Mary, " said Beatrice, out loud, taking the letter up andexamining the address. And having said so, she repented what she haddone, as she looked first at her father and then at her mother. A cloud came over the squire's brow as for a minute he went onturning over the letters and newspapers. "Oh, from Mary Thorne, isit?" he said. "Well, you had better send it to him. " "Frank said that if any letters came they were to be kept, " said hissister Sophy. "He told me so particularly. I don't think he likeshaving letters sent after him. " "You had better send that one, " said the squire. "Mr Oriel is to have all his letters addressed to Long's Hotel, BondStreet, and this one can very well be sent with them, " said Beatrice, who knew all about it, and intended herself to make a free use of theaddress. "Yes, you had better send it, " said the squire; and then nothingfurther was said at the table. But Lady Arabella, though she saidnothing, had not failed to mark what had passed. Had she asked forthe letter before the squire, he would probably have taken possessionof it himself; but as soon as she was alone with Beatrice, she diddemand it. "I shall be writing to Frank myself, " she said, "and willsend it to him. " And so, Beatrice, with a heavy heart, gave it up. The letter lay before Lady Arabella's eyes all that day, and many awistful glance was cast at it. She turned it over and over, and muchshe desired to know its contents; but she did not dare to break theseal of her son's letter. All that day it lay upon her desk, and allthe next, for she could hardly bring herself to part with it; but onthe Wednesday it was sent--sent with these lines from herself:-- "Dearest, dearest Frank, I send you a letter which has come by thepost from Mary Thorne. I do not know what it may contain; but beforeyou correspond with her, pray, pray think of what I said to you. Formy sake, for your father's, for your own, pray think of it. " 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 mustreserve to the next chapter what had taken place between Frank andhis mother; but, for the present, we will return to the doctor'shouse. Mary said not a word to him about the letter; but, keeping silent onthe subject, she felt wretchedly estranged from him. "Is anything thematter, 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 to talk about it to me? That'ssomething 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 pethappier?" and he took her in his arms as they sat together on thesofa. Her tears were now falling fast, and she no longer made aneffort to hide them. "Speak to me, Mary; this is more than apresentiment. 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 toldme what to do? Why have you not advised me? Why are you always sosilent?" "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 hadnever counselled her; never shown her what course she should take;had never even spoken to her about her lover. And it was equally truethat he was not now prepared to do so, even in answer to such anappeal as this. He had a hope, a strong hope, more than a hope, thatMary's love would yet be happy; but he could not express or explainhis hope; nor could he even acknowledge to himself a wish that wouldseem to be based on the death of him whose life he was bound, ifpossible, to preserve. "My love, " he said, "it is a matter in which you must judge foryourself. Did I doubt your conduct, I should interfere; but I donot. " "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 firmnessinstantly deserted him. "Mary, " he said, "I will do anything that youwould have me. If you wish it, I will make arrangements for leavingthis place at once. " "Oh, no, " she said, plaintively. "When you tell me of a broken heart, you almost break my own. Cometo me, darling; do not leave me so. I will say all that I can say. Ihave thought, do still think, that circumstances will admit of yourmarriage with Frank if you both love each other, and can both bepatient. " "You think so, " said she, unconsciously sliding her hand into his, as though to thank him by its pressure for the comfort he was givingher. "I do think so now more than ever. But I only think so; I have beenunable to assure you. There, darling, I must not say more; only thatI cannot bear to see you grieving, I would not have said this:" andthen he left her, and nothing more was spoken on the subject. If you can be patient! Why, a patience of ten years would be asnothing to her. Could she but live with the knowledge that she wasfirst in his estimation, dearest in his heart; could it be alsogranted to her to feel that she was regarded as his equal, she couldbe patient for ever. What more did she want than to know and feelthis? 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 washis opinion, and she had never known him to be wrong. Circumstances!What circumstances? Did he perhaps mean that Mr Gresham's affairswere not so bad as they had been thought to be? If so, that alonewould hardly alter the matter, for what could she give in return? "Iwould give him the world for one word of love, " she said to herself, "and never think that he was my debtor. Ah! how beggarly the heartmust be that speculates on such gifts as those!" But there was her uncle's opinion: he still thought that they mightbe married. Oh, why had she sent her letter? and why had she made itso cold? With such a letter as that before him, Frank could not doother than consent to her proposal. And then, why did he not at leastanswer it? On the Sunday afternoon there arrived at Greshamsbury a man and ahorse from Boxall Hill, bearing a letter from Lady Scatcherd to DrThorne, earnestly requesting the doctor's immediate attendance. "Ifear everything is over with poor Louis, " wrote the unhappy mother. "It has been very dreadful. Do come to me; I have no other friend, and I am nearly worn through with it. The man from the city"--shemeant Dr Fillgrave--"comes every day, and I dare say he is all verywell, but he has never done much good. He has not had spirit enoughto keep the bottle from him; and it was that, and that only, thatmost behoved to be done. I doubt you won't find him in this worldwhen you arrive here. " Dr Thorne started immediately. Even though he might have to meet DrFillgrave, he could not hesitate, for he went not as a doctor to thedying man, but as the trustee under Sir Roger's will. Moreover, asLady Scatcherd had said, he was her only friend, and he could notdesert her at such a moment for an army of Fillgraves. He toldMary he should not return that night; and taking with him a smallsaddle-bag, he started at once for Boxall Hill. As he rode up to the hall door, Dr Fillgrave was getting into hiscarriage. They had never met so as to speak to each other since thatmemorable day, when they had their famous passage of arms in the hallof that very house before which they both now stood. But, at thepresent moment, neither of them was disposed to renew the fight. "What news of your patient, Dr Fillgrave?" said our doctor, stillseated on his sweating horse, and putting his hand lightly to hishat. Dr Fillgrave could not refrain from one moment of superciliousdisdain: he gave one little chuck to his head, one little twist tohis neck, one little squeeze to his lips, and then the man within himovercame the doctor. "Sir Louis is no more, " he said. "God's will be done!" said Dr Thorne. "His death is a release; for his last days have been very frightful. Your coming, Dr Thorne, will be a comfort to Lady Scatcherd. " Andthen Dr Fillgrave, thinking that even the present circumstancesrequired no further condescension, ensconced himself in the carriage. "His last days have been very dreadful! Ah, me, poor fellow! DrFillgrave, before you go, allow me to say this: I am quite aware thatwhen he fell into your hands, no medical skill in the world couldsave him. " Dr Fillgrave bowed low from the carriage, and after this unwontedexchange of courtesies, the two doctors parted, not to meet again--atany rate, in the pages of this novel. Of Dr Fillgrave, let it now besaid, that he grows in dignity as he grows in years, and that he isuniversally regarded as one of the celebrities of the city ofBarchester. Lady Scatcherd was found sitting alone in her little room on theground-floor. Even Hannah was not with her, for Hannah was nowoccupied upstairs. When the doctor entered the room, which he didunannounced, he found her seated on a chair, with her back againstone of the presses, her hands clasped together over her knees, gazinginto vacancy. She did not ever hear him or see him as he approached, and his hand had slightly touched her shoulder before she knew thatshe was not alone. Then, she looked up at him with a face so full ofsorrow, so worn with suffering, that his own heart was racked to seeher. "It is all over, my friend, " said he. "It is better so; much betterso. " She seemed at first hardly to understand him, but still regarding himwith that wan face, shook her head slowly and sadly. One might havethought that she was twenty years older than when Dr Thorne last sawher. He drew a chair to her side, and sitting by her, took her hand inhis. "It is better so, Lady Scatcherd; better so, " he repeated. "Thepoor lad's doom had been spoken, and it is well for him, and for you, that it should be over. " "They are both gone now, " said she, speaking very low; "both gonenow. Oh, doctor! To be left alone here, all alone!" He said some few words trying to comfort her; but who can comforta widow bereaved of her child? Who can console a heart that haslost all that it possessed? Sir Roger had not been to her a tenderhusband; but still he had been the husband of her love. Sir Louis hadnot been to her an affectionate son; but still he had been her child, her only child. Now they were both gone. Who can wonder that theworld should be a blank to her? Still the doctor spoke soothing words, and still he held her hand. He knew that his words could not console her; but the sounds of hiskindness at such desolate moments are, to such minds as hers, somealleviation of grief. She hardly answered him, but sat there staringout before her, leaving her hand passively to him, and swaying herhead backwards and forwards as though her grief were too heavy to beborne. At last, her eye rested on an article which stood upon the table, andshe started up impetuously from her chair. She did this so suddenly, that the doctor's hand fell beside him before he knew that she hadrisen. The table was covered with all those implements which becomeso frequent about a house when severe illness is an inhabitant there. There were little boxes and apothecaries' bottles, cups and saucersstanding separate, and bowls, in which messes have been prepared withthe hope of suiting a sick man's failing appetite. There was a smallsaucepan standing on a plate, a curiously shaped glass utensil leftby the doctor, and sundry pieces of flannel, which had been used inrubbing the sufferer's limbs. But in the middle of the débris stoodone black bottle, with head erect, unsuited to the companionship inwhich it was found. "There, " she said, rising up, and seizing this in a manner thatwould have been ridiculous had it not been so truly tragic. "There, that has robbed me of everything--of all that I ever possessed; ofhusband and child; of the father and son; that has swallowed themboth--murdered them both! Oh, doctor! that such a thing as thatshould cause such bitter sorrow! I have hated it always, but now--Oh, woe is me! weary me!" And then she let the bottle drop from her handas though it were too heavy for her. "This comes of their barro-niting, " she continued. "If they had lethim alone, he would have been here now, and so would the other one. Why did they do it? why did they do it? Ah, doctor! people such as usshould never meddle with them above us. See what has come of it; seewhat has come of it!" The doctor could not remain with her long, as it was necessary thathe should take upon himself the direction of the household, and giveorders for the funeral. First of all, he had to undergo the sad dutyof seeing the corpse of the deceased baronet. This, at any rate, may be spared to my readers. It was found to be necessary that theinterment should be made very quickly, as the body was already nearlydestroyed by alcohol. Having done all this, and sent back his horseto Greshamsbury, with directions that clothes for a journey might besent to him, and a notice that he should not be home for some days, he again returned to Lady Scatcherd. Of course he could not but think much of the immense propertywhich was now, for a short time, altogether in his own hands. Hisresolution was soon made to go at once to London and consult thebest lawyer he could find--or the best dozen lawyers should such benecessary--as to the validity of Mary's claims. This must be donebefore he said a word to her or to any of the Gresham family; but itmust be done instantly, so that all suspense might be at an end assoon as possible. He must, of course, remain with Lady Scatcherd tillthe funeral should be over; but when that office should be complete, he would start instantly for London. In resolving to tell no one as to Mary's fortune till after he hadfortified himself with legal warranty, he made one exception. Hethought it rational that he should explain to Lady Scatcherd who wasnow the heir under her husband's will; and he was the more inclinedto do so, from feeling that the news would probably be gratifying toher. With this view, he had once or twice endeavoured to induce herto talk about the property, but she had been unwilling to do so. Sheseemed to dislike all allusions to it, and it was not till she hadincidentally mentioned the fact that she would have to look for ahome, that he was able to fix her to the subject. This was on theevening before the funeral; on the afternoon of which day he intendedto proceed to London. "It may probably be arranged that you may continue to live here, "said the doctor. "I don't wish it at all, " said she, rather sharply. "I don't wish tohave any arrangements made. I would not be indebted to any of themfor anything. Oh, dear! if money could make it all right, I shouldhave enough of that. " "Indebted to whom, Lady Scatcherd? Who do you think will be the ownerof Boxall Hill?" "Indeed, then, Dr Thorne, I don't much care: unless it be yourself, it won't be any friend of mine, or any one I shall care to make afriend of. It isn't so easy for an old woman like me to make newfriends. " "Well, it certainly won't belong to me. " "I wish it did, with all my heart. But even then, I would not livehere. I have had too many troubles here to wish to see more. " "That shall be just as you like, Lady Scatcherd; but you willbe surprised to hear that the place will--at least I think itwill--belong to a friend of yours: to one to whom you have been verykind. " "And who is he, doctor? Won't it go to some of those Americans? I amsure I never did anything kind to them; though, indeed, I did lovepoor Mary Scatcherd. But that's years upon years ago, and she is deadand gone now. Well, I begrudge nothing to Mary's children. As I havenone of my own, it is right they should have the money. It has notmade me happy; I hope it may do so to them. " "The property will, I think, go to Mary Scatcherd's eldest child. Itis she whom you have known as Mary Thorne. " "Doctor!" And then Lady Scatcherd, as she made the exclamation, putboth her hands down to hold her chair, as though she feared theweight of her surprise would topple her off her seat. "Yes; Mary Thorne--my Mary--to whom you have been so good, who lovesyou so well; she, I believe, will be Sir Roger's heiress. And it wasso that Sir Roger intended on his deathbed, in the event of poorLouis's life being cut short. If this be so, will you be ashamed tostay here as the guest of Mary Thorne? She has not been ashamed to beyour guest. " But Lady Scatcherd was now too much interested in the general tenorof the news which she had heard to care much about the house whichshe was to inhabit in future. Mary Thorne, the heiress of BoxallHill! Mary Thorne, the still living child of that poor creature whohad so nearly died when they were all afflicted with their earlygrief! Well; there was consolation, there was comfort in this. Therewere but three people left in the world that she could love: herfoster-child, Frank Gresham--Mary Thorne, and the doctor. If themoney went to Mary, it would of course go to Frank, for she now knewthat they loved each other; and if it went to them, would not thedoctor have his share also; such share as he might want? Could shehave governed the matter, she would have given it all to Frank; andnow it would be as well bestowed. Yes; there was consolation in this. They both sat up more than halfthe night talking over it, and giving and receiving explanations. Ifonly the council of lawyers would not be adverse! That was now thepoint of suspense. The doctor, before he left her, bade her hold her peace, and saynothing of Mary's fortune to any one till her rights had beenabsolutely acknowledged. "It will be nothing not to have it, " saidthe doctor; "but it would be very bad to hear it was hers, and thento lose it. " On the next morning, Dr Thorne deposited the remains of Sir Louis inthe vault prepared for the family in the parish church. He laid theson where a few months ago he had laid the father, --and so the titleof Scatcherd became extinct. Their race of honour had not been long. After the funeral, the doctor hurried up to London, and there we willleave him. CHAPTER XLIV Saturday Evening and Sunday Morning We must now go back a little and describe how Frank had been sent offon special business to London. The household at Greshamsbury was atthis time in but a doleful state. It seemed to be pervaded, from thesquire down to the scullery-maid, with a feeling that things werenot going well; and men and women, in spite of Beatrice's comingmarriage, were grim-visaged, and dolorous. Mr Mortimer Gazebee, rejected though he had been, still went and came, talking much to thesquire, much also to her ladyship, as to the ill-doings which were inthe course of projection by Sir Louis; and Frank went about the housewith clouded brow, as though finally resolved to neglect his onegreat duty. Poor Beatrice was robbed of half her joy: over and over again herbrother asked her whether she had yet seen Mary, and she was obligedas often to answer that she had not. Indeed, she did not dare tovisit her friend, for it was hardly possible that they shouldsympathise with each other. Mary was, to say the least, stubborn inher pride; and Beatrice, though she could forgive her friend forloving her brother, could not forgive the obstinacy with which Marypersisted in a course which, as Beatrice thought, she herself knew tobe wrong. And then Mr Gazebee came down from town, with an intimation that itbehoved the squire himself to go up that he might see certain learnedpundits, and be badgered in his own person at various dingy, dismalchambers in Lincoln's Inn Fields, the Temple, and Gray's Inn Lane. Itwas an invitation exactly of that sort which a good many years agowas given to a certain duck. "Will you, will you--will you, will you--come and be killed?"Although Mr Gazebee urged the matter with such eloquence, the squireremained steady to his objection, and swam obstinately about hisGreshamsbury pond in any direction save that which seemed to leadtowards London. This occurred on the very evening of that Friday which had witnessedthe Lady Arabella's last visit to Dr Thorne's house. The question ofthe squire's necessary journey to the great fountains of justice was, of course, discussed between Lady Arabella and Mr Gazebee; and itoccurred to the former, full as she was of Frank's iniquity and ofMary's obstinacy, that if Frank were sent up in lieu of his father, it would separate them at least for a while. If she could only getFrank away without seeing his love, she might yet so work upon him, by means of the message which Mary had sent, as to postpone, if notbreak off, this hateful match. It was inconceivable that a youthof twenty-three, and such a youth as Frank, should be obstinatelyconstant to a girl possessed of no great beauty--so argued LadyArabella to herself--and who had neither wealth, birth, nor fashionto recommend her. And thus it was at last settled--the squire being a willing partyto the agreement--that Frank should go up and be badgered in lieuof his father. At his age it was possible to make it appear athing desirable, if not necessary--on account of the importanceconveyed--to sit day after day in the chambers of Messrs Slow &Bideawhile, and hear musty law talk, and finger dusty law parchments. The squire had made many visits to Messrs Slow & Bideawhile, and heknew better. Frank had not hitherto been there on his own bottom, andthus he fell easily into the trap. Mr Oriel was also going to London, and this was another reason forsending Frank. Mr Oriel had business of great importance, which itwas quite necessary that he should execute before his marriage. Howmuch of this business consisted in going to his tailor, buying awedding-ring, and purchasing some other more costly present forBeatrice, we need not here inquire. But Mr Oriel was quite on LadyArabella's side with reference to this mad engagement, and as Frankand he were now fast friends, some good might be done in that way. "If we all caution him against it, he can hardly withstand us all!"said Lady Arabella to herself. The matter was broached to Frank on the Saturday evening, and settledbetween them all the same night. Nothing, of course, was at thatmoment said about Mary; but Lady Arabella was too full of the subjectto let him go to London without telling him that Mary was ready torecede if only he would allow her to do so. About eleven o'clock, Frank was sitting in his own room, conning over the difficultiesof the situation--thinking of his father's troubles, and his ownposition--when he was roused from his reverie by a slight tap at thedoor. "Come in, " said he, somewhat loudly. He thought it was one of hissisters, who were apt to visit him at all hours and for all mannerof reasons; and he, though he was usually gentle to them, was not atpresent exactly in a humour to be disturbed. The door gently opened, and he saw his mother standing hesitating inthe passage. "Can I come in, Frank?" said she. "Oh, yes, mother; by all means:" and then, with some surprise markedin his countenance, he prepared a seat for her. Such a visit as thisfrom Lady Arabella was very unusual; so much so, that he had probablynot seen her in his own room since the day when he first left school. He had nothing, however, to be ashamed of; nothing to conceal, unlessit were an open letter from Miss Dunstable which he had in his handwhen she entered, and which he somewhat hurriedly thrust into hispocket. "I wanted to say a few words to you, Frank, before you start forLondon about this business. " Frank signified by a gesture, that hewas quite ready to listen to her. "I am so glad to see your father putting the matter into your hands. You are younger than he is; and then--I don't know why, but somehowyour father has never been a good man of business--everything hasgone wrong with him. " "Oh, mother! do not say anything against him. " "No, Frank, I will not; I do not wish it. Things have beenunfortunate, certainly. Ah me! I little thought when I married--but Idon't mean to complain--I have excellent children, and I ought to bethankful for that. " Frank began to fear that no good could be coming when his motherspoke in that strain. "I will do the best I can, " said he, "up intown. I can't help thinking myself that Mr Gazebee might have done aswell, but--" "Oh, dear no; by no means. In such cases the principal must showhimself. Besides, it is right you should know how matters stand. Whois so much interested in it as you are? Poor Frank! I so often feelfor you when I think how the property has dwindled. " "Pray do not mind me, mother. Why should you talk of it as my matterwhile my father is not yet forty-five? His life, so to speak, is asgood as mine. I can do very well without it; all I want is to beallowed to settle to something. " "You mean a profession. " "Yes; something of that sort. " "They are so slow, dear Frank. You, who speak French so well--Ishould think my brother might get you in as attaché to some embassy. " "That wouldn't suit me at all, " said Frank. "Well, we'll talk about that some other time. But I came aboutsomething else, and I do hope you will hear me. " Frank's brow again grew black, for he knew that his mother was aboutto say something which it would be disagreeable for him to hear. "I was with Mary, yesterday. " "Well, mother?" "Don't be angry with me, Frank; you can't but know that the fateof an only son must be a subject of anxiety to a mother. " Ah! howsingularly altered was Lady Arabella's tone since first she had takenupon herself to discuss the marriage prospects of her son! Then howautocratic had she been as she went him away, bidding him, with fullcommand, to throw himself into the golden embraces of Miss Dunstable!But now, how humble, as she came suppliantly to his room, cravingthat she might have leave to whisper into his ears a mother's anxiousfears! Frank had laughed at her stern behests, though he had halfobeyed them; but he was touched to the heart by her humility. He drew his chair nearer to her, and took her by the hand. But she, disengaging hers, parted the hair from off his forehead, and kissedhis brow. "Oh, Frank, " she said, "I have been so proud of you, amstill so proud of you. It will send me to my grave if I see you sinkbelow your proper position. Not that it will be your fault. I am sureit will not be your fault. Only circumstanced as you are, you shouldbe doubly, trebly, careful. If your father had not--" "Do not speak against my father. " "No, Frank; I will not--no, I will not; not another word. And now, Frank--" Before we go on we must say one word further as to Lady Arabella'scharacter. It will probably be said that she was a consummatehypocrite; but at the present moment she was not hypocritical. Shedid love her son; was anxious--very, very anxious for him; was proudof him, and almost admired the very obstinacy which so vexed her toher inmost soul. No grief would be to her so great as that of seeinghim sink below what she conceived to be his position. She was asgenuinely motherly, in wishing that he should marry money, as anotherwoman might be in wishing to see her son a bishop; or as the Spartanmatron, who preferred that her offspring should return on his shield, to hearing that he had come back whole in limb but tainted in honour. When Frank spoke of a profession, she instantly thought of what Lordde Courcy might do for him. If he would not marry money, he might, atany rate, be an attaché at an embassy. A profession--hard work, asa doctor, or as an engineer--would, according to her ideas, degradehim; cause him to sink below his proper position; but to dangle ata foreign court, to make small talk at the evening parties of alady ambassadress, and occasionally, perhaps, to write demi-officialnotes containing demi-official tittle-tattle; this would be in properaccordance with the high honour of a Gresham of Greshamsbury. We may not admire the direction taken by Lady Arabella's energy onbehalf of her son, but that energy was not hypocritical. "And now, Frank--" She looked wistfully into his face as sheaddressed him, as though half afraid to go on, and begging that hewould receive with complaisance whatever she found herself forced tosay. "Well, mother?" "I was with Mary, yesterday. " "Yes, yes; what then? I know what your feelings are with regard toher. " "No, Frank; you wrong me. I have no feelings against her--none, indeed; none but this: that she is not fit to be your wife. " "I think her fit. " "Ah, yes; but how fit? Think of your position, Frank, and what meansyou have of keeping her. Think what you are. Your father's only son;the heir to Greshamsbury. If Greshamsbury be ever again more than aname, it is you that must redeem it. Of all men living you are theleast able to marry a girl like Mary Thorne. " "Mother, I will not sell myself for what you call my position. " "Who asks you? I do not ask you; nobody asks you. I do not want youto marry any one. I did think once--but let that pass. You are nowtwenty-three. In ten years' time you will still be a young man. Ionly ask you to wait. If you marry now, that is, marry such a girl asMary Thorne--" "Such a girl! Where shall I find such another?" "I mean as regards money, Frank; you know I mean that; how are you tolive? Where are you to go? And then, her birth. Oh, Frank, Frank!" "Birth! I hate such pretence. What was--but I won't talk about it. Mother, I tell you my word is pledged, and on no account will I beinduced to break it. " "Ah, that's just it; that's just the point. Now, Frank, listen to me. Pray listen to me patiently for one minute. I do not ask much ofyou. " Frank promised that he would listen patiently; but he looked anythingbut patient as he said so. "I have seen Mary, as it was certainly my duty to do. You cannot beangry with me for that. " "Who said that I was angry, mother?" "Well, I have seen her, and I must own, that though she was notdisposed to be courteous to me, personally, she said much that markedher excellent good sense. But the gist of it was this; that as shehad made you a promise, nothing should turn her from that promise butyour permission. " "And do you think--" "Wait a moment, Frank, and listen to me. She confessed that thismarriage was one which would necessarily bring distress on all yourfamily; that it was one which would probably be ruinous to yourself;that it was a match which could not be approved of: she did, indeed;she confessed all that. 'I have nothing', she said--those were herown words--'I have nothing to say in favour of this engagement, except that he wishes it. ' That is what she thinks of it herself. 'His wishes are not a reason; but a law, ' she said--" "And, mother, would you have me desert such a girl as that?" "It is not deserting, Frank: it would not be deserting: you would bedoing that which she herself approves of. She feels the improprietyof going on; but she cannot draw back because of her promise to you. She thinks that she cannot do it, even though she wishes it. " "Wishes it! Oh, mother!" "I do believe she does, because she has sense to feel the truth ofall that your friends say. Oh, Frank, I will go on my knees to you ifyou will listen to me. " "Oh, mother! mother! mother!" "You should think twice, Frank, before you refuse the only requestyour mother ever made you. And why do I ask you? why do I come to youthus? Is it for my own sake? Oh, my boy! my darling boy! will youlose everything in life, because you love the child with whom youhave played as a child?" "Whose fault is it that we were together as children? She is now morethan a child. I look on her already as my wife. " "But she is not your wife, Frank; and she knows that she ought not tobe. It is only because you hold her to it that she consents to beso. " "Do you mean to say that she does not love me?" Lady Arabella would probably have said this, also, had she dared;but she felt, that in doing so, she would be going too far. It wasuseless for her to say anything that would be utterly contradicted byan appeal to Mary herself. "No, Frank; I do not mean to say that you do not love her. WhatI do mean is this: that it is not becoming in you to give upeverything--not only yourself, but all your family--for such a loveas this; and that she, Mary herself, acknowledges this. Every one isof the same opinion. Ask your father: I need not say that he wouldagree with you about everything if he could. I will not say the deCourcys. " "Oh, the de Courcys!" "Yes, they are my relations; I know that. " Lady Arabella could notquite drop the tone of bitterness which was natural to her in sayingthis. "But ask your sisters; ask Mr Oriel, whom you esteem so much;ask your friend Harry Baker. " Frank sat silent for a moment or two while his mother, with a lookalmost of agony, gazed into his face. "I will ask no one, " at last hesaid. "Oh, my boy! my boy!" "No one but myself can know my own heart. " "And you will sacrifice all to such a love as that, all; her, also, whom you say that you so love? What happiness can you give her asyour wife? Oh, Frank! is that the only answer you will make yourmother on her knees? "Oh, mother! mother!" "No, Frank, I will not let you ruin yourself; I will not let youdestroy yourself. Promise this, at least, that you will think of whatI have said. " "Think of it! I do think of it. " "Ah, but think of it in earnest. You will be absent now in London;you will have the business of the estate to manage; you will haveheavy cares upon your hands. Think of it as a man, and not as a boy. " "I will see her to-morrow before I go. " "No, Frank, no; grant me that trifle, at any rate. Think upon thiswithout seeing her. Do not proclaim yourself so weak that you cannottrust yourself to think over what your mother says to you withoutasking her leave. Though you be in love, do not be childish with it. What I have told you as coming from her is true, word for word; if itwere not, you would soon learn so. Think now of what I have said, andof what she says, and when you come back from London, then you candecide. " To so much Frank consented after some further parley; namely, that hewould proceed to London on the following Monday morning without againseeing Mary. And in the meantime, she was waiting with sore heart forhis answer to that letter that was lying, and was still to lie for somany hours, in the safe protection of the Silverbridge postmistress. It may seem strange; but, in truth, his mother's eloquence had moreeffect on Frank than that of his father: and yet, with his father hehad always sympathised. But his mother had been energetic; whereas, his father, if not lukewarm, had, at any rate, been timid. "I willask no one, " Frank had said in the strong determination of his heart;and yet the words were hardly out of his mouth before he bethoughthimself that he would talk the thing over with Harry Baker. "Not, "said he to himself, "that I have any doubt; I have no doubt; but Ihate to have all the world against me. My mother wishes me to askHarry Baker. Harry is a good fellow, and I will ask him. " And withthis resolve he betook himself to bed. The following day was Sunday. After breakfast Frank went with thefamily to church, as was usual; and there, as usual, he saw Mary inDr Thorne's pew. She, as she looked at him, could not but wonder whyhe had not answered the letter which was still at Silverbridge; andhe endeavoured to read in her face whether it was true, as his motherhad told him, that she was quite ready to give him up. The prayers ofboth of them were disturbed, as is so often the case with the prayersof other anxious people. There was a separate door opening from the Greshamsbury pew out intothe Greshamsbury grounds, so that the family were not forced intounseemly community with the village multitude in going to and fromtheir prayers; for the front door of the church led out into a roadwhich had no connexion with the private path. It was not unusual withFrank and his father to go round, after the service, to the chiefentrance, so that they might speak to their neighbours, and get ridof some of the exclusiveness which was intended for them. On thismorning the squire did so; but Frank walked home with his mother andsisters, so that Mary saw no more of him. I have said that he walked home with his mother and his sisters;but he rather followed in their path. He was not inclined to talkmuch, at least, not to them; and he continued asking himself thequestion--whether it could be possible that he was wrong in remainingtrue to his promise? Could it be that he owed more to his father andhis mother, and what they chose to call his position, than he did toMary? After church, Mr Gazebee tried to get hold of him, for there was muchstill to be said, and many hints to be given, as to how Frank shouldspeak, and, more especially, as to how he should hold his tongueamong the learned pundits in and about Chancery Lane. "You must bevery wide awake with Messrs Slow & Bideawhile, " said Mr Gazebee. ButFrank would not hearken to him just at that moment. He was going toride over to Harry Baker, so he put Mr Gazebee off till the half-hourbefore dinner, --or else the half-hour after tea. On the previous day he had received a letter from Miss Dunstable, which he had hitherto read but once. His mother had interrupted himas he was about to refer to it; and now, as his father's nag wasbeing saddled--he was still prudent in saving the black horse--heagain took it out. Miss Dunstable had written in an excellent humour. She was in greatdistress about the oil of Lebanon, she said. "I have been trying toget a purchaser for the last two years; but my lawyer won't let mesell it, because the would-be purchasers offer a thousand pounds orso less than the value. I would give ten to be rid of the bore; but Iam as little able to act myself as Sancho was in his government. Theoil of Lebanon! Did you hear anything of it when you were in thoseparts? I thought of changing the name to 'London particular;' but mylawyer says the brewers would bring an action against me. "I was going down to your neighbourhood--to your friend the duke's, at least. But I am prevented by my poor doctor, who is so weak thatI must take him to Malvern. It is a great bore; but I have thesatisfaction that I do my duty by him! "Your cousin George is to be married at last. So I hear, at least. He loves wisely, if not well; for his widow has the name of beingprudent and fairly well to do in the world. She has got over thecaprices of her youth. Dear Aunt de Courcy will be so delighted. Imight perhaps have met her at Gatherum Castle. I do so regret it. "Mr Moffat has turned up again. We all thought you had finallyextinguished him. He left a card the other day, and I have told theservant always to say that I am at home, and that you are with me. Heis going to stand for some borough in the west of Ireland. He's usedto shillelaghs by this time. "By the by, I have a _cadeau_ for a friend of yours. I won't tell youwhat it is, nor permit you to communicate the fact. But when you tellme that in sending it I may fairly congratulate her on having sodevoted a slave as you, it shall be sent. "If you have nothing better to do at present, do come and see myinvalid at Malvern. Perhaps you might have a mind to treat for theoil of Lebanon. I'll give you all the assistance I can in cheating mylawyers. " There was not much about Mary in this; but still, the little that wassaid made him again declare that neither father nor mother shouldmove him from his resolution. "I will write to her and say that shemay send her present when she pleases. Or I will run down to Malvernfor a day. It will do me good to see her. " And so resolved, he rodeaway to Mill Hill, thinking, as he went, how he would put the matterto Harry Baker. Harry was at home; but we need not describe the whole interview. HadFrank been asked beforehand, he would have declared, that on nopossible subject could he have had the slightest hesitation in askingHarry any question, or communicating to him any tidings. But when thetime came, he found that he did hesitate much. He did not want to askhis friend if he should be wise to marry Mary Thorne. Wise or not, hewas determined to do that. But he wished to be quite sure that hismother was wrong in saying that all the world would dissuade him fromit. Miss Dunstable, at any rate, did not do so. At last, seated on a stile at the back of the Mill Hill stables, while Harry stood close before him with both his hands in hispockets, he did get his story told. It was by no means the firsttime that Harry Baker had heard about Mary Thorne, and he was not, therefore, so surprised as he might have been, had the affairbeen new to him. And thus, standing there in the position we havedescribed, did Mr Baker, junior, give utterance to such wisdom as wasin him on this subject. "You see, Frank, there are two sides to every question; and, as Itake it, fellows are so apt to go wrong because they are so fond ofone side, they won't look at the other. There's no doubt about it, Lady Arabella is a very clever woman, and knows what's what; andthere's no doubt about this either, that you have a very ticklishhand of cards to play. " "I'll play it straightforward; that's my game" said Frank. "Well and good, my dear fellow. That's the best game always. But whatis straightforward? Between you and me, I fear there's no doubt thatyour father's property has got into a deuce of a mess. " "I don't see that that has anything to do with it. " "Yes, but it has. If the estate was all right, and your father couldgive you a thousand a year to live on without feeling it, and if youreldest child would be cock-sure of Greshamsbury, it might be verywell that you should please yourself as to marrying at once. Butthat's not the case; and yet Greshamsbury is too good a card to beflung away. " "I could fling it away to-morrow, " said Frank. "Ah! you think so, " said Harry the Wise. "But if you were to hearto-morrow that Sir Louis Scatcherd were master of the whole place, and be d---- to him, you would feel very uncomfortable. " Had Harryknown how near Sir Louis was to his last struggle, he would not havespoken of him in this manner. "That's all very fine talk, but itwon't bear wear and tear. You do care for Greshamsbury if you are thefellow I take you to be: care for it very much; and you care too foryour father being Gresham of Greshamsbury. " "This won't affect my father at all. " "Ah, but it will affect him very much. If you were to marry MissThorne to-morrow, there would at once be an end to any hope of yoursaving the property. " "And do you mean to say I'm to be a liar to her for such reasons asthat? Why, Harry, I should be as bad as Moffat. Only it would be tentimes more cowardly, as she has no brother. " "I must differ from you there altogether; but mind, I don't mean tosay anything. Tell me that you have made up your mind to marry her, and I'll stick to you through thick and thin. But if you ask myadvice, why, I must give it. It is quite a different affair to thatof Moffat's. He had lots of tin, everything he could want, and therecould be no reason why he should not marry, --except that he was asnob, of whom your sister was well quit. But this is very different. If I, as your friend, were to put it to Miss Thorne, what do youthink she would say herself?" "She would say whatever she thought best for me. " "Exactly: because she is a trump. And I say the same. There can be nodoubt about it, Frank, my boy: such a marriage would be very foolishfor you both; very foolish. Nobody can admire Miss Thorne more thanI do; but you oughtn't to be a marrying man for the next ten years, unless you get a fortune. If you tell her the truth, and if she's thegirl I take her to be, she'll not accuse you of being false. She'llpeak for a while; and so will you, old chap. But others have had todo that before you. They have got over it, and so will you. " Such was the spoken wisdom of Harry Baker, and who can say that hewas wrong? Frank sat a while on his rustle seat, paring his nailswith his penknife, and then looking up, he thus thanked his friend:-- "I'm sure you mean well, Harry; and I'm much obliged to you. I daresay you're right too. But, somehow, it doesn't come home to me. Andwhat is more, after what has passed, I could not tell her that I wishto part from her. I could not do it. And besides, I have that sort offeeling, that if I heard she was to marry any one else, I am sure Ishould blow his brains out. Either his or my own. " "Well, Frank, you may count on me for anything, except the lastproposition:" and so they shook hands, and Frank rode back toGreshamsbury. CHAPTER XLV Law Business in London On the Monday morning at six o'clock, Mr Oriel and Frank startedtogether; but early as it was, Beatrice was up to give them a cup ofcoffee, Mr Oriel having slept that night in the house. Whether Frankwould have received his coffee from his sister's fair hands had notMr Oriel been there, may be doubted. He, however, loudly assertedthat he should not have done so, when she laid claim to great meritfor rising in his behalf. Mr Oriel had been specially instigated by Lady Arabella to use theopportunity of their joint journey, for pointing out to Frank theiniquity as well as madness of the course he was pursuing; and he hadpromised to obey her ladyship's behests. But Mr Oriel was perhaps notan enterprising man, and was certainly not a presumptuous one. He didintend to do as he was bid; but when he began, with the object ofleading up to the subject of Frank's engagement, he always softeneddown into some much easier enthusiasm in the matter of his ownengagement with Beatrice. He had not that perspicuous, but notover-sensitive strength of mind which had enabled Harry Baker toexpress his opinion out at once; and boldly as he did it, yet to doso without offence. Four times before the train arrived in London, he made some littleattempt; but four times he failed. As the subject was matrimony, itwas his easiest course to begin about himself; but he never could getany further. "No man was ever more fortunate in a wife than I shall be, " he said, with a soft, euphuistic self-complacency, which would have been sillyhad it been adopted to any other person than the bride's brother. Hisintention, however, was very good, for he meant to show, that in hiscase marriage was prudent and wise, because his case differed sowidely from that of Frank. "Yes, " said Frank. "She is an excellent good girl:" he had said itthree times before, and was not very energetic. "Yes, and so exactly suited to me; indeed, all that I could havedreamed of. How very well she looked this morning! Some girls onlylook well at night. I should not like that at all. " "You mustn't expect her to look like that always at six o'clocka. M. , " said Frank, laughing. "Young ladies only take that trouble onvery particular occasions. She wouldn't have come down like that ifmy father or I had been going alone. No, and she won't do so for youin a couple of years' time. " "Oh, but she's always nice. I have seen her at home as much almost asyou could do; and then she's so sincerely religious. " "Oh, yes, of course; that is, I am sure she is, " said Frank, lookingsolemn as became him. "She's made to be a clergyman's wife. " "Well, so it seems, " said Frank. "A married life is, I'm sure, the happiest in the world--if peopleare only in a position to marry, " said Mr Oriel, gradually drawingnear to the accomplishment of his design. "Yes; quite so. Do you know, Oriel, I never was so sleepy in my life. What with all that fuss of Gazebee's, and one thing and another, Icould not get to bed till one o'clock; and then I couldn't sleep. I'll take a snooze now, if you won't think it uncivil. " And then, putting his feet upon the opposite seat, he settled himselfcomfortably to his rest. And so Mr Oriel's last attempt for lecturingFrank in the railway-carriage faded away and was annihilated. By twelve o'clock Frank was with Messrs Slow & Bideawhile. MrBideawhile was engaged at the moment, but he found the managingChancery clerk to be a very chatty gentleman. Judging from what hesaw, he would have said that the work to be done at Messrs Slow &Bideawhile's was not very heavy. "A singular man that Sir Louis, " said the Chancery clerk. "Yes; very singular, " said Frank. "Excellent security, excellent; no better; and yet he will foreclose;but you see he has no power himself. But the question is, can thetrustee refuse? Then, again, trustees are so circumscribed nowadaysthat they are afraid to do anything. There has been so much saidlately, Mr Gresham, that a man doesn't know where he is, or what heis doing. Nobody trusts anybody. There have been such terrible thingsthat we can't wonder at it. Only think of the case of those Hills!How can any one expect that any one else will ever trust a lawyeragain after that? But that's Mr Bideawhile's bell. How can any oneexpect it? He will see you now, I dare say, Mr Gresham. " So it turned out, and Frank was ushered into the presence of MrBideawhile. He had got his lesson by heart, and was going to rushinto the middle of his subject; such a course, however, was not inaccordance with Mr Bideawhile's usual practice. Mr Bideawhile got upfrom his large wooden-seated Windsor chair, and, with a soft smile, in which, however, was mingled some slight dash of the attorney'sacuteness, put out his hand to his young client; not, indeed, asthough he were going to shake hands with him, but as though the handwere some ripe fruit all but falling, which his visitor might takeand pluck if he thought proper. Frank took hold of the hand, whichreturned him no pressure, and then let it go again, not making anyattempt to gather the fruit. "I have come up to town, Mr Bideawhile, about this mortgage, "commenced Frank. "Mortgage--ah, sit down, Mr Gresham; sit down. I hope your father isquite well?" "Quite well, thank you. " "I have a great regard for your father. So I had for yourgrandfather; a very good man indeed. You, perhaps, don't rememberhim, Mr Gresham?" "He died when I was only a year old. " "Oh, yes; no, you of course, can't remember him; but I do, well: heused to be very fond of some port wine I had. I think it was '11;'and if I don't mistake, I have a bottle or two of it yet; but it isnot worth drinking now. Port wine, you know, won't keep beyond acertain time. That was very good wine. I don't exactly remember whatit stood me a dozen then; but such wine can't be had now. As for theMadeira, you know there's an end of that. Do you drink Madeira, MrGresham?" "No, " said Frank, "not very often. " "I'm sorry for that, for it's a fine wine; but then there's noneof it left, you know. I have a few dozen, I'm told they're growingpumpkins where the vineyards were. I wonder what they do with all thepumpkins they grow in Switzerland! You've been in Switzerland, MrGresham?" Frank said he had been in Switzerland. "It's a beautiful country; my girls made me go there last year. Theysaid it would do me good; but then you know, they wanted to see itthemselves; ha! ha! ha! However, I believe I shall go again thisautumn. That is to Aix, or some of those places; just for threeweeks. I can't spare any more time, Mr Gresham. Do you like thatdining at the _tables d'hôte_?" "Pretty well, sometimes. " "One would get tired of it--eh! But they gave us capital dinners atZurich. I don't think much of their soup. But they had fish, andabout seven kinds of meats and poultry, and three or four puddings, and things of that sort. Upon my word, I thought we did very well, and so did my girls, too. You see a great many ladies travellingnow. " "Yes, " said Frank; "a great many. " "Upon my word, I think they are right; that is, if they can affordtime. I can't afford time. I'm here every day till five, Mr Gresham;then I go out and dine in Fleet Street, and then back to work tillnine. " "Dear me! that's very hard. " "Well, yes it is hard work. My boys don't like it; but I manage itsomehow. I get down to my little place in the country on Saturday. Ishall be most happy to see you there next Saturday. " Frank, thinking it would be outrageous on his part to take up much ofthe time of the gentleman who was constrained to work so unreasonablyhard, began again to talk about his mortgages, and, in so doing, hadto mention the name of Mr Yates Umbleby. "Ah, poor Umbleby!" said Mr Bideawhile; "what is he doing now? I amquite sure your father was right, or he wouldn't have done it; but Iused to think that Umbleby was a decent sort of man enough. Not sogrand, you know, as your Gazebees and Gumptions--eh, Mr Gresham? Theydo say young Gazebee is thinking of getting into Parliament. Let mesee: Umbleby married--who was it he married? That was the way yourfather got hold of him; not your father, but your grandfather. Iused to know all about it. Well, I was sorry for Umbleby. He has gotsomething, I suppose--eh?" Frank said that he believed Mr Yates Umbleby had something wherewithto keep the wolf from the door. "So you have got Gazebee down there now? Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee:very good people, I'm sure; only, perhaps, they have a little toomuch on hand to do your father justice. " "But about Sir Louis, Mr Bideawhile. " "Well, about Sir Louis; a very bad sort of fellow, isn't he?Drinks--eh? I knew his father a little. He was a rough diamond, too. I was once down in Northamptonshire, about some railway business; letme see; I almost forget whether I was with him, or against him. But Iknow he made sixty thousand pounds by one hour's work; sixty thousandpounds! And then he got so mad with drinking that we all thought--" And so Mr Bideawhile went on for two hours, and Frank found noopportunity of saying one word about the business which had broughthim up to town. What wonder that such a man as this should be obligedto stay at his office every night till nine o'clock? During these two hours, a clerk had come in three or four times, whispering something to the lawyer, who, on the last of suchoccasions, turned to Frank, saying, "Well, perhaps that will do forto-day. If you'll manage to call to-morrow, say about two, I willhave the whole thing looked up; or, perhaps Wednesday or Thursdaywould suit you better. " Frank, declaring that the morrow would suithim very well, took his departure, wondering much at the manner inwhich business was done at the house of Messrs Slow & Bideawhile. When he called the next day, the office seemed to be ratherdisturbed, and he was shown quickly into Mr Bideawhile's room. "Haveyou heard this?" said that gentleman, putting a telegram into hishands. It contained tidings of the death of Sir Louis Scatcherd. Frank immediately knew that these tidings must be of importance tohis father; but he had no idea how vitally they concerned his ownmore immediate interests. "Dr Thorne will be up in town on Thursday evening after the funeral, "said the talkative clerk. "And nothing of course can be done till hecomes, " said Mr Bideawhile. And so Frank, pondering on the mutabilityof human affairs, again took his departure. He could do nothing now but wait for Dr Thorne's arrival, and sohe amused himself in the interval by running down to Malvern, andtreating with Miss Dunstable in person for the oil of Lebanon. Hewent down on the Wednesday, and thus, failed to receive, on theThursday morning, Mary's letter, which reached London on that day. He returned, however, on the Friday, and then got it; and perhapsit was well for Mary's happiness that he had seen Miss Dunstable inthe interval. "I don't care what your mother says, " said she, withemphasis. "I don't care for any Harry, whether it be Harry Baker, orold Harry himself. You made her a promise, and you are bound to keepit; if not on one day, then on another. What! because you cannot drawback yourself, get out of it by inducing her to do so! Aunt de Courcyherself could not improve upon that. " Fortified in this manner, hereturned to town on the Friday morning, and then got Mary's letter. Frank also got a note from Dr Thorne, stating that he had taken uphis temporary domicile at the Gray's Inn Coffee-house, so as to benear the lawyers. It has been suggested that the modern English writers of fictionshould among them keep a barrister, in order that they may be setright on such legal points as will arise in their little narratives, and thus avoid that exposure of their own ignorance of the laws, which, now, alas! they too often make. The idea is worthy ofconsideration, and I can only say, that if such an arrangement can bemade, and if a counsellor adequately skilful can be found to acceptthe office, I shall be happy to subscribe my quota; it would be but amodest tribute towards the cost. But as the suggestion has not yet been carried out, and as there isat present no learned gentleman whose duty would induce him to setme right, I can only plead for mercy if I be wrong allotting all SirRoger's vast possessions in perpetuity to Miss Thorne, alleging also, in excuse, that the course of my narrative absolutely demands thatshe shall be ultimately recognised as Sir Roger's undoubted heiress. Such, after a not immoderate delay, was the opinion expressed to DrThorne by his law advisers; and such, in fact, turned out to be thecase. I will leave the matter so, hoping that my very absence ofdefence may serve to protect me from severe attack. If under sucha will as that described as having been made by Sir Roger, Marywould not have been the heiress, that will must have been describedwrongly. But it was not quite at once that those tidings made themselvesabsolutely certain to Dr Thorne's mind; nor was he able to expressany such opinion when he first met Frank in London. At that timeMary's letter was in Frank's pocket; and Frank, though his realbusiness appertained much more to the fact of Sir Louis's death, andthe effect that would immediately have on his father's affairs, wasmuch more full of what so much more nearly concerned himself. "I willshow it Dr Thorne himself, " said he, "and ask him what he thinks. " Dr Thorne was stretched fast asleep on the comfortless horse-hairsofa in the dingy sitting-room at the Gray's Inn Coffee-house whenFrank found him. The funeral, and his journey to London, and thelawyers had together conquered his energies, and he lay and snored, with nose upright, while heavy London summer flies settled on hishead and face, and robbed his slumbers of half their charms. "I beg your pardon, " said he, jumping up as though he had beendetected in some disgraceful act. "Upon my word, Frank, I beg yourpardon; but--well, my dear fellow, all well at Greshamsbury--eh?" andas he shook himself, he made a lunge at one uncommonly disagreeablefly that had been at him for the last ten minutes. It is hardlynecessary to say that he missed his enemy. "I should have been with you before, doctor, but I was down atMalvern. " "At Malvern, eh? Ah! so Oriel told me. The death of poor Sir Louiswas very sudden--was it not?" "Very. " "Poor fellow--poor fellow! His fate has for some time been pasthope. It is a madness, Frank; the worst of madness. Only think ofit--father and son! And such a career as the father had--such acareer as the son might have had!" "It has been very quickly run, " said Frank. "May it be all forgiven him! I sometimes cannot but believe in aspecial Providence. That poor fellow was not able, never would havebeen able, to make proper use of the means which fortune had givenhim. I hope they may fall into better hands. There is no use indenying it, his death will be an immense relief to me, and a reliefalso to your father. All this law business will now, of course, bestopped. As for me, I hope I may never be a trustee again. " Frank had put his hand four or five times into his breast-pocket, andhad as often taken out and put back again Mary's letter before hecould find himself able to bring Dr Thorne to the subject. At lastthere was a lull in the purely legal discussion, caused by the doctorintimating that he supposed Frank would now soon return toGreshamsbury. "Yes; I shall go to-morrow morning. " "What! so soon as that? I counted on having you one day in Londonwith me. " "No, I shall go to-morrow. I'm not fit for company for any one. Noram I fit for anything. Read that, doctor. It's no use putting it offany longer. I must get you to talk this over with me. Just read that, and tell me what you think about it. It was written a week ago, whenI was there, but somehow I have only got it to-day. " And putting theletter into the doctor's hands, he turned away to the window, andlooked out among the Holborn omnibuses. Dr Thorne took the letter andread it. Mary, after she had written it, had bewailed to herself thatthe letter was cold; but it had not seemed cold to her lover, nor didit appear so to her uncle. When Frank turned round from the window, the doctor's handkerchief was up to his eyes; who, in order to hidethe tears that were there, was obliged to go through a rather violentprocess of blowing his nose. "Well, " he said, as he gave back the letter to Frank. Well! what did well mean? Was it well? or would it be well were he, Frank, to comply with the suggestion made to him by Mary? "It is impossible, " he said, "that matters should go on like that. Think what her sufferings must have been before she wrote that. I amsure she loves me. " "I think she does, " said the doctor. "And it is out of the question that she should be sacrificed; norwill I consent to sacrifice my own happiness. I am quite willing towork for my bread, and I am sure that I am able. I will not submitto-- Doctor, what answer do you think I ought to give to thatletter? There can be no person so anxious for her happiness as youare--except myself. " And as he asked the question, he again put intothe doctor's hand, almost unconsciously, the letter which he hadstill been holding in his own. The doctor turned it over and over, and then opened it again. "What answer ought I to make to it?" demanded Frank, with energy. "You see, Frank, I have never interfered in this matter, otherwisethan to tell you the whole truth about Mary's birth. " "Oh, but you must interfere: you should say what you think. " "Circumstanced as you are now--that is, just at the presentmoment--you could hardly marry immediately. " "Why not let me take a farm? My father could, at any rate, manage acouple of thousand pounds or so for me to stock it. That would notbe asking much. If he could not give it me, I would not scrupleto borrow so much elsewhere. " And Frank bethought him of all MissDunstable's offers. "Oh, yes; that could be managed. " "Then why not marry immediately; say in six months or so? I am notunreasonable; though, Heaven knows, I have been kept in suspense longenough. As for her, I am sure she must be suffering frightfully. Youknow her best, and, therefore, I ask you what answer I ought to make:as for myself, I have made up my own mind; I am not a child, nor willI let them treat me as such. " Frank, as he spoke, was walking rapidly about the room; and hebrought out his different positions, one after the other, with alittle pause, while waiting for the doctor's answer. The doctor wassitting, with the letter still in his hands, on the head of the sofa, turning over in his mind the apparent absurdity of Frank's desire toborrow two thousand pounds for a farm, when, in all humanprobability, he might in a few months be in possession of almost anysum he should choose to name. And yet he would not tell him of SirRoger's will. "If it should turn out to be all wrong?" said he tohimself. "Do you wish me to give her up?" said Frank, at last. "No. How can I wish it? How can I expect a better match for her?Besides, Frank, I love no man in the world so well as I do you. " "Then you will help me?" "What! against your father?" "Against! no, not against anybody. But will you tell Mary that shehas your consent?" "I think she knows that. " "But you have never said anything to her. " "Look here, Frank; you ask me for my advice, and I will give it you:go home; though, indeed, I would rather you went anywhere else. " "No, I must go home; and I must see her. " "Very well, go home: as for seeing Mary, I think you had better putit off for a fortnight. " "Quite impossible. " "Well, that's my advice. But, at any rate, make up your mind tonothing for a fortnight. Wait for one fortnight, and I then will tellyou plainly--you and her too--what I think you ought to do. At theend of a fortnight come to me, and tell the squire that I will takeit as a great kindness if he will come with you. She has suffered, terribly, terribly; and it is necessary that something should besettled. But a fortnight more can make no great difference. " "And the letter?" "Oh! there's the letter. " "But what shall I say? Of course I shall write to-night. " "Tell her to wait a fortnight. And, Frank, mind you bring your fatherwith you. " Frank could draw nothing further from his friend save constantrepetitions of this charge to him to wait a fortnight, --just oneother fortnight. "Well, I will come to you at any rate, " said Frank; "and, ifpossible, I will bring my father. But I shall write to Maryto-night. " On the Saturday morning, Mary, who was then nearly broken-hearted ather lover's silence, received a short note:-- MY OWN MARY, I shall be home to-morrow. I will by no means release you from your promise. Of course you will perceive that I only got your letter to-day. Your own dearest, FRANK. P. S. --You will have to call me so hundreds and hundreds of times yet. Short as it was, this sufficed Mary. It is one thing for a young ladyto make prudent, heart-breaking suggestions, but quite another tohave them accepted. She did call him dearest Frank, even on that oneday, almost as often as he had desired her. CHAPTER XLVI Our Pet Fox Finds a Tail Frank returned home, and his immediate business was of course withhis father, and with Mr Gazebee, who was still at Greshamsbury. "But who is the heir?" asked Mr Gazebee, when Frank had explainedthat the death of Sir Louis rendered unnecessary any immediate legalsteps. "Upon my word I don't know, " said Frank. "You saw Dr Thorne, " said the squire. "He must have known. " "I never thought of asking him, " said Frank, naïvely. Mr Gazebee looked rather solemn. "I wonder at that, " said he; "foreverything now depends on the hands the property will go into. Letme see; I think Sir Roger had a married sister. Was not that so, MrGresham?" And then it occurred for the first time, both to the squireand to his son, that Mary Thorne was the eldest child of this sister. But it never occurred to either of them that Mary could be thebaronet's heir. Dr Thorne came down for a couple of days before the fortnight wasover to see his patients, and then returned again to London. Butduring this short visit he was utterly dumb on the subject of theheir. He called at Greshamsbury to see Lady Arabella, and was evenquestioned by the squire on the subject. But he obstinately refusedto say more than that nothing certain could be known for yet a fewdays. Immediately after his return, Frank saw Mary, and told her all thathad happened. "I cannot understand my uncle, " said she, almosttrembling as she stood close to him in her own drawing-room. "Heusually hates mysteries, and yet now he is so mysterious. He told me, Frank--that was after I had written that unfortunate letter--" "Unfortunate, indeed! I wonder what you really thought of me when youwere writing it?" "If you had heard what your mother said, you would not be surprised. But, after that, uncle said--" "Said what?" "He seemed to think--I don't remember what it was he said. But hesaid, he hoped that things might yet turn out well; and then I wasalmost sorry that I had written the letter. " "Of course you were sorry, and so you ought to have been. To say thatyou would never call me Frank again!" "I didn't exactly say that. " "I have told him I will wait a fortnight, and so I will. After that, I shall take the matter into my own hands. " It may be well supposed that Lady Arabella was not well pleased tolearn that Frank and Mary had been again together; and, in the agonyof her spirit, she did say some ill-natured things before Augusta, who had now returned from Courcy Castle, as to the gross improprietyof Mary's conduct. But to Frank she said nothing. Nor was there much said between Frank and Beatrice. If everythingcould really be settled at the end of that fortnight which was towitness the disclosure of the doctor's mystery, there would stillbe time to arrange that Mary should be at the wedding. "It shall besettled then, " he said to himself; "and if it be settled, my motherwill hardly venture to exclude my affianced bride from the house. "It was now the beginning of August, and it wanted yet a month to theOriel wedding. But though he said nothing to his mother or to Beatrice, he did saymuch to his father. In the first place, he showed him Mary's letter. "If your heart be not made of stone it will be softened by that, " hesaid. Mr Gresham's heart was not of stone, and he did acknowledgethat the letter was a very sweet letter. But we know how the drop ofwater hollows stone. It was not by the violence of his appeal thatFrank succeeded in obtaining from his father a sort of half-consentthat he would no longer oppose the match; but by the assiduity withwhich the appeal was repeated. Frank, as we have said, had morestubbornness of will than his father; and so, before the fortnightwas over, the squire had been talked over, and promised to attend atthe doctor's bidding. "I suppose you had better take the Hazlehurst farm, " said he to hisson, with a sigh. "It joins the park and the home-fields, and I willgive you up them also. God knows, I don't care about farming anymore--or about anything else either. " "Don't say that, father. " "Well, well! But, Frank, where will you live? The old house is bigenough for us all. But how would Mary get on with your mother?" At the end of his fortnight, true to his time, the doctor returned tothe village. He was a bad correspondent; and though he had writtensome short notes to Mary, he had said no word to her about hisbusiness. It was late in the evening when he got home, and it wasunderstood by Frank and the squire that they were to be with him onthe following morning. Not a word had been said to Lady Arabella onthe subject. It was late in the evening when he got home, and Mary waited for himwith a heart almost sick with expectation. As soon as the fly hadstopped at the little gate she heard his voice, and heard at oncethat it was quick, joyful, and telling much of inward satisfaction. He had a good-natured word for Janet, and called Thomas an oldblunder-head in a manner that made Bridget laugh outright. "He'll have his nose put out of joint some day; won't he?" said thedoctor. Bridget blushed and laughed again, and made a sign to Thomasthat he had better look to his face. Mary was in his arms before he was yet within the door. "My darling, "said he, tenderly kissing her. "You are my own darling yet awhile. " "Of course I am. Am I not always to be so?" "Well, well; let me have some tea, at any rate, for I'm in a fever ofthirst. They may call that tea at the Junction if they will; but ifChina were sunk under the sea it would make no difference to them. " Dr Thorne always was in a fever of thirst when he got home from therailway, and always made complaint as to the tea at the Junction. Mary went about her usual work with almost more than her usualalacrity, and so they were soon seated in the drawing-room together. She soon found that his manner was more than ordinarily kind to her;and there was moreover something about him which seemed to make himsparkle with contentment, but he said no word about Frank, nor did hemake any allusion to the business which had taken him up to town. "Have you got through all your work?" she said to him once. "Yes, yes; I think all. " "And thoroughly?" "Yes; thoroughly, I think. But I am very tired, and so are you too, darling, with waiting for me. " "Oh, no, I am not, " said she, as she went on continually filling hiscup; "but I am so happy to have you home again. You have been away somuch lately. " "Ah, yes; well I suppose I shall not go away any more now. It will besomebody else's turn now. " "Uncle, I think you're going to take up writing mystery romances, like Mrs Radcliffe's. " "Yes; and I'll begin to-morrow, certainly with-- But, Mary, I willnot say another word to-night. Give me a kiss, dearest, and I'll go. " Mary did kiss him, and he did go. But as she was still lingering inthe room, putting away a book, or a reel of thread, and then sittingdown to think what the morrow would bring forth, the doctor againcame into the room in his dressing-gown, and with the slippers on. "What, not gone yet?" said he. "No, not yet; I'm going now. " "You and I, Mary, have always affected a good deal of indifference asto money, and all that sort of thing. " "I won't acknowledge that it has been an affectation at all, " sheanswered. "Perhaps not; but we have often expressed it, have we not?" "I suppose, uncle, you think that we are like the fox that lost histail, or rather some unfortunate fox that might be born without one. " "I wonder how we should either of us bear it if we found ourselvessuddenly rich. It would be a great temptation--a sore temptation. Ifear, Mary, that when poor people talk disdainfully of money, theyoften are like your fox, born without a tail. If nature suddenlyshould give that beast a tail, would he not be prouder of it than allthe other foxes in the wood?" "Well, I suppose he would. That's the very meaning of the story. Buthow moral you've become all of a sudden at twelve o'clock at night!Instead of being Mrs Radcliffe, I shall think you're Mr Æsop. " He took up the article which he had come to seek, and kissing heragain on the forehead, went away to his bed-room without furtherspeech. "What can he mean by all this about money?" said Mary toherself. "It cannot be that by Sir Louis's death he will get any ofall this property;" and then she began to bethink herself whether, after all, she would wish him to be a rich man. "If he were veryrich, he might do something to assist Frank; and then--" There never was a fox yet without a tail who would not be delightedto find himself suddenly possessed of that appendage. Never; let theuntailed fox have been ever so sincere in his advice to his friends!We are all of us, the good and the bad, looking for tails--for onetail, or for more than one; we do so too often by ways that aremean enough: but perhaps there is no tail-seeker more mean, moresneakingly mean than he who looks out to adorn his bare back with atail by marriage. The doctor was up very early the next morning, long before Mary wasready with her teacups. He was up, and in his own study behind theshop, arranging dingy papers, pulling about tin boxes which he hadbrought down with him from London, and piling on his writing-tableone set of documents in one place, and one in another. "I think Iunderstand it all, " said he; "but yet I know I shall be bothered. Well, I never will be anybody's trustee again. Let me see!" and thenhe sat down, and with bewildered look recapitulated to himself sundryheavy items. "What those shares are really worth I cannot understand, and nobody seems able to tell one. They must make it out amongthem as best they can. Let me see; that's Boxall Hill, and this isGreshamsbury. I'll put a newspaper over Greshamsbury, or the squirewill know it!" and then, having made his arrangements, he went to hisbreakfast. I know I am wrong, my much and truly honoured critic, about thesetitle-deeds and documents. But when we've got that barrister inhand, then if I go wrong after that, let the blame be on my ownshoulders--or on his. The doctor ate his breakfast quickly; and did not talk much to hisniece. But what he did say was of a nature to make her feel strangelyhappy. She could not analyse her own feelings, or give a reason forher own confidence; but she certainly did feel, and even trust, thatsomething was going to happen after breakfast which would make hermore happy than she had been for many months. "Janet, " said he, looking at his watch, "if Mr Gresham and MrFrank call, show them into my study. What are you going to do withyourself, my dear?" "I don't know, uncle; you are so mysterious, and I am in such atwitter, that I don't know what to do. Why is Mr Gresham cominghere--that is, the squire?" "Because I have business with him about the Scatcherd property. Youknow that he owed Sir Louis money. But don't go out, Mary. I want youto be in the way if I should have to call for you. You can stay inthe drawing-room, can't you?" "Oh, yes, uncle; or here. " "No, dearest; go into the drawing-room. " Mary obediently did as shewas bid; and there she sat, for the next three hours, wondering, wondering, wondering. During the greater part of that time, however, she well knew that Mr Gresham, senior, and Mr Gresham, junior, wereboth with her uncle, below. At eleven o'clock the doctor's visitors came. He had expected themsomewhat earlier, and was beginning to become fidgety. He had so muchon his hands that he could not sit still for a moment till he had, atany rate, commenced it. The expected footsteps were at last heard onthe gravel-path, and a moment or two afterwards Janet ushered thefather and son into the room. The squire did not look very well. He was worn and sorrowful, andrather pale. The death of his young creditor might be supposed tohave given him some relief from his more pressing cares, but thenecessity of yielding to Frank's wishes had almost more than balancedthis. When a man has daily to reflect that he is poorer than he wasthe day before, he soon becomes worn and sorrowful. But Frank was well; both in health and spirits. He also felt as Marydid, that the day was to bring forth something which should end hispresent troubles; and he could not but be happy to think that hecould now tell Dr Thorne that his father's consent to his marriagehad been given. The doctor shook hands with them both, and then they sat down. Theywere all rather constrained in their manner; and at first it seemedthat nothing but little speeches of compliment were to be made. Atlast, the squire remarked that Frank had been talking to him aboutMiss Thorne. "About Mary?" said the doctor. "Yes; about Mary, " said the squire, correcting himself. It was quiteunnecessary that he should use so cold a name as the other, now thathe had agreed to the match. "Well!" said Dr Thorne. "I suppose it must be so, doctor. He has set his heart upon it, andGod knows, I have nothing to say against her--against her personally. No one could say a word against her. She is a sweet, good girl, excellently brought up; and, as for myself, I have always loved her. "Frank drew near to his father, and pressed his hand against thesquire's arm, by way of giving him, in some sort, a filial embracefor his kindness. "Thank you, squire, thank you, " said the doctor. "It is very good ofyou to say that. She is a good girl, and if Frank chooses to takeher, he will, in my estimation, have made a good choice. " "Chooses!" said Frank, with all the enthusiasm of a lover. The squire felt himself perhaps a little ruffled at the way in whichthe doctor received his gracious intimation; but he did now show itas he went on. "They cannot, you know, doctor, look to be richpeople--" "Ah! well, well, " interrupted the doctor. "I have told Frank so, and I think that you should tell Mary. Frankmeans to take some land into his hand, and he must farm it as afarmer. I will endeavour to give him three, or perhaps four hundred ayear. But you know better--" "Stop, squire; stop a minute. We will talk about that presently. Thisdeath of poor Sir Louis will make a difference. " "Not permanently, " said the squire mournfully. "And now, Frank, " said the doctor, not attending to the squire's lastwords, "what do you say?" "What do I say? I say what I said to you in London the other day. Ibelieve Mary loves me; indeed, I won't be affected--I know she does. I have loved her--I was going to say always; and, indeed, I almostmight say so. My father knows that this is no light fancy of mine. Asto what he says about our being poor, why--" The doctor was very arbitrary, and would hear neither of them on thissubject. "Mr Gresham, " said he, interrupting Frank, "of course I am well awarehow very little suited Mary is by birth to marry your only son. " "It is too late to think about it now, " said the squire. "It is not too late for me to justify myself, " replied the doctor. "We have long known each other, Mr Gresham, and you said here theother day, that this is a subject as to which we have been both ofone mind. Birth and blood are very valuable gifts. " "I certainly think so, " said the squire; "but one can't haveeverything. " "No; one can't have everything. " "If I am satisfied in that matter--" began Frank. "Stop a moment, my dear boy, " said the doctor. "As your father says, one can't have everything. My dear friend--" and he gave his hand tothe squire--"do not be angry if I alluded for a moment to the estate. It has grieved me to see it melting away--the old family acres thathave so long been the heritage of the Greshams. " "We need not talk about that now, Dr Thorne, " said Frank, in analmost angry tone. "But I must, Frank, for one moment, to justify myself. I could nothave excused myself in letting Mary think that she could become yourwife if I had not hoped that good might come of it. " "Well; good will come of it, " said Frank, who did not quiteunderstand at what the doctor was driving. "I hope so. I have had much doubt about this, and have been sorelyperplexed; but now I do hope so. Frank--Mr Gresham--" and then DrThorne rose from his chair; but was, for a moment, unable to go onwith his tale. "We will hope that it is all for the best, " said the squire. "I am sure it is, " said Frank. "Yes; I hope it is. I do think it is; I am sure it is, Frank. Marywill not come to you empty-handed. I wish for your sake--yes, and forhers too--that her birth were equal to her fortune, as her worth issuperior to both. Mr Gresham, this marriage will, at any rate, put anend to your pecuniary embarrassments--unless, indeed, Frank shouldprove a hard creditor. My niece is Sir Roger Scatcherd's heir. " The doctor, as soon as he made the announcement, began to employhimself sedulously about the papers on the table; which, in theconfusion caused by his own emotion, he transferred hither andthither in such a manner as to upset all his previous arrangements. "And now, " he said, "I might as well explain, as well as I can, ofwhat that fortune consists. Here, this is--no--" "But, Dr Thorne, " said the squire, now perfectly pale, and almostgasping for breath, "what is it you mean?" "There's not a shadow of doubt, " said the doctor. "I've had SirAbraham Haphazard, and Sir Rickety Giggs, and old Neversaye Die, andMr Snilam; and they are all of the same opinion. There is not thesmallest doubt about it. Of course, she must administer, and allthat; and I'm afraid there'll be a very heavy sum to pay for the tax;for she cannot inherit as a niece, you know. Mr Snilam pointed thatout particularly. But, after all that, there'll be--I've got it downon a piece of paper, somewhere--three grains of blue pill. I'm reallyso bothered, squire, with all these papers, and all those lawyers, that I don't know whether I'm sitting or standing. There's readymoney enough to pay all the tax and all the debts. I know that, atany rate. " "You don't mean to say that Mary Thorne is now possessed of all SirRoger Scatcherd's wealth?" at last ejaculated the squire. "But that's exactly what I do mean to say, " said the doctor, lookingup from his papers with a tear in his eye, and a smile on hismouth; "and what is more, squire, you owe her at the present momentexactly--I've got that down too, somewhere, only I am so botheredwith all these papers. Come, squire, when do you mean to pay her?She's in a great hurry, as young ladies are when they want to getmarried. " The doctor was inclined to joke if possible, so as to carry off, asit were, some of the great weight of obligation which it might seemthat he was throwing on the father and son; but the squire was by nomeans in a state to understand a joke: hardly as yet in a state tocomprehend what was so very serious in this matter. "Do you mean that Mary is the owner of Boxall Hill?" said he. "Indeed, I do, " said the doctor; and he was just going to add, "andof Greshamsbury also, " but he stopped himself. "What, the whole property there?" "That's only a small portion, " said the doctor. "I almost wish itwere all, for then I should not be so bothered. Look here; these arethe Boxall Hill title-deeds; that's the simplest part of the wholeaffair; and Frank may go and settle himself there to-morrow if hepleases. " "Stop a moment, Dr Thorne, " said Frank. These were the only wordswhich he had yet uttered since the tidings had been conveyed to him. "And these, squire, are the Greshamsbury papers:" and the doctor, with considerable ceremony, withdrew the covering newspapers. "Lookat them; there they all are once again. When I suggested to Mr Snilamthat I supposed they might now all go back to the Greshamsburymuniment room, I thought he would have fainted. As I cannot returnthem to you, you will have to wait till Frank shall give them up. " "But, Dr Thorne, " said Frank. "Well, my boy. " "Does Mary know all about this?" "Not a word of it. I mean that you shall tell her. " "Perhaps, under such very altered circumstances--" "Eh?" "The change is so great and so sudden, so immense in its effects, that Mary may perhaps wish--" "Wish! wish what? Wish not to be told of it at all?" "I shall not think of holding her to her engagement--that is, if--Imean to say, she should have time at any rate for consideration. " "Oh, I understand, " said the doctor. "She shall have time forconsideration. How much shall we give her, squire? three minutes? Goup to her Frank: she is in the drawing-room. " Frank went to the door, and then hesitated, and returned. "I couldnot do it, " said he. "I don't think that I understand it all yet. Iam so bewildered that I could not tell her;" and he sat down at thetable, and began to sob with emotion. "And she knows nothing of it?" said the squire. "Not a word. I thought that I would keep the pleasure of telling herfor Frank. " "She should not be left in suspense, " said the squire. "Come, Frank, go up to her, " again urged the doctor. "You've beenready enough with your visits when you knew that you ought to stayaway. " "I cannot do it, " said Frank, after a pause of some moments; "nor isit right that I should. It would be taking advantage of her. " "Go to her yourself, doctor; it is you that should do it, " said thesquire. After some further slight delay, the doctor got up, and did goupstairs. He, even, was half afraid of the task. "It must be done, "he said to himself, as his heavy steps mounted the stairs. "But howto tell it?" When he entered, Mary was standing half-way up the room, as thoughshe had risen to meet him. Her face was troubled, and her eyes werealmost wild. The emotion, the hopes, the fears of that morning hadalmost been too much for her. She had heard the murmuring of thevoices in the room below, and had known that one of them was thatof her lover. Whether that discussion was to be for her good or illshe did not know; but she felt that further suspense would almostkill her. "I could wait for years, " she said to herself, "if I didbut know. If I lost him, I suppose I should bear it, if I did butknow. "--Well; she was going to know. Her uncle met her in the middle of the room. His face was serious, though not sad; too serious to confirm her hopes at that moment ofdoubt. "What is it, uncle?" she said, taking one of his hands betweenboth of her own. "What is it? Tell me. " And as she looked up into hisface with her wild eyes, she almost frightened him. "Mary, " he said gravely, "you have heard much, I know, of Sir RogerScatcherd's great fortune. " "Yes, yes, yes!" "Now that poor Sir Louis is dead--" "Well, uncle, well?" "It has been left--" "To Frank! to Mr Gresham, to the squire!" exclaimed Mary, who felt, with an agony of doubt, that this sudden accession of immense wealthmight separate her still further from her lover. "No, Mary, not to the Greshams; but to yourself. " "To me!" she cried, and putting both her hands to her forehead, sheseemed to be holding her temples together. "To me!" "Yes, Mary; it is all your own now. To do as you like best with itall--all. May God, in His mercy, enable you to bear the burden, andlighten for you the temptation!" She had so far moved as to find the nearest chair, and there shewas now seated, staring at her uncle with fixed eyes. "Uncle, " shesaid, "what does it mean?" Then he came, and sitting beside her, heexplained, as best he could, the story of her birth, and her kinshipwith the Scatcherds. "And where is he, uncle?" she said. "Why does henot come to me?" "I wanted him to come, but her refused. They are both there now, thefather and son; shall I fetch them?" "Fetch them! whom? The squire? No, uncle; but may we go to them?" "Surely, Mary. " "But, uncle--" "Yes, dearest. " "Is it true? are you sure? For his sake, you know; not for my own. The squire, you know--Oh, uncle! I cannot go. " "They shall come to you. " "No--no. I have gone to him such hundreds of times; I will neverallow that he shall be sent to me. But, uncle, is it true?" The doctor, as he went downstairs, muttered something about SirAbraham Haphazard, and Sir Rickety Giggs; but these great names weremuch thrown away upon poor Mary. The doctor entered the room first, and the heiress followed him with downcast eyes and timid steps. Shewas at first afraid to advance, but when she did look up, and sawFrank standing alone by the window, her lover restored her courage, and rushing up to him, she threw herself into his arms. "Oh, Frank;my own Frank! my own Frank! we shall never be separated now. " CHAPTER XLVII How the Bride Was Received, and Who Were Asked to the Wedding And thus after all did Frank perform his great duty; he did marrymoney; or rather, as the wedding has not yet taken place, and is, indeed, as yet hardly talked of, we should more properly say thathe had engaged himself to marry money. And then, such a quantity ofmoney! The Scatcherd wealth greatly exceeded the Dunstable wealth; sothat our hero may be looked on as having performed his duties in amanner deserving the very highest commendation from all classes ofthe de Courcy connexion. And he received it. But that was nothing. That _he_ should be fêtedby the de Courcys and Greshams, now that he was about to do his dutyby his family in so exemplary a manner: that he should be patted onthe back, now that he no longer meditated that vile crime which hadbeen so abhorrent to his mother's soul; this was only natural; thisis hardly worthy of remark. But there was another to be fêted, another person to be made a personage, another blessed human mortalabout to do her duty by the family of Gresham in a manner thatdeserved, and should receive, Lady Arabella's warmest caresses. Dear Mary! It was, indeed, not singular that she should be preparedto act so well, seeing that in early youth she had had the advantageof an education in the Greshamsbury nursery; but not on that accountwas it the less fitting that her virtue should be acknowledged, eulogised, nay, all but worshipped. How the party at the doctor's got itself broken up, I am not preparedto say. Frank, I know, stayed and dined there, and his poor mother, who would not retire to rest till she had kissed him, and blessedhim, and thanked him for all he was doing for the family, was keptwaiting in her dressing-room till a very unreasonable hour of thenight. It was the squire who brought the news up to the house. "Arabella, "he said, in a low, but somewhat solemn voice, "you will be surprisedat the news I bring you. Mary Thorne is the heiress to all theScatcherd property!" "Oh, heavens! Mr Gresham. " "Yes, indeed, " continued the squire. "So it is; it is very, very--"But Lady Arabella had fainted. She was a woman who generally had herfeelings and her emotions much under her own control; but what shenow heard was too much for her. When she came to her senses, thefirst words that escaped her lips were, "Dear Mary!" But the household had to sleep on the news before it could be fullyrealised. The squire was not by nature a mercenary man. If I have atall succeeded in putting his character before the reader, he will berecognised as one not over attached to money for money's sake. Butthings had gone so hard with him, the world had become so rough, soungracious, so full of thorns, the want of means had become an evilso keenly felt in every hour, that it cannot be wondered at that hisdreams that night should be of a golden elysium. The wealth was notcoming to him. True. But his chief sorrow had been for his son. Nowthat son would be his only creditor. It was as though mountains ofmarble had been taken from off his bosom. But Lady Arabella's dreams flew away at once into the seventh heaven. Sordid as they certainly were, they were not absolutely selfish. Frank would now certainly be the first commoner in Barsetshire; ofcourse he would represent the county; of course there would be thehouse in town; it wouldn't be her house, but she was contented thatthe grandeur should be that of her child. He would have heavenknows what to spend per annum. And that it should come through MaryThorne! What a blessing she had allowed Mary to be brought into theGreshamsbury nursery! Dear Mary! "She will of course be one now, " said Beatrice to her sister. Withher, at the present moment, "one" of course meant one of the bevythat was to attend her at the altar. "Oh dear! how nice! I shan'tknow what to say to her to-morrow. But I know one thing. " "What is that?" asked Augusta. "She will be as mild and as meek as a little dove. If she and thedoctor had lost every shilling in the world, she would have been asproud as an eagle. " It must be acknowledged that Beatrice had had thewit to read Mary's character aright. But Augusta was not quite pleased with the whole affair. Not thatshe begrudged her brother his luck, or Mary her happiness. But herideas of right and wrong--perhaps we should rather say Lady Amelia'sideas--would not be fairly carried out. "After all, Beatrice, this does not alter her birth. I know it isuseless saying anything to Frank. " "Why, you wouldn't break both their hearts now?" "I don't want to break their hearts, certainly. But there are thosewho put their dearest and warmest feelings under restraint ratherthan deviate from what they know to be proper. " Poor Augusta! she wasthe stern professor of the order of this philosophy; the last in thefamily who practised with unflinching courage its cruel behests; thelast, always excepting the Lady Amelia. And how slept Frank that night? With him, at least, let us hope, nay, let us say boldly, that his happiest thoughts were not of the wealthwhich he was to acquire. But yet it would be something to restoreBoxall Hill to Greshamsbury; something to give back to his fatherthose rumpled vellum documents, since the departure of which thesquire had never had a happy day; nay, something to come forth againto his friends as a gay, young country squire, instead of as afarmer, clod-compelling for his bread. We would not have him thoughtto be better than he was, nor would we wish him to make him of otherstuff than nature generally uses. His heart did exult at Mary'swealth; but it leaped higher still when he thought of purer joys. And what shall we say of Mary's dreams? With her, it was altogetherwhat she should give, not at all what she should get. Frank had lovedher so truly when she was so poor, such an utter castaway; Frank, whohad ever been the heir of Greshamsbury! Frank, who with his beauty, and spirit, and his talents might have won the smiles of the richest, the grandest, the noblest! What lady's heart would not have rejoicedto be allowed to love her Frank? But he had been true to her througheverything. Ah! how often she thought of that hour, when suddenlyappearing before her, he had strained her to his breast, just as shehad resolved how best to bear the death-like chill of his supposedestrangements! She was always thinking of that time. She fed her loveby recurring over and over to the altered feeling of that moment. Anynow she could pay him for his goodness. Pay him! No, that would be abase word, a base thought. Her payment must be made, if God would sogrant it, in many, many years to come. But her store, such as it was, should be emptied into his lap. It was soothing to her pride that shewould not hurt him by her love, that she would bring no injury to theold house. "Dear, dear Frank" she murmured, as her waking dreams, conquered at last by sleep, gave way to those of the fairy world. But she thought not only of Frank; dreamed not only of him. What hadhe not done for her, that uncle of hers, who had been more loving toher than any father! How was he, too, to be paid? Paid, indeed! Lovecan only be paid in its own coin: it knows of no other legal tender. Well, if her home was to be Greshamsbury, at any rate she would notbe separated from him. What the doctor dreamed of that, neither he or any one ever knew. "Why, uncle, I think you've been asleep, " said Mary to him thatevening as he moved for a moment uneasily on the sofa. He had beenasleep for the last three-quarters of an hour;--but Frank, his guest, had felt no offence. "No, I've not been exactly asleep, " said he;"but I'm very tired. I wouldn't do it all again, Frank, to double themoney. You haven't got any more tea, have you, Mary?" On the following morning, Beatrice was of course with her friend. There was no awkwardness between them in meeting. Beatrice had lovedher when she was poor, and though they had not lately thought alikeon one very important subject, Mary was too gracious to impute thatto Beatrice as a crime. "You will be one now, Mary; of course you will. " "If Lady Arabella will let me come. " "Oh, Mary; let you! Do you remember what you said once about coming, and being near me? I have so often thought of it. And now, Mary, Imust tell you about Caleb;" and the young lady settled herself on thesofa, so as to have a comfortable long talk. Beatrice had been quiteright. Mary was as meek with her, and as mild as a dove. And then Patience Oriel came. "My fine, young, darling, magnificent, overgrown heiress, " said Patience, embracing her. "My breath desertedme, and I was nearly stunned when I heard of it. How small we shallall be, my dear! I am quite prepared to toady to you immensely; butpray be a little gracious to me, for the sake of auld lang syne. " Mary gave a long, long kiss. "Yes, for auld lang syne, Patience; whenyou took me away under your wing to Richmond. " Patience also hadloved her when she was in her trouble, and that love, too, shouldnever be forgotten. But the great difficulty was Lady Arabella's first meeting with her. "I think I'll go down to her after breakfast, " said her ladyship toBeatrice, as the two were talking over the matter while the motherwas finishing her toilet. "I am sure she will come up if you like it, mamma. " "She is entitled to every courtesy--as Frank's accepted bride, youknow, " said Lady Arabella. "I would not for worlds fail in anyrespect to her for his sake. " "He will be glad enough for her to come, I am sure, " said Beatrice. "I was talking with Caleb this morning, and he says--" The matter was of importance, and Lady Arabella gave it her mostmature consideration. The manner of receiving into one's family anheiress whose wealth is to cure all one's difficulties, disperseall one's troubles, give a balm to all the wounds of misfortune, must, under any circumstances, be worthy of much care. But when thatheiress has been already treated as Mary had been treated! "I must see her, at any rate, before I go to Courcy. " said LadyArabella. "Are you going to Courcy, mamma?" "Oh, certainly; yes, I must see my sister-in-law now. You don't seemto realise the importance, my dear, of Frank's marriage. He will bein a great hurry about it, and, indeed, I cannot blame him. I expectthat they will all come here. " "Who, mamma? the de Courcys?" "Yes, of course. I shall be very much surprised if the earl does notcome now. And I must consult my sister-in-law as to asking the Dukeof Omnium. " Poor Mary! "And I think it will perhaps be better, " continued Lady Arabella, "that we should have a larger party than we intended at your affair. The countess, I'm sure, would come now. We couldn't put it off forten days; could we, dear?" "Put it off ten days!" "Yes; it would be convenient. " "I don't think Mr Oriel would like that at all, mamma. You know hehas made all his arrangements for his Sundays--" Pshaw! The idea of the parson's Sundays being allowed to have anybearing on such a matter as Frank's wedding would now become! Why, they would have--how much? Between twelve and fourteen thousand ayear! Lady Arabella, who had made her calculations a dozen timesduring the night, had never found it to be much less than the largersum. Mr Oriel's Sundays, indeed! After much doubt, Lady Arabella acceded to her daughter's suggestion, that Mary should be received at Greshamsbury instead of being calledon at the doctor's house. "If you think she won't mind the comingup first, " said her ladyship. "I certainly could receive her betterhere. I should be more--more--more able, you know, to express what Ifeel. We had better go into the big drawing-room to-day, Beatrice. Will you remember to tell Mrs Richards?" "Oh, certainly, " was Mary's answer when Beatrice, with a voice alittle trembling, proposed to her to walk up to the house. "CertainlyI will, if Lady Arabella will receive me;--only one thing, Trichy. " "What's that, dearest?" "Frank will think that I come after him. " "Never mind what he thinks. To tell you the truth, Mary, I often callupon Patience for the sake of finding Caleb. That's all fair now, youknow. " Mary very quietly put on her straw bonnet, and said she was readyto go up to the house. Beatrice was a little fluttered, and showedit. Mary was, perhaps, a good deal fluttered, but she did not showit. She had thought a good deal of her first interview with LadyArabella, of her first return to the house; but she had resolvedto carry herself as though the matter were easy to her. She wouldnot allow it to be seen that she felt that she brought with her toGreshamsbury, comfort, ease, and renewed opulence. So she put on her straw bonnet and walked up with Beatrice. Everybodyabout the place had already heard the news. The old woman at thelodge curtsied low to her; the gardener, who was mowing the lawn. Thebutler, who opened the front door--he must have been watching Mary'sapproach--had manifestly put on a clean white neckcloth for theoccasion. "God bless you once more, Miss Thorne!" said the old man, in ahalf-whisper. Mary was somewhat troubled, for everything seemed, in a manner, to bow down before her. And why should not everythingbow down before her, seeing that she was in truth the owner ofGreshamsbury? And then a servant in livery would open the big drawing-room door. This rather upset both Mary and Beatrice. It became almost impossiblefor Mary to enter the room just as she would have done two years ago;but she got through the difficulty with much self-control. "Mamma, here's Mary, " said Beatrice. Nor was Lady Arabella quite mistress of herself, although she hadstudied minutely how to bear herself. "Oh, Mary, my dear Mary; what can I say to you?" and then, with ahandkerchief to her eyes, she ran forward and hid her face on MissThorne's shoulders. "What can I say--can you forgive me my anxietyfor my son?" "How do you do, Lady Arabella?" said Mary. "My daughter! my child! my Frank's own bride! Oh, Mary! oh, my child!If I have seemed unkind to you, it has been through love to him. " "All these things are over now, " said Mary. "Mr Gresham told meyesterday that I should be received as Frank's future wife; and so, you see, I have come. " And then she slipped through Lady Arabella'sarms, and sat down, meekly down, on a chair. In five minutes shehad escaped with Beatrice into the school-room, and was kissing thechildren, and turning over the new trousseau. They were, however, soon interrupted, and there was, perhaps, some other kissing besidesthat of the children. "You have no business in here at all, Frank, " said Beatrice. "Has he, Mary?" "None in the world, I should think. " "See what he has done to my poplin; I hope you won't have your thingstreated so cruelly. He'll be careful enough about them. " "Is Oriel a good hand at packing up finery--eh, Beatrice?" askedFrank. "He is, at any rate, too well-behaved to spoil it. " Thus Mary wasagain made at home in the household of Greshamsbury. Lady Arabella did not carry out her little plan of delaying the Orielwedding. Her idea had been to add some grandeur to it, in order tomake it a more fitting precursor of that other greater wedding whichwas to follow so soon in its wake. But this, with the assistance ofthe countess, she found herself able to do without interfering withpoor Mr Oriel's Sunday arrangements. The countess herself, with theLadies Alexandrina and Margaretta, now promised to come, even to thisfirst affair; and for the other, the whole de Courcy family wouldturn out, count and countess, lords and ladies, Honourable Georgesand Honourable Johns. What honour, indeed, could be too great to showto a bride who had fourteen thousand a year in her own right, or to acousin who had done his duty by securing such a bride to himself! "If the duke be in the country, I am sure he will be happy to come, "said the countess. "Of course, he will be talking to Frank aboutpolitics. I suppose the squire won't expect Frank to belong to theold school now. " "Frank, of course, will judge for himself, Rosina;--with hisposition, you know!" And so things were settled at Courcy Castle. And then Beatrice was wedded and carried off to the Lakes. Mary, asshe had promised, did stand near her; but not exactly in the ginghamfrock of which she had once spoken. She wore on that occasion-- Butit will be too much, perhaps, to tell the reader what she wore asBeatrice's bridesmaid, seeing that a couple of pages, at least, mustbe devoted to her marriage-dress, and seeing, also, that we have onlya few pages to finish everything; the list of visitors, the marriagesettlements, the dress, and all included. It was in vain that Mary endeavoured to repress Lady Arabella'sardour for grand doings. After all, she was to be married from thedoctor's house, and not from Greshamsbury, and it was the doctorwho should have invited the guests; but, in this matter, he did notchoose to oppose her ladyship's spirit, and she had it all her ownway. "What can I do?" said he to Mary. "I have been contradicting her ineverything for the last two years. The least we can do is to let herhave her own way now in a trifle like this. " But there was one point on which Mary would let nobody have his orher own way; on which the way to be taken was very manifestly to beher own. This was touching the marriage settlements. It must not besupposed, that if Beatrice were married on a Tuesday, Mary could bemarried on the Tuesday week following. Ladies with twelve thousand ayear cannot be disposed of in that way: and bridegrooms who do theirduty by marrying money often have to be kept waiting. It was spring, the early spring, before Frank was made altogether a happy man. But a word about the settlements. On this subject the doctor thoughthe would have been driven mad. Messrs Slow & Bideawhile, as thelawyers of the Greshamsbury family--it will be understood that MrGazebee's law business was of quite a different nature, and hiswork, as regarded Greshamsbury, was now nearly over--Messrs Slow &Bideawhile declared that it would never do for them to undertakealone to draw out the settlements. An heiress, such as Mary, musthave lawyers of her own; half a dozen at least, according to theapparent opinion of Messrs Slow & Bideawhile. And so the doctor hadto go to other lawyers, and they had again to consult Sir Abraham, and Mr Snilam on a dozen different heads. If Frank became tenant in tail, in right of his wife, but under hisfather, would he be able to grant leases for more than twenty-oneyears? and, if so, to whom would the right of trover belong? As toflotsam and jetsam--there was a little property, Mr Critic, on thesea-shore--that was a matter that had to be left unsettled at thelast. Such points as these do take a long time to consider. Allthis bewildered the doctor sadly, and Frank himself began to makeaccusations that he was to be done out of his wife altogether. But, as we have said, there was one point on which Mary would haveher own way. The lawyers might tie up as they would on her behalf allthe money, and shares, and mortgages which had belonged to the lateSir Roger, with this exception, all that had ever appertained toGreshamsbury should belong to Greshamsbury again; not in perspective, not to her children, or to her children's children, but at once. Frank should be lord of Boxall Hill in his own right; and as to thoseother _liens_ on Greshamsbury, let Frank manage that with his fatheras he might think fit. She would only trouble herself to see that hewas empowered to do as he did think fit. "But, " argued the ancient, respectable family attorney to the doctor, "that amounts to two-thirds of the whole estate. Two-thirds, DrThorne! It is preposterous; I should almost say impossible. " And thescanty hairs on the poor man's head almost stood on end as he thoughtof the outrageous manner in which the heiress prepared to sacrificeherself. "It will all be the same in the end, " said the doctor, trying to makethings smooth. "Of course, their joint object will be to put theGreshamsbury property together again. " "But, my dear sir, "--and then, for twenty minutes, the lawyerwent on proving that it would by no means be the same thing; but, nevertheless, Mary Thorne did have her own way. In the course of the winter, Lady de Courcy tried very hard to inducethe heiress to visit Courcy Castle, and this request was so backed byLady Arabella, that the doctor said he thought she might as well gothere for three or four days. But here, again, Mary was obstinate. "I don't see it at all, " she said. "If you make a point of it, or Frank, or Mr Gresham, I will go; but I can't see any possiblereason. " The doctor, when so appealed to, would not absolutely saythat he made a point of it, and Mary was tolerably safe as regardedFrank or the squire. If she went, Frank would be expected to go, andFrank disliked Courcy Castle almost more than ever. His aunt was nowmore than civil to him, and, when they were together, never ceased tocompliment him on the desirable way in which he had done his duty byhis family. And soon after Christmas a visitor came to Mary, and stayed afortnight with her: one whom neither she nor the doctor had expected, and of whom they had not much more than heard. This was the famousMiss Dunstable. "Birds of a feather flock together, " said MrsRantaway--late Miss Gushing--when she heard of the visit. "Therailway man's niece--if you can call her a niece--and the quack'sdaughter will do very well together, no doubt. " "At any rate, they can count their money-bags, " said Mrs Umbleby. And in fact, Mary and Miss Dunstable did get on very well together;and Miss Dunstable made herself quite happy at Greshamsbury, althoughsome people--including Mrs Rantaway--contrived to spread a report, that Dr Thorne, jealous of Mary's money, was going to marry her. "I shall certainly come and see you turned off, " said Miss Dunstable, taking leave of her new friend. Miss Dunstable, it must beacknowledged, was a little too fond of slang; but then, a lady withher fortune, and of her age, may be fond of almost whatever shepleases. And so by degrees the winter wore away--very slowly to Frank, as hedeclared often enough; and slowly, perhaps, to Mary also, though shedid not say so. The winter wore away, and the chill, bitter, windy, early spring came round. The comic almanacs give us dreadful picturesof January and February; but, in truth, the months which should bemade to look gloomy in England are March and April. Let no man boasthimself that he has got through the perils of winter till at leastthe seventh of May. It was early in April, however, that the great doings were to be doneat Greshamsbury. Not exactly on the first. It may be presumed, thatin spite of the practical, common-sense spirit of the age, very fewpeople do choose to have themselves united on that day. But someday in the first week of that month was fixed for the ceremony, andfrom the end of February all through March, Lady Arabella worked andstrove in a manner that entitled her to profound admiration. It was at last settled that the breakfast should be held in the largedining-room at Greshamsbury. There was a difficulty about it whichtaxed Lady Arabella to the utmost, for, in making the proposition, she could not but seem to be throwing some slight on the house inwhich the heiress had lived. But when the affair was once opened toMary, it was astonishing how easy it became. "Of course, " said Mary, "all the rooms in our house would not holdhalf the people you are talking about--if they must come. " Lady Arabella looked so beseechingly, nay, so piteously, that Maryhad not another word to say. It was evident that they must all come:the de Courcys to the fifth generation; the Duke of Omnium himself, and others in concatenation accordingly. "But will your uncle be angry if we have the breakfast up here? Hehas been so very handsome to Frank, that I wouldn't make him angryfor all the world. " "If you don't tell him anything about it, Lady Arabella, he'll thinkthat it is all done properly. He will never know, if he's not told, that he ought to give the breakfast, and not you. " "Won't he, my dear?" And Lady Arabella looked her admiration for thisvery talented suggestion. And so that matter was arranged. The doctornever knew, till Mary told him some year or so afterwards, that hehad been remiss in any part of his duty. And who was asked to the wedding? In the first place, we have saidthat the Duke of Omnium was there. This was, in fact, the onecircumstance that made this wedding so superior to any other thathad ever taken place in that neighbourhood. The Duke of Omnium neverwent anywhere; and yet he went to Mary's wedding! And Mary, whenthe ceremony was over, absolutely found herself kissed by a duke. "Dearest Mary!" exclaimed Lady Arabella, in her ecstasy of joy, whenshe saw the honour that was done to her daughter-in-law. "I hope we shall induce you to come to Gatherum Castle soon, " saidthe duke to Frank. "I shall be having a few friends there in theautumn. Let me see; I declare, I have not seen you since you weregood enough to come to my collection. Ha! ha! ha! It wasn't bad fun, was it?" Frank was not very cordial with his answer. He had not quitereconciled himself to the difference of his position. When he wastreated as one of the "collection" at Gatherum Castle, he had notmarried money. It would be vain to enumerate all the de Courcys that were there. There was the earl, looking very gracious, and talking to thesquire about the county. And there was Lord Porlock, looking veryungracious, and not talking to anybody about anything. And there wasthe countess, who for the last week past had done nothing but patFrank on the back whenever she could catch him. And there were theLadies Alexandrina, Margaretta, and Selina, smiling at everybody. And the Honourable George, talking in whispers to Frank about hiswidow--"Not such a catch as yours, you know; but something extremelysnug;--and have it all my own way, too, old fellow, or I shan't cometo the scratch. " And the Honourable John prepared to toady Frankabout his string of hunters; and the Lady Amelia, by herself, notquite contented with these democratic nuptials--"After all, she is soabsolutely nobody; absolutely, absolutely, " she said confidentiallyto Augusta, shaking her head. But before Lady Amelia had leftGreshamsbury, Augusta was quite at a loss to understand how therecould be need for so much conversation between her cousin and MrMortimer Gazebee. And there were many more de Courcys, whom to enumerate would be muchtoo long. And the bishop of the diocese, and Mrs Proudie were there. A hinthad even been given, that his lordship would himself condescend toperform the ceremony, if this should be wished; but that work hadalready been anticipated by a very old friend of the Greshams. Archdeacon Grantly, the rector of Plumstead Episcopi, had long sinceundertaken this part of the business; and the knot was eventuallytied by the joint efforts of himself and Mr Oriel. Mrs Grantly camewith him, and so did Mrs Grantly's sister, the new dean's wife. Thedean himself was at the time unfortunately absent at Oxford. And all the Bakers and the Jacksons were there. The last time theyhad all met together under the squire's roof, was on the occasion ofFrank's coming of age. The present gala doings were carried on a verydifferent spirit. That had been a very poor affair, but this wasworthy of the best days of Greshamsbury. Occasion also had been taken of this happy moment to make up, orrather to get rid of the last shreds of the last feud that had solong separated Dr Thorne from his own relatives. The Thornes ofUllathorne had made many overtures in a covert way. But our doctorhad contrived to reject them. "They would not receive Mary as theircousin, " said he, "and I will go nowhere that she cannot go. " But nowall this was altered. Mrs Gresham would certainly be received in anyhouse in the county. And thus, Mr Thorne of Ullathorne, an amiable, popular old bachelor, came to the wedding; and so did his maidensister, Miss Monica Thorne, than whose no kinder heart glowed throughall Barsetshire. "My dear, " said she to Mary, kissing her, and offering her somelittle tribute, "I am very glad to make your acquaintance; very. Itwas not her fault, " she added, speaking to herself. "And now thatshe will be a Gresham, that need not be any longer be thought of. "Nevertheless, could Miss Thorne have spoken her inward thoughts outloud, she would have declared, that Frank would have done better tohave borne his poverty than marry wealth without blood. But then, there are but few so stanch as Miss Thorne; perhaps none in thatcounty--always excepting Lady Amelia. And Miss Dunstable, also, was a bridesmaid. "Oh, no" said she, whenasked; "you should have them young and pretty. " But she gave way whenshe found that Mary did not flatter her by telling her that she waseither the one or the other. "The truth is, " said Miss Dunstable, "Ihave always been a little in love with your Frank, and so I shall doit for his sake. " There were but four: the other two were the Greshamtwins. Lady Arabella exerted herself greatly in framing hints toinduce Mary to ask some of the de Courcy ladies to do her so muchhonour; but on this head Mary would please herself. "Rank, " said sheto Beatrice, with a curl on her lip, "has its drawbacks--and must putup with them. " And now I find that I have not one page--not half a page--for thewedding-dress. But what matters? Will it not be all found written inthe columns of the _Morning Post_? And thus Frank married money, and became a great man. Let us hopethat he will be a happy man. As the time of the story has beenbrought down so near to the present era, it is not practicable forthe novelist to tell much of his future career. When I last heardfrom Barsetshire, it seemed to be quite settled that he is to takethe place of one of the old members at the next election; and theysay, also, that there is no chance of any opposition. I have heard, too, that there have been many very private consultations between himand various gentlemen of the county, with reference to the hunt; andthe general feeling is said to be that the hounds should go to BoxallHill. At Boxall Hill the young people established themselves on theirreturn from the Continent. And that reminds me that one word must besaid of Lady Scatcherd. "You will always stay here with us, " said Mary to her, caressing herladyship's rough hand, and looking kindly into that kind face. But Lady Scatcherd would not consent to this. "I will come and seeyou sometimes, and then I shall enjoy myself. Yes, I will come andsee you, and my own dear boy. " The affair was ended by her taking MrsOpie Green's cottage, in order that she might be near the doctor; MrsOpie Green having married--somebody. And of whom else must we say a word? Patience, also, of course, gota husband--or will do so. Dear Patience! it would be a thousandpities that so good a wife should be lost to the world. Whether MissDunstable will ever be married, or Augusta Gresham, or Mr Moffat, orany of the tribe of the de Courcys--except Lady Amelia--I cannot say. They have all of them still their future before them. That Bridgetwas married to Thomas--that I am able to assert; for I know thatJanet was much put out by their joint desertion. Lady Arabella has not yet lost her admiration for Mary, and Mary, in return, behaves admirably. Another event is expected, and herladyship is almost as anxious about that as she was about thewedding. "A matter, you know, of such importance in the county!" shewhispered to Lady de Courcy. Nothing can be more happy than the intercourse between the squire andhis son. What their exact arrangements are, we need not speciallyinquire; but the demon of pecuniary embarrassment has lifted hisblack wings from the demesne of Greshamsbury. And now we have but one word left for the doctor. "If you don'tcome and dine with me, " said the squire to him, when they foundthemselves both deserted, "mind I shall come and dine with you. " Andon this principle they seem to act. Dr Thorne continues to extendhis practice, to the great disgust of Dr Fillgrave; and when Marysuggested to him that he should retire, he almost boxed her ears. Heknows the way, however, to Boxall Hill as well as he ever did, and iswilling to acknowledge, that the tea there is almost as good as itever was at Greshamsbury.