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Title: Dr Thorne

Author: Anthony Trollope

Release Date: April, 2002  [Etext #3166]
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The Project Gutenberg Etext of Dr Thorne, by Anthony Trollope
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DR THORNE

by Anthony Trollope




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
XVII        MISS DUNSTABLE
XVIII       THE RIVALS
XIX         THE DUKE OF OMNIUM
XX          THE PROPOSAL
XXI         MR MOFFAT FALLS INTO TROUBLE
XXII        SIR ROGER IS UNSEATED
XXIII       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




DOCTOR THORNE



CHAPTER I

THE GRESHAMS OF GRESHAMSBURY

Before the reader is introduced to the modest country medical 
practitioner who is to be the chief personage of the following tale, it
will be well that he should be made acquainted with some particulars as
to the locality in which, and the neighbours among whom, 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 leviathan brethren
in the north, but which is, nevertheless, very dear to those who know
it well.  Its green pastures, its waving wheat, its deep and shady
and--let us add--dirty lanes, its paths and stiles, its tawny-coloured,
well-built rural churches, its avenues of beeches, and frequent Tudor 
mansions, its constant county hunt, its social graces, and the general
air of clanship which pervades it, has made it to its own inhabitants a
favoured land of Goshen.  It is purely agricultural; agricultural in
its produce, agricultural in its poor, and agricultural in its
pleasures.  There are towns in it, of course; depots from whence are
brought seeds and groceries, ribbons and fire-shovels; in which markets
are held and county balls are carried on; which return members to 
Parliament, generally--in spite of Reform Bills, past, present, and
coming--in accordance with the dictates of some neighbouring land
magnate; from whence emanate the country postmen, and where is located
the supply of post-horses necessary for county visitings.  But these
towns add nothing to the importance of the county; dull, all but
death-like single streets.  Each possesses two pumps, three hotels, ten
shops, fifteen beer-houses, a beadle, and a market-place.

Indeed, the town population of the county reckons for nothing when the
importance of the county is discussed, with the exception, as before
said, of the assize town, which is also a cathedral city.  Herein a
clerical aristocracy, which is certainly not without its due weight.  A
resident bishop, a resident dean, an archdeacon, three or four resident
prebendaries, and all their numerous chaplains, vicars, and 
ecclesiastical satellites, do make up a society sufficiently powerful
to be counted as something by the county squirearchy. In other respects
the greatness of Barsetshire depends wholly on the landed powers.

Barsetshire, however, is not now so essentially one whole as it was
before the Reform Bill divided it.  There is in these days an East
Barsetshire, and there is a West Barsetshire; and people conversant
with Barsetshire doings declare that they can already decipher some
difference of feeling, some division of interests.  The eastern moiety
of the county is more purely Conservative than the western; there is,
or was, a taint of Peelism in the latter; and then, too, the residence
of two such great Whig magnates as the Duke of Omnium and the Earl De
Courcy in that locality in some degree overshadows and renders less
influential the gentlemen who live near them.

It is to East Barsetshire that we are called.  When the division above
spoken of was first contemplated, in those stormy days in which gallant
men were still combatting reform ministers, if not with hope, still
with spirit, the battle was fought by none more bravely than by John
Newbold Gresham of Greshamsbury, the member for Barsetshire.  Fate,
however, and the Duke of Wellington were adverse, and in the following 
Parliament John Newbold Gresham was only member for East Barsetshire.

Whether or not it was true, as stated at the time, that the aspect of
the men with whom he was called on to associate at St Stephen's broke
his heart, it is not for us now to inquire.  It is certainly true that
he did not live to see the first year of the reformed Parliament
brought to a close. 
 
The then Mr Gresham was not an old man at the time of his death, and
his eldest son, Francie Newbold Gresham, was a very young man; but,
notwithstanding his youth, and notwithstanding other grounds of
objection which stood in the way of such preferment, and which, it must
be explained, he was chosen in his father's place.  The father's
services had been too recent, too well appreciated, too thoroughly in 
unison with the feelings of those around him to allow of any other
choice; and in this way young Frank Gresham found himself member for
East Barsetshire, although the very men who elected him knew that they
had but slender ground for trusting him with their suffrages.

Frank Gresham, though then only twenty four years of age, was a married
man, and a father.  He had already chosen a wife, and by his choice had
given much ground of distrust to the men of East Barsetshire.  He had
married no other than Lady Arabella De Courcy, the sister of the great
Whig earl who lived at Courcy Castle in the west; that earl who not
only had voted for the Reform Bill, but had been infamously active in
bringing over other young peers so to vote, and whose name therefore
stank in the nostrils of the staunch Tory squires of the county.

Not only had Frank Gresham so wedded, but having thus improperly and
unpatriotically chosen a wife, he had added to his sins by becoming
recklessly intimate with his wife's relations.  It is true that he
still called himself a Tory, belonged to the club of which his father
had been one of the most honoured members, and in the days of the great
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 East
Barsetshire, that a constant sojourner at Courcy Castle could not be
regarded as a consistent Tory.  When, however, his father died, that
broken head served him in good stead: his sufferings in the cause were
made the most of; these, in unison with his father's merits, turned the
scale, and it was accordingly decided, at a meeting held at the George
and Dragon, at Barchester, that Frank Gresham should fill his father's
shoes.

But Frank Gresham could not fill his father's shoes; they were too big
for him.  He did become member for East Barsetshire, but he was such a
member--so lukewarm, so indifferent, so prone to associate with the
enemies of the good cause, so little willing to fight the good fight,
that he soon disgusted those who most dearly loved the memory 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 young
Gresham.  His wife, who was a year or two older than himself, was a
fashionable woman, with thorough Whig tastes and aspirations, such as
became the daughter of a great Whig earl; she cared for politics, or
thought that she cared for them, more than her husband did; for a month
or two previous to her engagement she had been attached to the Court,
and had been made to believe that much of the policy of England's
rulers depended on the political intrigues of England's women.  She was
one who would fain be doing something if she only knew how, and the
first important attempt she made was to turn her respectable young Tory
husband into a second-rate Whig bantling.  As this lady's character
will, it is hoped, show itself in the following pages, we need not now
describe it more closely.

It is not a bad thing to be son-in-law to a potent earl, member of
Parliament for a county, and a possessor of a fine old English seat,
and a fine old English fortune.  As a very young man, Frank Gresham
found the life to which he was thus introduced agreeable enough.  He
consoled himself as best he might for the blue looks with which he was
greeted by his own party, and took his revenge by consorting more
thoroughly than ever with his political adversaries.  Foolishly, like a
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 member of
Parliament, and in the autumn of 1834 the dissolution came.  Young
members of three had four-and-twenty do not think much of dissolutions,
forget the fancies of their constituents, and are too proud of the
present to calculate much as to the future.  So it was with Mr Gresham.
His father had been member for Barsetshire all his life, and he looked
forward to similar prosperity as though it was part of his inheritance;
but he failed to take any of the steps which had secured his father's
seat.

In the autumn of 1834 the dissolution came, and Frank Gresham, with his
honourable lady wife and all the De Courcys at his back, found that he
had mortally offended the county. 

To his great disgust another candidate was brought forward as a fellow
to his late colleague, and though he manfully fought the battle, and
spent ten thousand pounds in the contest, he could not recover his
position.  A high Tory, with a great Whig interest to back him, is
never a popular person in England.  No one can trust him, though there
may be those who are willing to place him, untrusted, in high 
positions.  Such was the case with Mr Gresham.  There were many who
were willing, for family considerations, to keep him in Parliament; but
no one thought that he was fit to be there.  The consequences were,
that a bitter and expensive contest ensued.  Frank Gresham, when
twitted with being a Whig, foreswore the De Courcy family; and then,
when ridiculed as having been thrown over by the Tories, foreswore his
father's old friends.  So between the two stools he fell to the ground,
and, as a politician, he never again rose to his feet.

He never again rose to his feet; but twice again he made violent
efforts to do so.  Elections in East Barsetshire, from various causes,
came quick upon each other in those days, and before he was
eight-and-twenty years of age Mr Gresham had three times contested the
county and been three times beaten. To speak the truth of him, his own
spirit would have been satisfied with the loss of the first ten
thousand pounds; but Lady Arabella was made of higher mettle.  She had 
married a man with a fine place and a fine fortune; but she had
nevertheless married a commoner and had in so far derogated from her
high birth.  She felt that her husband should be by rights a member of
the House of Lords; but, if not, that it was at least essential that he
should have a seat in the lower chamber.  She would be degrees sink
into nothing if she allowed herself to sit down, the mere wife of a
county squire.

Thus instigated, Mr Gresham repeated the useless contest three times,
and repeated it each time at a serious cost.  He lost his money, Lady
Arabella lost her temper, and things at Greshamsbury went on by no
means as prosperously as they had done in the days of the old squire.

In the first twelve years of their marriage, children came fast into
the nursery at Greshamsbury.  The first that was born was a boy; and in
those happy halcyon days, when the old squire was still alive, great
was the joy at the birth of an heir to Greshamsbury; bonfires gleamed
through the country-side, oxen were roasted whole, and the customary 
paraphernalia of joy, usual to rich Britons on such occasions were gone
through with wondrous eclat.  But when the tenth baby, and the ninth
little girl, was brought into the world, the outward show of joy was
not so great.

Then other troubles came.  Some of these little girls were sickly, some
very sickly.  Lady Arabella had her faults, and they were such as were
extremely detrimental to her husband's happiness and her own; but that
of being an indifferent mother was not among them.  She had worried her
husband daily for years because he was not in Parliament, she had
worried him because he would not furnish his house in Portman Square, 
she had worried him because he objected to have more people carried
every winter at Greshamsbury Park than the house would hold; but now
she changed her tune and worried him because Selina coughed, because
Helena was hectic, because poor Sophy's spine was weak, and Matilda's
appetite 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 certainly not
fairly attributable to the old-fashioned furniture in Portman Square;
nor would Sophy's spine have been materially benefited by her father
having a seat in Parliament; and yet, to have heard Lady Arabella
discussing those matters in family conclave, one would have thought
that she would have expected such results.

As it was, her poor weak darlings were carried about from London to
Brighton, from Brighton to some German baths, from the German baths
back to Torquay, and thence--as regarded the four we have named--to
that bourne from whence no further journey could be made under Lady
Arabella's directions.

The one son and heir to Greshamsbury was named as his father, Francis
Newbold Gresham.  He would have been the hero of our tale had not that
place been pre-occupied by the village doctor.  As it is, those who
please may regard him.  It is he who is to be our favourite young man,
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 now to be a 
hard-hearted author, and so it is probable that he may not die of a
broken heart.  Those who don't approve of a middle-aged bachelor
country doctor as a hero, may take the heir to Greshamsbury in his
stead, and call the book, if it so please them, 'The Loves and
Adventures of Francis Newbold Gresham the Younger.'

And Master Frank Gresham was not ill adapted for playing the part of 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 sisters in
personal appearance.  The Greshams from time immemorial had been
handsome.  They were broad browed, blue-eyed, fair haired, born with
dimples in their chins, and that pleasant, aristocratic dangerous curl 
of the upper lip which can equally express good humour or scorn.  Young
Frank was every inch a Gresham, and was the darling of his father's
heart.

The De Courcys had never been plain.  There was too much hauteur, too
much pride, we may perhaps even fairly say, too much nobility in their
gait and manners, and even in their faces, to allow of their being
considered plain; but they were not a race nurtured by Venus or
Apollo.  They were tall and thin, with high cheek-bones, high
foreheads, and large, dignified, cold eyes.  The De Courcy girls all
had good hair; and, as they also possessed easy manners and powers of 
talking, they managed to pass in the world for beauties till they were
absorbed in the matrimonial market, and the world at large cared no
longer whether they were beauties or not.  The Misses Gresham were made
in the De Courcy mould, and were not on this account the less dear to
their mother.

The two eldest, Augusta and Beatrice, lived, and were apparently likely
to live.  The four next faded and died one after another--all in the
same sad year--and were laid in the neat, new cemetery at Torquay. Then
came a pair, born at one birth, weak, delicate, frail little flowers,
with dark hair and dark eyes, and thin, long, pale faces, with long, 
bony hands, and long bony feet, whom men looked on as fated to follow
their sisters with quick steps.  Hitherto, however, they had not
followed them, nor had they suffered as their sisters had suffered; and
some people at Greshamsbury attributed this to the fact that a change
had been made in the family medical practitioner. 

Then came the youngest of the flock, she whose birth we have said was
not heralded with loud joy; for when she came into the world, four
others with pale temples, wan, worn cheeks, and skeleton, white arms,
were awaiting permission to leave it.

Such was the family when, in the year 1854, the eldest son came of
age.  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 of
age must be a delightful time to a young man born to inherit broad
acres and wide wealth.  Those full-mouthed congratulations; those warm
prayers with which his manhood is welcomed by the grey-haired seniors
of the county; the affectionate, all but motherly caresses of 
neighbouring mothers who have seen him grow up from his cradle, of
mothers who have daughters, perhaps, fair enough, and good enough, and
sweet enough even for him; the soft-spoken, half-bashful, but tender
greetings of the girls, who now, perhaps for the first time, call him
by his stern family name, instructed by instinct rather than precept
that the time has come when the familiar Charles or familiar John must 
by them be laid aside; the 'lucky dogs', and hints of silver spoons
which are poured into his ears as each young compeer slaps 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 who come up to wring his
hand, the kisses which he gets from the farmers' wives, and the kisses
which he gives to the farmers' daughters; all these things must make
the twenty-first birthday pleasant enough to a young heir.  To a youth,
however, who feels that he is now liable to arrest, and that he
inherits no other privilege, the pleasure may very possibly not be
quite so keen.

The case with young Frank Gresham may be supposed to much nearer the
former than the latter; but yet the ceremony of his coming of age was
by no means like that which fate had accorded to his father.  Mr
Gresham was not an embarrassed man, and though the world did not know
it, or, at any rate, did not know that he was deeply embarrassed, he
had not the heart to throw open his mansion and receive the county with
a free hand as though all things were going well for him. 

Nothing was going well with him.  Lady Arabella would allow nothing
near him or around him to be well.  Everything with him was now turned
to vexation; he was no longer a joyous, happy man, and the people of
East Barsetshire did not look for gala doings on a grand scale when
young 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 were
spread, and meat and beer, and wine were there, and Frank, as he walked
round and shook his guests by the hand, expressed a hope that their
relations with each other might be long, close, and mutually 
advantageous.

We must say a few words now about the place itself.  Greshamsbury Park
was a fine old Englishman's seat--was and is; but we can assert it more
easily in past tense, as we are speaking of it with reference to a past
time.  We have spoken of Greshamsbury Park; there was a park so called,
but the mansion itself was generally known as Greshamsbury House, and 
did not stand in the park.  We may perhaps best describe it by saying
that the village of Greshamsbury consisted of one long, straggling
street, a mile in length, which in the centre turned sharp round, so
that one half of the street lay directly at right 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 with clubs, such being the crest borne
by the family; from each entrance a broad road, quite straight, running
through a majestic avenue of limes, led up to the house.  This was
built in the richest, perhaps we should rather say in the purest, style
of Tudor architecture; so much so that, though Greshamsbury is less
complete than Longleat, less magnificent than Hatfield, it may in some
sense be said to be the finest 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 as
that broad expanse of lawn by which our country houses are generally
surrounded; but the gardens of Greshamsbury have been celebrated for
two centuries, and any Gresham who would have altered them would have
been considered to have destroyed one of the well-known landmarks of
the family.

Greshamsbury Park--properly so called--spread far away on the other
side of the village.  Opposite to the two great gates leading up to the
mansion were two smaller gates, the one opening onto the stables,
kennels, and farm-yard, and the other to the deer park.  This latter
was the principal entrance to the demesne, and a grand and picturesque
entrance it was.  the avenue of limes which on one side stretched up to
the house, was on the other extended for a quarter of a mile, and then
appeared to be terminated only by an abrupt rise in the ground. At the
entrance there were four savages and four clubs, two to each portal,
and what with the massive iron gates, surmounted by a stone wall, on
which stood the family arms supported by two other club-bearers, the
stone-built lodges, the Doric, ivy-covered columns which surrounded the
circle, the four grim savages, and the extent of the space itself
through which the high road ran, and which just abutted on the village,
the spot was sufficiently significant of old family greatness. 

Those who examined it more closely might see that under the arms was a
scroll bearing the Gresham motto, and that the words were repeated in
smaller letters under each of the savages.  'Gardez Gresham', had been
chosen in the days of motto-choosing probably by some herald-at-arms as
an appropriate legend for signifying the peculiar attributes of the
family.  Now, however, unfortunately, men were not of one mind as to
the exact idea signified.  Some declared, with much heraldic warmth,
that it was an address to the savages, calling on them to take care of
their patron; while others, with whom I myself am inclined to agree,
averred with equal certainty that it was an advice to the people at
large, especially to those inclined to rebel against the aristocracy of
the county, that the should 'beware the Gresham'.  The latter
signification would betoken strength--so said the holders of the
doctrine; the former weakness.  Now the Greshams were ever a strong
people, and never addicted to humility.

We will not pretend to decide the question.  Alas!  either construction
was not equally unsuited to the family fortunes. Such changes had taken
place in England since the Greshams had founded themselves that no
savage could any longer in any way protect them; they must protect
themselves like common folk, or live unprotected.  Nor now was it
necessary that any neighbour should shake in his shoes when the Gresham
frowned. It would have been to be wished that the present Gresham
himself could have been as indifferent to the frowns of some of his
neighbours.  

But the old symbols remained, and may such symbols long remain among
us; they are still lovely and fit to be loved.  They tell us of the
true and manly feelings of other times; and to him who can read aright,
they explain more fully, more truly than any written history can do,
how Englishmen have become what they are.  England is not yet a
commercial country in the sense that epithet is used for her; and let
us still hope that she will not soon become so.  She might surely as
well be called feudal England, or chivalrous England.  If in western
civilized Europe, there does exist a nation among whom there are high
signors, and with whom the owners of the land are the true aristocracy,
the aristocracy is trusted as being best and fittest to rule, that
nation is the English.  Choose out the ten leading men of each great
European people.  Choose them in France, in Austria, Sardinia, Prussia,
Russia, Sweden, Denmark, Spain (?), and then select the ten in England
whose names are best known as those of leading statesmen; the result
will show in which country there still exists the closest attachment
to, the sincerest trust in, the old feudal and now so-called landed
interests.

England a commercial country!  Yes; as Venice was.  She may excel other
nations in commerce, but yet it is not that in which she most prides
herself, in which she most excels.  Merchants as such are not the first
men among us; though it perhaps be open, barely open, to a merchant to
become one of them.  Buying and selling is good and necessary; it is
very necessary, and may, possibly, be very good; but it cannot be the
noblest work of man; and let us hope that it may not be in your time be
esteemed the noblest work of any Englishman.

Greshamsbury Park was very large; it lay on the outside of the angle
formed by the village street, and stretched away on two sides without
apparent 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 peeping up
through and over each other, that the true extent of the park was much 
magnified to the eye.  It was very possible for a stranger to get into
it and to find some difficulty in getting out again by any of its known
gates; and such was the beauty of the landscape, that a lover or
scenery would be tempted thus to lose himself.

I have said that on one side lay the kennels, and this will give me an
opportunity of describing here one especial episode, a long episode, in
the life of the existing squire. 

He had once represented his county in Parliament, and when he ceased to
do so he still felt an ambition to be connected in some peculiar way
with that county's greatness; he still desired that a Gresham of
Greshamsbury should be something more in East Barsetshire, than Jackson
of the Grange, or Baker of Mill Hill, or Bateson of Annesgrove.  They
were all his friends, and very respectable country gentlemen; but Mr 
Gresham of Greshamsbury should be more than this: even he had enough
ambition to be aware of such a longing.  Therefore, when an opportunity
occurred he took to hunting the county.

For this employment he was in every way well suited;--unless it was in
the matter of finance.  Though he had in his very earliest manly years
given such great offence by indifference to his family politics, and
had in a certain degree fostered the ill-feeling by contesting the
county in opposition to the wishes of his brother squires,
nevertheless, he bore a loved and popular name.  Men regretted that he
should not have been what they wished him to be, that he should not
have been such as was the old squire; but when they found that such was
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 if there
were county greatness for which he was suited.  Now he was known as an
excellent horseman, as a thorough sportsman, as one knowing in dogs,
and tender-hearted as a sucking mother to a litter of young foxes; he
had ridden in the county since he was fifteen, and had a fine voice for
a view hallo, knew every hound by name, and could wind a horn with
sufficient music for all hunting purposes; moreover, he had come to his
property, as was well known through all Barsetshire, with a 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, it seemed to all
parties to be a pleasant and rational arrangement that the hounds
should go to Greshamsbury.  Pleasant, indeed, to all except the Lady 
Arabella; and rational, perhaps, to all except the squire himself.

All this time he was already considerable encumbered.  He had spent
much more than he should have done, and so indeed had his wife, in
those two splendid years in which they had figured as great among the
great ones of the earth.  Fourteen thousand a year ought to have been
enough to allow a member of Parliament with a young wife and two or
three children to live in London and keep up their country family
mansion; but then the De Courcys were very great people, and Lady
Arabella chose to live as she had been accustomed to do, and as her 
sister-in-law the countess lived; now Lord de Courcy had much more than
fourteen thousand a year.  Then came the three elections, with their
vast attendant cost, and then those costly expedients to which
gentlemen are forced to have recourse who have lived beyond their
income and find it impossible to reduce their establishments as to live
much below it.  Thus when the hounds came to Greshamsbury, Mr Gresham
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 her husband's
rule, certainly was not entitled to boast that she had made him under
hers.  She then made her first grand attack as to the furniture in
Portman Square; and was then for the first time specially informed that
the furniture there was not matter of much importance, as she would not
in future be required to move her family to that residence during the
London seasons.  The sort of conversation which grew from such a
commencement may be imagined.  Had Lady Arabella worried her lord less,
he might perhaps have considered with more coolness the folly of
encountering so prodigious an increase to the expense of his
establishment; had he not spent so much money in a pursuit which his
wife did not enjoy, she might perhaps have been more sparing in her 
rebukes as to his indifference to her London pleasures.  As it was, the
hounds came to Greshamsbury, and Lady Arabella did go to London for
some period in each year, and the family expenses were by no means
lessened.

The kennels, however, were now again empty.  Two years previous to the
time at which our story begins, the hounds had been carried off to the
seat of some richer sportsman.  This was more felt by Mr Gresham than
any other misfortune which he had yet incurred.  He had been master of
hounds for ten years, and that work he had at any rate done well.  The 
popularity among his neighbours which he had lost as a politician he
had regained as a sportsman, and he would fain have remained autocratic
in the hunt, had it been possible.  But he so remained much longer than
he should have done, and at last they went away, not without signs and
sounds of visible joy on the part of Lady Arabella.

But we have kept the Greshamsbury tenancy waiting under the oak-trees
by far too long.  Yes; when young Frank came of age there was still
enough left at Greshamsbury, still means enough at the squire's
disposal, to light one bonfire, to roast, whole in its skin, one
bullock.  Frank's virility came on him not quite unmarked, as that of
the parson's sons might do, or the son of a neighbouring attorney.  It
could still be reported in the Barsetshire Conservative "Standard" that
'The beards waggled all,' at Greshamsbury, now as they had done for
many centuries on similar festivals.  Yes; it was so reported.  But
this, like so many other such reports, had but a shadow of truth in
it.  'They poured the liquor in,' certainly, those who were there; but
the beards did not wag as they had been wont to wag in former years. 
Beards won't wag for the telling.  The squire was at his wits' end for 
money, and the tenants one and all had so heard.  Rents had been raised
on them; timber had fallen fast; the lawyer on the estate was growing
rich; tradesmen in Barchester, nay, in Greshamsbury itself, were
beginning to mutter; and the squire himself would not be merry. Under
such circumstances the throats of the tenantry will still swallow, but
their beards will not wag.

'I minds well,' said Farmer Oaklerath to his neighbour, 'when the
squire hisself comed of age.  Lord love 'ee!  There was fun going that
day.  There was more yale dranke then than's been brewed at the big
house these two years.  T'old squoire was a one'er.'

'And I minds when the squoire was borned; minds it well,' said an old
farmer sitting opposite.  'Them was the days!  It an't that long age
neither.  Squoire a'nt come o' fifty yet; no, nor an't nigh it, though
he looks it.  Things be altered at Greemsbury'--such was the rural
pronunciation--'altered sadly, neebor Oaklerath.  Well, well; I'll soon
be gone, I will, and so it an't no use talking; but arter paying one 
pound fifteen for them acres for more nor fifty year, I didn't think
I'd ever be axed for forty shilling.'

Such was the style of conversation which went on at the various
tables.  It had certainly been of a very different tone when the squire
was born, when he came of age, and when, just two years subsequently,
his son had been born.  On each of these events similar rural fetes had
been given, and the squire himself had on these occasions been frequent
among his guests. On the first, he had been carried round by his 
father, a whole train of ladies and nurses following.  On the second,
he had himself mixed in all the sports, the gayest of the gay, and each
tenant had squeezed his way up to the lawn 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.  On the third, he himself had borne
him; his child in his arms as his father had before borne him; he was
in the zenith of his pride, and though the tenantry had whispered that
he was somewhat less familiar with them than of yore, that he had put
on somewhat too much of the De Courcy airs, still he was their squire,
their master, the rich man in whose hand they lay.  The old squire was
then gone, and they were proud of the young member and his lady bride
in spite of a little hauteur.  None of them were proud of him now.

He walked once round among the guests, and spoke a few words of welcome
at each table; and as he did so the tenants got up and bowed and wished
health to the old squire, happiness to the young one, and prosperity to
Greshamsbury; but, nevertheless, it was but a tame affair.

There were also other visitors, of the gentle sort, to do honour to the
occasion; but not such swarms, not such a crowd at the mansion itself
and at the houses of the neighbouring gentry as had always been
collected on these former gala doings.  Indeed, the party at
Greshamsbury was not a large one, and consisted chiefly of Lady de
Courcy and her suite.  Lady Arabella still kept up, as far as she was
able, her close connexion with Courcy Castle.  She was there as much as
possible, to which Mr Gresham never objected; and she took her
daughters there whenever she could, though, as regarded the two elder
girls, she was interfered with by Mr Gresham, and not unfrequently by
the girls themselves.  Lady Arabella had a pride in her son, though he
was by no means her favourite child.  He was, however, the heir of
Greshamsbury, of which fact she was disposed to make the most, and he
was also a fine open-hearted young man, who could not but be dear to
any mother.  Lady Arabella did love him dearly, though she felt a sort
of disappointment in regard to him, seeing that he was not so much like
a De Courcy as he should have been.  She did love him dearly; and,
therefore, when he came of age she got her sister-in-law and all the
Ladies Amelia, Rosina etc. to come to Greshamsbury; and she also, with
some difficulty, persuaded the Honourable Georges and the Honourable
Johns to be equally condescending.  Lord de Courcy himself was in
attendance at the Court--or said that he was--and Lord Porlock, the
eldest son, simply told his aunt when he was invited that he never
bored himself with those sort of things.

Then there were the Bakers, and the Batesons, and the Jacksons, who all
lived near and returned home at night; there was the Reverend Caleb
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-looking little niece,
Miss Mary.



CHAPTER II

LONG, LONG AGO

As Dr Thorne is our hero--or I should rather say my hero, a privilege
of selecting for themselves in this respect being left to all my
readers--and as Miss Mary Thorne is to be our heroine, a point on which
no choice whatsoever is left to any one, it is necessary that they
shall be introduced and explained and described in a proper, formal
manner.  I feel quite an apology is due for beginning a novel with two
long dull chapters full of description.  I am perfectly aware of the
danger of such a course.  In so doing I sin against the golden rule
which requires us all to put our best foot foremost, the wisdom of
which is fully recognized by novelists, myself among the number.  It
can hardly be expected that any one will consent to go through with a 
fiction that offers so little allurement in its first pages; but twist
it as I will I cannot do otherwise.  I find that I cannot make poor Mr
Gresham hem and haw and turn himself uneasily in his arm-chair in a
natural manner till I have said why he is uneasy.  I cannot bring my
doctor speaking his mind freely among the bigwigs till I have explained
that it is in accordance with his usual character to do so.  This is 
unartistic on my part, and shows want of imagination as well as want of
skill.  Whether or not I can atone for these faults by straightforward,
simple, plain story-telling--that, indeed, is very doubtful.

Dr Thorne belonged to a family in one sense as good, and at any rate as
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 mentioned
first, as it was the weakness for which he was most conspicuous.  He
was second cousin to Mr Thorne of Ullathorne, a Barsetshire squire
living in the neighbourhood of Barchester, and who boasted that his
estate had remained in his family, descending from Thorne to Thorne, 
longer than had been the case with any other estate or any other family
in the county.

But Dr Thorne was only a second cousin; and, therefore, though he was
entitled 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 than
such 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 doctor
himself. 
 
His father, who had been first cousin of a former Squire Thorne, had
been a clerical dignitary in Barchester, but had been dead now many
years.  He had had two sons; one he had educated as a medical man, but
the other, and the younger, whom he had intended for the Bar, had not
betaken himself in any satisfactory way to any calling.  This son had
been first rusticated from Oxford, and then expelled; and thence 
returning to Barchester, had been the cause to his father and brother
of much suffering.

Old Dr Thorne, the clergyman, died when the two brothers were yet young
men, and left behind him nothing but some household and other property
of the value of about two thousand pounds, which he bequeathed to
Thomas, the elder son, much more than that having been spent in
liquidating debts contracted by the younger.  Up to that time there had
been close harmony between the Ullathorne family and that of the
clergyman; but a month or two before the doctor's death--the period of 
which we are speaking was about two-and-twenty years before the
commencement of our story--the then Mr Thorne of Ullathorne had made it
understood that he would no longer receive at his house his cousin
Henry, whom he regarded as a disgrace to the family.

Fathers are apt to be more lenient to their sons than uncles to their
nephews, or cousins to each other.  Dr Thorne still hoped to reclaim
his black sheep, and thought that the head of his family showed an
unnecessary harshness in putting an obstacle in his way of doing so. 
And if the father was warm in support of his profligate son, the young
medical aspirant was warmer in support of his profligate brother.  Dr
Thorne, junior, was no roue himself, but perhaps, as a young man, he 
had not sufficient abhorrence of his brother's vices.  At any rate, he
stuck to him manfully; and when it was signified in the Close that
Henry's company was not considered desirable at Ullathorne, Dr Thomas
Thorne sent word to the squire that under such circumstances his visits
there would also cease.

This was not very prudent, as the young Galen had elected to establish
himself in Barchester, very mainly in expectation for the help which
his Ullathorne connexion would give him.  This, however, in his anger
he failed to consider; he was never known, either in early or in middle
life, to consider in his anger those points which were probably best
worth his consideration.  This, perhaps, was of the less moment as his 
anger was of an unenduring kind, evaporating frequently with more
celerity than he could get angry words out of his mouth. With the
Ullathorne people, however, he did establish a quarrel sufficiently
permanent to be of vital injury to his medical prospects.

And then the father died, and the two brothers were left living
together with very little means between them.  At this time there was
living in Barchester, people of the name of Scatcherd.  Of that family,
as then existing, we have only to do with two, a brother and a sister. 
They were in a low rank of life, the one being a journeyman
stone-mason, and the other an apprentice to a straw-bonnet maker; but
they were, nevertheless, in some sort remarkable people.  The sister
was reputed in Barchester to be a model of female beauty of the strong
and robuster cast, and had also a better reputation as being a girl of
good character and honest, womanly conduct.  Both of her beauty and of
her reputation her brother was exceedingly proud, and he was the more
so when he learnt that she had been asked in marriage by a decent
master-tradesman in the city.

Roger Scatcherd had also a reputation, but not for beauty or propriety
of conduct.  He was known for the best stone-mason in the four
counties, and as the man who could, on occasion, drink the most alcohol
in a given time in the same localities.  As a workman, indeed, he had
higher reputation even than this: he was not only a good and very quick
stone-mason, but he had also a capacity for turning other men into good
stone-masons: he had a gift of knowing what a man could and should do;
and, by degrees, he taught himself what five, and ten, and
twenty--latterly, what a thousand and two thousand men might accomplish
among them: this, also, he did with very little aid from pen and paper,
with which he was not, and never became, very conversant.  He had also
other gifts and other propensities.  He could talk in a manner 
dangerous to himself and to others; he could persuade without knowing
that he did so; and being himself an extreme demagogue, in those noisy
times just prior to the Reform Bill, he created a hubbub in Barchester
of which he himself had had no previous conception.

Henry Thorne among his other bad qualities had one which his friends
regarded as worse than all the others, and which perhaps justified the
Ullathorne people in their severity.  He loved to consort with low
people.  He not only drank in tap-rooms with vulgar drinkers; so said
his friends, and so said his enemies.  He denied the charge as being
made in the plural number, and declared that his only low co-reveller
was Roger Scatcherd.  With Roger Scatcherd, at any rate, he associated,
and became as democratic as Roger himself.  Now the Thornes of
Ullathorne were of the very highest order of Tory excellence.

Whether or not Mary Scatcherd at once accepted the offer of the
respectable tradesman, I cannot say.  After the occurrence of certain
events which must here shortly be told, she declared that she had never
done so.  Her brother averred that she most positively had.  The
respectable tradesman himself refused to speak on the subject.

It is certain, however, that Scatcherd, who had hitherto been silent
enough about his sister in those social hours which he passed with his
gentleman friend, boasted of the engagement when it was, as he said,
made; and then boasted also of the girl's beauty.  Scatcherd, in spite
of his occasional intemperance, looked up in the world, and the coming
marriage of his sister was, he thought, suitable to his own ambition 
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 devil
tempted him to tempt her.  It boots not to tell all the tale.  It came
out clearly enough when all was told, that he made her most distinct
promises of marriage; he even gave her such in writing; and having in 
this way obtained from her her company during some of her little
holidays--her Sundays or summer evenings--he seduced her.  Scatcherd
accused him openly of having intoxicated her with drugs; and Thomas
Thorne, who took up the case, ultimately believed the charge.  It
became known in Barchester that she was with child, and that the
seducer was Henry Thorne.

Roger Scatcherd, when the news first reached him, filled himself with
drink, and then swore that he would kill them both.  With manly wrath,
however, he set forth, first against the man, and that with manly
weapons.  He took nothing with him but his fists and a big stick as he
went in search of Henry Thorne.

The two brothers were then lodging together at a farm-house close
abutting on the town.  This was not an eligible abode for a medical
practitioner; but the young doctor had not been able to settle himself
eligibly since his father's death; and wishing to put what constraint
he could upon his brother, had so located himself.  To this farm-house
came Roger Scatcherd one sultry summer evening, his anger gleaming from
his bloodshot eyes, and his rage heightened to madness by the rapid
pace at which he had run from the city, and by the ardent spirits which
were fermenting within him.

At the very gate of the farm-yard, standing placidly with his cigar in
his mouth, he encountered Henry Thorne.  He had thought of searching
for him through the whole premises, of demanding his victim with loud
exclamations, and making his way to him through all 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 blow from
the blackthorn.  A contest ensued; which ended in Scatcherd keeping his
word--at any rate, as regarded the worst offender.  How the fatal blow
on the temple was struck was never exactly determined; one medical man
said it might have been done in a fight with a heavy-headed stick;
another thought that a stone had been used; a third suggested a 
stone-mason's hammer.  It seemed, however, to be proved subsequently
that no hammer was taken out, and Scatcherd himself persisted in
declaring that he had taken in his hand no weapon but the stick. 
Scatcherd, however, was drunk; and even though he intended to tell the
truth, may have been mistaken.  There were, however, the facts that
Thorne was dead; that Scatcherd had sworn to kill him about an hour 
previously; and that he had without delay accomplished the threat.  He
was arrested and tried with murder, all the distressing circumstances
of the case came out on the trial: he was found guilty of
man-slaughter, and sentenced to be imprisoned for six months.  Our
readers will probably think that the punishment was too severe.

Thomas Thorne and the farmer were on the spot soon after Henry Thorne
had fallen.  The brother was at first furious for vengeance against his
brother's murderer; but, as the facts came out, as he learnt what had
been the provocation given, what had been the feelings of Scatcherd
when he left the city, determined to punish him who had ruined his
sister, his heart was changed.  Those were trying days for him.  It 
behoved him to do what in him lay to cover his brother's memory from
the obloquy which it deserved; it behoved him also to save, or to
assist to save, from undue punishment the unfortunate man who had shed
his brother's blood; and it behoved him also, at least so he thought,
to look after that poor fallen one whose misfortunes were less merited
than those either of his brother or of hers.

And he was not the man to get through these things lightly, or with as
much ease as he perhaps might conscientiously have done.  He would pay
for the defence of the prisoner; he would pay for the defence of his
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 stood alone
in the world, and insisted on so standing.  Old Mr Thorne of Ullathorne
offered again to open his arms to him; but he had conceived a foolish 
idea that his cousin's severity had driven his brother on to his bad
career, and he would consequently accept no kindness from Ullathorne. 
Miss Thorne, the old squire's daughter--a cousin considerably older
than himself, to whom he had at one time been much attached--sent him
money; and he returned it to her under a blank cover.  He had still
enough for those unhappy purposes which he had in hand.  As to what
might happen afterwards, he was then mainly indifferent.

The affair made much noise in the county, and was inquired into closely
by many of the county magistrates; by none more closely than by John
Newbold Gresham, with the energy and justice shown by Dr Thorne on the
occasion; and when the trial was over, he invited him to Greshamsbury. 
The visit ended in the doctor establishing himself in the village.

We must return for a moment to Mary Scatcherd.  She was saved from the
necessity of encountering her brother's wrath, for that brother was
under arrest for murder before he could get at her.  Her immediate lot,
however, was a cruel one.  Deep as was her cause for anger against the
man who had so inhumanly used her, still it was natural that she should
turn to him with love rather than with aversion.  To whom else could
she in such plight look for love?  When, therefore, she heard that he
was slain, her heart sank within her; she turned her face to the wall,
and laid herself down to die; to die a double death, for herself and
the fatherless babe that was now quick within her. 

But, in fact, life had still much to offer, both to her and her child. 
For her it was still destined that she should, in a distant land, be
the worthy wife of a good husband, and the happy mother of many
children.  For that embryo one it was destined--but that may not be so
quickly told: to describe her destiny this volume has yet to be
written.

Even in those bitterest days God tempered the wind to the shorn lamb. 
Dr Thorne was by her bedside soon after the bloody tidings had reached
her, and did for her more than either her lover or her brother could
have done.  When the baby was born, Scatcherd was still in prison, and
had still three months' more confinement to undergo.  The story of her 
great wrongs and cruel usage as much talked of, and men said that one
who had been so injured should be regarded as having in nowise sinned
at all. 

One man, at any rate, so thought.  At twilight, one evening, Thorne was
surprised by a visit from a demure Barchester hardware dealer, whom he
did not remember ever to have addressed before.  This was the former
lover of the poor Mary Scatcherd.  He had a proposal to make and it was
this:--if Mary would consent to leave the country at once, to leave it 
without notice from her brother, or talk or eclat on the matter, 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 be generous and true to his
love; but he could not be generous enough to father the seducer's
child.

'I could never abide it, sir, if I took it,' said he; 'and she,--why in
course she would always love it the best.'

In praising his generosity, who can mingle any censure for such
manifest 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 be to
him the mother of his own children, not the mother of another's child.

And now again our doctor had a hard task to win through.  He saw at
once that it was his duty to use his utmost authority to induce the
poor girl to accept such an offer.  She liked the man; and here was
opened to her a course which would have been most desirable, even
before her misfortune.  But it is hard to persuade a mother to part
with her first babe; harder, perhaps, when the babe had been so
fathered and so born than when the world has shone brightly on its
earliest hours.  She at first refused stoutly: she sent a thousand 
loves, a thousand thanks, profusest acknowledgements for his generosity
to the man who showed her that he loved her so well; but Nature, she
said, would not let her leave her child.

'And what will you do for her here, Mary?' said the doctor.  Poor Mary
replied to him with a deluge of tears.

'She is my niece,'said the doctor, taking up the tiny infant in his
huge hands; 'she is already the nearest thing, the only thing that I
have in the world.  I am her uncle, Mary.  If you will go with this man
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, here is
the Bible;' and he covered the book with his hand, 'Leave her to me,
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 Scatcherd
was liberated from jail.  Some conditions the doctor made.  The first
was, that Scatcherd should not know his sister's child was thus
disposed of.  Dr Thorne, in undertaking to bring up the baby, did not
choose to encounter any girl's relations on the other side.  Relations
she would undoubtedly have had none had she been left to live or die as
a workhouse bastard; but should the doctor succeed in life, should he
ultimately 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 the heart
of some man whom the doctor might delight to call his friend and 
nephew; then relations might spring up whose ties would not 
advantageous.

No man plumed himself on good blood more than Dr Thorne; no man had
greater pride in his genealogical tree, and his hundred and thirty
clearly descendant from MacAdam; no man had a stronger theory as to the
advantage held by men who have grandfathers over those who have none,
or have none worth talking about.  Let it not be thought that our
doctor was a perfect character. No, indeed; most far from perfect.  He
had within him an inner, stubborn, self-admiring pride, which made him
believe himself to be better and higher than those around him, and this
from some unknown cause which he could hardly explain to himself.  He
had a pride in being a poor man of a high family; he had a pride in
repudiating the very family of which he was proud; and he had a special
pride in keeping his pride silently to himself.  His father had been a
Thorne, his mother a Thorold. There was no better blood to be had in
England.  It was in the possession of such properties as these that he
condescended to rejoice; this man, with a man's heart, a man's courage,
and a man's humanity!  Other doctors round the county had ditch-water
in their veins; he could boast of a pure ichor, to which that of the
great Omnium family was but a muddy puddle.  It was thus that he loved
to excel his brother practitioners, he who might have indulged in the
pride of excelling them both in talent and in energy!  We speak now of
his early days; but even in his maturer life, the man, though mellowed,
was the same.

This was the man who now promised to take to his bosom as his own child
a poor bastard whose father was already dead, and whose mother's family
was such as the Scatcherds!  It was necessary that the child's history
should be known to none.  Except to the mother's brother it was an
object of interest to no one.  The mother had for some short time been
talked of; but now that the nine-days' wonder was a wonder no longer. 
She went off to her far-away home; her husband's generosity was duly
chronicled in the papers, and the babe was left untalked 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 the jail,
during which with real tears and unaffected sorrow, the mother thus
accounted for the offspring of her shame.  Then she started, fortunate
in her coming fortunes; and the doctor took with him his charge to the
new country in which they were both to live.  There he found for her a
fitting home till she should be old enough to sit at his table and live
in his bachelor house; and no one but old Mr Gresham 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 be
pitied.  A short time before the days of Henry Thorne's death he had
married a young wife in his own class of life, and had made many
resolves that henceforward his conduct should be such as might become a
married man, and might not disgrace the respectable brother-in-law he
was about to have given him such was his condition when he first heard
of his sister's plight. As has been said, he filled himself with 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 were sold;
she gave up their little house, and, bowed down by misery, she also was
brought near to death.  When he was liberated he at once got work; but
those who have watched the lives of such people know how hard it is for
them to recover lost ground.  She became a mother immediately after his
liberation, and when her child was born they were in direst want; for
Scatcherd was again drinking, and his resolves were blown to the wind.

The doctor was then living at Greshamsbury.  He had gone over there
before the day on which he undertook the charge of poor Mary's baby,
and soon found himself settled as the Greshamsbury doctor.  This
occurred very soon after the birth of the young heir.  His predecessor
in this career had 'bettered' himself, or endeavoured to do so, by
seeking the practice of some large town, and Lady Arabella, at a very 
critical time, was absolutely left with no other advice than that of a
stranger, picked up, as she declared to Lady de Courcy, somewhere
between Barchester jail, or Barchester court-house, she did not know
which.

Of course Lady Arabella could not suckle the young heir herself. Ladies
Arabella never can.  They are gifted with the powers of being mothers,
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 six months
the new doctor found Master Frank was not doing quite so well as he 
should do; and after a little trouble it was discovered that the very
excellent young woman who had been sent express from Courcy Castle to
Greshamsbury--a supply being kept up on the lord's demesne for the
family use--was fond of brandy.  She was at once sent back to the
castle, of course; and, as Lady de Courcy was too much in dudgeon to
send another, Dr Thorne was allowed to procure one.  He thought of the
misery of Roger Scatcherd's wife, though also of her health and 
strength, and active habits; and thus Mrs Scatcherd became the
foster-mother to young Gresham.

One other episode we must tell of past times.  Previous to his father's
death, Dr Thorne was in love.  Nor had he altogether sighed and pleaded
in vain; though it had not quite come to that, the young lady's
friends, or even the young lady herself, had actually accepted his
suit.  At that time his name stood well in Barchester.  His father was
a prebendary; his cousins and his best friends were the Thornes of
Ullathorne, and the lady, who shall be nameless, was not thought to be
injudicious in listening to the young doctor.  But when Henry Thorne
went so far astray, when the old doctor died, when the young doctor
quarrelled with Ullathorne, when the brother was killed in a
disgraceful quarrel, and it turned out that the physician had nothing
but his profession and no settled locality in which to exercise it;
then, indeed, the young lady's friends thought that she was 
injudicious, and the young lady herself had not spirit enough, or love
enough, to be disobedient.  In those stormy days of the trial she told
Dr Thorne, that perhaps it would be wise that they should not see each
other any more.

Dr Thorne, so counselled, at such a moment,--so informed then, when he
most required comfort from his love, at once swore loudly that he
agreed with her.  He rushed forth with a bursting heart, and said to
himself that the world was bad, all bad.  He saw the lady no more; and,
if I am rightly informed, never again made matrimonial overtures to any
one.



CHAPTER III

DR THORNE

And thus Dr Thorne became settled for life in the little village of
Greshamsbury.  As was then the wont with many country practitioners,
and as should be the wont with them all if they consulted their own
dignity a little less and the comforts of their customers somewhat
more, he added the business of a dispensing apothecary to that of a
physician.  In doing so, he was of course much reviled.  Many people 
around him declared that he could not truly be a doctor, or, at any
rate, a doctor to be so called; and his brethren in the art living
round him, though they knew that his diplomas, degrees, and
certificates were all en regle, rather countenanced the report.  There
was much about this new-comer which did not endear him to his own
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 was a
regular depot of medical skill, and but eight from Silverbridge, where
a properly established physician had been in residence for the last
forty years.  Dr Thorne's predecessor at Greshamsbury had been a
humble-minded general practitioner, gifted with a due respect for the
physicians of the county; and he, though he had been allowed to physic
the servants, and sometimes the children of Greshamsbury, had never had
the presumption to put himself on a par with his betters.

Then also, Dr Thorne, though a graduated physician, though entitled
beyond all dispute to call himself a doctor, according to all the laws
of the colleges, made it known to the East Barsetshire world, very soon
after he had seated himself at Greshamsbury, that his rate of pay was
to be seven-and-sixpence a visit within a circuit of five miles, with a
proportionally increased charge at proportionally increased distances. 
Now there was something low, mean, unprofessional, and democratic in
this; so, at least, said the children of AEsculapius gathered together
in conclave at Barchester.  In the first place, it showed that this
Thorne was always thinking of his money, like an apothecary, as he was;
whereas, it would have behoved him, as a physician, had he had the
feelings of a physician under his hat, to have regarded his own
pursuits in a purely philosophical spirit, and to have taken any gain
which might have accrued as an accidental adjunct to his station in
life. A physician should take his fee without letting his left hand
know what his right hand was doing; it should be taken without a
thought, without a look, without a move of the facial muscles; the true
physician should hardly be aware that the last friendly grasp of the
hand had been more precious by the touch of gold.  Whereas, that fellow
Thorne would lug out half a crown from his breeches pocket and give it
in change for a ten shilling piece.  And then it was clear that this
man had no appreciation of the dignity of a learned profession.  He 
might constantly be seen compounding medicines in the shop, at the left
hand of his front door; not making experiments philosophically in
materials medica for the benefit of coming ages--which, if he did, he
should have done in the seclusion of his study, far from profane
eyes--but positively putting together common powders for rural bowels,
or spreading vulgar ointments for agricultural ailments.

A man of this sort was not fit for society for Dr Fillgrave of
Barchester.  That must be admitted.  And yet he had been found to be
fit society for the old squire of Greshamsbury, whose shoe-ribbons Dr
Fillgrave would not have objected to tie; so high did the old squire
stand in the county just previous to his death.  But the spirit of the
Lady Arabella was known by the medical profession of Barsetshire, and
when that good man died it was felt that Thorne's short tenure of 
Greshamsbury favour was already over.  The Barsetshire regulars were,
however, doomed to disappointment.  Our doctor had already contrived to
endear himself to the heir; and though there was not even much personal
love between him and the Lady Arabella, he kept his place at the great
house unmoved, not only in the nursery and in the bedrooms, but also at
the squire's dining-table.

Now there was in this, it must be admitted, quite enough to make him
unpopular with his brethren; and this feeling was soon shown in a
marked and dignified manner.  Dr Fillgrave, who had certainly the most
respectable professional connexion in the county, who had a reputation
to maintain, and who was accustomed to meet, on almost equal terms, the
great medical baronets from the metropolis at the houses of the
nobility--Dr Fillgrave declined to meet Dr Thorne in consultation.  He
exceedingly regretted, he said, most exceedingly, the necessity he felt
of doing so: he had never before had to perform so painful a duty; but,
as a duty which he owed to his profession, he must perform it.  With
every feeling of respect of Lady -,--a sick guest at Greshamsbury,--and
for Mr Gresham, he must decline to attend in conjunction with Dr 
Thorne.  If his services could be made available under any other
circumstances, he would go to Greshamsbury as fast as post-horses could
carry him.

Then, indeed, there was war in Barsetshire.  If there was on Dr
Thorne's cranium one bump more developed than another, it was that of
combativeness.  Not that the doctor was a bully, or even pugnacious, in
the usual sense of the word; he had no disposition to provoke a fight,
no propense love of quarrelling; but there was that in him which would
allow him to yield to no attack.  Neither in argument nor in contest 
would he ever allow himself to be wrong; never at least to anyone but
himself; and on behalf of his special hobbies, he was ready to meet the
world at large.

It will therefore be understood, that when such a gauntlet was thus
thrown in his very teeth by Dr Fillgrave, he was not slow to take it
up.  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 mature consideration
he had made up his mind not to notice any remarks that might be made on
him by Dr Thorne in the public press.  The Greshamsbury doctor then 
wrote another letter, more witty and much more severe than the last;
and as this was copied into the Bristol, Exeter, and Gloucester papers,
Dr Fillgrave found it very difficult to maintain the magnanimity of his
reticence.  It is sometimes becoming enough for a Mediterranean to wrap
himself in the dignified toga of silence, and proclaim himself 
indifferent to public attacks; but it is a sort of dignity which it is
very difficult to maintain.  As well might a man, when stung to madness
by wasps, endeavour to sit in his chair without moving a muscle, as
endure with patience and without reply the courtesies of a newspaper
opponent.  Dr Thorne wrote a third letter which was too much for
medical flesh and blood to bear.  Dr Fillgrave answered it, not,
indeed, in his own name, but in that of a brother doctor; and then the
war raged merrily.  It is hardly too much to say that Dr Fillgrave
never knew another happy hour.  Had he dreamed of what materials was
made that young compounder of doses at Greshamsbury he would have met
him in consultation, morning, noon, and night, without objection; but
having begun the war, he was constrained to go on with it: his brethren
would allow him no alternative.  Thus he was continually being brought
up to the fight, as a prize-fighter may be seen to be, who is carried
up round after round, 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 practice and
in countenance by nearly all his brethren in the county.  The guinea
fee, the principle of giving advice and of selling no medicine, the
great resolve to keep a distinct barrier between the physician and the
apothecary, and, above all, the hatred of the contamination of a bill,
were strong in the medical mind of Barsetshire.  Dr Thorne had the 
provincial medical world against him, and so he appealed to the
metropolis.  The Lancet took the matter up in his favour, but the
Journal of Medical Science was against him; the Weekly Chirurgeon,
noted for its medical democracy, upheld him as a medical prophet, but
the Scalping Knife, a monthly periodical got up in dead opposition to
the Lancet, showed him no mercy. So the war went on, and our doctor, to
a certain extent, became a noted character. 

He had, moreover, other difficulties to encounter in his professional
career.  It was something in his favour that he understood his
business; something that he was willing to labour at it with energy;
and resolved to labour at it conscientiously.  He had also other gifts,
such as conversational brilliancy, and aptitude for true good 
fellowship, firmness in friendship, and general honesty of disposition,
which stood him in stead as he advanced in life. But, at his first
starting, much that belonged to himself personally was against him. Let
him enter what house he would, he entered it with a conviction, often
expressed to himself, that he was equal as a man to the proprietor,
equal as a human being to the proprietress.  To age he would allow 
deference, and to special recognized talent--at least so he said; to
rank also, he would pay that respect which was its clear and recognized
prerogative; he would let a lord walk out of a room before him if he
did not happen to forget it; in speaking to a duke he would address him
as His Grace; and he would in no way assume a familiarity with bigger
men than himself, allowing to the bigger man the privilege of making 
the first advances.  But beyond this he would admit that no man should
walk the earth with his head higher than his own.

He did not talk of these things much; he offended no rank by boasts of
his own equality; he did not absolutely tell the Earl de Courcy in
words, that the privilege of dining at Courcy Castle was to him no
greater than the privilege of dining at Courcy Parsonage; but there was
that in his manner that told it.  The feeling in itself was perhaps
good, and was certainly much justified by the manner in which he bore 
himself to those below him in rank; but there was folly in the
resolution to run counter to the world's recognized rules on such
matters; and much absurdity in his mode of doing so, seeing that at
heart he was a thorough Conservative.  It is hardly too much to say
that he naturally hated a lord at first sight; but, nevertheless, he
would have expended his means, his blood, and spirit, in fighting for
the upper house of Parliament.

Such a disposition, until it was thoroughly understood, did not tend to
ingratiate him with the wives of the country gentlemen among whom he
had to look for practice.  And then, also, there was not much in his
individual manner to recommend him to the favour of ladies.  He was
brusque, authoritative, given to contradiction, rough though never 
dirty in his personal belongings, and inclined to indulge in a sort of
quiet raillery, which sometimes was not thoroughly understood.  People
did not always know whether he was laughing at them or with them; and
some people were, perhaps, inclined to think that a doctor should not
laugh at all when called in to act doctorially. 

When he was known, indeed, when the core of the fruit had been reached,
when the huge proportion of that loving trusting heart had been
learned, and understood, and appreciated, when that honesty had been
recognized, that manly, almost womanly tenderness had been felt, then,
indeed, the doctor was acknowledged to be adequate in his profession. 

To trifling ailments he was too often brusque.  Seeing that he accepted
money for the cure of such, he should, we may say, have cured them
without an offensive manner.  So far he is without defence.  But to
real suffering no one found him brusque; no patient lying painfully on
a bed of sickness ever thought him rough.

Another misfortune was, that he was a bachelor.  Ladies think, and I,
for one, think that ladies are quite right in so thinking, that doctors
should be married men.  All the world feels that a man when married
acquires some of the attributes of the old woman--he becomes, to a
certain extent, a motherly sort of being; he acquires a conversance 
with women's ways and women's wants, and loses the wilder and offensive
sparks of his virility.  It must be easier to talk to such a one about
Matilda's stomach, and the growing pains in Fanny's legs, than to a
young bachelor.  This impediment also stood much in Dr Thorne's way
during his first years at Greshamsbury.

But his wants were not at first great; and though his ambition was
perhaps high, it was not of an impatient nature. The world was his
oyster; but, circumstanced as he was, he knew that it was not for him
to open it with his lancet all at once.  He had bread to earn, which he
must earn wearily; he had a character to make, which must come slowly;
it satisfied his soul, that in addition to his immortal hopes, he had a
possible future in this world to which he could look forward with clear
eyes, and advance with his heart that would know no fainting.

On his first arrival at Greshamsbury he had been put by the squire into
a house, which he still occupied when that squire's grandson came of
age.  There were two decent, commodious, private houses in the
village--always excepting the rectory, which stood grandly in its own
grounds, and, therefore, was considered as ranking above the village 
residences--of these two Dr Thorne had the smaller.  They stood exactly
at the angle before described, on the outer side of it, and at right
angles to each other.  They possessed good stables and ample gardens;
and it may be as well to specify, that Mr Umbleby, the agent and lawyer
to the estate, occupied the larger one.

Here Dr Thorne lived for eleven or twelve years, all alone; and then
for ten or eleven more with his niece, Mary Thorne. Mary was thirteen
when she came to take up permanent abode as mistress of the
establishment--or, at any rate, to act as the only mistress which the
establishment possessed.  This advent greatly changed the tenor of the
doctor's ways.  He had been before pure bachelor; not a room in his
house had been comfortably furnished; he at first commenced in a 
makeshift sort of way, because he had not at his command the means of
commencing otherwise; and he had gone on in the same fashion, because
the exact time had never come at which it was imperative in him to set
his house in order.  He had had no fixed hour for his meals, no fixed
place for his books, no fixed wardrobe for his clothes.  He had a few
bottles of good wine in his cellar, and occasionally asked a brother
bachelor to take a chop with him; but beyond this he had touched very 
little on the cares of housekeeping.  A slop-bowl full of strong tea,
together with bread, and butter, and eggs, was produced for him in the
morning, and he expected that at whatever hour he might arrive in the
evening, some food should be presented to him wherewith 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 he ever required, or all, at
least, that he ever demanded.

But when Mary came, or rather, when she was about to come, things were
altogether changed at the doctor's.  People had hitherto wondered--and
especially Mrs Umbleby--how a gentleman like Dr Thorne could continue
to live in so slovenly a manner; and how people again wondered, and
again especially Mrs Umbleby, how the doctor could possibly think it
necessary to put such a lot of furniture into a house because a little
chit of a girl of twelve years was coming to live with him.

Mrs Umbleby had great scope for her wonder.  The doctor made a thorough
revolution in his household, and furnished his house from the ground to
the roof completely.  He painted--for the first time since the
commencement of his tenancy--he papered, he carpeted, as though a Mrs
Thorne with a good fortune were coming home to-morrow; and all for a
girl of twelve years old.  'And now,' said Mrs Umbleby, to her friend 
Miss Gushing, 'how did he find out what to buy?' as though the doctor
had been brought up like a wild beast, ignorant of the nature of tables
and chairs, and with no more developed ideas of drawing-room drapery
than an hippopotamus.

To the utter amazement of Mrs Umbleby and Miss Gushing, the doctor did
it very well.  He said nothing about it to any one--he never did say
much about such things--but he furnished his house well and discreetly;
and when Mary Thorne came home from her school at Bath, to which she
had been taken some six years previously, she found herself called upon
to be the presiding genius of a perfect paradise.

It has been said that the doctor had managed to endear himself to the
new squire before the old squire's death, and that, therefore, the
change at Greshamsbury had had no professional ill effects upon him. 
Such was the case at the time; but, nevertheless, all did not go
smoothly in the Greshamsbury medical department.  There was six or
seven 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 them early in
life.  This was never thoroughly sundered, and, backed by this the
doctor did maintain himself for some years before the artillery of Lady
Arabella's artillery.  But drops falling, if they fall constantly, will
bore through a stone.

Dr Thorne's pretensions, mixed with his subversive professional
democratic tendencies, his seven-and-sixpenny visits, added to his utter
disregard of Lady Arabella's airs, were too much for her spirit. He
brought Frank through his first troubles, and that at first ingratiated
her; he was equally successful with the early dietary of Augusta and
Beatrice; but, as his success was obtained in direct opposition to the
Courcy Castle nursery principles, this hardly did much in his favour.
When the third daughter was born, he at once declared that she was a
very weakly flower, and sternly forbade the mother to go to London. The
mother, loving her babe, obeyed; but did not the less hate the doctor
for the order, which she firmly believed was given at the instance and
express dictation of Mr Gresham. Then another little girl came into the
world, and the doctor was more imperative than ever as to the nursery
rules and the excellence of country air. Quarrels were thus engendered,
and Lady Arabella was taught to believe that this doctor of her
husband's was after all no Solomon. In her husband's absence she sent
for Dr Fillgrave, giving very express intimation that he would not have
to wound either his eyes or dignity by encountering his enemy; and she
found Dr Fillgrave a great comfort to her.

Then Dr Thorne gave Mr Gresham to understand that, under such 
circumstances, he could not visit professionally at Greshamsbury any
longer.  The poor squire saw there was no help for it, and though he
maintained his friendly connexion with his neighbour, the
seven-and-sixpenny visits were at an end.  Dr Fillgrave from
Barchester, and the gentleman at Silverbridge, divided the
responsibility between them, and the nursery principles of Courcy
Castle 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 and sickness,
and deaths that occurred.  The four frail little ones that died would
probably have been taken had Lady Arabella been more tolerant of Dr
Thorne.  But the fact was, that they did die; and that the mother's
heart then got the better of the woman's pride, and Lady Arabella 
humbled herself before Dr Thorne.  She humbled herself, or would have
done so, had the doctor permitted her.  But he, with his eyes full of
tears, stopped the utterance of her apology, took her two hands in his,
pressed them warmly, and assured her that his joy in returning would be
great, for the love that he bore to all that belonged to Greshamsbury. 
And so the seven-and-sixpenny visits were recommenced; and the great
triumph of Dr Fillgrave came to an end.

Great was the joy in the Greshamsbury nursery when the second change
took place.  Among the doctor's attributes, not hitherto mentioned, was
an aptitude for the society of children.  He delighted to talk to
children, 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 with them
in the garden, invent games for them, contrive amusements in 
circumstances which seemed quite adverse to all manner of delight; and,
above all, his physic was not nearly so nasty as that which came from
Silverbridge.

He had a great theory as to the happiness of children; and though he
was not disposed altogether to throw over the precepts of
Solomon--always bargaining that he should, under no circumstances, be
himself the executioner--he argued that the principal duty which a
parent owed to a child was to make him happy.  Not only was the man to
be made happy--the future man, if that might be possible--but the
existing 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 the present
pain, seeing that the results were so very doubtful?' 

Many an opponent of the doctor had thought to catch him on the hip when
so singular a doctrine was broached; but they were not always
successful.  'What!' said his sensible enemies, 'is Johnny not to be
taught to read because he does not like it?' 'Johnny must read by all
means,' would the 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 to read, but to like to learn to read?'

'But,' would say his enemies, 'children must be controlled.' 

'And so must men also,' would say the doctor.  'I must not steal your
peaches, nor make love to your wife, nor libel your character.  Much as
I might wish through my natural depravity to indulge in such vices, I
am debarred from them without pain, and I may almost say without
unhappiness.'

And so the argument went on, neither party convincing the other.  But,
in the meantime, the children of the neighbourhood became very fond of
Dr Thorne.

Dr Thorne and the squire were still fast friends, but circumstances had
occurred, spreading themselves now over a period of many years, which
almost made the poor squire uneasy in the doctor's company.  Mr Gresham
owed a large sum of money, and he had, moreover, already sold a portion
of his property. Unfortunately it had been the pride of the Greshams 
that their acres had descended from one another without an entail, so
that each possessor of Greshamsbury had had the full power to dispose
of the property as he pleased.  Any doubt as to its going to the male
heir had never hitherto been felt.  It had occasionally been encumbered
by charges for younger children; but these charges had been liquidated,
and the property had come down without any burden to the present
squire.  Now a portion of this land had been sold, and it had been sold
to a certain degree through the agency of Dr Thorne.

This made the squire an unhappy man.  No man loved his family name and
honour, his old family blazon and standing more thoroughly than he did;
he was every whit a Gresham at heart; but his spirit had been weaker
than that of his forefathers; and, in his days, for the first time, the
Greshams were going to the wall!  Ten years before the beginning of our
story it had been necessary to raise a large sum of money to meet and 
pay off pressing liabilities, and it was found that this could be done
with more material advantage by selling a portion of the property than
in any other way.  A portion of it, about a third of the whole in
value, was accordingly sold. 

Boxall Hill lay half between Greshamsbury and Barchester, and was known
as having the best partridge shooting in the county; as having on it
also a celebrated fox cover, Boxall Gorse, held in very high repute by
Barsetshire sportsmen.  There was no residence on the immediate estate,
and it was altogether divided from the remained of the 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 of
Barchester, who, having risen from the world's ranks, had made for
himself great wealth.  Somewhat of this man's character must hereafter
be told; it will suffice to say that he relied for advice in money
matters upon Dr Thorne, and that at Dr Thorne's suggestion he had
purchased Boxall Hill, partridge-shooting and gorse cover all
included.  He had not only bought Boxall Hill, but had subsequently
lent the squire large sums of money on mortgage, in all which
transactions the doctor had taken part.  It had therefore come to pass 
that Mr Gresham was not infrequently called upon to discuss his money
affairs with Dr Thorne, and occasionally to submit to lectures and
advice which might perhaps as well have been omitted.

So much for Dr Thorne.  A few words must still be said about Miss Mary
Thorne before 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 at a 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 
more than six years after that.  It must not be supposed that he had
lost sight of his charge during her earlier years.  He was much too
well aware of the nature of the promise which he had made to the
departing mother to do that.  He had constantly visited his little
niece, and long before the first twelve years of her life were over had
lost consciousness of his promise, and of his duty to the mother, in
the stronger ties of downright personal love for the only creature that
belonged to him.

When Mary came home the doctor was like a child in his glee. He
prepared surprises for her with as much forethought and trouble as
though he were contriving mines to blow up an enemy. He took her first
into the shop, and then into the kitchen, thence to the dining-rooms,
after that to his and her bedrooms, and so on till he came to the full
glory of the new drawing-room, enhancing the pleasure by little jokes,
and telling her that he should never dare to come into the last 
paradise without her permission, and not then till he had taken off his
boots.  Child as she was, she understood the joke, and carried it on
like a little queen; and so they soon became the firmest of friends.

But though Mary was queen, it was still necessary that she should be
educated.  Those were the earlier days in which Lady Arabella had
humbled herself, and to show her humility she invited Mary to share the
music-lessons of Augusta and Beatrice at the great house.  A
music-master from Barchester came over three times a week, and remained
for three hours, and if the doctor chose to send his girl over, she
could pick up what was going on without doing any harm.  So said the 
Lady Arabella.  The doctor with many thanks and with no hesitation,
accepted the offer, merely adding, that he had perhaps better settle
separately with Signor Cantabili, the music-master.  He was very much
obliged to Lady Arabella for giving his little girl permission 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; there
must be no expense whatever incurred in such an arrangement on Miss
Thorne's account!  But here, as in most things, the doctor carried his
point.  It being the time of the lady's humility, she could not make as
good a fight as she would otherwise have done; and thus she found, to
her great disgust, that Mary Thorne was learning music in her 
schoolroom on equal terms, as regarded payment, with her own 
daughters.  The arrangement having been made could not be broken,
especially as the young lady in nowise made herself disagreeable; and
more especially as the Miss Greshams themselves were very fond of her.

And so Mary Thorne learnt music at Greshamsbury, and with her music she
learnt other things also; how to behave herself among girls of her own
age; how to speak and talk as other young ladies do; how to dress
herself, and how to move and walk.  All which, she being quick to learn
without trouble at the great house.  Something also she learnt of
French, seeing that the Greshamsbury French governess was always in the
room.

And then some few years later, there came a rector, and a rector's
sister; and with the latter Mary studied German and French also.  From
the doctor himself she learnt much; the choice, namely, of English
books for her own reading, and habits of thought somewhat akin to his
own, though modified by the feminine softness of her individual mind. 

And so Mary Thorne grew up and was educated.  Of her personal 
appearance 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 distinct
to my brain than her outward form and features.  I know that she was
far from being tall, and far from being showy; that her feet and hands 
were small and delicate; that her eyes were bright when looked at, but
not brilliant so as to make their brilliancy palpably visible to all
around her; her hair was dark brown, and worn very plainly brushed from
her forehead; her lips were thin, and her mouth, perhaps, in general
inexpressive, but when she was eager in conversation it would show
itself to be animated with curves of wondrous energy; and, quiet as she
was in manner, sober and demure as was her usual settled appearance,
she could talk, when the fit came on her, with an energy which in truth
surprised those who did not know her; aye, and sometimes those who
did.  Energy!  nay, it was occasionally a concentration of passion,
which left her for the moment perfectly unconscious of all other cares
but solicitude for that subject which she might then be advocating.

All her friends, including the doctor, had at times been made unhappy
by this vehemence of character; but yet it was to that very vehemence
that she owed it that all her friends loved her.  It had once nearly
banished her in early years from the Greshamsbury schoolroom; and yet
it ended in making her claim to remain there so strong, that Lady
Arabella could no longer oppose it, even when she had the wish to do
so.

A new French governess had lately come to Greshamsbury, and was, or was
to be, a great pet with Lady Arabella, having all the great gifts with
which a governess can be endowed, and being also a protege from the
castle. The castle, in Greshamsbury parlance, always meant that of
Courcy.  Soon after this a valued little locket belonging to Augusta 
Gresham was missing.  The French governess had objected to its being
worn in the schoolroom, and it had been sent up to the bedroom by a
young servant-girl, the daughter of a small farmer on the estate.  The
locket was missing, and after a while, a considerable noise in the
matter having been made, was found, by the diligence of the governess,
somewhere among the belongings of the English servant.  Great was the
anger of Lady Arabella, loud were the protestations of the girl, mute
the woe of her father, piteous the tears of her mother, inexorable the
judgment of the Greshamsbury world.  But something occurred, it matters
now not what, to separate Mary Thorne in opinion from that world at
large.  Out she then spoke, and to her face accused the governess of
the robbery. For two days Mary was in disgrace almost as deep as that
of the farmer's daughter.  But she was neither quiet or dumb in her
disgrace.  When Lady Arabella would not hear her, she went to Mr
Gresham.  She forced her uncle to move in the matter.  She gained over
to her side, one by one, the potentates of the parish, and ended by
bringing Mam'selle Larron down on her knees with a confession of the
facts.  From that time Mary Thorne was dear to the tenantry of 
Greshamsbury; and specially dear to one small household, where a
rough-spoken father of a family was often heard to declare, that for
Miss Mary Thorne he'd face man or magistrate, duke or devil.

And so Mary Thorne grew up under the doctor's eye, and at the beginning
of our tale she was one of the guests assembled at Greshamsbury on the
coming of age of the heir, she herself having then 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 the
London season was not yet over; nevertheless, Lady de Courcy had
managed to get down into the country to grace the coming of age of the
heir, bringing with her all the Ladies Amelia, Rosina, Margaretta, and
Alexandrina, together with such of the Honourable Johns 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; and had
managed, moreover, at last to refurnish, not ingloriously, the Portman
Square drawing-room.  She had gone up to London under the pretext,
imperatively urged, of Augusta's teeth--young ladies' teeth are not
infrequently of value in this way;--and having received authority for a
new carpet, which was really much wanted, had made such dexterous use
of that sanction as to run up an upholsterer's bill of six or seven
hundred pounds.  She had of course had her carriage and horses; the
girls of course had gone out; it had been positively necessary to have
a few friends in Portman Square; and, altogether, the ten weeks had not
been unpleasant, and not inexpensive.

For a few confidential minutes before dinner, Lady de Courcy and her
sister-in-law sate together in the latter's dressing-room, discussing
the unreasonableness of the squire, who had expressed himself with more
than ordinary bitterness as to the folly--he had probably used some
stronger word--of these London proceedings.

'Heavens!,' said the countess, with much eager animation; 'what can the
man expect?  What does he wish you to do?'

'He would like to sell the house in London, and bury us all here for
ever.  Mind, I was there only for ten weeks.'

'Barely time for the girls to get their teeth properly looked at!  But
Arabella, what does he say?'  Lady de Courcy was very anxious to learn
the exact truth of the matter, and ascertain, if she could, whether Mr
Gresham was really as poor as he pretended to be.

'Why, he said yesterday that he would have no more going to town at
all; that he was barely able to pay the claims made on him, and keep up
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 possible reason
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 will not
have such an income as there was when you married into the family; we
all know that.  And whom will he have to thank but his father?  But
Boxall Hill paid all those debts, and why should there be any
difficulty now?'

'It was those nasty dogs, Rosina,' said the Lady Arabella.

'Well, I for one never approved of the hounds coming to Greshamsbury. 
When a man has once involved his property he should not incur any
expenses that are not absolutely necessary.  That is a golden rule
which Mr Gresham ought to have remembered.  Indeed, I put it to him
nearly in those very words; but Mr Gresham never did, and never will
receive with common civility anything that comes from me.'

'I know, Rosina, he never did; and yet where would he have been but for
the De Courcys?'  So exclaimed, in her gratitude, the Lady Arabella; to
speak the truth, however, but for the De Courcys, Mr Gresham 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 the
hounds coming to Greshamsbury; but yet, my dear, the hounds can't have
eaten up everything.  A man with ten thousand a year ought to be able
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 his
money?  That's the question.  Does he gamble?'

'Well,' said Lady Arabella, very slowly, 'I don't think he does.'  If
the squire did gamble he must have done it very slyly, for he rarely
went away from Greshamsbury, and certainly very few men looking like
gamblers were in the habit of coming thither as guests.  'I don't think
he does gamble.'  Lady Arabella put her emphasis on the word gamble, as
though her husband, if he might perhaps be charitably acquitted of that
vice, was certainly guilty of every other known in the civilized world.

'I know he used,' said Lady de Courcy, looking very wise, and rather
suspicious.  She certainly had sufficient domestic reasons for
disliking the propensity; 'I know he used; and when a man begins, he is
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 when
you tell him you want this and that--all the common necessaries of
life, 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 have
cost 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 of
stern decision.

'Heaven only knows!  Now, Augusta is to be married.  I must of course
have a few hundred pounds.  You should have heard how he groaned when I
asked him for it.  Heaven only knows where the money goes!'  And the
injured wife wiped a piteous tear from her eye with her fine dress
cambric handkerchief.  'I have all the sufferings and privations of a
poor man's wife, but I have none of the consolations.  He has no 
confidence in me; he never tells me anything; he never talks to me
about his affairs.  If he talks to any one it is to that horrid
doctor.'

'What, Dr Thorne?'  Now the Countess de Courcy hated Dr Thorne with a
holy hatred.

'Yes; Dr Thorne.  I believe that he knows everything; and advises
everything, too.  Whatever difficulties poor Gresham may have, I do
believe Dr Thorne has brought them about.  I do believe it, Rosina.'

'Well, that is surprising.  Mr Gresham with all his faults is a
gentleman; and how he can talk about his affairs with a low apothecary
like that I, for one, cannot imagine.  Lord de Courcy has not always
been to me all that he should have been; far from it.'  And Lady de
Courcy thought over in her mind injuries of a much graver description
than any that her sister-in-law had ever suffered; 'but I have never
known anything like that at Courcy Castle.  Surely Umbleby knows 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 country
gentleman of good estate like him, making a confidant of a country
doctor was too great a shock for her nerves; and for a while she was
constrained 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 offer counsel
in a properly dictatorial manner.  'One thing at any rate is certain;
if Mr Gresham be involved so deeply as you say, Frank has but only one
duty before him. He must marry money.  The heir of fourteen thousand a
year may indulge himself in looking for blood, as Mr Gresham did, my
dear'--it must be understood that there was very little compliment in
this, as the Lady Arabella had always conceived herself to be a
beauty--'or for beauty, as some men do,' continued the countess,
thinking of the choice that the present Earl de Courcy had made; 'but
Frank must marry money. I hope he will understand this early; do make
him understand this before he makes a fool of himself: when a man
thoroughly understands this, when he knows what his circumstances 
require, why, the matter becomes easy to him.  I hope that Frank
understands that he has no alternative.  In his position he must 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 Honourable
John, slapping his cousin on the back, as he walked round to the
stable-yard with him before dinner, to inspect a setter puppy of
peculiarly fine breed which had been sent to Frank as a birthday
present.  'I wish I were an elder son; but we can't all have that
luck.'

'Who wouldn't sooner be the younger son of an earl than the eldest son
of a plain squire?' said Frank, wishing to say something civil in
return 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.  And
the governor's good for these twenty years.'  And the young man sighed
as he reflected what small hope there was that all those who were
nearest and dearest to him should die out of his way, and leave him to
the sweet enjoyment of an earl's coronet and fortune.  'Now, you're 
sure of your game some day; and as you've no brothers, I suppose the
squire'll let you do pretty well what you like.  Besides, he's not so
strong as my governor, though he's younger.'

Frank had never looked at his fortune in this light before, and was so
slow and green that he was not much delighted at the prospect now that
it was offered to him.  He had always, however, been taught to look to
his cousins, the De Courcys, as men with whom it would be very
expedient that he should be intimate; he therefore showed no offence,
but changed the conversation.

'Shall you hunt with the Barsetshire this season, John?  I hope you
will; I shall.'

'Well, I don't know.  It's very slow.  It's all tillage here, or else
woodland.  I rather fancy I shall go to Leicestershire when the
partridge-shooting is over.  What sort of a lot do you mean to come out
with, Frank?'

Frank became a little red as he answered, 'Oh, I shall have two,' he
said; 'that is, the mare I have had these two years, and the horse my
father 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 Honourable
John.  'What, go out before the county with one untrained horse and a
pony; and you the heir to Greshamsbury!'

'I'll have him trained before November,' said Frank, 'that nothing in
Barsetshire will stop him.  Peter says'--Peter was the Greshamsbury
stud-groom--'that he tucks up his legs beautifully.'

'But who the deuce would think of going to work with one horse; or two
either, if you insist on calling the old pony a huntress?  I'll put you
up to a trick, my lad: if you stand that you'll stand anything; and if
you don't mean to go in leading-strings all your life, 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 of nags 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 has got.'

This was true, and Frank Gresham, who in the morning had been made so
happy by his father's present of a horse, began to feel that hardly
enough had been done for him.  It was true that Mr Baker had only four
thousand a year; but it was also true that he had no other child than
Harry Baker; that he had no great establishment to keep up; that he
owed a shilling to no one; and, also, that he was a great fool in
encouraging a mere boy to ape all the caprices of a man of wealth.  
Nevertheless, for a moment, Frank Gresham did feel that, considering
his 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 knows
very well that you won't put up with such a stable as that.  Lord bless
you!  I have heard that when he married my aunt, and that was when 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 cousin
submitted to him the necessity of having more than two horses for his
own use he could listen to him; but when the same monitor talked of the
chance of a father's death as a stroke of luck, Frank was too much
disgusted to be able pass it over with indifference.  What!  was he
thus to think of his father, whose face was always lighted up with
pleasure when his boy came near to him, and so rarely bright at any 
other time? Frank had watched his father closely enough to be aware of
this; he knew how his father delighted in 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 was with him.  He loved his
father truly, purely, and thoroughly, liked to be with him, and would
be proud to be his confidant.  Could he listen quietly while his cousin
spoke of the chance of his father's death as a stroke of luck?

'I shouldn't think it a stroke of luck, John.  I should think it the
greatest misfortune in the world.'

It is so difficult for a young man to enumerate sententiously a
principle of morality, or even an expression of ordinary good feeling,
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 console himself
with the thirty thousand a year.'

'I don't know what Porlock would do; he's always quarrelling with my
uncle, I know.  I only spoke of myself; I never quarrelled with my
father, and I hope I never shall.'

'All right, my lad of wax, all right.  I dare say you won't be tried;
but it you are, you'll find before six months are over, that it's a
very 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, at
Hatherly Court, in Gloucestershire, when his father kicked the bucket.
You know Hatherly, don't you?'

'No; I never saw him.'

'He's Sir Frederick now, and has, or had, one of the finest fortunes in
England, for a commoner; the most of it is gone now.  Well, when he
heard of his governor's death, he was in Paris, but he went off to
Hatherly as fast as special train and post-horses would carry him, and
got there just in time for the funeral.  As he came back to Hatherly
Court from the church, they were putting up the hatchment over the
door, and Master Fred saw that the undertakers had put at the bottom 
"Resurgam". You know what that means?'

'Oh, yes,' said Frank.

'"I'll come back again."' said the Honourable John, construing the
Latin 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 he got
up at night, and he got some fellows with him, and they climbed up and
painted out "Resurgam", and they painted into its place, "Requiescat in
pace"; which means, you know, "you'd a great deal better stay where you
are".  Now I call that good.  Fred Hatherly did that as sure as--as sure
as--as sure as anything.'

Frank could not help laughing at the story, especially at his cousin's
mode of translating the undertaker's mottoes; and then they sauntered
back from the stables into the house to dress for dinner.

Dr Thorne had come to the house somewhat before dinner-time, at Mr
Gresham's request, and was now sitting with the squire in his own
book-room--so called--while Mary was talking to some of the girls
upstairs.

'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 his
littered table, with his head supported on his hand, looking very
unlike the father of an heir of a noble property, who had that day come
of age.

It was the first of July, and of course there was no fire in the grate;
but, nevertheless, the doctor was standing with his back to the
fireplace, with his coat-tails over his arms, as though he were
engaged, now in summer as he so often was in winter, in talking, and
roasting 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 doubt
he'll let you have it.  Scatcherd will let you have it; but I know
he'll expect to have the title deeds.'

'What!  for ten thousand pounds?' said the squire.  'There is not a
registered 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 was
nothing 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.'

'What he means is, that he must have ample security to cover what he
has already advanced before he goes on.  I wish to goodness you had no
further need to borrow.  I did think that things were settled last
year.'

'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 that be talked to in this way,' said the squire,
angrily, and, as he spoke, he got up hurriedly from his chair, thrust
his hands into his trousers-pockets, walked quickly to the window, and
immediately walking back again, threw himself once more into his chair.

'There are some things a man cannot bear, doctor,' said he, beating the
devil's tattoo on the floor with one of his feet, 'though God knows I
ought to be patient now, for I am made to bear a good many things.  You
had better tell Scatcherd that I am obliged to him for his offer, but
that I will not trouble him.'

The doctor during this little outburst had stood quite silent with his
back to the fireplace and his coat-tails hanging over his arms; but
though his voice said nothing, his face said much.  He was very
unhappy; he was greatly grieved to find that the squire was so soon
again in want of money, and greatly grieved also to find that this want
had made him so bitter and unjust.  Mr Gresham had attacked him; but as
he was determined not to quarrel with Mr Gresham, he refrained from
answering.

The squire also remained silent for a few minutes; but he was not
endowed with the gift of silence, and was soon, as it were, compelled
to speak agaain.

'Poor Frank!' said he.  'I could yet be easy about everything if it
were not for the injury I have done him.  Poor Frank!'

The doctor advanced a few paces from off the rug, and taking his hand
out of his pocket, he laid it gently on the squire's shoulder.  'Frank
will do very well yet,' said the he.  'It is not absolutely necessary
that a man should have fourteen thousand pounds a year to be happy.'

'My father left me the property entire, and I should leave it entire to
my son;--but you don't understand this.'

The doctor did understand the feeling fully.  The fact, on the other
hand, was that, long as he had known him, the squire did not understand
the doctor.

'I would you could, Mr Gresham,' said the doctor, 'so that your mind
might be happier; but that cannot be, and, therefore, I say again, that
Frank will do very well yet, although he will not inherit fourteen
thousand pounds a year; and I would have you say the same thing to
yourself.'

'Ah!  you don't understand it,' persisted the squire.  'You don't know
how a man feels when he--Ah, well! it's no use my troubling you with
what cannot be mended.  I wonder whether Umbleby is about the place
anywhere?'

The doctor was again standing with his back against the chimney-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 him
now; at any rate with reference to this money.'

'I tell you I must get it from someone; you say Scatcherd won't let me
have it.'

'No, Mr Gresham; I did not say that.'

'Well, you said what was as bad.  Augusta is to be married in 
September, and the money must be had.  I have agreed to give Moffat six
thousand pounds, and he is to have the money down in hard cash.'

'Six thousand pounds,' said the doctor.  'Well, I suppose that is not
more than your daughter should have.  But then, five times six are
thirty; thirty thousand pounds will be a large sum to make up.'

The father thought to himself that his younger girls were but children,
and that the trouble of arranging their marriage portions might well be
postponed a while.  Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.

'That Moffat is a gripping, hungry fellow,'said the squire.  'I suppose
Augusta likes him; and, as regards money, it is a good match.'

'If Miss Gresham loves him, that is everything.  I am not in love with
him myself; but then, I am not a young lady.'

'The De Courcys are very fond of him.  Lady de Courcy says that he is a
perfect gentleman, and thought very much of in London.' 

'Oh!  if Lady de Courcy says that, of course, it's all right,' said the
doctor, with a quiet sarcasm, that was altogether thrown away on the
squire.

The squire did not like any of the De Courcys; especially, he did not
like Lady de Courcy; but still he was accessible to a certain amount of
gratification in the near connexion which he had with the earl and
countess; and when he wanted to support his family greatness, would
sometimes weakly fall back upon the grandeur of Courcy Castle.  It was
only when talking to his wife that he invariably snubbed the 
pretensions of his noble relatives.

The two men after this remained silent for a while; and then the
doctor, renewing the subject for which he had been summoned into the
book-room, remarked that as Scatcherd was now in the country--he did
not say, was now at Boxall Hill, as he did not wish to wound the
squire's ears--perhaps he had better go and see him, and ascertain in
what way this affair of the money might be arranged.  There was no
doubt, he said, that Scatcherd would supply the sum required at a lower
rate of interest than that which it could be procured through Umbleby's
means.

'Very well,' said the squire.  'I'll leave it in your hands, then.  I
think 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 some
pecuniary interest of his own in arranging the squire's loans; or, at
any rate, he will think that the squire must have so thought.  Not in
the least; neither had he any such interest, nor did the squire think
that he had any.  What Dr Thorne did in this matter the squire well
knew was done for love.  But the squire of Greshamsbury was a great man
at Greshamsbury; and it behoved him to maintain the greatness of his
squirehood when discussing his affairs with the village doctor.  So
much he had at any rate learnt from his contact with the De Courcys.

And the doctor--proud, arrogant, contradictory, headstrong as he
was--why did he bear to be thus snubbed?  Because he knew that the
squire of Greshamsbury, when struggling with debt and poverty, required
an indulgence for his weakness.  Had Mr Gresham been in easy
circumstances, the doctor would by no means have stood so placidly with
his hands in his pockets, and have had Mr Umbleby thus thrown in his
teeth.  The doctor loved the squire, loved him as his own oldest 
friend; but he loved him ten times better as being in adversity than he
could ever done had things gone well at Greshamsbury in his time.

While this was going on downstairs, Mary was sitting upstairs with
Beatrice Gresham in the schoolroom.  The old schoolroom, so called, was
now a sitting-room, devoted to the use of the grown-up ladies of the
family, whereas one of the old nurseries was now the modern
schoolroom.  Mary well knew her way to the sanctum, and, without asking
any questions, walked up to it when her uncle went to the squire.  On
entering the room she found that Augusta and the Lady Alexandrina were 
also there, and she hesitated for a moment at the door.

'Come in, Mary,' said Beatrice, 'you know my cousin Alexandrina.' Mary
came in, and having shaken hands with her two friends, was bowing to
the lady, when the lady condescended, put out her noble hand, and
touched Miss Thorne's fingers.

Beatrice was Mary's friend, and many heart-burnings and much mental
solicitude did that young lady give to her mother by indulging in such
a friendship.  But Beatrice, with some faults, was true at heart, and
she persisted in loving Mary Thorne in spite of the hints which her
mother so frequently gave as to the impropriety of such an affection.

Nor had Augusta any objection to the society of Miss Thorne. Augusta
was a strong-minded girl, with much of the De Courcy arrogance, but
quite as well inclined to show it in opposition to her mother as in any
other form.  To her alone in the house did Lady Arabella show much
deference.  She was now going to make a suitable match with a man of
large 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 present state
of her father's affairs such a match was expedient.  Mr Moffat was a
young man of very large fortune, in Parliament, and inclined to
business, and in every way recommendable.  He was not a man of birth,
to be sure; that was to be lamented;--in confessing that Mr Moffat was
not a man of birth, Augusta did not go so far as to admit that he was
the son of a tailor; such, however, was the rigid truth in this
matter--he was not a man of birth, that was to be lamented; but in the
present state of affairs at Greshamsbury, she understood well that it
was her duty to postpone her own feelings in some respect.  Mr Moffat
would bring fortune; she would bring blood and connexion.  And as she
so said, her bosom glowed with strong pride to think that she would be
able to contribute so much more towards the proposed future partnership
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 sister
Beatrice, and even to Mary Thorne.  She had no enthusiasm, she
admitted, but she thought she had good judgment.  She thought she had
shown good judgment in accepting Mr Moffat's offer, though she did not
pretend to any romance of affection.  And, having so said, she went to 
work with considerable mental satisfaction, choosing furniture,
carriages, and clothes, not extravagantly as her mother would have
done, not in deference to sterner dictates of the latest fashion as her
aunt would have done, with none of the girlish glee in new purchases
which Beatrice would have felt, but with sound judgment.  She bought
things that were rich, for her husband was to be rich, and she meant to
avail herself of his wealth; she bought things that were fashionable,
for she meant to live in the fashionable world; but she bought what was
good, and strong, and lasting, and worth its money.

Augusta Gresham had perceived early in life that she could not obtain
success either as an heiress, or as a beauty, nor could she shine as a
wit; she therefore fell back on such qualities as she had, and
determined to win the world as a strong-minded, useful woman.  That
which she had of her own was blood; having that, she would in all ways
do what in her lay to enhance its value.  Had she not possessed it, it
would to her mind have been the vainest of pretences.

When Mary came in, the wedding preparations were being discussed.  The
number and names of the bridesmaids were being settled, the dresses
were on the tapis, the invitations to be given were talked over. 
Sensible as Augusta was, she was not above such feminine cares; she
was, indeed, rather anxious that the wedding should go off well.  She
was a little ashamed of her tailor's son, and therefore anxious that 
things should be as brilliant as possible.

The bridesmaid's names had just been written on a card as Mary entered
the room.  There were the Ladies Amelia, Rosina, Margaretta, and
Alexandrina of course at the head of it; then came Beatrice and the
twins; then Miss Oriel, who, though only a parson's sister, was a
person of note, birth and fortune.  After this there had been here a
great discussion whether or not there should be any more.  If there
were to be one more there must be two.  Now Miss Moffat had expressed a
direct wish, and Augusta, though she would much rather have done
without her, hardly knew how to refuse.  Alexandrina--we hope we may
be allowed to drop the 'lady' for the sake of brevity, for the present
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 acceptance into the bevy;
she had her own reasons; she was pained that Mary Thorne should not be
among the number, and if Miss Moffat were accepted, perhaps Mary might
be brought in as her colleague.

'If you have Miss Moffat,' said Alexandrina, 'you must have dear Pussy
too; and I really think that Pussy is too young; it will be
troublesome.'  Pussy was the youngest Miss Gresham, who was now only
eight years old, and whose real name was Nina.

'Augusta,' said Beatrice, speaking with some slight hesitation, some
soupcon of doubt before the highest authority of her noble cousin, 'if
you do have Miss Moffat would you mind asking Mary Thorne to join her? 
I think Mary would like it, because, you see, Patience Oriel is to be
one; and we have known Mary much longer than we have known Patience.'

Then out and spake the Lady Alexandrina.

'Beatrice, dear, if you think of what you are asking, I am sure you
will see that it would not do; would not do at all. Miss Thorne is a
very nice girl, I am sure; and, indeed, what little I have seen of her
I highly approve.  But, after all, who is she?  Mamma, I know, thinks
that Aunt Arabella has been wrong to let be here so much, but--'

Beatrice became rather red in the face, and, in spite of the dignity of
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 Lady 
Alexandrina; I find that I cannot bring my courteous pen to drop the
title.  'But Augusta is very peculiarly situated.  Mr Moffat, is, you
see, not of the very highest birth; and, therefore, she should take
care 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,' said Beatrice. 
She had not quite the courage to say, as good as the De Courcys.

'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 who Miss
Mary Thorne is?'

'She is Dr Thorne's niece.'

'You mean that she is called so; but do you know who her father was, or
who her mother was?  I, for one, must own that I do not.  Mamma, I
believe, does, but--'

At this moment the door opened gently and Mary Thorne entered the room.

It may easily be conceived, that while Mary was making her salutations
the three other young ladies were a little cast aback.  The Lady
Alexandrina, however, quickly recovered herself, and, by her inimitable
presence of mind and facile grace of manner, soon put the matter on a
proper footing.

'We were discussing Miss Gresham's marriage,' said she; 'I am sure I
may 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 Augusta
Gresham had for years, we will hardly say for how many, passed their
mornings together in the same schoolroom; had quarrelled, and
squabbled, and caressed and kissed, and been all but sisters to each
other.  Acquaintance indeed!  Beatrice felt that her ears were
tingling, and even Augusta was a little ashamed.  Mary, however, knew
that the cold words had come from a De Courcy, and not from a Gresham,
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 arm
over Augusta's shoulder and kissed her. The Lady Alexandrina could not
but think that the doctor's niece uttered her congratulations very much
as though she were speaking to an equal; very much as though she had a
father and mother of her own.

'You will have delicious weather,' continued Mary.  'September, and the
beginning of October, is the nicest time of the year. If I were going
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 to
honeymoon along with me.  I won't stir out of Greshamsbury till I have
sent 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 Lady
Alexandrina.

The Lady Alexandrina was not pleased to find how completely the
doctor's niece took upon herself to talk, and sit, and act at
Greshamsbury as though she was on a par with the young ladies of the
family.  That Beatrice should have allowed this would not have
surprised her; but it was to be expected that Augusta would have shown
better judgment.

'These things require some tact in their management; some delicacy when
high interests are at stake,' said she; 'I agree with Miss Thorne in
thinking that, in ordinary circumstances, with ordinary people,
perhaps, the lady should have her way.  Rank, however, has its
drawbacks, 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 getting
on so well with the privileges.'

The Lady Alexandrina looked at her as though not fully aware whether
she intended to be pert.  In truth, the Lady Alexandrina was rather in
the dark on the subject.  It was almost impossible, it was incredible,
that a fatherless, motherless, doctor's niece should be pert to an
earl's daughter at Greshamsbury, seeing that that earl's daughter was
the cousin of the miss Greshams.  And yet the Lady Alexandrina hardly
knew 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 she
should just then stay any longer in that room.  Whether she intended to
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 go to her
own bedroom.

'Augusta,' she said, rising slowly from her chair with much stately
composure, 'it is nearly time to dress; will you come with me?  We have
a great deal to discuss, you know.'

So she swam out of the room, and Augusta, telling Mary that she would
see her again at dinner, swam--no, tried to swim--after her.  Miss
Gresham had had great advantages; but she had not been absolutely
brought up at Courcy Castle, and could not as yet quite assume the
Courcy style of swimming.

'There,' said Mary, as the door closed behind the rustling muslins of
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 battles
behind your back, why do you come and upset it all by making the whole
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 equally
unanimous in a case of love and charity, that, indeed, is another
question.'

'But why should you try to make my cousin angry; you that ought to have
so much sense?  Don't you remember that you were saying yourself the
other day, of the absurdity of combatting pretences which the world
sanctions?'

'I do, Trichy, I do; don't scold me now.  It is so much easier to
preach 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's feet. 
'If I humble myself very low; if I kneel through the whole evening in a
corner; if I put my neck down and let all your cousins trample on it,
and then your aunt, would not that make atonement?  I would not object
to wearing sackcloth, either; and I'd eat a little ashes--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; but
don't scold me; you see how humble I am; not only humble but umble,
which I look upon to be the comparative, or, indeed, superlative
degree.  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 before you. 
There, perhaps you'd like to put your foot on my neck.'  And then she
put her head down to the footstool and kissed Beatrice's feet.

'I'd like, if I dared, to put my hand on your cheek and give you a good
slap for being such a goose.'

'Do; do, Trichy: you shall tread on me, or slap me, or kiss me;
whichever you like.'

'I can't tell you how vexed I am,' said Beatrice; 'I wanted to arrange
something.'

'Arrange something!  What? arrange what?  I love arranging.  I fancy
myself qualified to be an arranger-general in female matters.  I mean
pots and pans, and such like.  Of course I don't allude to
extraordinary people and extraordinary circumstances that require tact,
and delicacy, and drawbacks, and that sort of thing.'

'Very well, Mary.'

'But it's not very well; it's very bad if you look like that. Well, my
pet, there I won't.  I won't allude to the noble blood of your noble
relatives either in joke or in earnest.  What is it you want to
arrange, Trichy?'

'I want you to be one of Augusta's bridesmaids.'

'Good heavens, Beatrice!  Are you mad?  What!  Put me, even for a
morning, into the same category of finery as the noble blood from
Courcy Castle!'

'Patience is to be one.'

'But that is no reason why Impatience should be another, and I should
be very impatient under such honours.  No, Trichy; joking apart, do not
think of it.  Even if Augusta wished it I would refuse.  I should be
obliged to refuse.  I, too, suffer from pride; a pride quite as
unpardonable as that of others: I could not stand with your four
lady-cousins behind your sister at the altar.  In such a galaxy they
would be the stars and I--'

'Why, Mary, all the world knows that you are prettier than any of
them!'

'I am all the world's very humble servant.  But, Trichy, I should not
object if I were as ugly as the veiled prophet and they all as
beautiful as Zuleika.  The glory of that galaxy will be held to depend
not on its beauty; but on its birth.  You know how they would look at
me; now they would scorn me; and there, in church, at the altar, with
all that is solemn round us, I could not return their scorn as I might
do elsewhere.  In a room I'm not a bit afraid of them at all.'  And
Mary was again allowing herself to be absorbed by that feeling of
indomitable pride, of antagonism to the pride of others, which she
herself in her cooler moments was the first to blame.

'You often say, Mary, that that sort of arrogance should be despised
and passed over without notice.'

'So it should, Trichy.  I tell you that as a clergyman tells you to
hate riches.  But though the clergyman tells you so, he is not the less
anxious to be rich himself.'

'I particularly wish you to be one of Augusta's bridesmaids.'

'And I particularly wish to decline the honour; which honour has not
been, and will not be, offered to me.  No, Trichy.  I will not be
Augusta's bridesmaid, but--but--but--'

'But what, dearest?'

'But, Trichy, when some one else is married, when the new wing has been
built to a house that you know of--'

'Now, Mary, hold your tongue, or you know you'll make me angry.'

'I do so like to see you angry.  And when that time comes, when that
wedding does take place, then I will be a bridesmaid, Trichy. Yes! even
though I am not invited. Yes! though all the De Courcys in Barsetshire
should tread upon me and obliterate me. Though I should be dust among
the stars, though I should creep up in calico among their satins and
lace, I will nevertheless be there; close, close to the bride; to hold
something for her, to touch her dress, to feel that I am near to her,
to--to--to--' and she threw her arms round her companion, and kissed her
over and over again. 'No, Trichy; I won't be Augusta's bridesmaid; I'll
bide my time for bridesmaiding.'

What protestations Beatrice made against the probability of such an
event as foreshadowed in her friend's promise we will not repeat.  The
afternoon was advancing, and the ladies also had to dress for dinner,
to do honour to the young heir.



CHAPTER V

FRANK GRESHAM'S FIRST SPEECH

We have said, that over and above those assembled in the house, there
came to the Greshamsbury dinner on Frank's birthday the Jacksons of the
Grange, consisting of Mr and Mrs Jackson; the Batesons from Annesgrove,
viz., Mr and Mrs Bateson, and Miss Bateson, their daughter--an unmarried
lady of about fifty; the Bakers of Mill Hill, father and son; and Mr
Caleb Oriel, the rector, with his beautiful sister, Patience.  Dr
Thorne, and his niece Mary, we count among those already assembled at
Greshamsbury.

There was nothing very magnificent in the number of the guests thus
brought together to do honour to young Frank; but he, perhaps, was
called on to take a more prominent part in the proceedings, to be made
more of a hero than would have been the case had half the county been
there.  In that case the importance of the guests would have been so
great that Frank would have got off with a half-muttered speech or two;
but now he had to make a separate oration to every one, and very weary
work he found it.

The Batesons, Bakers, and Jacksons were very civil; no doubt the more
so from an unconscious feeling on their part, that as the squire was
known to a little out at elbows as regards money, any deficiency on
their part might be considered as owing to the present state of affairs
at Greshamsbury.  Fourteen thousand a year will receive honour; in that
case there is no doubt, and the man already possessing it is not apt to
be suspicious as to the treatment he may receive; but the ghost of
fourteen thousand a year is not always so self-assured.  Mr Baker,
with his moderate income, was a very much richer man than the squire;
and, therefore, he was peculiarly forward in congratulating Frank on
the brilliancy of his prospects.

Poor Frank had hardly anticipated what there would be to do, and before
dinner was announced he was very tired of it.  He had no warmer feeling
for any of the grand cousins than a very ordinary cousinly love; and he
had resolved, forgetful of birth and blood, and all those gigantic
considerations which now that manhood had come upon him, he was bound
always to bear in mind,--he had resolved to sneak out to dinner 
comfortably with Mary Thorne if possible; and if not with Mary, then
with his other love, Patience Oriel.

Great, therefore, was his consternation at finding that, after being
kept continually in the foreground for half an hour before dinner, he
had to walk out to the dining-room with his aunt the countess, and take
his father's place for the day at the bottom of the table.

'It will now depend altogether upon yourself, Frank, whether you
maintain or lose that high position in the county which has been held
by the Greshams for so many years,' said the countess, as she walked
through the spacious hall, resolving to lose no time in teaching to her
nephew that great lesson which it was so imperative that he should
learn.

Frank took this as an ordinary lecture, meant to inculcate general good
conduct, such as old bores of aunts are apt to inflict on youthful
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 like
bricks.'

His aunt did not care two straws about his reading.  It was not by
reading that the Greshams of Greshamsbury had held their heads up in 
the county, but by having high blood and plenty of money. The blood had
come naturally to this young man; but it behoved him to look for the
money in a great measure himself.  She, Lady de Courcy, could doubtless
help him; she might probably be able to fit him with a wife who would
bring her money onto his birth.  His reading was a matter in which she
could in no way assist him; whether his taste might lead him to prefer
books or pictures, or dogs and horses, or turnips in drills, or old
Italian plates and dishes, was a matter which did not much signify;
with which it was not at all necessary that his noble aunt should
trouble herself.

'Oh!  you are going to Cambridge again, are you?  Well, if your father
wishes it;--though very little is ever gained now by a university
connexion.'

'I am to take my degree in October, aunt; and I am determined, at any
rate, that I won't be plucked.'

'Plucked!'

'No; I won't be plucked.  Baker was plucked last year, and all because
he got into the wrong set at John's.  He's an excellent fellow if you
knew him.  He got among a set of men who did nothing but smoke and
drink beer.  Malthusians, we call them.'

'Malthusians!'

'"Malt", you know, aunt, and "use"; meaning that they drink beer.  So
poor Harry Baker got plucked.  I don't know that a fellow's any the
worse; 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 Lady
Arabella.  She, on the present occasion, sat next to her son on the one
side, as the countess did on the other.  If, therefore, Frank now went
astray, it would not be from want of proper leading.

'Aunt, will you have some beef?' said he, as soon as the soup and fish
had been disposed of, anxious to perform the rites of hospitality 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.  My
hand is not yet in for this work, aunt.  Well, as I was saying about
Cambridge--' 

'Is Frank to go back to Cambridge, Arabella?' said the countess to her
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 liked
the 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 decidedly
negative shake.  Had she said out loud to the young man, 'Your father
is such an obstinate, pig-headed, ignorant fool, that it is no use
speaking 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 Courcy had 
spoken by her shake of the face, 'My mother and aunt are always down on
the governor, always; but the more they are down on him the more I'll
stick to him.  I certainly will take my degree: I will read like
bricks; and I'll begin tomorrow.'

'Now will you take some beef, aunt?'  This was said out loud.

The Countess de Courcy was very anxious to go on with her lesson
without loss of time; but she could not, while surrounded by guests and
servants, enunciate the great secret: 'You must marry money, Frank;
that is your one great duty; that is the matter to be borne steadfastly
in your mind.'  She could not now, with sufficient weight and impress 
of emphasis, pour this wisdom into his ears; the more especially as he
was standing up to his work of carving, and was deep to his elbows in
horse-radish, fat and gravy.  So the countess sat silent while the
banquet proceeded.

'Beef, Harry?' shouted the young heir to his friend Baker.  'Oh!  but I
see it isn't your turn yet.  I beg your pardon, Miss Bateson,' and he
sent to that lady a pound and a half of excellent meat, cut out with
great 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 small
speeches in answer to the numerous individual congratulations of his
friends; but these were as nothing to the one great accumulated onus of
an oration which he had long known that he should have to sustain after
the cloth was taken away.  Some one of course would propose his health,
and then there would be a clatter of voices, ladies and gentlemen, men
and girls; and when that was done he would find himself standing on his
legs, with the room about him, going round and round and round.

Having had a previous hint of this, he had sought advice from his
cousin, 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 after the
clatter is done?'

'Oh, it's the easiest thing in life,' said the cousin.  'Only remember
this: you mustn't get astray; that is what they call presence of mind,
you know.  I'll tell you what I do, and I'm often called up, you know;
at our agriculturals I always propose the farmers' daughters: well,
what I do is this--I keep my eye steadfastly fixed on one of the
bottles, and never move it.'

'On one of the bottles!' said Frank; 'wouldn't it be better if I made a
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 thee isn't the
least use in the world in looking up.  I've heard people say, who go to
those sort of dinners every day of their lives, that whenever anything
witty is said; the fellow who says it is sure to be looking at the
mahogany.'

'Oh, you know I shan't say anything witty; I'll be quite the other
way.'

'But there's no reason you shouldn't learn the manner.  That's the way
I succeed.  Fix your eye on one of the bottles; put your thumbs in your
waist-coat pockets; stick out your elbows, bend your knees a little,
and then go ahead.'

'Oh, ah! go ahead; that's all very well; but you can't go ahead if you
haven't got any steam.'

'A very little does it.  There can be nothing so easy as your speech. 
When one has to say anything new every year about the farmers'
daughters, why one has to use one's brains a bit.  Let's see: how will
you begin?  Of course, you'll say that you are not accustomed to this
sort of thing; that the honour conferred upon you is too much for your
feelings; that the bright array of beauty and talent around you quite 
overpowers your tongue, and all that sort of thing.  Then declare
you're a Gresham to the backbone.'

'Oh, they know that.'

'Well, tell them again.  Then of course you must say something about
us; 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's
there herself before me?'

'Before you! of course; that's just the reason.  Oh, say any lie you
can think of; you must say something about us.  You know we've come
down from London on purpose.'

Frank, in spite of the benefit of receiving from his cousin's 
erudition, could not help wishing in his heart that they had al
remained in London; but this he kept to himself.  He thanked his cousin
for his hints, and though he did not feel that the trouble of his mind
was completely cured, he began to hope that he might go through the
ordeal without disgracing himself.

Nevertheless, he felt rather sick at heart when Mr Baker got up to
propose the toast as soon as the servants were gone.  The servants,
that is, were gone officially; but they were there in a body, men and
women, nurses, cooks, and ladies' maids, coachmen, grooms, and footmen,
standing in two doorways to hear what Master Frank would say.  The old 
housekeeper headed the maids at one door, standing boldly inside the
room; and the butler controlled the men at the other, marshalling them
back with a drawn corkscrew.

Mr Baker did not say much; but what he did say, he said well. They had
all seen Frank Gresham grow up from a child; and were now required to
welcome as a man amongst them one who was well qualified to carry on
the honour of that loved and respected family.  His young friend,
Frank, was every inch a Gresham.  Mr Baker omitted to make mention of
the infusion of De Courcy blood, and the countess, therefore, drew
herself up on her chair and looked as though she were extremely bored. 
He then alluded tenderly to his own long friendship with the present
squire, Francis Newbold Gresham the elder; and sat down, begging them
to drink health, prosperity, long life, and excellent wife to their
dear friend Francis Newbold Gresham the younger.

There was a great jingling of glasses, of course; made the merrier and
the louder by the fact that the ladies were still there as well as the
gentlemen.  Ladies don't drink toasts frequently; and, therefore, the
occasion coming rarely was the more enjoyed.  'God bless you, Frank!' 
'Your good health, Frank!'  'And especially a good wife, Frank!'  'Two 
or three of them, Frank!'  'Good health and prosperity 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!  Do look at me, pray do
Frank; I am drinking your health in real wine; ain't I, papa?'  Such
were the addresses which greeted Mr Francis Newbold Gresham the younger
as he essayed to rise up on his feet for the first time since he had
come to man's estate.

When the clatter was at an end, and he was fairly on his legs, he cast
a glance before him on the table, to look for a decanter.  He had not
much liked his cousin's theory of sticking to the bottle; nevertheless,
in the difficulty of the moment, it was well to have any system to go
by.  But, as misfortune would have it, though the table 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 follow
his preceptor's advice, as touching the bottle, he adopted his own
crude plan of 'making a mark on some old covey's head,' and therefore
looked 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, and doing
me so much honour, and all that sort of thing.  Upon my word I am. 
Especially to you, Mr Baker.  I don't mean you, Harry, you're not Mr
Baker.'

'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 year
if I can help it; not at any rate till we have had another coming of
age here.'

'Bravo, Frank; and whose will that be?'

'That will be my son, and a very fine lad he will be; and I hope he'll
make a better speech than his father.  Mr Baker said I was every inch a
Gresham.  Well, I hope I am.'  Here the countess began to look cold and
angry.  'I hope the day will never come when my father won't own me for
one.'

'There's no fear, no fear,' said the doctor, who was almost put out of
countenance by the orator's intense gaze.  The countess looked colder
and more angry, and muttered something to herself about a bear-garden.

'Gardez Gresham; eh?  Harry! mind that when you're sticking in a gap
I'm coming after you.  Well, I am sure I am very obliged to you for the
honour you have all done me, especially the ladies who don't do this
sort of things on ordinary occasions. I wish they did; don't you,
doctor?  And talking of the ladies, my aunty and cousins have come all
the way from London to hear me take this speech which certainly is not
worth the trouble; but, all the same I am very much obliged to 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 Oriel and Miss
Oriel, and to Mr Umbleby, and to Dr Thorne, and to Mary--I beg her
pardon, I mean Miss Thorne.'  And then he sat down, amid the loud 
plaudits of the company, and a string of blessings which came from 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 one or
two of his lady-cousins; and then Miss Bateson shook him by the hand. 
'Oh, Miss Bateson,' said he, 'I though the kissing was to go all round.'
So Miss Bateson laughed and went her way; and Patience Oriel 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 the passed; and as they went, he
managed to take Patience by the hand; he took her hand and pressed it
for a moment, but dropped it quickly, in order that he might go through
the same ceremony with Mary, but Mary was too quick for him.

'Frank,' said Mr Gresham, as soon as the door was closed, 'bring your
glass here, my boy;' and the father made room for his son close beside
himself.  'The ceremony is now over, so you may have your place of
dignity.' Frank sat himself down where he was told, and Mr Gresham put
his hand on his son's shoulder and half caressed him, while the tears
stood in his eyes.  'I think the doctor is right, Baker, I think he'll 
never make us ashamed of him.'

'I am sure he never will,' said Baker.

'I don't think he ever will,' said Dr Thorne.

The tones of the men's voices were very different.  Mr Baker did not
care a straw about it; why should he?  He had an heir of his own as
well as the squire; one also who was the apple of his eye.  But the
doctor,--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 in his heart
also for young Frank Gresham.

After this small expose of feeling they sat silent for a moment or
two.  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 his
uncle.  'I was looking at him before dinner.  He is a Monsoon, isn't
he?'

'Well I can't say I know how he was bred,' said the squire.  'He should
a good deal of breeding.'

'He's a Monsoon, I'm sure,' said the Honourable John.  'They've all
those ears, and that peculiar dip in the back.  I suppose you gave a
goodish 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 being
put off with so incomplete stud, and thinking also that the son had not
spirit enough to attack his father himself on the subject, the
Honourable John determined to do it for him.

'He's the making of a very nice horse, I don't doubt.  I wish you had a
string like him, Frank.'

Frank felt the blood rush to his face.  He would not for worlds have
his father think that he was discontented, or otherwise than pleased
with the present he had received that morning.  He was heartily ashamed
of himself in that he had listened with a certain degree of complacency
to his cousin's tempting; but he had no idea that the subject 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 as were assembled here.
He was very angry with his cousin, and for a moment forgot all his
hereditary respect for a De Courcy.

'I tell you what, John,' said he, 'do you choose your day, some day
early in the season, and come out on the best thing you have, and I'll
bring, not the black horse, but my old mare; and then do you try to
keep near me.  If I don't leave you at the back of God-speed before
long, I'll give you the mare and the horse too.'

The Honourable John was not known in Barsetshire as one of the most
forward of its riders.  He was a man much addicted to hunting, as far
as the get-up of the thing was concerned; he was great in boots and
breeches; wondrously conversant with bits and bridles; he had quite a
collection of saddles; and patronized every newest invention for
carrying spare shoes, sandwiches, and flasks of sherry.  He was
prominent at the cover side;--some people, including the master of
hounds, thought him perhaps a little too loudly prominent; he affected
a familiarity with the dogs, and was on speaking acquaintance 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 ride or visibly to decline
to ride, then--so at least said they who had not the De Courcy interest
quite closely at heart--then, in those heart-stirring moments, the 
Honourable John was too often found deficient.

There was, therefore, a considerable laugh at his expense when Frank,
instigated to this innocent boast by a desire to save his father,
challenged his cousin to a trial of prowess.  The Honourable John was
not, perhaps, as much accustomed to the ready use of his tongue as was
his honourable brother, seeing that it was not his annual business to
depict the glories of the farmers' daughters; at any rate, on this
occasion he seemed to be at some loss for words; he shut up, as the
slang phrase goes, and made no further allusion to the necessity of 
supplying young Gresham with a proper stream of hunters.

But the old squire had understood it all; had understood the meaning of
his nephew's attack; had thoroughly understood the meaning of his son's
defence, and the feeling which actuated it.  He also had thought of the
stableful of horses which had belonged to himself when he became of
age; and of the much more humble position which his son would have to
fill than that which his father had prepared for him.  He thought of 
this, and was sad enough, though he had sufficient spirit to hide from
his friends around him the fact, that the Honourable John's arrow had
not been discharged in vain.

'He shall have Champion,' said the father to himself.  'It is time for
me to give up.'

Now Champion was one of the two fine old hunters which the squire kept
for his own use.  And it might have been said of him now, at the period
of which we are speaking, that the only really happy moments of his
life were those which he spent in the field.  So much as to its being
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 of the
year, the ladies, after sitting in the drawing-room for half an hour
or so, began to think that they might as well go through the
drawing-room windows on to the lawn.  First one slipped out a little
way, and then another; and then they got on to the lawn; and then they
talked of their hats; till, by degrees, the younger ones of the party,
and the last of the elder also, found themselves dressed for walking.

The windows, both of the drawing-room, and the dining-room, looked out
on to the lawn; and it was only natural that the girls should walk from
the former to the latter.  It was only natural that they, being there,
should tempt their swains to come to them by the sight of their
broad-brimmed hats and evening dresses; and natural, also, that the
temptation should not be resisted.  The squire, therefore, and the
elder male guests soon found themselves alone round their wine.

'Upon my word, we were enchanted by your eloquence, Mr Gresham, were we
not?' said Miss Oriel, turning to one of the De Courcy girls who was
with her.

Miss Oriel was a very pretty girl; a little older than Frank 
Gresham,--perhaps a year or so.  She had dark hair, large round dark
eyes, a nose a little too broad, a pretty mouth, a beautiful chin, and,
as we have said before, a large fortune;--that is, moderately large--let
us say twenty thousand pounds, there or thereabouts.  She and her
brother had been living at Greshamsbury for the last two years, the
living having been purchased for him--such were Mr Gresham's 
necessities--during the lifetime of the last old incumbent.  Miss Oriel
was in every respect a nice neighbour; she was good-humoured,
lady-like, lively, neither too clever nor too stupid, belonging to a
good family, sufficiently fond of this world's good things, as became a
pretty young lady so endowed, and sufficiently fond, also, of the other
world's good things, as became the mistress of 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 me to
tears.  But well as he talks, I think he carves better.'

'I wish you'd had to do it, Margaretta; both the carving and the
talking.'

'Thank you, Frank; you're very civil.'

'But there's one comfort, Miss Oriel; it's over now, and done. A fellow
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 there will be two
or three more.'

'I'll speak at your wedding, Miss Oriel, before I do at my own.'

'I shall not have the slightest objection.  It will be so kind of you
to patronize my husband.'

'But, by Jove, will he patronize me?  I know you'll marry some awful
bigwig, 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 at
remaining at Greshamsbury all her life.'

Frank blushed, and Patience laughed.  There was but a year's difference
in their age; but Frank, however, was still a boy, though Patience was
fully a woman.

'I am ambitious, Lady Margaretta,' said she.  'I own it; but I am
moderate in my ambition.  I do love Greshamsbury, and if Mr Gresham had
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 his
carving,' said the Lady Margaretta.

'But perfection never repeats itself,' said Patience.

'Well, you see, I have not got any brothers,' said Frank; 'so all I can
do is to sacrifice myself.'

'Upon my word, Mr Gresham, I am under more than ordinary obligations to
you; I am indeed,' said Miss Oriel, stood still in the path, and made a
very graceful curtsy.  'Dear me!  only think, Lady Margaretta, that I
should be honoured with an offer from the heir the very moment he 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 for
your advantage.'

'Yes;' said Patience; 'that's what I value so much: had he loved me
now, there would have been no merit on his part; but a sacrifice you
know--'

'Yes, ladies are so fond of such sacrifices, Frank, upon my word, I had
no idea you were so very excellent at making speeches.'

'Well,' said Frank, 'I shouldn't have said sacrifice, that was a slip;
what I meant was--'

'Oh, dear me,' said Patience, 'wait a minute; now we are going to have
a regular declaration.  Lady Margaretta, you haven't a scent-bottle,
have you?  And if I should faint, where's the garden-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 not
understand him to say something very particular?'

'Certainly, I thought nothing could be plainer,' said the Lady
Margaretta.

'And so, Mr Gresham, I am to be told, that after all it means nothing,'
said Patience, putting her handkerchief up to her eyes.

'It means that you are an excellent hand at quizzing a fellow like me.'

'Quizzing!  No; but you are an excellent hand at deceiving a poor girl
like me.  Well, remember, I have got a witness; here is Lady
Margaretta, who heard it all.  What a pity it is that my brother is a
clergyman.  You calculated on that, I know; or you would never had
served me so.'

She said so just as her brother joined them, or rather just as he had
joined Lady Margaretta de Courcy; for her ladyship and Mr Oriel walked
on in advance by themselves.  Lady Margaretta had found it rather dull
work, making a third in Miss Oriel's flirtation with her cousin; the
more so as she was quite accustomed to take a principal part herself in
all such transactions.  She therefore not unwillingly walked on with Mr
Oriel.  Mr Oriel, it must be conceived, was not a common, everyday
parson, but had points about him which made him quite fit to associate
with an earl's daughter.  And as it was known that he was not a
marrying man, having very exalted ideas on that point 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 was
very 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, Mr
Gresham,' said she, quite soberly and earnestly; 'how happy you ought
to be.'

'What, in being laughed at by you, Miss Oriel, for pretending to be a
man, when you choose to make out that I am only a boy? I can bear to be
laughed at pretty well generally, but I can't say that your laughing 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 Miss
Oriel.  Miss Oriel, when she found herself tete-a-tete with him,
thought it was time to give over flirting; Frank, however, imagined
that it was just the moment for him to begin. So he spoke and looked
very languishing, and put on him quite the airs of an Orlando.

'Oh, Mr Gresham, such good friends as you and I may laugh at each
other, may we not?'

'You may do what you like, Miss Oriel: beautiful women I believe always
may; but you remember what the spider said to the fly, "That which is
sport to you, may be death to me."' Anyone looking at Frank's face as
he said that, might well have imagined that he was breaking 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 in the dry?

While Frank Gresham was thus misbehaving himself, and going on as
though to him belonged the privilege of falling in love with pretty
faces, as it does to ploughboys and other ordinary people, his great
interests were not forgotten by those guardian saints who were so
anxious 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; nothing
frivolous had been spoken.  The countess, the Lady Arabella, and Miss
Gresham had been talking over Greshamsbury affairs, and they had
latterly been assisted by the Lady Amelia, than whom no De Courcy ever
born was more wise, more solemn, more prudent, more proud.  The
ponderosity of her qualifications for nobility was sometimes too much 
even for her mother, and her devotion for the peerage was such, that
she would certainly have declined a seat in heaven if offered to her
without the promise that it should be in the upper house.

The subject first discussed had been Augusta's prospects.  Mr Moffat
had been invited to Courcy Castle, and Augusta had been taken thither
to meet him, with the express intention on the part of the countess,
that they should be man and wife.  The countess had been careful to
make it intelligible to her sister-in-law and niece, that though Mr
Moffat would do excellently well for a daughter of Greshamsbury, he
could not be allowed to raise his eyes to a female scion of Courcy 
Castle.

'Not that we personally dislike him,' said the Lady Amelia; 'but rank
has its drawbacks, Augusta.'  As the Lady Amelia was now somewhat
nearer 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 have serious
drawbacks.

To this Augusta said nothing in objection.  Whether desirable by a De
Courcy or not, the match was to be hers, and there was no doubt
whatever as to the wealth of the man whose name she was to take; the
offer had been made, not to her, but to her aunt; the acceptance had
been expressed, not by her, but by her aunt.  Had she thought of
recapitulating in her memory all that had ever passed between Mr Moffat
and herself, she would have found that it did not amount to more than
the most ordinary conversation between chance partners in a ball-room. 
Nevertheless, she was to be Mrs Moffat.  All that Mr Gresham knew of
him was, that when he met the young man for the first and only time in
his life, he found him extremely hard to deal with in the matter of
money.  He had insisted on having ten thousand pounds with his wife,
and at last refused to go on with the match unless he got six thousand
pounds.  This latter sum the poor squire had undertaken to pay him.

Mr Moffat had been for a year or two MP for Barchester; having been
assisted in his views on that ancient city by all the De Courcy
interest.  He was a Whig, of course.  Not only had Barchester,
departing from the light of other days, returned a Whig member of
Parliament, but it was declared, that at the next election, now near at
hand, a Radical would be sent up, an man pledged to the ballot, to
economies of all sorts, one who would carry out Barchester politics in
all their abrupt, obnoxious, pestilent virulence.  This was one 
Scatcherd, a great railway contractor, a man who was a native of
Barchester, who had bought property in the neighbourhood, and who had
achieved a sort of popularity there and elsewhere by the violence of
his democratic opposition to the aristocracy.  According to this man's
political 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 his
electioneering interests, and Miss Gresham was to return with her aunt
to meet him.  The countess was very anxious that Frank should also
accompany them.  Her great doctrine, that he must marry money, had been
laid down with authority, and received without doubt.  She now pushed
it further, and said that no time should be lost; that he should not
only marry money, but do so very early in life; there was always a 
danger in delay.  The Greshams--of course she alluded only to the males
of the family--were foolishly soft-hearted; no one could say what might
happen.  There was that Miss Thorne always at Greshamsbury.

This was more than Lady Arabella could stand.  She protested that there
was at least no ground for supposing that Frank would absolutely
disgrace his family.

Still the countess continued: 'Perhaps not,' she said; 'but when young
people of perfectly different ranks were allowed to associate together,
there was no saying what danger might arise.  They all know that old Mr
Bateson--the present Mr Bateson's father--had gone off with the
governess; and young Mr Everbeery, near Taunton, had only the other day
married a cook-maid.'

'But Mr Everbeery was always drunk, aunt,' said Augusta, feeling called
upon to say something for her brother.

'Never mind, my dear; these things do happen, and they are very
dreadful.'

'Horrible!' said the Lady Amelia; 'diluting the best blood of the
country, and paving the way for revolution.'  This was very grand; but,
nevertheless, Augusta could not but feel that she perhaps might be
about to dilute the blood of her coming children in marrying the
tailor's son.  She consoled herself by trusting that, at any rate, she
paved the way for no revolution.

'When a thing is so necessary,' said the countess, 'it cannot be done
too 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, we all
know that when old Dunstable died last year, he left over two hundred
thousand to his daughter.'

'It is a great deal of money, certainly,' said Lady Arabella.

'It wold pay off everything, and a great deal more,' said the countess.

'It was ointment, was it not, aunt?' said Augusta.

'I believe so, my dear; something called the ointment of Lebanon, or
something of that sort: but there's no doubt about the money.'

'But how old is she, Robina?' 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 she
like?  I think that Frank already begins to like girls that are young
and pretty.'

'But surely, aunt,' said the Lady Amelia, 'now that he has come to
man's discretion, he will not refuse to consider all that he owes to
his 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 a
parish clergyman would use, in warning some young farmer's son that he
should not put himself on an equal footing with the ploughboys.

It was at last decided that the countess should herself convey to Frank
a special invitation to Courcy Castle, and that when she got him there,
she should do all that lay in her power to prevent his return to
Cambridge, and to further the Dunstable marriage.

'We did think of Miss Dunstable for Porlock, once,' she said, naively;
'but when we found that it wasn't much over two hundred thousand, why
that idea fell to the ground.'  The terms on which the De Courcy blood
might be allowed to dilute itself were, it must be presumed, very high
indeed.

Augusta was sent off to find her brother, and to send him to the
countess in the small drawing-room.  Here the countess was to have her
tea, apart from the outer common world, and her, without interruption,
she was to teach her great lesson to her nephew.

Augusta did find her brother, and found him in the worst of bad
society--so at least the stern De Courcys would have thought.  Old Mr
Bateson and the governess, Mr Everbeery and his cook's diluted blood,
and ways paved for revolutions, all presented themselves to Augusta's
mind when she found her brother walking with no other company than Mary
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 with
the new, or rather, to be off with the new love and again on with the
old, we will not stop to inquire.  Had Lady Arabella, in truth, known
all her son's doings in this way, could she have guessed how very nigh
he had approached the iniquity of old Mr Bateson, and to the folly of
young Mr Everbeery, she would in truth have been in a hurry to send him
off to Courcy Castle and Miss Dunstable.  Some days before the
commencement of our story, young Frank had sworn in sober earnest--in
what he intended for his most sober earnest, his most earnest
sobriety--that he loved Mary Thorne with a love for which words could
find no sufficient expression--with a love that could never die, never
grow dim, never become less, which no opposition on the part of others 
could extinguish, which no opposition on her part could repel; that he
might, could, would, and should have her for his wife, 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 yet
twenty-one years of age, attempted to possess himself of the affections
of the doctor's niece.  And yet three days afterwards he was quite
ready to flirt with Miss Oriel.

If such things are done in the green wood, what will be done in the
dry?

And what had Mary said when those fervent protestations of an undying
love had been thrown at her feet?  Mary, it must be remembered, was
very nearly of the same age as Frank; but, as I an others have so often
said before, 'Women grow on the sunny side of the wall.'  Though Frank
was only a boy, it behoved Mary to be something more than a girl. Frank
might be allowed, without laying himself open to much reproach, to 
throw all of what he believed to be his heart into a protestation of
what he believed to be love; but Mary was in duty bound to be more
thoughtful, more reticent, more aware of the facts of their position,
more careful of her own feelings, and more careful also of his.

And yet she could not put him down as another young lady might put down
another young gentleman.  It is very seldom that a young man, unless he
be tipsy, assumes an unwelcome familiarity in his early acquaintance
with any girl; but when acquaintance has been long and intimate,
familiarities must follow as a matter of course.  Frank and Mary had
been so much together in his holidays, had so constantly consorted 
together as boys and girls, that, as regarded her, he had not 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 jovial spirits, and
was, withal, so fond of them and him, that it was very difficult for
her to mark with accurate feeling, and stop with reserved brow, the
shade of change from a boy's liking to a man's love.

And Beatrice, too, had done harm in this matter.  With a spirit
painfully unequal to that of her grand relatives, she had quizzed Mary
and Frank about their early flirtations.  This she had done; but had
instinctively avoided doing so before her mother and sister, and had
thus made a secret of it, as it were, between herself, Mary, and her
brother;--had given currency, as it were, to the idea that there might
be something serious between the two.  Not that Beatrice had ever
wished to promote a marriage between them, or had even thought of such a
thing.  She was girlish, thoughtless, imprudent, inartistic, and very
unlike a De Courcy.  Very unlike a De Courcy she was in all that; but,
nevertheless, she had the De Courcy veneration for blood, and, more
than that, she had the Gresham feeling joined to that of the De 
Courcys.  The Lady Amelia would not for worlds have had the De Courcy
blood defiled; but gold she thought could not defile.  Now Beatrice was
ashamed of her sister's marriage, and had often declared, within her
own heart, that nothing could have made her marry a Mr Moffat.

She had said so also to Mary, and Mary had told her that she was
right.  Mary was also proud of blood, was proud of her uncle's blood,
and the two girls talked together in all the warmth of girlish
confidence, of the great glories of family traditions and family
honours.  Beatrice had talked in utter ignorance as to her friend's
birth; and Mary, poor Mary, she had talked, being as ignorant; but not
without a strong suspicion that, at some future time, a day of sorrow
would tell her some fearful truth.

On one point Mary's mind was strongly made up.  No wealth, no mere
worldly advantage could make any one her superior.  If she were born a
gentlewoman, then was she fit to match with any gentleman.  Let the
most wealthy man in Europe pour all his wealth at her feet, she could,
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 yield up the fortress
of her heart, the guardianship of her soul, the possession of her mind;
not that alone, nor that, even, as any possible slightest fraction of a
make-weight.

If she were born a gentlewoman!  And then came to her mind those
curious questions; what makes a gentleman? what makes a gentlewoman? 
What is the inner reality, the spiritualised quintessence of that
privilege in the world which men call rank, which forces the thousands
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, and
what, and whence he might.  So far the spirit of democracy was strong
with her.  Beyond this it could be had but by inheritance, received as
it were second-hand, or twenty-second hand.  And so far the spirit of 
aristocracy was strong within her.  All this she had, as may be
imagined, learnt in early years from her uncle; and all this she was at
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 this right,
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,
it must 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 be
not so, if you do not agree that it shall be so, I shall be turned out
of Greshamsbury.'

'What! you mean my mother?' said Frank.

'Indeed!  I mean no such thing,' said Mary, with a flash from her eye
that made Frank almost start.  'I mean no such thing. I mean you, not
your mother.  I am not in the least afraid of Lady Arabella; but I am
afraid of you.'

'Afraid of me, Mary!'

'Miss Thorne; pray, pray, remember.  It must be Miss Thorne. Do not
turn me out of Greshamsbury.  Do not separate me from Beatrice.  It is
you that will drive me out; no one else.  I could stand my ground
against your mother--I feel I could; but I cannot stand against you if
you treat me otherwise than--than--'

'Otherwise than what?  I want to treat you as the girl I have chosen
from all the world as my wife.'

'I am sorry you should so soon have found it necessary to make a
choice.  But, Mr Gresham, we must not joke about this at present.  I am
sure you would not willingly injure me; but if you speak to me, or of
me, again in that way, you will injure me, injure me so much that I
shall be forced to leave Greshamsbury, in my own defence.  I know you
are too generous to drive me to that.'

And so the interview had ended.  Frank, of course, went upstairs to see
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; doubtless
with a view of preventing any appointment to his father's guests.



CHAPTER VII

THE DOCTOR'S GARDEN

Mary had contrived to quiet her lover with considerable propriety of
demeanour.  Then came on her the somewhat harder task of quieting
herself.  Young ladies, on the whole, are perhaps quite as susceptible
of the after feelings as young gentlemen are.  Now Frank Gresham, was
handsome, amiable, by no means a fool in intellect, excellent in heart;
and he was, moreover, a gentleman, being the son of Mr Gresham of 
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 a brother. 
It must not therefore be supposed that when Frank Gresham told her that
he loved her, she had heard it altogether unconcerned.

He had not, perhaps, made his declaration with that propriety of
language in which such scenes are generally described as being carried
on.  Ladies may perhaps think that Mary should have been deterred, by
the very boyishness of his manner, from thinking at all seriously on
the subject.  His 'will you, won't you--do you, don't you?' does not
sound like the poetic raptures of a highly inspired lover.  But, 
nevertheless, there had been warmth, and a reality in it not in itself
repulsive; and Mary's anger--anger? no, not anger--her objections to the
declarations were probably not based on the absurdity of her lover's
language.

We are inclined to think that these matters are not always discussed by
mortal lovers in the poetically passionate phraseology which is
generally thought to be appropriate for their description.  A man
cannot well describe that which he has never seen or heard; but the
absolute words and acts of one such scene did once come to the author's
knowledge.  The couple were by no means plebeian, or below the proper 
standard of high bearing and high breeding; they were a handsome pair,
living among educated people, sufficiently given to mental pursuits,
and in every way what a pair of polite lovers ought to be.  The
all-important conversation passed in this wise.  The site of the
passionate scene was the sea-shore, on which they were walking, in
autumn.

Gentleman.  'Well, Miss --, the long and short of it is this: here I am;
you can take me or leave me.'

Lady-scratching a gutter on the sand with her parasol, so as to allow a
little salt water to run out of one hole into another. 'Of course, 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 wider scale.  'Well, I
don't exactly want to leave you.'

And so the matter was settled: settled with much propriety and
satisfaction; and both the lady and gentleman would have thought, had
they ever thought about the matter at all, that this, the sweetest
moment of their lives, had been graced by all the poetry by which such
moments ought to be hallowed.

When Mary had, as she thought, properly subdued young Frank, the offer
of whose love she, at any rate, knew was, at such a period of his life,
an utter absurdity, then she found it necessary to subdue herself. What
happiness on earth could be greater than the possession of such a love,
had the true possession been justly and honestly within her reach? What
man could be more lovable than such a man as would grow from such a
boy?  And then, did she not love him--love him already, without waiting
for any change?  Did she not feel that there was that about him, about
him and about herself, too, which might so well fit them for each
other?  It would be so sweet to be the sister of Beatrice, the daughter
of the squire, to belong to Greshamsbury as a part and parcel of
itself.

But though she could not restrain these thoughts, it never for a moment
occurred to her to take Frank's offer in earnest.  Though she was a
grown woman, he was still a boy.  He would have to see the world before
he settled in it, and would change his mind about woman half a score of
times before he married. Then, too, though she did not like the Lady
Arabella, she felt that she owed something, if not to her kindness, at
least to her forbearance; and she knew, felt inwardly certain, that she
would be doing wrong, that the world would say that she was doing
wrong, that her uncle would think her wrong, if she endeavoured to take
advantage of what had passed.

She had not for an instant doubted; not for a moment had she 
contemplated it as possible that she should ever become Mrs Gresham
because Frank had offered to make her so; but, nevertheless, she could
not help thinking of what had occurred--of thinking of it, most probably
much more than Frank did himself.

A day or two afterwards, on the evening before Frank's birthday, she
was alone with her uncle, walking in the garden behind their house, and
she then essayed to question him, with the object of learning if she
were fitted by her birth to be the wife of such a one as Frank
Gresham.  They were in the habit of walking there together when he
happened to be at home of a summer's evening.  This was not often the
case, for his hours of labour extended much beyond those usual to the 
upper working world, the hours, namely, between breakfast and dinner;
but those minutes that they did thus pass together, the doctor regarded
as perhaps the pleasantest of his life.

'Uncle,' said she, after a while, 'what do you think of this marriage
of Miss Gresham's?'

'Well, Minnie'--such was his name of endearment for her--'I can't say I
have thought much about it, and I don't suppose anybody else has
either.'

'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 they
had 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 the other.'

'Well, I have been thinking about it, at any rate, uncle.'

'That's very good of you; that will save me the trouble; and perhaps
save Miss Gresham too.  If you have thought it over thoroughly, that
will 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.  What
is Mr Moffat's family to you, and me?  Mr Moffat has that which ranks
above family honours.  He is a very rich man.'

'Yes,' said Mary, 'I know he is rich; and a rich man I suppose can buy
anything--except a woman that is worth having.'

'A rich man can buy anything,' said the doctor; 'not that I meant to
say that Mr Moffat has bought Miss Gresham.  I have no doubt that they
will suit each other very well,' he added with an air of decisive
authority, 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 worldly wisdom,
which, after all, is not wisdom at all in your eyes.'

'Am I?'

'You know you are: and as for the impropriety of discussing Miss
Gresham's marriage--'

'I did not say it was improper.'

'Oh, yes, you did; of course such things must be discussed.  How is one
to have an opinion if one does not get it by looking at the things that
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 Mrs
Moffat.'

'Of course you do: so do I.  I hope it as much as I can hope what I
don'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 an
hypothesis.'

'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 rate think
of marrying some day.'

'The latter alternative is certainly possible enough.'

'Therefore, in seeing a friend taking such a step, I cannot but
speculate on the matter as though I were myself in her place. If I were
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. I suppose
I might marry any one without degrading myself.'

It was almost ill-natured of her to say this; but she had not meant to
say it in the sense which the sounds seemed to bear. She had failed in
being able to bring her uncle to the point she wished by the road she
had planned, and in seeking another road, she had abruptly fallen into
unpleasant places.

'I should be very sorry that my niece should think so,' said he; 'and
am 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 clear
minded--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 to 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 so
because her family is high and noble, and because he is low and
ignoble.  When one has an opinion on such matters, one cannot but apply
it to things and people around one; and having applied my opinion to
her, the next step naturally is to apply it to myself.  Were I Miss
Gresham, I would not marry Mr Moffat though he rolled in 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 he last speech; but as she
finished it, the doctor moved on again, and she moved with him.  He
walked on very slowly without answering her; and she, out of her full
mind, pursued aloud the tenor of her thoughts.

'That does not follow,' said the doctor quickly.  'A man raises a woman
to his own standard, but a woman must take that of her husband.'

Again they were silent, and again they walked on, Mary holding her
uncle's arm with both her hands.  She was determined, however, to come
to the point, and after considering for a while how best she might do
it, she ceased to beat any longer about the bush, and asked him a plain
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 to be
an old fool and talk of such matters in a sense different from that in
which they are spoken of by the world at large, I may say that the
Thornes are as good, or perhaps better, than the Greshams, but I should
be sorry to say so seriously to any one.  The Greshams now 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 squire
here, 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 same class
with the squire--I, a poor country doctor?'

'You are not answering me fairly, dear uncle; dearest uncle, do you not
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 allowing his
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 for you? 
What must I have been but for you?' And she threw herself on his
breast, and clinging with her arms round his neck, kissed his forehead,
cheeks, and lips.

There was nothing more said then on the subject between them. Mary
asked no further question, nor did the doctor volunteer further
information.  She would have been most anxious to ask about her
mother'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 the
doctor, that she did know.  Little as she had heard of her relatives in
her early youth, few as had been the words which had fallen from her 
uncle in her hearing as to her parentage, she did know this, that she
was the daughter of Henry Thorne, a brother of the doctor, and a son of
the old prebendary.  Trifling little things that had occurred,
accidents which could not be prevented, had told her this; but not a
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 had spoken 
of her mother.  She had long known that she was the child of a Thorne;
now she knew also that she was no cousin of the Thornes of Ullathorne;
no cousin, at least, in the world's ordinary language, no niece indeed
of her uncle, unless by his special permission that she should 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 her uncle
came up to her.  He did not sit down, or even take off the hat which he
still wore; but coming close to her, and still standing, he spoke
thus:-

'Mary, after what has passed I should be very unjust and very cruel to
you not to tell you one thing more than you have now learned.  Your
mother was unfortunate in much, not in everything; but the world, which
is very often stern in such matters, never judged her to have disgraced
herself.  I tell you this, my child, in order that you may respect her 
memory;' and so saying, he again left her without giving her time to
speak a word.

What he then told her he had told in mercy.  He felt what must be her
feelings when she reflected that she had to blush for her mother; that
not only could she not speak of her mother, but that she might hardly
think of her with innocence; and to mitigate such sorrow as this, and
also to do justice to the woman whom his brother had so wronged, he had
forced himself to reveal so much as is stated above.

And then he walked slowly by himself, backwards and forwards through
the 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, that nothing
should be known of her or by her as to her mother.  He was willing to 
devote himself to this orphan child of his brother, this last seedling
of his father's house; but he was not willing so to do this as to bring
himself in any manner into familiar contact with the Scatcherds.  He
had boasted to himself that he, at any rate, was a gentleman; and that
she, if she were to live in his house, sit at his table, and share his
hearth, must be a lady.  He would tell no lie about her; he would not 
to any one make her out to be aught other or aught better than she was;
people would talk about her of course, only let them not talk to him;
he conceived of himself--and the conception was not without due
ground--that should any do so, he had that within him which would
silence them.  He would never claim for this little creature--thus
brought into the world without a legitimate position in which to
stand--he would never claim for her any station that would not properly 
be her own.  He would make for her a 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 often
do, rather than been arranged by him.  During ten or twelve years no
one had heard of Mary Thorne; the memory of Henry Thorne and his tragic
death had passed away; the knowledge that an infant had been born whose
birth was connected with that tragedy, a knowledge never widely spread,
had faded down into utter ignorance.  At the end of these twelve years,
Dr Thorne had announced, that a young niece, a child of a brother long
since dead, was coming to live with him.  As he had contemplated, no
one spoke to him; but some people did no doubt talk among themselves. 
Whether or not the exact truth was surmised 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 Dr Thorne's niece ever troubled him; no idea
that Mary Scatcherd had left a child in England ever occurred to him;
and that person was Roger 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 with your
children if you think much of such things.  Do you, however, see to
this.  I would rather that no one else should be told.'

No one else had been told; and the squire had 'seen to it,' by
accustoming himself to look at Mary Thorne running about the house with
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 would have her
placed at once on the bench of magistrates;--much to the disgust of the
Lady Arabella.

And so things had gone on and on, and had not been thought of with much
downright thinking; till now, when she was one-and-twenty years of
age, his niece came to him, asking as to her position, and inquiring in
what rank of life she was to find a husband.

And so the doctor walked, backwards and forwards through the garden,
slowly, thinking now with some earnestness what if, after all, he had
been wrong about his niece?  What if by endeavouring to place her in
the position of a lady, he had falsely so placed her, and robbed her of
her legitimate position?  What if there was no rank of life in which
she could now properly attach herself?

And then, how had it answered, that plan of his of keeping her all to
himself?  He, Dr Thorne, was still a poor man; the gift of saving money
had not been his; he had ever a comfortable house for her to live in,
and, in spite of Doctors Fillgrave, Century, Rerechild, and others, had
made from his profession an income sufficient for their joint wants;
but he had not done as others do: he had no three or four thousand
pounds in the Three per Cents., on which Mary might live in some
comfort when he should die.  Late in life he had insured his life for
eight hundred pounds; and to that, and that only, had he 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 the father's?  On that side,
though there had been utter poverty, there was now absolute wealth.

But when he took her to himself, had he not rescued her from the very
depths of the lowest misery: from the degradation of the workhouse;
from the scorn of honest-born charity-children; from the lowest of the
world's low conditions?  Was she not now the apple of his eye, his one
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 as the coarse
manners and uncouth society of her at present unknown connexions?  He,
who had never worshipped wealth on his own behalf; he, who had scorned
the idol of the gold, and had ever been teaching her to scorn it; was
he now to show that his philosophy had all been false 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 was made,
whose name, at any rate, was his own; for him who had a fixed
standing-ground in the world; it might be well for him to indulge in
large views of a philosophy antagonistic to the world's practice; but
had he a right to do it for his niece?  What man would marry a girl so
placed?  For those among whom she might have legitimately found a
level, education had now utterly unfitted her.  And then, he well knew
that she would never put out her hand in token of love to any one
without telling all she knew and all she surmised as to her own birth.

And that question of this evening; had it not been instigated by some
appeal on her part?  Was there not already within her breast some cause
for disquietude which had made her so pertinacious?  Why else had she
told him then, for the first time, that she did not know where to rank
herself?  If such an appeal had been made to her, it must have come
from young Frank Gresham.  What, in such case, would it behove him to 
do?  Should he pack up his all, his lancet-case, pestle and mortar, and
seek anew fresh ground in a new world, leaving behind a huge triumph to
those learned enemies of his, Fillgrave, Century, and Rerechild? Better
that than remain at Greshamsbury at the cost of the 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 other
girls at Greshamsbury took place some two or three days subsequently to
Frank's generous offer of his hand and heart. Mary had quite made up
her mind that the whole thing was to be regarded as a folly, and that
it was not to be spoken of to any one; but yet her heart was sore
enough.  She was full of pride, and yet she knew she must bow her neck
to the pride of others. Being, as she was herself, nameless, she could
not but feel a stern, unflinching antagonism, the antagonism of a
democrat, to the pretensions of others who were blessed with that of
which she had been deprived.  She had this feeling; and yet, of all the
things that she coveted, she most coveted that, for glorying in which,
she was determined to heap scorn on others. She said to herself, 
proudly, that God's handiwork was the inner man, the inner woman, the
naked creature animated by a living soul; that all other adjuncts were
but man's clothing for the creature; all others, whether stitched by
tailors or contrived by kings.  Was it not within her capacity to do as
nobly, to love as truly, to worship her God in heaven with as perfect a
faith, and her god on earth with as leal a troth, as though blood had
descended to her purely through scores of purely born progenitors?  So
to herself she spoke; and yet, as she said it, she knew that were she a
man, such a man as the heir of Greshamsbury should be, nothing would
tempt her to sully her children's blood by mating herself with any one
that was base born.  She felt that were she Augusta Gresham, no Mr
Moffat, let his wealth be what it might, should win her hand unless he
too could tell of family honours and a line of ancestors.

And so, with a mind at war with itself, she came forth armed to do
battle against the world's prejudices, those prejudices she herself
loved so well.

And was she thus to give up her old affections, her feminine loves,
because she found that she was a cousin to nobody?  Was she no longer
to pour out her heart to Beatrice Gresham with all the girlish
volubility of an equal?  Was she to be severed from Patience Oriel, and
banished--or rather was she to banish herself--from the free place she
had maintained in the various youthful female conclaves within that
parish of Greshamsbury?

Hitherto, what Mary Thorne would say, what Miss Thorne suggested in
such and such a matter, was quite as frequently asked as any opinion
from Augusta Gresham--quite as frequently, unless when it chanced that
any of the De Courcy girls were at the house.  Was this to be given
up?  These feelings had grown up among them since they were children, 
and had not hitherto been questioned among them.  Now they were
questioned by Mary Thorne.  Was she in fact to find that her position
had been a false one, and must be changed?

Such had been her feelings when she protested that she would not be
Augusta Gresham's bridesmaid, and offered to put her neck beneath
Beatrice's foot; when she drove the Lady Margaretta out of the room,
and gave her own opinion as to the proper grammatical construction of
the word humble; such also had been her feelings when she kept her hand
so rigidly to herself while Frank held the dining-room door open for
her to pass through.

'Patience Oriel,' said she to herself, 'can talk to him of her father
and mother: let Patience take his hand; let her talk to him;' and then,
not long afterwards, she saw that Patience did talk to him; and seeing
it, she walked along silent, among some of the old people, and with
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 that
his love-making was nothing but a boy's silly rhapsody?  Had she not
said so while she had yet reason to hope that her blood was as good as
his own?  Had she not seen at a glance that his love tirade was worthy
of ridicule, and of no other notice?  And yet there was a tear now in
her eye because this boy, whom she had scolded from her, whose hand, 
offered in pure friendship, she had just refused, because he, so
rebuffed by her, had carried his fun and gallantry to one who would be
less cross to him!

She could hear as she was walking, that while Lady Margaretta was with
them, their voices were loud and merry; and her sharp ear could also
hear, when Lady Margaretta left them, that Frank's voice became low and
tender.  So she walked on, saying nothing, looking straight before her,
and by degrees separating herself from all the others.

The Greshamsbury grounds were on one side somewhat too closely hemmed
in by the village.  On this side was a path running the length of one
of the streets of the village; and far down the path, near the
extremity of the gardens, and near also to a wicket-gate which led out
into the village, and which could be opened from the inside, was a
seat, under a big yew-tree, from which, through a breach in the houses,
might be seen the parish church, standing in the park on the other
side.  Hither Mary walked alone, and here she seated herself,
determined to get rid of her tears and their traces before she again
showed herself to the world.

'I shall never be happy here again,' said she to herself; 'never.  I am
no longer one of them, and I cannot live among them unless I am so.'
And then an idea came across her mind that she hated Patience Oriel;
and then, instantly another idea followed--quick as such thoughts are
quick--that she did not hate Patience Oriel at all; that she 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 the lady of 
Greshamsbury.  And then the tear, which had been no whit controlled,
which indeed had now made itself master of her, came to a head, and,
bursting through the floodgates of the eye, came rolling down, and in
its fall, wetted her hand as it lay on her lap.  'What a fool! what an
idiot! what an empty-headed cowardly fool I am!' said she, 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 the
grounds.  'You will excuse a lecture, won't you, from so old a
friend?--though you are a man now, and discreet of course, by Act of
Parliament.'

'Indeed I will, doctor,' said Frank.  'I will excuse a longer lecture
than that from you.'

'At any rate it won't be tonight,' said the doctor, as he disappeared. 
'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 stood
still till she heard the click of the door, and then began walking
rapidly back to the house by the path which had brought her thither. 
The moment, however, that she did so, she found that she was followed;
and in a very few moments Frank was alongside of her.

'Oh, Mary!' said he, calling to her, but not loudly, before he quite
overtook her, 'how odd that I should come across you just when I have a
message for you! and why are you all alone?'

Mary's first impulse was to reiterate her command to him to call her no
more by her Christian name; but her second impulse told her that such
an injunction at the present moment would not be prudent on her part. 
The traces of her tears were still there; and she well knew that a very
little, the slightest show of tenderness on his part, the slightest 
effort on her own to appear indifferent, would bring down more than one
other such intruder.  It would, moreover, be better for her to drop all
outward sign that she remembered what had taken place.  So long, then,
as he and she were at Greshamsbury together, he should call her Mary if
he pleased. He would soon be gone; and while he remained, she would
keep out of his way.

'Your uncle has been obliged to go away to see an old woman at
Silverbridge.'

'At Silverbridge! why, he won't be back all night.  Why could not the
old 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 so
late on such a journey; but it was always felt a triumph when he was
invited into the strongholds of the enemies.

'And Janet is to come over for you.  However, I told him it was quite
unnecessary to disturb another old woman, for that I should see 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, and
talking of you.  I suppose you want to set the countess against me for
ever.  Think, too, how angry Lady Arabella will be if you are absent on
such and errand as this.'

'To hear you talk, Mary, one would think that you were going to
Silverbridge yourself.'

'Perhaps I am.'

'If I did not go with you, some of the other fellows would.  John, or
George--'

'Good gracious, Frank!  Fancy either of the Mr De Courceys walking home
with me!'

She had forgotten herself, and the strict propriety on which she had
resolved, in the impossibility of forgoing her little joke against the
De Courcy grandeur; she had forgotten herself, and had called him Frank
in her old, former, eager, free tone of voice; and then, remembering
she had done so, she drew herself up, but her lips, and determined to
be doubly on her guard in the future.

'Well, it shall be either one of them, or I,' said Frank: 'perhaps you
would prefer my cousin George to me?'

'I should prefer Janet to either, seeing that with her I should not
suffer 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 mud
with village young ladies is boring.  All gentlemen feel it so.'

'There is no mud; if there were you would not be allowed to walk at
all.'

'Oh!  village young ladies never care for such things, though 
fashionable gentlemen do.'

'I would carry you home, Mary, if it would do you a service,' said
Frank, 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 act
baby; and you were to act nurse, it really would not be comfortable for
either of us.'

Frank Gresham felt disconcerted, though he hardly knew why.  He was
striving to say something tender to his lady-love; but every word that
he spoke she turned into joke.  Mary did not answer him coldly or
unkindly; but, nevertheless, he was displeased.  One does not like to
have one's little offerings of sentimental service turned into
burlesque when one is in love in earnest.  Mary's jokes had appeared so
easy too; they seemed to come from a heart so little troubled.  This,
also, was cause of vexation to Frank.  If he could but have known it
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 owning to
himself that he had been beaten; owning so much, but owning it with
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.  No faint 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 see whether the
fair lady might not be won by becoming audacity.

'Mary,' said he, stopping in the path--for they were now near the spot
where it broke out upon the lawn, and they could already hear the
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, be unkind
to me.'

'You refused my hand just now,' continued he.  'Of all the people here
at Greshamsbury, you are the only one that has not wished me joy; the
only one--'

'I do wish you joy; I will wish you joy: there is my hand,' and she
frankly put out her ungloved hand.  'You are quite man enough to
understand me: there is my hand; I trust you use it only as it is meant
to be used.'

He took it in his hand and pressed it cordially, as he might have done
that of any other friend in such a case; and then--did not drop it as
he should have done.  He was not a St Anthony, and it was most
imprudent in Miss Thorne to subject him to such a temptation.

'Mary,' said he; 'dear Mary! dearest Mary! if you did but know how I
love you!'

As he said this, holding Miss Thorne's hand he stood on the pathway
with his back towards the lawn and house, and, therefore, did not at
first see his sister Augusta, who had just at that moment come upon
them.  Mary blushed up to her straw hat, and, with a quick jerk,
recovered her hand.  Augusta saw the motion, and Mary saw that Augusta
had seen it.

From my tedious way of telling it, the reader will be led to imagine
that the hand-squeezing had been protracted to a duration quite
incompatible with any objection to such an arrangement on the part of
the lady; but the fault is mine: in no part hers.  Were I possessed of
a quick spasmodic style of narrative, I should have been able to
include it all--Frank's misbehaviour, Mary's immediate anger, Augusta's
arrival, and keen, Argus-eyed inspection, and then Mary's subsequent
misery--in five words and half a dozen dashes and inverted commas.  The
thing would have been so told; for, to do Mary justice, she did not
leave her hand in Frank's a moment longer than she could help 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 veins
the high De Courcy blood was somewhat tempered by an admixture of the
Gresham attributes; nor was she predisposed to make her brother her
enemy by publishing to the world any of his little tender peccadilloes;
but she could not but bethink herself of what her aunt had been saying
as to the danger of any such encounters as that she just now had
beheld; she could not but start at seeing her brother thus, on the very
brink of the precipice of which the countess had specially forewarned
her mother.  She, Augusta, was, as she well knew, doing her duty by her
family by marrying a tailor's son for whom she did not care a chip, 
seeing that the tailor's son was possessed of untold wealth.  Now when
one member of a household is making a struggle for a family, it is
painful to see the benefit of that struggle negatived by the folly of
another member.  The future Mrs Moffat did feel aggrieved by the
fatuity of the young heir, and, consequently, took upon herself to look
as much like her Aunt De Courcy as she could do.

'Well, what is it?' said Frank, looking rather disgusted.  'What makes
you stick your chin up and look in that way?' Frank had hitherto been
rather a despot among his sisters, and forgot that the eldest of them
was now passing altogether from under his sway to that of the tailor's
son.

'Frank,' said Augusta, in a tone of voice which did honour to the great
lessons she had lately received.  'Aunt De Courcy wants to see you
immediately in the small drawing-room;' and, as she said so, she
resolved to say a few words of advice to Miss Thorne as soon as her
brother should have left them.

'In the small drawing-room, does she?  Well, Mary, we may as well go
together, for I suppose it is tea-time now.'

'You had better go at once, Frank,' said Augusta; 'the countess will be
angry if you keep her waiting.  She has been expecting you these twenty
minutes.  Mary Thorne and I can return together.'

There was something in the tone in which the word, 'Mary Thorne', were
uttered, which made Mary at once draw herself up. 'I hope,' said she,
'that Mary Thorne will never be a hindrance to either of you.'

Frank's ear had also perceived that there was something in the tone of
his sister's voice not boding comfort to Mary; he perceived that the De
Courcy blood in Augusta's veins was already rebelling against the
doctor's niece on his part, though it had condescended to submit itself
to the tailor's son on her own part.

'Well, I am going,' said he; 'but look here Augusta, if you say one
word 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 another,
as though you were three children, tearing your frocks and trousers in
getting through the same hedge together? Oh, Frank! Frank! you, the
full-blown heir of Greshamsbury?  You, a man already endowed with a
man's discretion?  You, the forward rider, that did but now threaten
young Harry Baker and the Honourable John to eclipse them by prowess in
the field?  You, of age?  Why, thou canst not as yet have 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 than
that, in such a case, was he never destined to proceed.  Mary's
indignation flashed upon him, striking him dumb long before the sound
of her voice reached his ears; and yet she spoke as quick as the words
would come to her call, and somewhat loudly too.

'Say one word of Mary, Mr Gresham!  And why should she not say as many
words 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 am
concerned, tell it to whom you please.  This was the second time your
brother--'

'Mary, Mary,' said Frank, deprecating her loquacity.

'I beg your pardon, Mr Gresham; you have made it necessary that I
should tell your sister all.  He has now twice thought it well to amuse
himself by saying to me words which it was ill-natured in him to speak,
and--'

'Ill-natured, Mary!'

'Ill-natured in him to speak,' continued Mary, 'and to which it would
be absurd for me to listen.  He probably does the same to others,' she
added, being unable in heart to forget that sharpest of her wounds,
that flirtation of his with Patience Oriel; 'but to me it is almost
cruel.  Another girl might laugh at him, or listen to him, as he would
choose; but I can do neither.  I shall now keep away from Greshamsbury,
at any rate till he has left it; and, Augusta, I can only beg you to
understand, that, as far as I am concerned, there is nothing which may
not be told to all the world.'

And, so saying, she walked on a little in advance of them, as proud as
a queen.  Had Lady de Courcy herself met her at this moment, she would
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 also
followed, but not in silence.  When his first surprise at Mary's great
anger was over, he felt himself called upon to say some word that might
exonerate his lady-love; and some word also of protestation as to his
own purpose.

'There is nothing to be told, at least of Mary,' he said, speaking to
his sister; 'but of me, you may tell this, if you choose to disoblige
your brother--that I love Mary Thorne with all my heart; and that I will
never love anyone else.'

By this time they had reached the lawn, and Mary was able to turn away
from the path which led up to the house.  As she left them she said in
a voice, now low enough, 'I cannot prevent him from talking nonsense,
Augusta; but you will bear me witness, that I do not willingly hear
it.'  And, so saying, she started off almost in a run towards the
distant part of the gardens, in which she saw Beatrice.

Frank, as he walked up to the house with his sister, endeavoured to
induce her to give him a promise that she would tell no tales as to
what she had heard and seen.

'Of course, Frank, it must be all nonsense,' she had said; 'and you
shouldn't amuse yourself in such a way.'

'Well, but, Guss, come, we have always been friends; don't let us
quarrel just when you are going to be married.'  But Augusta would make
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 gravity
attached to the coming interview.  Three persons, his mother, one of
his younger sisters, and the Lady Amelia, each stopped him to let him 
know that the countess was waiting; and he perceived that a sort of
guard was kept upon the door to save her ladyship from any undesirable
intrusion.

The countess frowned at the moment of his entrance, but soon smoothed
her brow, and invited him to take a chair ready prepared for him
opposite to the elbow of the sofa on which she was leaning.  She had a
small table before her, on which was her teacup, so that she was able
to preach at him nearly as well as though she had been ensconced in a
pulpit.

'My dear Frank,' said she, in a voice thoroughly suitable to the
importance of the communication, 'you have to-day come of age.'

Frank remarked that he understood that such was the case, and added
that 'that was the reason for all the fuss.'

'Yes; you have to-day come of age.  Perhaps I should have been glad to
see such an occasion noticed at Greshamsbury with some more suitable
signs 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 the
first commoner in Barsetshire.

'Well; so it is.  I am quite sure there isn't a better fellow than
father anywhere in the county.'

The countess sighed.  Her opinion of the poor squire was very different
from Frank's.  'It is no use now,' said she, 'looking back to that
which cannot be cured.  The first commoner in Barsetshire should hold a
position--I will not of course say equal to that of a peer.'

'Oh dear no; of course not,' said Frank; and a bystander might have
thought that there was a touch of satire in his tone.

'No, not equal to that of a peer; but still of very paramount 
importance.  Of course my first ambition is bound up in Porlock.'

'Of course,' said Frank, thinking how very weak was the staff on which
his aunt's ambition rested; for Lord Porlock's youthful career had not
been such as to give unmitigated satisfaction to his parents.

'Is bound up in Porlock:' and then the countess plumed herself; but the
mother sighed.  'And next to Porlock, my anxiety is about you.'

'Upon my honour, aunt, I am very much obliged.  I shall be all right,
you know.'

'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 your
father.  It may, perhaps have been his misfortune, rather than his
fault--'

'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 had
elected to belong.

'But there is the fact, Frank, too plain to us all; Greshamsbury is not
what it was.  It is your duty to restore it to its former importance.'

'My duty!' said Frank, rather puzzled.

'Yes, Frank, your duty.  It all depends on you now.  Of course you know
that your father owes a great deal of money.'

Frank muttered something.  Tidings had in some shape reached his ear
that his father was not comfortably circumstances as regards money.

'And then, he has sold Boxall Hill.  It cannot be expected that Boxall
Hill shall be purchased, as some horrid man, a railway-maker, I
believe--'

'Yes; that's Scatcherd.'

'Well, he has built a house there, I'm told; so I presume that it
cannot be bought back: but it will be your duty, Frank, to pay all the
debts that there are on the property, and to purchase what, at any
rate, will be equal to Boxall Hill.'

Frank opened his eyes wide and stared at his aunt, as though doubting
much whether or no she were in her right mind.  He pay off the family
debts!  He buy up property of four thousand pounds a year!  He
remained, however, quite quiet, waiting the elucidation of the mystery.

'Frank, of course you understand me.'

Frank was obliged to declare, that just at the present moment he did
not 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 has unfortunately
so hampered you with regard to money, that unless you set the matter
right yourself, you can never enjoy that position.  Of course you must
marry money.'

'Marry money!' said he, considering for the first time that in all
probability Mary Thorne's fortune would not be extensive. 'Marry
money!'

'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.  In
the 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 absurd
engagement.'

Frank blushed again; and then saying to himself, 'How much the old girl
knows about it!' felt a little proud of his passion for Mary Thorne,
and of the declaration he had made to her.

'And your connexion with Courcy Castle,' continued the countess, now
carrying up the list of Frank's advantages to its greatest climax,
'will make the matter so easy for you, that really, you will hardly
have any difficulty.'

Frank could not but say how much obliged he felt to Courcy Castle and
its inmates.

'Of course I would not wish to interfere with you in any underhand way,
Frank; but I will tell you what has occurred to me.  You have heard,
probably, of Miss Dunstable?'

'The daughter of the ointment of Lebanon man?'

'And of course you know that her fortune is immense,' continued the
countess, not deigning to notice her nephew's allusion to the
ointment.  'Quite immense when compared with the wants and any position
of any commoner.  Now she is coming to Courcy Castle, and I wish you to
come and meet her.'

'But, aunt, just at this moment I have to read for my degree like
anything.  I go up, you know, to Oxford.'

'Degree!' said the countess.  'Why, Frank, I am talking to you of your
prospects in life, of your future position, of that on which everything
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. tomorrow morning.

'You can read just as well at Courcy Castle.  Miss Dunstable will not
interfere with that,' said his aunt, who knew the expediency of
yielding occasionally; 'but I must beg you will come over and meet
her.  You will find her a most charming young woman, remarkably well
educated I am told, and--'

'How old is she?' asked Frank.

'I really cannot say exactly,' said the countess; 'but it is not, I
imagine, a matter of much moment.'

'Is she thirty?' asked Frank, who looked upon an unmarried woman of
that age as quite an old maid.

'I dare say she may be about that age,' said the countess, who regarded
the subject from a very different point of view.

'Thirty!' said Frank out loud, but speaking, nevertheless as though to
himself.

'It is a matter of no moment,' said his aunt, almost angrily. 'When a
subject itself is of such vital importance, objections of no real
weight should not be brought into view. If you wish to hold up your
head in the country; if you wish to represent your county in
Parliament, as has been done by your father, your grandfather, and your
great-grandfathers; if you wish to keep a house over your head, and to
leave Greshamsbury to your son after you, you must marry money.  What
does it signify whether Miss Dunstable be twenty-eight or thirty?  She
has got money; and if you marry her, you may then consider that your
position in life is made.'

Frank was astonished at his aunt's eloquence; but, in spite of that
eloquence, he made up his mind that he would not marry Miss Dunstable. 
How could he, indeed, seeing that his troth was already plighted to
Mary Thorne in the presence of his sister?  This circumstance, however,
he did not choose to plead to his aunt, so he recapitulated any other
objections that presented themselves to his mind.

In the first place, he was so anxious about his degree that he could
not think of marrying at present; then he suggested that it might be
better to postpone the question till the season's hunting should be
over; he declared that he could not visit Courcy Castle till he got a
new suit of clothes home from the tailor; and ultimately remembered
that he had a particular engagement to go fly-fishing with Mr Oriel on
that day week.

None, however, of these valid reasons were sufficiently potent to turn
the countess from her point.

'Nonsense, Frank,' said she, 'I wonder that you can talk of fly-fishing
when the property of Greshamsbury is at stake.  You will go with
Augusta and myself to Courcy Castle to-morrow.'

'To-morrow, aunt!' he said, in the tone which a condemned criminal
might make his ejaculation on hearing that a very near day had been
named 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 quite sure
you will like Miss Dunstable.  I have settled all that with your
mother, so we need say nothing further about it.  And now, good-night,
Frank.'

Frank, finding that there was nothing more to be said, took his
departure, and went out to look for Mary.  But Mary had gone home with
Janet half an hour since, so he betook himself to his sister Beatrice.

'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 running
counter to them.  But I tell you what, I won't stay above a week at
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 that
Roger 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 railway embankment, or
three or four canal bridges, and then a contractor for great things,
such as Government hospitals, locks, docks, and quays, and had latterly
had in his hands the making of whole lines of railway.

He had been occasionally in partnership with one man for one thing, and
then with another for another; but had, on the whole, kept his
interests to himself, and now at the time of our story, he was a very
rich man.

And he had acquired more than wealth.  There had been a time when the
Government wanted the immediate performance of some extraordinary piece
of work, and Roger Scatcherd had been the man to do it.  There had been
some extremely necessary bit of a railway to be made in half the time
that such work would properly demand, some speculation to be incurred
requiring great means and courage as well, and Roger Scatcherd had been
found to be the man for the time.  He was then elevated for the moment
to the dizzy pinnacle of a newspaper hero, and became one of those
'whom the king delighteth to honour'.  He went up one day to kiss Her
Majesty's hand, and come down to his new grand house at Boxall Hill,
Sir Roger Scatcherd, Bart.

'And now, my lady,' said he, when he explained to his wife the high
state to which she had been called by his exertions and the Queen's
prerogative, '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 to
send three ordinary men very drunk to bed.

While conquering the world Roger Scatcherd had not conquered his old
bad habits.  Indeed, he was the same man at all points that he had been
when formerly seen about the streets of Barchester with his
stone-mason's apron tucked up round his waist.  The apron he had
abandoned, but not the heavy prominent thoughtful brow, with the wildly
flashing eye beneath it.  He was still the same good companion, and
still also the same hard-working hero.  In this only had he changed,
that now he would work, and some said equally well, whether he were
drunk or sober.  Those who were mostly inclined to make a miracle of
him--and there was a school of worshippers ready to adore him as their
idea of a divine, superhuman, miracle-moving, inspired prophet--declared
that his wondrous work was best done, his calculations most quickly and
most truly made, that he saw with most accurate eye into the
far-distant balance of profit and loss, when he was under the influence
of the rosy god.  To these worshippers his breakings-out, as his
periods of intemperance were called in his own set, were his moments of
peculiar inspiration--his divine frenzies, in which he communicated most
closely with those deities who preside over trade transactions; his
Eleusinian mysteries, to approach him in which was permitted only a few
of the most favoured.

'Scatcherd has been drunk this week past,' they would say one to
another, when the moment came at which it was to be decided whose offer
should be accepted for constructing a harbour to hold all the commerce
of Lancashire, or to make a railway from Bombay to Canton.  'Scatcherd
has been drunk this week past; I am told that he has taken over three 
gallons of brandy.'  And then they felt sure that none but Scatcherd
would be called upon to construct the dock or make the railway.

But be this as it may, be it true or false that Sir Roger was most
efficacious when in his cups, there can be no doubt that he could not
wallow for a week in brandy, six or seven times every year, without in
a great measure injuring, and permanently injuring, the outward man. 
Whatever immediate effect such symposiums might have on the inner mind-
symposiums indeed they were not; posiums I will call them, 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 the working of
his brain might be affected, his body suffered greatly.  It was not
that he became feeble or emaciated, old-looking or inactive, that his
hand shook, or that his eye was watery; but that in the moments of his 
intemperance his life was often worth a day's purchase.  The frame
which God had given to him was powerful beyond the power of ordinary
men; powerful to act in spite of these violent perturbations; powerful
to repress and conquer the qualms and headaches and inward sicknesses
to which the votaries of Bacchus are ordinarily subject; but this power
was not without its limit. If encroached on too far, it would break and
fall and come asunder, and then the strong man would at once become a
corpse.

Scatcherd had but one friend in the world.  And, indeed, this friend
was not friend in the ordinary acceptance of the word. He neither ate
with him nor drank with him, nor even frequently talked with him. Their
pursuits in life were wide asunder.  Their tastes were all different. 
The society in which they moved very seldom came together.  Scatcherd
had nothing in unison with this solitary friend; but he trusted him, 
and he trusted no other living creature in God's earth.

He trusted this man; but even him he did not trust thoroughly; not at
least as one friend should trust another. He believed that this man
would not rob him; would probably not lie to him; would not endeavour
to make money of him; would not count him up or speculate on him, and
make out a balance of profit and loss; and, therefore, he determined to
use him.  But he put no trust whatever in his friend's counsel, in his
modes of thought; none in his theory, and none in his practice.  He
disliked his friend's counsel, and, in fact, disliked his society, for
his friend was somewhat apt to speak to him in a manner approaching to
severity.  Now Roger Scatcherd had done many things in the world, and
made much money; whereas his friend had done but few things, and made
no money.  It was not to be endured that the practical, efficient man
should be taken to task by the man who proved himself to be neither
practical nor efficient; not to be endured, certainly, by Roger
Scatcherd, who looked on men of his own class as the men of the day,
and on himself as by no means the least among them.

The friend was our friend Dr Thorne.

The doctor's first acquaintance with Scatcherd has been already
explained.  He was necessarily thrown into communication with the man
at the time of the trial, and Scatcherd then had not only sufficient
sense, but sufficient feeling also to know that the doctor behaved very
well.  This communication had in different ways been kept up between 
them.  Soon after the trial Scatcherd had begun to rise, and his first
savings had been entrusted to the doctor's care.  This had been the
beginning of a pecuniary connexion which had never wholly ceased, and
which had led to the purchase of Boxall Hill, and to the loan of large
sums of money to the squire.

In another way also there had been a close alliance between them, and
one not always of a very pleasant description.  The doctor was, and
long had been, Sir Roger's medical attendant, and, in his unceasing
attempts to rescue the drunkard from the fate which was so much to be
dreaded, he not unfrequently was driven to quarrel with his patient.

One thing further must be told of Sir Roger.  In politics he was as
violent a Radical as ever, and was very anxious to obtain a position in
which he could bring his violence to bear. With this view he was about
to contest his native borough of Barchester, in the hope of being
returned in opposition to the De Courcy candidate; and with this 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 no avail, he had plenty of it, and was prepared to
spend it; whereas, rumour said that Mr Moffat was equally determined to
do nothing so foolish.  Then again, Sir Roger had a sort of rough
eloquence, and was bold to address the men of Barchester in language
that would come home to their hearts, in words that would endear him to
one party while they made him offensively odious to the other; but Mr
Moffat could make neither friends nor enemies by his eloquence. The
Barchester roughs called him a dumb dog that could not bark, and
sometimes sarcastically added that neither could he bite.  The De
Courcy interest, however, was at his back, and he had also the
advantage of possession.  Sir Roger, therefore, knew that the battle
was not to be won without a struggle.

Dr Thorne got safely back from Silverbridge that evening, and found
Mary waiting to give him his tea.  He had been called there to a
consultation with Dr Century, that amiable old gentleman having so far
fallen away from the high Fillgrave tenets as to consent to the
occasional endurance of such degradation.

The next morning he breakfasted early, and, having mounted his strong
iron-grey cob, started for Boxall Hill.  Not only had he there to
negotiate the squire's further loan, but also to exercise his medical
skill.  Sir Roger having been declared contractor for cutting a canal
from sea to sea, through the isthmus of Panama, had been making a week
of it; and the result was that Lady Scatcherd had written rather 
peremptorily to her husband's medical friend.

The doctor consequently trotted off to Boxall Hill on his iron-grey
cob.  Among his other merits was that of being a good horseman, and he
did much of his work on horseback.  The fact that he occasionally took
a day with the East Barsetshires, and that when he did so he thoroughly
enjoyed it, had probably not failed to add something to the strength of
the squire's friendship.

'Well, my lady, how is he?  Not much the matter, I hope?' said the
doctor, as he shook hands with the titled mistress of Boxall Hill in a
small breakfast-parlour in the rear of the house.  The showrooms of
Boxall Hill were furnished most magnificently, but they were set apart
for company; and as the company never came--seeing that they were never
invited--the grand rooms and the grand furniture were not of much 
material use to Lady Scatcherd.

'Indeed then, doctor, he's just bad enough,' said her ladyship, not in
a very happy tone of voice; 'just bad enough.  There's been some'at the
back of his head, rapping, and rapping, and rapping; and if you 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 very
well help hisself, so we put him to bed.  And then, he don't seem to be
quite right yet about the legs, so he hasn't got up; but he's got that
Winterbones with him to write for him, and when Winterbones is there,
Scatcherd might as well be up for any good that bed'll do him.'

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 certain work
which could not well be adjusted without some contrivance.  He was a
little, withered, dissipated, broken-down man, whom gin and poverty had
nearly burnt to a cinder, and dried to an ash.  Mind he had none left,
nor care for earthly things, except the smallest modicum of substantial
food, and the largest allowance of liquid sustenance.  All that he had
ever known he had forgotten, except how to count up figures and to
write: the results of his counting and his writing never stayed with
him from one hour to another; nay, not from one folio to another.  Let 
him, however, be adequately screwed up with gin, and adequately screwed
down by the presence of his master, and then no amount of counting and
writing would be too much for him.  This was Mr Winterbones,
confidential clerk to the great Sir Roger Scatcherd.

'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, or
anywhere else out of the way.  There is Scatcherd, he takes brandy; and
there is Winterbones, he takes gin; and it'd puzzle a woman to say
which is worst, master or man.'

It will seem from this, that Lady Scatcherd and the doctor were on very
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 some recess
under a sideboard a bottle of brandy; 'just a thimbleful?  It's what he
takes himself.'

When Lady Scatcherd found that even this argument failed, she led the
way to the great man's bedroom.

'Well doctor!  well doctor!, well, doctor!' was the greeting with which
our son of Galen was saluted some time before he entered the
sick-room.  His approaching step was heard, and thus the ci-devant
Barchester stone-mason saluted his coming friend.  The voice was loud
and powerful, but not clear and sonorous.  What voice that is nurtured
on brandy can ever be clear?  It had about it a peculiar huskiness, a
dissipated guttural tone, which Thorne immediately recognized, and 
recognized as being more marked, more guttural, and more husky than
heretofore.

'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 there no 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 again without
troubling you.'

'Anyway, I'm glad you're something better, Scatcherd.'

'Something!  I don't know what you call something.  I never was better
in my life.  Ask Winterbones here.'

'Indeed, now, Scatcherd, you ain't; you're bad enough if you only knew
it.  And as for Winterbones, he has no business here up in your
bedroom, 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 to the aroma
coming from his libations, might be seen to deposit surreptitiously
beneath the little table at which he sat, the cup with which he had
performed them.

The doctor, in the meantime, had taken Sir Roger's hand on the pretext
of feeling his pulse, but was drawing quite as much information from
the touch of the sick man's skin, and the look of the 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, Sir Roger.'

'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 duty
to suggest measures for putting off the ceremony as long as possible. 
Perhaps, however, you may wish to hasten it.'

'Well, I am not anxious about it, one way or the other,' said 
Scatcherd.  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 to
frighten me, you will be mistaken.'

'Now, doctor, don't let him talk that way, don't,' said Lady Scatcherd,
with her handkerchief to her eyes.

'Now, my lady, do you cut it; cut at once,' said Sir Roger, turning
hastily round to his better-half; and his better-half, knowing that
the province of a woman is to obey, did cut it.  But as she went she
gave the doctor a pull by the coat's sleeve, so that thereby his
healing faculties might be sharpened to the very utmost.

'The best woman in the world, doctor; the very best,' said he, as the
door 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! but
for good 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 medical
examination.  To this the patient submitted with a bad grace; but still
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 or
not.'

'That is to say, I am to pay you for trying to frighten me.'

'No human nature can stand such shocks as those 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 the
public-house, by G-- you may stay there for me.  When I take a
drop,--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 in some way
beneath his coat flap, retreated out of the room, and the two friends
were alone.

'Scatcherd,' said the doctor, 'you have been as near your God, as any
man ever was who afterwards ate and drank in this world.'

'Have I, now?' said the railway here, 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 limbs
refuse to carry you?   All right! why the blood is still beating round
you brain with a violence that would destroy any other brain but
yours.'

'Ha!  ha!  ha!,' laughed Scatcherd.  He was very proud of thinking
himself to be differently organized 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 he
objected violently, and to one or two he flatly refused to listen.  The
great stumbling-block was this, that total abstinence from business for
two weeks was enjoined; and that it was impossible, so Sir Roger said,
that he should abstain for two days.

'If you work,' said the doctor, 'in your present state, you will
certainly have recourse to the stimulus of drink; and if you drink,
most assuredly will die.'

'Stimulus!  Why do you think I can't work without Dutch courage?'

'Scatcherd, I know that there is brandy in this room at the 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, who
still had his hand on his patient's arm.

Sir Roger turned himself roughly in the bed so as to get away from his
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 do
it.  I'll send for Fillgrave.'

'Very well,' said he of Greshamsbury, 'send for Fillgrave.  Your case
is one in which even he can hardly go wrong.'

'You think you can hector me, and do as you like because you had me
under 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 the
truth to the best of my thinking.  Now the truth is, that another bout
of drinking will in all probability kill you; and any recourse to
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 any rate
in this, that whatever you do, you should do at once. Oblige me in
this; let Lady Scatcherd take away that brandy bottle till Dr Fillgrave
comes.'

'I'm d--- if I do.  Do you think I can't have a bottle of brandy in my
room without swigging?'

'I think you'll be less likely to swig if you can't get at it.'

Sir Roger made another angry turn in his bed as well as his 
half-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, and I'll
have that other fellow from Silverbridge to meet him.  What's his
name?--Century.'

The doctor turned his head away; for though the occasion was serious,
he could not help smiling at the malicious vengeance with which his
friend proposed to gratify himself.

'I will; and Rerechild too.  What's the expense?  I suppose five or six
pounds apiece will do it; eh, Thorne?'

'Oh, yes; that will be liberal I should say.  But, Sir Roger, will you
allow me to suggest what you ought to do?  I don't know how far you may
be joking--'

'Joking!' shouted the baronet; 'you tell a man he's dying and joking in
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 whom
you will really trust when you see him.

'There's not one of the lot I'd trust as soon as Fillgrave.  I've known
Fillgrave all my life and I trust him.  I'll send for Fillgrave and 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 fair
chance.  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 you
well 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 Lady
Scatcherd downstairs I know; now, no nonsense.  You understand me, eh?
no nonsense.'



CHAPTER X

SIR ROGER'S WILL

Dr Thorne left the room and went downstairs, being fully aware that he
could not leave the house without having some communication with Lady
Scatcherd.  He was not sooner within the passage than he heard the sick
man's bell ring violently; and then the servant, passing him on the
staircase, received orders to send a mounted messenger immediately to
Barchester. Dr Fillgrave was to be summoned to come as quickly as 
possible to the sick man's room, and Mr Winterbones was to be sent up
to write the note.

Sir Roger was quite right in supposing that there would be some words
between the doctor and her ladyship.  How, indeed, was the doctor to
get out of the house without such, let him wish it ever so much?  There
were words; and these were protracted, while the doctor's cob was being
ordered round, till very many were uttered which the contractor would 
probably have regarded as nonsense.

Lady Scatcherd was no fit associate for the wives of English 
baronets;--was no doubt by education and manners much better fitted to
sit in their servants' halls; but not on that account was she a bad
wife or a bad woman.  She was painfully, fearfully, anxious for that
husband of hers, whom she honoured and worshipped, as it behoved her to
do, above all other men. She was fearfully anxious as to his life, and 
faithfully believed, that if any man could prolong it, it was that old
and faithful friend whom she had known to be true to her lord since
their early married troubles.

When, therefore, she found that she had been dismissed, and that a
stranger was to be sent for in his place, her heart sank below within
her.

'But, doctor,' she said, with her apron up to her eyes, 'you ain't
going to leave him, are you?'

Dr Thorne did not find it easy to explain to her ladyship that medical
etiquette would not permit him to remain in attendance on her husband
after he had been dismissed and another physician called in his place.

'Etiquette!' said she, crying.  'What's etiquette to do with it when a
man 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 of
thorough confidence on the one side, and thorough distrust on the
other, which she contrived to throw into those few words.

'I'll tell you what, doctor; I won't let that messenger go.  I'll bear
the brunt of it.  He can't do much now he ain't up, you know.  I'll
stop the boy; we won't have no Fillgrave here.'

This, however, was a step to which Dr Thorne would not assent. He
endeavoured to explain to the anxious wife, that after what had passed
he could not tender his medical services till they were again asked
for.

'But you can slip in as a friend, you know; and then by degrees you can
come round him, eh?  can't you now, doctor?  And as to payment--'

All that Dr Thorne said on the subject may easily be imagined. And in
this way, and in partaking of the lunch which was forced upon him, an
hour had nearly passed between his leaving Sir Roger's bedroom and
putting his foot in the stirrup.  But no sooner had the cob begun to
move on the gravel-sweep before the house than one of the upper windows
opened, and the doctor was summoned to another conference with 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 the last
words.

'Thorne!  Thorne!  Thorne!' shouted the sick man from his sick-bed, so
loudly that the doctor heard him, seated as he was on horseback out
before the house.

'You're to come back, whether or no,' repeated Winterbones, with more
emphasis, evidently conceiving that there was a strength of injunction
in that 'whether or no' which would be found quite invincible.

Whether actuated by these magic words, or by some internal process of
thought, we will not say; but the doctor did slowly, and as though
unwillingly, dismount again from his steed, and slowly retrace his
steps into the house.

'It is no use,' he said to himself, 'for that messenger has already
gone to Barchester.'

'I have sent for Dr Fillgrave,' were the first words which the
contractor said to him when he again found himself by the bedside.

'Did you call me back to tell me that?' said Thorne, who now felt
really angry at the impertinent petulance of the man before him: 'you
should 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 that he had
shown that day; a countenance in which there was a show of
manhood,--some show also of affection.  'You ain't angry now because
I've sent for Fillgrave?'

'Not in the least,' said the doctor very complacently.  'Not in the
least.  Fillgrave will do as much good as I can do.'

'And that's none at all, I suppose; eh, Thorne?'

'That depends on yourself.  He will do you good if you will tell him
the 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; and of
course you must see him. I have much to do, and you must let me go.'

Scatcherd, however, would not let him go, but held his hand fast. 
'Thorne,' said he, 'if you like it, I'll make them put Fillgrave under
the pump directly he comes here.  I will indeed, and pay all the damage
myself.'

This was another proposition to which the doctor could not consent; but
he was utterly unable to refrain from laughing. There was an earnest
look of entreaty about Sir Roger's face as he made the suggestion; and,
joined to this, there was a gleam of comic satisfaction in his eye
which seemed to promise, that if he received the least encouragement he
would put his threat into execution.  Now our doctor was not inclined
to taking any steps towards subjecting his learned brother to pump
discipline; but he could not but admit to himself 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,' said Scatcherd,
still holding the doctor's hand, of which he had again got possession;
'specially not an old friend; and specially again when you're been
a-blowing him up.'

It was not worth the doctor's while to aver that the testiness had all
been on the other side, and that he had never lost his good-humour; so
he merely smiled, and asked Sir Roger if he could do anything further
for him.

'Indeed you can, doctor; and that's why I sent for you,--why I sent for
you yesterday.  Get out of the room, Winterbones,' he then said
gruffly, as though he were dismissing from his chamber a dirty dog. 
Winterbones, not a whit offended, again hid his cup under his coat-tail
and vanished.

'Sit down, Thorne, sit down,' said the contractor, speaking in quite a
different manner from any that he had yet assumed. 'I know you're in a
hurry, but you must give me half an hour.  I may be dead before you can
give me another; who knows?'

The doctor of course declared that he hoped to have many a half-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 make
the cob pay for it, you know.'

The doctor took a chair and sat down.  Thus entreated to stop, he had
hardly any alternative but to do so.

'It wasn't because I'm ill that I sent for you, or rather let her
ladyship send for you.  Lord bless you, Thorne; do you think I don't
know 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 know what's
coming to myself as well as him?

'Why do you take it then?  Why do you do it?  Your life is not like
his.  Oh, Scatcherd!  Scatcherd!' and the doctor prepared to pour out
the flood of his eloquence in beseeching this singular man to abstain
from his well-known poison.

'Is that all you know of human nature, doctor?  Abstain.  Can you
abstain 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 for all that
I have done for it?  What other resource have I?  What other
gratification?'

'Oh, my God!  Have you not unbounded wealth?  Can you not do anything
you wish? be anything you choose?'

'No,' and the sick man shrieked with an energy that made him audible
all 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 among
gentlemen, can I talk to them?  If they have anything to say about a
railway, they will ask me a question: if they speak to me beyond that, 
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 and shake in
their shoes when they see me.  Where are my friends?  Here!' said he,
and he dragged a bottle from under his very pillow.  'Where are my
amusements?  Here!' and he brandished the bottle almost in the doctor's
face.  'Where is my one resource, my one gratification, my only 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 back
amazed, and was for a moment unable to speak.

'But, Scatcherd,' he said at last; 'surely you would not die for such a
passion as that?' 'Die for it?  Aye, would I.  Live for it while I can
live; and die for it when I can live no longer.  Die for it!  What is
that for a man to do?  What is a man the worse for dying? What can I be
the worse for dying?  A man can die but once, you said just now.  I'd
die ten times for this.'

'You are speaking now either in madness, or else in folly, to startle
me.'

'Folly enough, perhaps, and madness enough, also.  Such a life as mine
makes a man a fool, and makes him mad too.  What have  about me that I
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 and
mortar, 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 hundred thousand
pounds, there's nothing left for him but to die.  It's all he's good
for then.  When money's been made, the next thing is to spend 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 a
tendency to comfort and console the mind of his patient.  Not that
anything he could say would comfort or console the man; but that it was
impossible to sit there and hear such fearful truths--for as regarded
Scatcherd they were truths--without making some answer.'

'This is as good as a play, isn't, doctor?' said the baronet. 'You
didn'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 made a will before that.'

'Yes, I had.  That will is destroyed.  I burnt it with my own hand, so
that there should be no mistake about it.  In that will I had named two
executors, you and Jackson.  I was then partner with Jackson in the
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 never
make 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 hundred
thousand pounds to be disposed of, the trust is far too much for any
one man: besides you must name a younger man; you and I are of the same
age, and I may die first.'

'Now, 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 want
to consult you about that.  You are named as executor, and if you have
the heart to refuse to act when I'm dead, why, of course, you can do
so.'

The doctor was not lawyer, and hardly knew whether he had any means of
extricating himself from this position in which his friend was
determined to place him.

'You'll have to see that will carried out, Thorne.  Now I'll tell you
what 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 in
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't
know 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 my
money 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 have more than one?  Does not Mr Gresham leave
all his property to his heir?  Why should not I make an eldest son as
well as Lord de Courcy or the Duke of Omnium?  I suppose a railway
contractor ought not to be allowed an eldest son by Act of Parliament! 
Won't my son have a title to keep up?  And that's more than the
Greshams have among them.'

The doctor explained away what he said as well as he could.  He could
not explain that what he had really meant was this, that Sir Roger
Scatcherd's son was not a man fit to be trusted with the entire control
of an enormous fortune.

Sir Roger Scatcherd had but one child; that child which had been born
in the days of his early troubles, and had been dismissed from his
mother's breast in order that the mother's milk might nourish the young
heir of Greshamsbury.  The boy had grown up, but had become strong
neither in mind nor body. His father had determined to make a gentleman
of him, and had sent to Eton and Cambridge.  But even this receipt, 
generally as it is recognized, will not make a gentleman.  It is hard,
indeed, to define what receipt will do so, though people do have in
their own minds some certain undefined, but yet tolerably correct ideas
on the subject.  Be that as it may, two years at Eton, and three terms
at Cambridge, did not make a gentleman of 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, to find
children who have been christened after kings and queens, or the uncles
and aunts of kings and queens, the search should be made in the
families of democrats.  None have so servile a deference for the very 
nail-parings of royalty; none feel so wondering an awe at the 
exaltation of a crowned head; none are so anxious to secure themselves
some shred or fragment that has been consecrated by the royal touch. It
is the distance which they feel to exist between themselves, and the
throne which makes them covet the crumbs of majesty, the odds and ends
and chance splinters of royalty.

There was nothing royal about Louis Philippe Scatcherd but his name. He
had now come to man's estate, and his father, finding the Cambridge
receipt to be inefficacious, had sent him abroad to travel with a
tutor.  The doctor had from time to time heard tidings of this youth;
he knew that he had already shown symptoms of his father's vices, but
no symptoms of his father's talents; he knew that he had begun life by 
being dissipated, without being generous; and that at the age of
twenty-one he had already suffered from delirium tremens.

It was on this account that he had expressed disapprobation, rather
than surprise, when he heard that his father intended to bequeath the
bulk of his large fortune to the uncontrolled will of this unfortunate
boy.

'I have toiled for my money hard, and I have a right to do as I like
with 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 the
baronet, understanding what was passing within his companion's breast. 
'Let a young fellow sow his wild oats while he is young, and he'll be
steady enough when he grows old.'

'But what if he never lives to get through the sowing?' thought the
doctor to himself.  'What if the wild-oats operation is carried on in
so violent a manner as to leave no strength in the soil for the product
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 have been
so fond of the brandy bottle now.  But any way, my son shall be my
heir.  I've had the gumption to make the money, but I haven't the
gumption to spend it.  My son, however, shall be able to ruffle it with
the best of them.  I'll go bail he shall hold his head higher than ever
young Gresham will be able to hold his.  They are much of the same age,
as well I have cause to remember;--and so has her ladyship here.'

Now the fact was, that Sir Roger Scatcherd felt in his heart no special
love for young Gresham; but with her ladyship it might almost be a
question whether she did not love the youth whom she had nursed almost
as well as that other one who was her own proper offspring.

'And will you not put any check on thoughtless expenditure?  If you live
ten or twenty years, as we hope you may, it will become unnecessary;
but in making a will, a man should always remember he may 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 word of
that out of the bedroom.'

Dr Thorne could but sigh.  What could he say on such a subject to such
a man as this?

'Yes, I have put a check on his expenditure.  I will not let his daily
bread depend on any man; I have therefore let him five hundred a year
at his own disposal, from the day of my death.  Let him make what ducks
and drakes of that he can.'

'Five hundred a year is certainly not much,'said the doctor.

'No; nor do I want to keep him to that.  Let him have whatever he wants
if he sets about spending it properly.  But the bulk of the
property--this estate of Boxall Hill, and the Greshamsbury mortgage, and
those other mortgages--I have tied up in this way: they shall be all his
at twenty-five; and up to that age it shall be in your power to give
him what he wants. If he shall die without children before he shall be 
twenty-five years of age, they are all to go to Mary's eldest child.'

Now Mary was Sir Roger's sister, the mother, therefore, of Miss Thorne,
and, consequently, the wife of the respectable ironmonger who went to
America, and the mother of a family there.

'Mary's eldest child!' said the doctor, feeling that the perspiration
had nearly broken out on his forehead, and that he could hardly control
his feelings.  'Mary's eldest child! Scatcherd, you should be more
particular in your description, or you will leave your best legacy 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, I don't
care which it is.  A girl would probably do best with it.  Only you'd
have to see that she married some decent fellow; you'd be her
guardian.'

'Pooh, nonsense,' said the doctor.  'Louis will be five-and-twenty in
a year or two.'

'In about four years.'

'And for all that's come and gone yet, Scatcherd, you are not going to
leave us yourself quite so soon as all that.'

'Not if I can help it; but that's as may be.'

'The chances are ten to one that such a clause in your will will never
come to bear.'

'Quite so, quite so.  If I die, Louis Philippe won't, but I thought it
right to put in something to prevent his squandering it all before he
comes to his senses.'

'Oh! quite right, quite right.  I think I would have named a later age
than 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 die to-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 may
have to depend on those words.'

'Why, what the devil could I say?  I don't know their names; never even
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 railway
contractor.'

Scatcherd began to think that the doctor might now as well go away and
leave him to the society of Winterbones and the brandy; but, much as
our friend had before expressed himself in a hurry, he now seemed
inclined to move very leisurely.  He sat there by the bedside, resting
his hands on his knees and gazing unconsciously at the counterpane.  At
last he gave a deep sigh, and then he said, 'Scatcherd, you must be
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 living
child 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 I did it
in another.  It's all right enough.  Though Winterbones wrote it, he
did it in such a way he did not know what he was writing.'

The doctor sat a while longer, still looking at the counter-pane, 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 Thorne
should talk of returning so soon.  'To-morrow!  why I ain't so bad as
that, man, am I?  If you come so often as that you will 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 my
will till I'm dead; not the least.  And who knows--may be, I may be
settling your affairs yet; eh, doctor?  looking after your niece when
you'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 to 
Greshamsbury.  But, in truth, as he went he hardly knew whither he was
going, or what he was doing.  Sir Roger had hinted that the cob would
be 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 pace
more satisfactorily than on the present occasion.  The doctor, indeed,
hardly knew that he was on horseback, so completely was he enveloped in
the cloud of his own thoughts.

In the first place, that alternative which it had become him to put
before the baronet as one unlikely to occur--that of the speedy death of
both father and son--was one which he felt in his heart of hearts might
very probably come to pass.

'The chances are ten to one that such a clause will never be brought to
bear.'  This he had said partly to himself, so as to ease the thoughts
which came crowding on his brain; partly, also, in pity for the 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 other way?  Was it not 
almost probable that both these men might be gathered to their long
account within the next four years?  One, the elder, was a strong man,
indeed; one who might yet live for years to come if he could but give
himself fair play.  But then, he himself protested, and protested with
a truth too surely grounded, that fair play to himself 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 never feel sure under any
circumstances, but he also was already addicted to his father's vices;
he also was already killing himself with alcohol.

And then, if these two men did die within the prescribed period, if
this clause of Sir Roger's will were brought to bear, it should become
his, Dr Thorne's, duty to see that clause carried out, how would he be
bound to act?  That woman's eldest child was his own niece, his adopted
bairn, his darling, the pride of his heart, the cynosure of his eye, 
his child also, his own Mary.  Of all his duties on 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 to her require of him?

But then, that one great duty, that duty which she would be the first
to expect from him; what did that demand of him?  Had Scatcherd made
his will without saying what its clauses were, it seemed to Thorne that
Mary must have been the heiress, should that clause become necessarily
operative.  Whether she were so or not would at any rate be 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 of confidence, an act of
absolute dishonesty--an act of dishonesty both to Scatcherd and to that
far-distant American family, to that father, who, in former days, had
behaved so nobly, and to that eldest child of his, would it not be
gross dishonesty to them all if he allowed this man to leave a will by
which his property might go to a person never intended to be his heir?

Long before he had arrived at Greshamsbury his mind on this point had
been made up.  Indeed, it had been made up while sitting there by
Scatcherd's bedside.  It had not been difficult to make up his mind to
so much; but then, his way out of this dishonesty was not so easy for
him to find.  How should he set this matter right to as to inflict no
injury on his niece, and no sorrow to himself--if that indeed could be 
avoided?

And then other thoughts crowded on his brain.  He had always 
professed--professed at any rate to himself and to her--that of all the
vile objects of a man's ambition, wealth, wealth merely for its own
sake, was the vilest.  They, in their joint school of inherent
philosophy, had progressed to ideas which they might find it not easy
to carry out, should they be called on by events to do so.  And if this
would have been difficult to either when acting on behalf of self
alone, how much more difficult when one might have to act for the
other! This difficulty had now come to the uncle.  Should he, in this
emergency, take upon himself to fling away the golden chance which
might accrue to his niece if Scatcherd should be encouraged to make 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 such misery,'
said the doctor to himself, as he slowly rode into is own yard.

On one point, and one only, had he definitely made up his mind. On the
following day he would go over again to Boxall Hill, and would tell
Scatcherd the whole truth.  Come what might, the truth must be 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 the
doctor is the greatest man in a village; and I say the parson is of
course.'

'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 a
month, no one would miss him; but that a doctor is so precious that his
very minutes are counted.'

'I am sure uncle's are.  They begrudge him his meals.  Mr Oriel never
gets called away to Silverbridge.'

'No; we in the Church manage our parish arrangements better than you
do.  We don't let strange practitioners in among our flocks because the
sheep may chance to fancy them.  Our sheep have to put up with our
spiritual doses whether they like them or not.  In that respect we are
much the best off.  I advise you, Mary, to marry a clergyman, by all
means.'

'I will when you marry a doctor,' said she.

'I am sure nothing on earth would give me greater pleasure,' said Miss
Oriel, getting up and curtseying very low to Dr Thorne; 'but I am not
quite prepared for the agitation of an offer this morning, so I'll run
away.'

And so she went; and the doctor, getting to his other horse, started
again for Silverbridge, wearily enough.  'She's happy now where she
is,' said he to himself, as he rode along.  'They all treat her there
as an equal at Greshamsbury.  What though she be no cousin to the
Thornes of Ullathorne.  She has found her place there among them all,
and keeps it on equal terms with the best of them.  There is Miss
Oriel; her family is high; she is rich, fashionable, a beauty, courted 
by every one; but yet she does not look down on Mary.  They are equal
friends together.  But how would it be if she were taken to Boxall
Hill, even as a recognized niece of the rich man there?  Would Patience
Oriel and Beatrice Gresham go there after her?  Could she be happy
there as she is in my house here, poor though it be?  It would kill her
to pass a month with Lady Scatcherd and put up with that man's humours,
to see his mode of life, to be dependent on him, to belong to him.' And
then the doctor, hurrying on to Silverbridge, again met Dr Century at
the old lady's bedside, and having made his endeavours 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 for
him, and prepared the comforts of that most comfortable meal-tea,
dinner, and supper, all in one.  'I wish Silverbridge was fifty miles
off.'

'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 spoke
he contrived to swallow a jorum of scalding tea, containing in measure
somewhat near a pint.  Mary, not a whit amazed at this feat, merely
refilled the jorum without any observation; and the doctor went on 
stirring the mixture with his spoon, evidently oblivious that any
ceremony had been performed by either of them since the first supply
had been administered to him. 

When the clatter of knives and forks was over, the doctor turned
himself to the hearthrug, and putting one leg over the other, he began
to nurse it as he looked with complacency at his third cup of tea,
which stood untasted beside him.  The fragments of the solid banquet
had been removed, but no sacrilegious hand had been laid on the teapot
and the cream-jug.

'Mary,' said he, 'suppose you were to find out to-morrow morning that,
by some accident, you had become a great heiress, would you be able to
suppress your exultation?'

'The first thing I'd do, would be to pronounce a positive edict that
you should never go to Silverbridge again; at least without a day's
notice.'

'Well, and what next?  what would you do next?'

'The next thing--the next thing would be to send to Paris for a French
bonnet exactly like the one Patience Oriel had on.  Did you see it?'

'Well I can't say I did; bonnets are invisible now; besides I never
remark anybody's clothes, except yours.'

'Oh! do look at Miss Oriel's bonnet the next time you see her. I cannot
understand why it should be so, but I am sure of this--no English
fingers put together such a bonnet as that; and I am nearly sure that
no French fingers could do it in England.'

'But you don't care so much about bonnets, Mary!'  This the doctor said
as an assertion; but there was, nevertheless, somewhat of a question
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 it
cost--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 Oriel
ought to give it.'

'No, of course she would not; but, uncle, it really cost a hundred
francs!'

'Oh! a hundred francs; that's four pounds, isn't it?  Well, and how
much 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 to choose
it.'

The doctor sat silent for a while meditating about this, during which
he unconsciously absorbed the tea beside him; and Mary again
replenished his cup.

'Come, Mary,' he said at last, 'I'm in a generous mood; and as I am
rather 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 would
puzzle 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 into
fragments, and burn them before your face.  Why, uncle, what do you
take me for?  You're not a bit nice to-night to make such an offer as
that to me; not a bit, not a bit.'  And then she came over from her
seat 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 a 
reason why I should like one now?  if you were to pay four pounds for a
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't
think you'd look a bit better if you had it; and, certainly, I should
not like to scorch these locks,' and putting his hand upon her
shoulders, he played with her hair.

'Patience has a pony-phaeton, and I'd have one if I were rich; and I'd
have all my books bound as she does; and, perhaps, I'd give fifty
guineas for a dressing-case.'

'Fifty guineas!'

'Patience did not tell me; but so Beatrice says.  Patience showed it to
me once, and it is a darling.  I think I'd have the dressing-case
before 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 many
things; but nothing of that sort.  You know, or should know, that I do
not.  Why do 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, without
detriment to the heart and soul.'

'I should be a happier man if you were provided for as Miss Oriel. 
Suppose, now, I could give you up to a rich man who would be able to
insure you against all wants?'

'Insure me against all wants!  Oh, that would be a man.  That would be
selling me, wouldn't it, uncle?  Yes, selling me; and the price you
would receive would be freedom from future apprehensions as regards
me.  It would be a cowardly sale for you to make; and then, as to me--me
the victim.  No, uncle; you must bear the misery of having to provide
for me--bonnets and all.  We are in the same boat, and you shan'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 bound
together.  They must depend on each other.  Of course, misfortunes may
come; but it is cowardly to be afraid of them beforehand.  You and I
are bound together, uncle; and though you say these things to tease me,
I know you do not wish to get rid of me.'

'Well, well; we shall win through, doubtless; if not in one way, then
in 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 have 
been 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 odd
number, I'll have the sixth to show that I am not superstitious.'

While Mary was preparing the sixth jorum, there came a knock at the
door.  Those late summonses were hateful to Mary's ear, for they were
usually forerunners of a midnight ride through the dark lanes to some
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 to defend
her uncle from any further invasion on his rest.

'A note from the house, miss,' said Janet: now 'the house', in
Greshamsbury parlance, always meant the squire's mansion.

'No one ill at the house, I hope,' said the doctor, taking the note
from Mary's hand.  'Oh--ah--yes; it's from the squire--there's nobody
ill: wait a minute, Janet, and I'll write a line.  Mary, lend me your
desk.'

The squire, anxious as usual for money, had written to ask what success
the doctor had had in negotiating the new loan with Sir Roger.  That
fact, however, was, that in his visit to Boxall Hill, the doctor had
been altogether unable to bring on the carpet the matter of this loan. 
Subjects had crowded themselves in too quickly during that
interview--those two interviews at Sir Roger's bedside; and he had been 
obliged to leave without even alluding to the question.

'I must at any rate go back now,' he said to himself.  So he wrote to
the squire, saying that he was to be at Boxall Hill again on the
following day, and that he would call at the house on his return.

'That's all 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 at
half-past seven.'

'You couldn't take me, could you?  I should so like to see that Sir
Roger.'

'To see Sir Roger!  Why, he's ill in bed.'

'That's an objection, certainly; but some day, when he's well, could
you not take me over?  I have the greatest desire to see a man like
that; a man who began with nothing and now has more than enough to buy
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 Lady
Scatcherd 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 are neither
of them in your way: they are extremely vulgar--'

'Oh!  I don't mind that; that would make them more amusing; one doesn't
go to those sort of people for polished manners.'

'I don't think you'd find the Scatcherds pleasant acquaintances at
all,' said the doctor, taking his bed-candle, and kissing his niece's
forehead 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 the message
which had been sent to that other doctor, Dr Fillgrave; nor in truth
did the baronet.  Lady Scatcherd had thought of it, but her husband
during the rest of the day was not in a humour which allowed her to
remind him that he would soon have a new physician on his hands; so she
left the difficulty to arrange itself, waiting in some little 
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 five or
six miles out of town, at Plumstead; and as he did not get back till
late in the evening, he felt himself necessitated to put off his visit
to Boxall Hill till next morning.  Had he chanced to have been made
acquainted with that little conversation about the pump, he would
probably have postponed it even yet a while longer.

He was, however, by no means sorry to be summoned to the bedside of Sir
Roger Scatcherd.  It was well known at Barchester, and very well known
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 bodily
ailments, had hitherto been contented to entrust his safety to the
skill of his old friend.  Sir Roger was in his way a great man, and 
much talked of in Barchester, and rumour had already reached the ears
of the Barchester Galen, that the great railway contractor was ill. 
When, therefore, he received a peremptory summons to go over to Boxall
Hill, he could not but think that some pure light had broken in upon
Sir Roger's darkness, and taught him at last where to look for true 
medical accomplishment.

And then, also, Sir Roger was the richest man in the county, and to
county practitioners a new patient with large means is a godsend; how
much greater a godsend when not only acquired, but taken also from
some rival practitioner, need hardly be explained.

Dr Fillgrave, therefore, was somewhat elated when, after an early
breakfast, he stepped into the post-chaise which was to carry him to
Boxall Hill.  Dr Fillgrave's professional advancement had been
sufficient to justify the establishment of a brougham, in which he paid
his ordinary visits round Barchester; but this was a special occasion,
requiring special speed, and about to produce no doubt a special 
guerdon, and therefore a pair of post-horses were put into request.

It was hardly yet nine when the post-boy somewhat loudly rang the bell
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 grand
dining-room; and there for some fifteen minutes or twenty minutes Dr
Fillgrave walked up and down the length of the Turkey carpet all alone.

Dr Fillgrave was not a tall man, and was perhaps rather more inclined
to corpulence than became his height.  In his stocking-feet, according
to the usually received style of measurement, he was five feet five;
and he had a little round abdominal protuberance, which an inch and a
half added to the heels of his boots hardly enabled him to carry off as
well as he himself would have wished.  Of this he was apparently 
conscious, and it gave to him an air of not being entirely at his
ease.  There was, however, a personal dignity in his demeanour, a
propriety in his gait, and an air of authority in his gestures which
should prohibit one from stigmatizing those efforts at altitude as a
failure.  No doubt he did achieve much; but, nevertheless, the effort
would occasionally betray itself, and the story of the frog and the ox
would irresistibly force itself into one's mind at those moments when
it most behoved Dr Fillgrave to be magnificent.

But if the bulgy roundness of his person and the shortness of his legs
in any way detracted from his personal importance, these trifling
defects were, he was well aware, more than atoned for by the peculiar
dignity of his countenance.  If his legs were short, his face was not;
if there was any undue preponderance below the waistcoat, all was in
due symmetry above the necktie.  His hair was grey, not grizzled, nor 
white, but properly grey; and stood up straight from his temples on
each side, with an unbending determination of purpose.  His whiskers,
which were of an admirable shape, coming down and turning gracefully at
the angle of his jaw, were grey also, but somewhat darker than his
hair.  His enemies in Barchester declared that their perfect shade was 
produced by a leaden comb.  His eyes were not brilliant, but were very
effective, and well under command.  He was rather short-sighted, and a
pair of eye-glasses was always on his nose, or in his hand.  His nose
was long, and well pronounced, and his chin, also, was sufficiently
prominent; but the great feature of his face was his mouth.  The amount
of secret medical knowledge of which he could give assurance by the
pressure of those lips was truly wonderful.  By his lips, also, he
could be most exquisitely courteous, or most sternly forbidding.  And
not only could he be either the one or the other; but he could at his
will assume any shade of difference between the two, and produce any
mixture of sentiment.

When Dr Fillgrave was first shown into Sir Roger's dining-room, he
walked up and down the room for a while with easy, jaunty step, with
his hands joined together behind his back, calculating the price of the
furniture, and counting the heads which might be adequately entertained
in a room of such noble proportions; but in seven or eight minutes an
air of impatience might have been seen to suffuse his face.  Why could
he not be shown into the sick man's room?  What necessity could there
be for keeping him there, as though he were some apothecary with a box
of leeches in his pocket?  He then rang the bell, perhaps a little
violently.  'Does Sir Roger know that I am here?' 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 longer the
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 Roger Scatcherd
was at present a great and rich man, Dr Fillgrave had remembered him a
very small and a very poor man.  He now began to think of Sir Roger as
the stone-mason, and to chafe somewhat more violently 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 minutes the
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 all day to the
serious detriment, perhaps fatal injury, of his other expectant
patients.  His hand was again on the bell, and was about to be used with
vigour, when the door opened and Lady Scatcherd entered.

'Oh, laws!'  Such had been her first exclamation on hearing that the
doctor was in the dining-room.  She was standing at the time with her
housekeeper in a small room in which she kept her linen and jam, and in
which, in company with the same housekeeper, she spent the happiest
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 surely didn't he send for 'un?  Let the master have the row
himself, then; that's what I'd do, my lady,' added Hannah, seeing that
her ladyship still stood trembling in doubt, biting her thumb-nail.

'You couldn't go up to the master yourself, could now, Hannah?' said
Lady Scatcherd in her most persuasive tone.

'Why no,' said Hannah, after a little deliberation; 'no, I'm afeard I
couldn't.'

'Then I must just face it myself.'  And up went the wife to tell her
lord that the physician for whom he had sent had come to attend his
bidding.

In the interview which then took place the baronet had not indeed been
violent, but he had been very determined.  Nothing on earth, he said,
should induce him to see Dr Fillgrave and offend his dear old friend Dr
Thorne.

'But Roger,' said her ladyship, half crying, or rather pretending to
cry in vexation, 'what shall I do with the man? How shall I get him out
of the house?'

'Put him under the pump,' said the baronet; and he laughed his peculiar
low guttural laugh, which told so plainly of the havoc which brandy had
made in his throat.

'That's nonsense, Roger; you know I can't put him under the pump.  Now
you are ill, and you'd better see him just for five minutes.  I'll make
it right with Dr Thorne.'

'I'll be d--- if I do, my lady.'  All the people about Boxall Hill called
poor Lady Scatcherd 'my lady' as if there was some excellent joke in
it; and, so, indeed, there was.

'You know you needn't mind nothing he says, nor yet take nothing he
sends: and I'll tell him not to come no more.  Now do 'ee see him,
Roger.'

But there was not coaxing Roger over now, indeed ever: he was a wilful,
headstrong, masterful man; a tyrant always though never a cruel one;
and accustomed to rule his wife and household as despotically as he did
his gangs of workmen.  Such men it is not easy to coax over.

'You go down and tell him I don't want him, and won't see him, and
that's an end of it.  If he chose to earn his money, why didn't he come
yesterday when he was sent for?  I'm well now, and don't want him; and
what's more, I won't have him.  Winterbones, lock the door.'

So Winterbones, who during this interview had been at work at his
little table, got up to lock the door, and Lady Scatcherd had no
alternative but to pass through it before the last edict was obeyed.

Lady Scatcherd, with slow step, went downstairs and again sought
counsel with Hannah, and the two, putting their heads together, agreed
that the only cure for the present evil was to found in a good fee.  So
Lady Scatcherd, with a five-pound note in her hand, and trembling in
every limb, went forth to encounter the august presence of Dr
Fillgrave.

As the door opened, Dr Fillgrave dropped the bell-rope which was in his
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 was as much as
though he said, 'Lady Scatcherd, I am your most obedient servant; at
any rate it appears that it is your pleasure to treat me as such.'

Lady Scatcherd did not understand all this; but she perceived at once
that he was angry.

'I hope Sir Roger does not find himself worse,' said the doctor.  'The
morning is getting on; shall I step up and see him?'

'Hem! ha! oh!  Why, you see, Dr Fillgrave, Sir Roger finds hisself
vastly better this morning, vastly so.'

'I'm very glad to hear it; but as the morning is getting on, shall I
step up to see Sir Roger?'

'Why, Dr Fillgrave, sir, you see, he finds hisself so much hisself this
morning, that he a'most thinks it would be a shame to trouble you.'

'A shame to trouble me!'  This was the sort of shame which Dr Fillgrave
did not at all comprehend.  'A shame to trouble me! Why Lady
Scatcherd--'

Lady Scatcherd saw that she had nothing for it but to make the whole
matter intelligible.  Moreover, seeing that she appreciated more
thoroughly the smallness of Dr Fillgrave's person more thoroughly than
she did the peculiar greatness of his demeanour, she began to be a
shade less afraid of him than she had thought she should have been.

'Yes, Dr Fillgrave; you see, when a man like he gets well, he can't
abide the idea of doctors: now, yesterday, he was all for sending for
you; but to-day he comes to hisself, and don't seem to want no doctor
at all.'

Then did Dr Fillgrave seem to grow out of his boots, so suddenly did he
take upon himself sundry modes of expansive attitude;--to grow out of
his boots and to swell upwards, till his angry eyes almost looked down
on Lady Scatcherd, and each erect hair bristled up towards the heavens.

'This is very singular, very singular, Lady Scatcherd; very singular
indeed; very singular; quite unusual. I have come here from Barchester,
at some considerable inconvenience, at some very considerable
inconvenience, I may say, to my regular patients; and--and--and--I don't
know that anything so very singular ever occurred to me before.' And
then Dr Fillgrave, with a compression of his lips which almost made the
poor woman sink into the ground, moved towards the door.

Then Lady Scatcherd bethought of her great panacea.  'It isn't about
the money, you know, doctor,' said she; 'of course Sir Roger don'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 to any payment;
and the note which her ladyship held in her hand was taken from her own
private purse.  'It ain't about the money, doctor;' and then she
tendered the bank-note, which she thought would immediately make all
things smooth.

Now Dr Fillgrave dearly loved a five-pound fee.  What physician is so
unnatural as not to love it?  He dearly loved a five-pound fee; but he
loved his dignity better.  He was angry also; and like all angry men,
he loved his grievance.  He felt that he had been badly treated; but if
he took the money he would throw away his right to indulge in any such 
feeling.  At that moment his outraged dignity and cherished anger were
worth more than a five-pound note.  He looked at it with wishful but
still averted eyes, and then sternly refused the tender.

'No, madam,' said he; 'no, no;' and with his right hand raised with his
eye-glasses in it, he motioned away the tempting paper.  'No; I should
have been happy to have given Sir Roger the benefit of any medical
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's an
end of it.  Should he have any relapse, as my time is valuable, he will
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; indeed
you'll take the money,' said Lady Scatcherd, who had now become really
unhappy at the idea of her husband's unpardonable whim had brought this
man with post-horses all the way from Barchester, and that he was to be
paid nothing for his time or 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 at
all.'

'But it is a question of money, doctor; and you really shall, you
must.'  And poor Lady Scatcherd, in her anxiety to acquit herself at
any rate of any pecuniary debt to the doctor, came to personal close
quarters with him, with a view of forcing the note into his hands.

'Quite impossible, quite impossible,' said the doctor, still cherishing
his grievance, and valiantly rejecting the root of all evil.  '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 behind his
back, in token of his utter refusal to accept any pecuniary
accommodation of his injury, he made his way backwards to the door, her
ladyship perseveringly pressing him in front.  So eager had been the
attack on him, that he had not waited to give his order about the
post-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 great 
deliberation, as he backed his way into the hall.  As he did so, of
course he turned round,--and he found himself almost in the arms of Dr
Thorne.

As Burley might have glared at Bothwell when they rushed together in
the dread encounter on the mountain side; as Achilles may have glared
at Hector when at last they met, each resolved to test in fatal
conflict the prowess of the other, so did Dr Fillgrave glare at his foe
from Greshamsbury, when, on turning round on his exalted heel, he found
his nose on a level with the top button of Dr Thorne's waistcoat.

And here, if it be not too tedious, let us pause a while to 
recapitulate and add up the undoubted grievances of the Barchester
practitioner.  He had made no effort to ingratiate himself into the
sheepfold of that other shepherd-dog; it was not by his seeking that he
was not at Boxall Hill; much as he hated Dr Thorne, full sure as he
felt of that man's utter ignorance, of his incapacity to administer
properly even a black dose, of his murdering propensities and his low,
mean, unprofessional style of practice; nevertheless, he had done 
nothing to undermine him with these Scatcherds.  Dr Thorne might have
sent every mother's son at Boxall Hill to his long account, and Dr
Fillgrave would not have interfered;--would not have interfered unless
specially and duly called upon to do so.

But he had been and duly called on.  Before such a step was taken some
words must undoubtedly have passed on the subject between Thorne and
Scatcherds.  Thorne must have known what was to be done.  Having been
so called, Dr Fillgrave had come--had come all the way in a
post-chaise--had been refused admittance to the sick man's room, on the
plea that the sick man was no longer sick; and just as he was about to
retire fee-less--for the want of the fee was not the less a grievance 
from the fact of its having been tendered and refused--feeless,
dishonoured, and in dudgeon, he encountered this other doctor--this
very rival whom he had bee sent to supplant; he encountered 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 Dr Fillgrave?  Had
I the pen of Moliere, I could fitly tell of such medical anger, but
with no other pen can it be fitly told. He did swell, and when the huge
bulk of his wrath was added to his natural proportions, he loomed 
gigantic before the eyes of the surrounding followers 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 to conception
whatever that Sir Roger had declined to see the physician for whom he
had sent; none whatever that the physician was not about to return,
feeless, to Barchester.

Dr Thorne and Dr Fillgrave were doubtless well-known enemies. All the
world of Barchester, and all that portion of the world of London which
is concerned with the lancet and the scalping-knife, were well aware of
this: they were continually writing against each other; continually
speaking against each other; but yet they had never hitherto come to 
that positive personal collision which is held to justify a cut
direct.  They very rarely saw each other; and when they did meet, it
was in some casual way in the streets of Barchester or elsewhere, and
on such occasions their habit had been to bow with very cold propriety.

On the present occasion, Dr Thorne of course felt that Dr Fillgrave had
the whip-hand of him; and, with a sort of manly feeling on such a
point, he conceived it to be most compatible with his own dignity to
show, under such circumstances, more than his usual courtesy--something,
perhaps, amounting almost to cordiality.  He had been supplanted, quoad
doctor, in the house of this rich, eccentric, railway baronet, and he
would show that he bore no malice on that account.

So he smiled blandly as he took off his hat, and in a civil speech he
expressed a hope that Dr Fillgrave had not found his patient to be in
any very unfavourable state.

Here was an aggravation to the already lacerated feelings of the
injured man.  He had been brought thither to be scoffed at and scorned
at, that he might be a laughing-stock to his enemies, and food for
mirth to the vile-minded.  He swelled with noble anger till he would
have burst, had it not been for the opportune padding of his
frock-coat.

'Sir,' said he; 'sir:' and he could hardly get his lips open to give
vent to the tumult of his heart.  Perhaps he was not wrong; for it may
be that his lips were more eloquent than would have been his words.

'What's the matter?' said Dr Thorne, opening his eyes wide, and
addressing Lady Scatcherd over his head and across the hairs of the
irritated man below him.  'What on earth is the matter?  Is anything
wrong with Sir Roger?'

'Oh, laws, doctor!' said her ladyship.  'Oh, laws; I'm sure it ain't my
fault.  Here's Dr Fillgrave, in a taking, and I'm quite ready to pay
him--quite.  If a man gets paid, what more can he want?'  And she again
held out the five-pound note over Dr Fillgrave's head.

What more, indeed, Lady Scatcherd, can any of us want, if only we could
keep our tempers and feelings a little in abeyance?  Dr Fillgrave,
however, could not so keep his; and, therefore, he did want something
more, though at the present moment he could hardly have said what.

Lady Scatcherd's courage was somewhat resuscitated by the presence of
her ancient trusty ally; and, moreover, she began to conceive that the
little man before her was unreasonable beyond all conscience with his
anger, seeing that that for which he was ready to work had been offered
him without any work at all.

'Madam,' said he, again turning round at Lady Scatcherd, 'I was never
before treated in such a way in any house in Barchester--never--never.'

'Good heavens, Dr Fillgrave!' said he of Greshamsbury, 'what is the
matter?'

'I'll let you know what is the matter, sir,' said he, turning round
again 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 shrieked out
the words of the threat, he stood on tiptoes and brandished his
eye-glasses up almost into his enemy's face.

'Don't be angry with Dr Thorne,' said Lady Scatcherd.  'Any ways, you
needn't be angry with him.  If you must be angry with anybody--'

'I shall be angry with him, madam,' ejaculated Dr Fillgrave, making
another sudden demi-pirouette.  'I am angry with him--or, rather, I
despise him;' and completing the circle, Dr Fillgrave again brought
himself round in full front of his foe.

Dr Thorne raised his eyebrows and looked inquiringly at Lady Scatcherd;
but there was a quiet sarcastic motion round his mouth which by no
means had the effect of throwing oil on the troubled waters.

'I'll publish the whole of this transaction to the medical world, Dr
Thorne--the whole of it; and if that has not the effect of rescuing the
people of Greshamsbury out of your hands, then--then--then, I don't know
what will.  Is my carriage--that is, the post-chaise there?' and Dr
Fillgrave, speaking very loudly, turned majestically to one of the 
servants.

'What have I done to you, Dr Fillgrave,' said Dr Thorne, now absolutely
laughing, 'that you should determined to take the bread out of my
mouth?  I am not interfering with your patient. I have come here simply
with reference to money matters appertaining to Sir Roger.'

'Money matters!  Very well--very well; money matters.  That is your idea
of medical practice.  Very well--very well.  Is my post-chaise at the
door?  I'll publish it all to the medical world--every word--every word
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 a
man--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 the
Scatcherd retainers were too fond of the row to absent themselves
willingly at Dr Fillgrave's bidding, and it did not appear that any one
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 Sir
Roger's physician, and I cannot conceive what has occurred to make you
so angry.'  And as he spoke, Dr Thorne looked carefully at him to see
whether that pump-discipline had in truth been applied.  There were no
signs whatever that cold water had been thrown upon Dr Fillgrave.

'My post-chaise--is may post-chaise there?  The medical world shall know
all; you may be sure, sir, the medical world shall know it all;' and
thus, ordering his post-chaise and threatening Dr Thorne with the
medical world, Dr Fillgrave made his way to the door.

But the moment he put on his hat he returned.  'No, madam,' said he. 
'No; quite out of the question: such an affair is not to be arranged by
such means.  I'll publish it all to the medical world--post-chaise
there!' and then, using all his force, he flung as far as he could into
the hall a light bit of paper.  It fell at Dr Thorne'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 Lady
Scatcherd.  'And I thought that perhaps he would not find it till he
got to Barchester.  Well I wish he'd been paid, certainly, although Sir
Roger wouldn't see him;' and in this manner Dr Thorne got some glimpse
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 Thorne
entered the room.  'Well, if that ain't rich, I don't know what is. Ha!
ha! ha!  But why didn't they put him under the pump, doctor?'

The doctor, however, had too much tact, and too many things of
importance to say, to allow of his giving up much time to the
discussion of Dr Fillgrave's wrath.  He had come determined to open the
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 be
possible.  Dr Thorne therefore began about the loan, that being the
easier subject, and found that Sir Roger was quite clear-headed as to
his many money concerns, in spite of his illness.  Sir Roger was
willing enough to lend Mr Gresham more money--six, eight, ten, twenty
thousand; but then, in doing so, he should insist on possession 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 few thousands;
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 weakens my
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 he
wants further accommodation, he must part with his deeds, doctor.'

The point was argued backwards and forwards for some time without
avail, and the doctor then thought it well to introduce the other
subject.

'Sir Roger, you're a hard man.'

'No I ain't,' said Sir Roger; 'not a bit hard; that is, not a bit too
hard.  Money is always hard.  I know I found it hard to come by; and
there is no reason why Squire Gresham should expect to find me so very
soft.'

'Very well; there is an end of that.  I thought you would have done as
much to oblige me, that is all.'

'What! take bad security too 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 at
all, 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 over
head and ears in debt, by way of obliging you, why, it's a little too
much.'

'Well, there's and end of it.  Now I've something to say to you about
that will of yours.'

'Oh! that's settled.'

'No, Scatcherd; it isn't settled.  It must be a great deal more settled
before we have done with it, as you'll find when you hear what I have
to tell you.'

'What you have to tell me!' said Sir Roger, sitting up in bed; 'and
what 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 he is
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 you
angry.  I cannot help it if it does so.  I should not tell you this if
I could avoid it; but as I do tell you, for your sake, as you will see,
and not for my own, I must implore you not to tell my secret to
others.'

Sir Roger now looked at him with an altered countenance.  There was
something in his voice of the authoritative tone of other days,
something in the doctor's look which had on the baronet the same effect
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 tell you
shall not be repeated?'

'A promise!  Well, I don't know what it's about, you know.  I don't
like promises in the dark.'

'Then I must leave it to your honour; for what I have to say must be
said.  You remember my brother, Scatcherd?'

Remember his brother! thought the rich man to himself.  The name of the
doctor's brother had not been alluded to between them since the days of
that trial; but still it was impossible but that Scatcherd should well
remember him.

'Yes, yes; certainly.  I remember your brother,' said he.  'I remember
him well; there's no doubt about that.'

'Well, Scatcherd,' and, as he spoke, the doctor laid his hand with
kindness on the other's arm.  'Mary's eldest child was my brother's
child as well.

'But there is no such child living,' said Sir Roger; and, in his
violence, as he spoke he threw from off him the bedclothes, and tried
to stand up on the floor.  He found, however, that he had no strength
for such an effort, and was obliged to remain leaning on the bed and
resting on the doctor's arm.

'There was no such child ever lived,' said he.  'What do you mean by
this?'

Dr Thorne would say nothing further till he had got the man into bed
again.  This he at last affected, and then he went on with the story in
his own way.

'Yes, Scatcherd, that child is alive; and for fear that you should
unintentionally make her your heir, I have thought it right to tell you
this.'

'A girl, is it?'

'Yes, a girl.'

'And why should you want to spite her?  If she is Mary's child, she is
your brother's child also.  If she is my niece, she must be your niece
also.  Why should you want to spite her?  Why should you try to do her
such 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 made up
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 circumstances of her
history.  He was not even yet quite aware whether it would be necessary
to say that this foundling orphan was the cherished darling of his own 
house.

'Such a child, is, at any rate, living,' said he; 'of that I give you
my assurance; and under your will, as now worded, it might come to pass
that that child should be your heir.  I do not want to spite her, but I
should be wrong to let you make your will without such knowledge,
seeing that I am in possession 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--was it
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-down
day-labourer, lying in jail, rotting there; but I tell you fairly, I do
not believe you now.  You have some scheme in this.'

'Whatever scheme I may have, you can frustrate by making another will. 
What can I gain by telling you this?  I only do so to induce you to be
more explicit in naming your heir.'

They both remained silent for a while, during which the baronet poured
out from his hidden resource a glass of brandy and swallowed it.

'When a man is taken aback suddenly by such tidings as these, he must
take a drop of something, eh, doctor?'

Dr Thorne did not seen the necessity; but the present, he felt, was no
time for arguing the point.

'Come, Thorne, where is the girl?  You must tell me that.  She is my
niece, and I have a right to know.  She shall come here, and I will do
something for her.  By the Lord!  I would as soon she had the money as
anyone else, if she's 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 good
enough.'

'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.  He
could hardly trust himself to say much on this point.

'Mary was a good girl, a very good girl, till'--and Sir Roger raised
himself up in his bed with his fist clenched, as though he were again
about 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 was silence
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 the
contractor, with an unusual tenderness in his voice. 'Mary--yes; but
Mary 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 in his
eyes, so he walked away to the window to dry them, unseen.  He had
fifty names, each more sacred than the other, the most sacred of them
all would hardly have been good enough for her.

'Mary what, doctor?  Come, if the girl is to belong to me, if I am to
provide for her, I must know what to call her, and where to look for
her.'

'Who talked of your providing for her?,' said the doctor, turning round
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 you may not leave
your money to her without knowing it.  She is provided for--that is, 
she wants nothing; she will do well enough; you need not trouble 
yourself about her.'

'But is she's Mary's child, Mary's child in real truth, I will trouble
myself about her.  Who else should do so?  For the matter of that, I'd
soon say her as any of those others in America.  What do I care about
blood?  I shan't mind her being a bastard.  That is to say, of course,
if she's decently good. Did she ever get any kind of teaching; 
book-learning, or anything of that sort?'

Dr Thorne at this moment hated his friend the baronet with almost a
deadly hatred; that he, rough brute as he was--for he was a rough
brute--that he should speak in such language of the angel who gave to
that home in Greshamsbury so many of the joys of Paradise--that he
should speak of her as in some degree his own, that he should inquire
doubtingly as to her attributes and her virtues.  And then the doctor
thought of her Italian and French readings, of her music, of her nice 
books, and sweet lady ways, of her happy companionship with Patience
Oriel, and her dear, bosom friendship with Beatrice Gresham.  He
thought of her grace, and winning manners, and soft, polished feminine
beauty; and, as he did so, he hated Sir Roger Scatcherd, and regarded
him with loathing, as he might have regarded a wallowing-hog.

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 moved him so
deeply?  Sir Roger had never been at the doctor's house at
Greshamsbury, had never seen Mary Thorne, but he had heard that there
lived with the doctor some young female relative; and thus a glimmering
light seemed to come in upon Sir Roger's bed.

He had twitted the doctor with his pride; had said that it was
impossible that the girl should be called Mary Thorne.  What if she
were so called?  What if she were now warming herself at the doctor's
hearth?

'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, a
deal more than ever I did yet.  Come, Thorne, I'm her uncle too.  I
have 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. I have
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 with
her.  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 Miss Thorne
coming here--'

'What!  Mary--'

'Well, Mary.  As to Mary Thorne coming here, that I fear will not be
possible.  She cannot have two homes.  She has cast her lot with one of
her uncles, and she must remain with him now.'

'Do you mean to say that she must have any relation but one?'

'But one such as I am.  She would not be happy over here.  She does not
like new faces.  You have enough depending on you; I have but her.'

'Enough! why, I have only Louis Philippe.  I could provide for a dozen
girls.'

'Well, well, well, we will not talk about that.'

'Ah! but, Thorne, you have told me of this girl now, and I cannot but
talk of her.  If you wished to keep the matter dark, you should have
said 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; quite
as well.'

Any one who might have heard and seen the contractor would have hardly
thought him to be the same man who, a few hours before, was urging 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; but
surely there can be no harm in her coming here to see us? I can provide
for her, Thorne, remember that.  I can provide for her without
reference to Louis Philippe.  What are ten or fifteen thousand pounds
to me?  Remember that, Thorne.'

Dr Thorne did remember it.  In that interview he remembered many
things, and much passed through his mind on which he felt himself
compelled to resolve somewhat too suddenly.  Would he be justified in
rejecting, on behalf of Mary, the offer of pecuniary provision which
this rich relative would be so well inclined to make?  Or, if he
accepted ti, would be in truth be studying her interests?  Scatcherd
was a self-willed, obstinate man--now indeed touched by unwonted 
tenderness; but he was one of those whose lasting tenderness Dr Thorne
would be very unwilling to trust his darling.  He did resolve, that on
the whole he should best discharge his duty, even to her, by keeping
her to himself, and rejecting, on her behalf, any participation in the
baronet's wealth.  As Mary herself had said, 'some people must be bound
together;' and their destiny, that of himself and his niece, seemed to 
have so bound them.  She had found her place at Greshamsbury, her place
in the world; and it would be better for her now to keep it, than to go
forth and seek another that would be richer, but at the same time less
suited to her.

'No, Scatcherd,' he said at last, 'she cannot come here; she would not
be happy here, and, to tell the truth I do not wish her to know that
she has other relatives.'

'Ah! she would be ashamed of her mother, you mean, and of her mother's
brother too, eh?  She's too fine a lady, I suppose, to take me by the
hand and give me a kiss, and call me her uncle? I and Lady Scatcherd
would not be grand enough for her, eh?'

'You may say what you please, Scatcherd: I of course cannot stop you.'

'But I don't know how you'll reconcile what you are doing with your
conscience.  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 do for her.  I
tell you fairly I will.  You shall not keep her away from those 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 in 
Barchester, anyhow.  That was given up to her.  Well, I didn't think to
be talking of her again.  Thorne, you cannot but expect that I shall go
over and see Mary's child?'

'Now, Scatcherd, look here,' and the doctor, coming away from the
window, 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 be a
thorough obstacle to her mother's fortune in life.  Tomlinson was
willing 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 to her 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 my own child. 
After that, I have the 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 in
earnest to be in the least afraid of offending his companion.  'I have
not said so; but I do say that you and she are unlike in the way of
living.'

'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 connexion
between you; of that I wish to keep her in ignorance.'

'I never knew any one yet who is ashamed of a rich connexion. How do
you mean to get a husband for her, eh?'

'I have told you of her existence,' continued the doctor, not appearing
to notice what the baronet had last said, 'because I found it necessary
that you should know the fact of your sister having left a child behind
her; you would otherwise have made a will different from that intended,
and there might have been a lawsuit, and mischief, and misery when we 
are gone.  You must perceive that I have done this in honesty to you;
and you yourself are too honest to repay me by taking advantage of this
knowledge to make me unhappy.'

'Oh, very well, doctor.  At any rate, you are a brick, I will say
that.  But I'll think of this, I'll think of it; but it does startle 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't
we?'

'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 a grill
for dinner?  D--- me, doctor, you have turned Fillgrave out of the
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 announced but to this: that the man was to drink, if possible, no
brandy; 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 what you
like.  Ten thousand is it?  Well, he shall have it.  I'll make
Winterbones 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 to you,
I am indeed.  I wouldn't ask it if I was not sure your money is safe. 
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 a
minute.  You wouldn't let me send a present would you--fifty pounds or
so,--just to buy a few flounces?'

The doctor contrived to escape without giving a definite answer to this
question; and then, having paid his compliments to Lady Scatcherd,
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 reached
the Greshamsbury gates, he sent his horse to its own stable by one of
the people at the lodge, and then walked on to the mansion.  He had to
see the squire on the subject of the forthcoming loan, and he had also
to see the Lady Arabella.

The Lady Arabella, though she was not personally attached to the doctor
with quite so much warmth as some others of her family, still had
reasons of her own for not dispensing with his visits to the house. She
was one of his patients, and a patient fearful of the disease with
which she was threatened. Though she thought the doctor to be arrogant,
deficient as to properly submissive demeanour towards herself, an
instigator to marital parsimony in her lord, one altogether opposed to 
herself and her interest in Greshamsbury politics, 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 all matters 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 he
met her in the garden.

'Oh, doctor,' said she, 'where has Mary been this age?  She has not
been up here since Frank's birthday.'

'Well, that was only three days ago.  Why don't you go down and ferret
her out in the village?'

'So I have done.  I was there just now, and found her out.  She was out
with Patience Oriel.  Patience is all and all with her now.  Patience
is 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 should have
come up, seeing how deserted I am here.  There's absolutely nobody
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 have all
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. Master
Frank wanted to get off, and was as hard to catch as an eel, and then
the countess was offended; and papa said he didn't see why Frank was to
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 described to
him at full length.  The countess had claimed her prey, in order that
she might carry him off to Miss Dunstable's golden embrace.  The prey,
not yet old enough and wise enough to connect the worship of Plutus
with that of Venus, had made sundry futile feints and dodges in the
vain hope of escape.  Then the anxious mother had enforced the De 
Courcy behests with all a mother's authority.  But the father, whose
ideas on the subject of Miss Dunstable's wealth had probably not been
consulted, had, as a matter of course, taken exactly the other side of
the question.  The doctor did not require to be told all this in order
to know how the battle had raged.  He had not yet heard of the great 
Dunstable scheme; but he was sufficiently acquainted with Greshamsbury
tactics to understand that the war had been carried on somewhat after
this fashion.

As a rule, when the squire took a point warmly to heart, he was wont to
carry his way against the De Courcy interest. He could be obstinate
enough when it so pleased him, and had before now gone so far as to tell
his wife, that her thrice-noble sister-in-law might remain at home at
Courcy Castle--or, at any rate, not come to Greshamsbury--if she could
not do so without striving to rule him and every one else when she got
here. This had of course been repeated to the countess, who had merely
replied to it by a sisterly whisper, in which she sorrowfully intimated
that some men were born brutes, and always 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 as
rampant in West Barsetshire as in the eastern division of that county.

The squire, however, had not fought on this occasion with all his
vigour.  There had, of course, been some passages between him and his
son, and it had been agreed that Frank should go for a fortnight to
Courcy Castle.

'We mustn't quarrel with them, you know, if we can help it,' said the
father; '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 of that
sort.'

'Oh, yes, to be sure; the ointment of Lebanon.  He used to cover all
the walls of London.  I haven't heard of him this year past.'

'No; that is because he's dead.  Well, she carries on the ointment now,
I believe; at any rate, she has got all the money.  I wonder what she's
like?'

'You'd better go and see,' said the father, who now began to have some
inkling of an idea why the two ladies were so anxious to carry his son
off to Courcy Castle at this exact time.  And so Frank had packed up his
best clothes, given a last fond look at the new black horse, repeated
his last special injunctions to Peter, and had then made one of the 
stately cortege which proceeded through the county from Greshamsbury to
Courcy Castle.

'I am very glad of that, very,' said the squire, when he heard that the
money was to be forthcoming. 'I shall get it on easier terms from him
than elsewhere; and it kills me to have continual bother about such
things.' And Mr Gresham, feeling that that difficulty was tided over for
a time, and that the immediate pressure of little debts would be abated,
stretched himself on his easy chair as though he were quite
comfortable;--one may say almost elated.

How frequent it is that men on their road to ruin feel elation such as
this!  A man signs away moiety of his substance; nay, that were
nothing; but a moiety of the substance of his children; he puts his pen
to the paper that ruins him and them; but in doing so he frees himself
from a source of immediate little pestering, stinging troubles: and, 
therefore, feels as though fortune has been almost kind to him.

The doctor felt angry with himself for what he had done when he saw how
easily the squire adapted himself to this new loan.  'It will make
Scatcherd's claim upon you very heavy,' said he.

Mr Gresham at once read all that was passing through the doctor's
mind.  'Well, what else can I do?' said he.  'You wouldn't have me
allow my daughter to lose this match for the sake of a few thousand
pounds?  It will be well at any rate to have one of them settled.  Look
at 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 with much
rapture of his love and devotion for Miss Gresham; but at the same time
declared, and most positively swore, that the adverse cruelty of his
circumstances was such, that it would not allow him to stand up like a
man at the hymeneal altar until six thousand pounds hard cash had been
paid down at his banker's.

'It may be all right,' said the squire; 'but in my time gentlemen were
not used to write such letters as that to each other.'

The doctor shrugged his shoulders.  He did not know how far he would be
justified in saying much, even to his friend the squire, in dispraise
of his future son-in-law.

'I told him that he should have the money; and one would have thought
that that would have been enough for him.  Well: I suppose Augusta
likes him.  I suppose she wishes the match; otherwise, I would give him
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 a year
and the house at Wimbledon for her; that's all very well.  But such a
lie, you know, Thorne.  He's rolling in money, and yet he talks of 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 very
anxious for the match.  In the next place, it is such a great thing for
him.  And then, he would never dare; you see, he is dependent on the 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 very
fine fellow, but I think they'll hardly return him at Barchester.'

'I don't understand much about it,' said Thorne; 'but such things do
happen.'

'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;--on
me?'

'I don't say he intends to do it; but it looks to me as though he were
making a door for himself, or trying to make a door: if so, your having
the money will stop him there.'

'But, Thorne, don't you think he loves the girl?  If I thought not--'

The doctor was silent for a moment, and then he said, 'I am not a
love-making man myself, but I think that if I were much in love with a
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, we can't
judge of those fellows as one does of gentlemen; they are so used to
making money, and seeing money made, that they have an eye to business
in everything.'

'Perhaps so, perhaps so,' muttered the doctor, showing evidently that
he still doubted the warmth of Mr Moffat's affection.

'The match was none of my making, and I cannot interfere now to break
it off: it will give her a good position in the world; for, after all,
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;' and the
squire also showed by the tone of his voice that, though he might hope 
that his daughter was in love with her intended husband, he hardly
conceived it to be possible that she should be so.

And what was the truth of the matter?  Miss Gresham was no more in love
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 in mine.  She
had by no means resolved within her heart that of all the men whom she
had ever seen, or ever could see, he was far away the nicest and the
best.  That is what you will do when you are in love, if you be good 
for anything.  She had no longing to sit near to him--the nearer the
better; she had no thought of his taste and his choice when she bought
her ribbons and bonnets; she had not indescribable desire that all her
female friends should be ever talking to her about him.  When she wrote
to him, she did not copy her letters again and 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 to be his life's partner.  In point
of fact, she did not care one straw about him.

And yet she thought she loved him; was, indeed, quite confident that
she did so; told her mother that she was sure Gustavus would wish this,
she knew Gustavus would like that, and so on; but as for Gustavus
himself, she did not care one chip about him.

She was in love with her match just as farmers are in love with wheat
and eighty shillings a quarter; or shareholders--innocent gudgeons--with
seven and half per cent interest on their paid up capital.  Eighty
shillings a quarter, and seven and half per cent interest, such were
the returns which she had been taught to look for in exchange for her
young heart; and, having obtained them, or being thus about to obtain 
them, why should not her young heart be satisfied?  Had she not sat
herself down obediently at the feet of her lady Gamaliel, and should
she not be rewarded?  Yes, indeed, she shall be rewarded.

And then the doctor went to the lady.  On their medical secrets we will
not intrude; but there were other matters bearing on the course of our
narrative, as to which Lady Arabella found it necessary to say a word
of so to the doctor; and it is essential that we should know what was
the tenor of those few words so spoken.

How the aspirations, and instincts, and feelings of a household become
changed as the young birds begin to flutter those feathered wings, and
have half-formed thoughts of leaving the parental nest!  A few months
back, Frank had reigned almost autocratic over the lesser subjects of
the kingdom of Greshamsbury.  The servants, for instance, always obeyed
him, and his sisters never dreamed of telling anything which he
directed should not be told.  All his mischief, all his troubles, and
all his loves were confided to them, with the sure conviction that they
would never be made to stand in evidence against him.

Trusting to this well-ascertained state of things, he had not hesitated
to declare his love for Miss Thorne before his sister Augusta.  But his
sister Augusta had now, as it were, been received into the upper house;
having duly profited by the lessons of her great instructress, she was
now admitted to sit in conclave with the higher powers: her sympathies,
of course, became changed, and her confidence was removed from the
young and giddy and given to the ancient and discreet.  She was as a
schoolboy, who, having finished his schooling, and being fairly forced
by necessity into the stern bread-earning world, undertakes the new
duties of tutoring.  Yesterday he was taught, and fought, of course,
against the schoolmaster; to-day he teaches, and fights as keenly for
him.  So it was with Augusta Gresham, when, with careful brow, she
whispered to her mother that there was something wrong between Frank 
and Mary Thorne.

'Stop it at once, Arabella: stop it at once,' the countess had said;
'that, indeed, will be the ruin.  If he does not marry money, he is
lost.  Good heavens! the doctor's niece!  A girl that nobody knows
where she comes 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 evil may be
remedied before he returns; but it is very, very hard to lead young
men.  Arabella, you must forbid that girl to come to Greshamsbury again
on any pretext whatever.  The evil must be stopped at 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 been
folly, very great folly, in having her here.  Of course she would turn
out to be a designing creature with such temptation before her; with
such 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. I never knew the
propriety of a girl of that sort to be fit to be depended on 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 going away.  Where so much, so very much depends on a young
man's marrying money, not one day ought to be lost.'

Instigated in this manner, Lady Arabella resolved to open her mind to
the doctor, and to make it intelligible to him, that under present
circumstances, Mary's visits at Greshamsbury had better be
discontinued.  She would have given much, however, to have escaped this
business.  She had in her time tried one or two falls with the doctor,
and she was conscious that she had never yet got the better of 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 Mary from 
Greshamsbury: she was not sure that that young lady would not boldly
assert her right to her place in the school-room; appeal loudly to the
squire, and perhaps, declare her determination of marrying the heir,
out before them all.  The squire would be sure to uphold her in that,
or in anything else.

And then, too, there would be the greatest difficulty in wording her
request to the doctor; and Lady Arabella was sufficiently conscious of
her own weakness to know that she was not always very good at words. 
But the doctor, when hard pressed, was never at fault: he could say the
bitterest things in the quietest tone, and Lady Arabella had a great 
dread of these bitter things.  What, also, if he should desert her
himself; withdraw from her his skill and knowledge of her bodily wants
and ailments now that he was so necessary to her? She had once before
taken that measure of sending to Barchester for Dr Fillgrave, but it
had answered with her hardly better than with Sir Roger and Lady
Scatcherd.

When, therefore, Lady Arabella found herself alone with the doctor, and
called upon to say out in what best language she could select 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 of her being the
wife of the squire, the sister of an earl, a person quite acknowledged
to be of the great world, and the mother of a very important young man 
whose affections were now about to be called in question.  
Nevertheless, there was the task to be done, and with a mother's
courage she essayed it.

'Dr Thorne,' said she, as soon as their medical conference was at an
end, 'I am very glad you came over to-day, for I have something special
which I wanted to say to you:' so far she got, and then stopped; but,
as the doctor did not seem inclined to give her any assistance, she was
forced to flounder on as best she could.

'Something very particular indeed.  You know what a respect and esteem,
and I may say affection, we all have for you,'--here the doctor made a
low bow--'and I may say for Mary also;' here the doctor bowed himself
again.  'We have done what little we could to be pleasant neighbours,
and I think you'll believe me when I say that I am a true friend to you
and dear Mary--'

The doctor knew that something very unpleasant was coming, but he could
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 duly sensible of
all the acts of kindness he had ever received from the squire and the
family at large.

'I hope, therefore, my dear doctor, you won't take amiss what I am
going 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 less to
you.  But there are occasions, doctor, in which duty must be paramount;
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?'

'Why his position in life; an only son, you know.'

'Oh, yes; I know his position in that respect; an only son, and his
father'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 to
express herself as being in any way proud of Frank.  She was desirous
rather, on the other hand, of showing that she was a good deal ashamed
of him; only not quite so much ashamed of him as it behoved the doctor
to be of his niece.'

'Well, perhaps so; yes,' said Lady Arabella, 'he is, I believe, a very
good young man, with an excellent disposition; but, doctor, his
position is very precarious; and he is just at that time of life when
caution is necessary.'

To the doctor's ears, Lady Arabella was now talking of her son as a
mother might of her infant when whooping-cough was abroad our croup
imminent.  'There is nothing on earth the matter with him, I should
say,' said the doctor.  'He has every possible sign of perfect health.'

'Oh yes; his health!  Yes, thank God, his health is good; that is a
great blessing.'  And Lady Arabella thought of her four flowerets that
had already faded.  'I am sure I am most thankful to see him growing up
so strong.  But it is not that I mean, doctor.'

'Then what is it, Lady Arabella?'

'Why, doctor, the squire's position with regard to money matters.'

Now the doctor undoubtedly did know the squire's position with regard
to money matters,--knew it much better than Lady Arabella; but he was by
no means inclined to talk on that subject to her ladyship.  He remained
quite silent, therefore, although Lady Arabella's last speech had taken
the form of a question.  Lady Arabella was a little offended at this
want of freedom on his part, and become somewhat sterner in her tone--a
thought less condescending in her manner.

'The squire has unfortunately embarrassed the property, and Frank must
look forward to inherit it with very heavy encumbrances; I fear very
heavy indeed, though of what exact nature I am kept in ignorance.'

Looking at the doctor's face, she perceived that there was no 
probability whatever that her ignorance would be enlightened by him.

'And, therefore, it is highly necessary that Frank should be very
careful.'

'As to his private expenditure, you mean?' said the doctor.

'No; not exactly that: though of course he must be careful as to that,
too; that's of course.  But that is not what I mean, doctor; his only
hope of retrieving his circumstances is by marrying money.'

'With every other conjugal blessing that a man can have, I hope he may
have that also.'  So the doctor replied with imperturbable face; but
not the less did he begin to have a shade of suspicion of what might be
the coming subject of the conference.  It would be untrue to say that
he had ever thought it probable that the young heir should fall in love
with his niece; that he had ever looked forward to such a chance,
either with complacency or with fear; nevertheless, the idea had of
late passed through his mind.  Some word had fallen from Mary, some
closely watched expression of her eye, or some quiver in her lip when
Frank's name was mentioned, had of late made him involuntarily think
that such a thing might not be impossible; and then, when the chance of
Mary becoming the heiress to so large a fortune had been forced upon
his consideration, he had been unable to prevent himself from building
happy castles in the air, as he rode slowly home from Boxall Hill.  But
not a whit the more on that account was he prepared to be untrue to the
squire's interest or to encourage a feeling 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 and
beauty.  I hope he will marry them all.'

Could it be possible, that in speaking of a pure feminine heart, and
youth and beauty, and such like gewgaws, the doctor was thinking of his
niece?  Could it be that he had absolutely made up his mind to foster
and encourage this odious match?

The bare idea made Lady Arabella wrathful, and her wrath gave her
courage.  'He must marry money, or he will be a ruined man. Now,
doctor, I am informed that things--words that is--have passed between
him and Mary which never ought to have been allowed.'

And now the doctor was wrathful.  'What things? what words?' said he,
appearing to Lady Arabella as though he rose in his anger nearly a 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 advanced description.'

This, the doctor could not stand.  No, not for Greshamsbury and its
heir; not for the squire and all his misfortunes; not for Lady Arabella
and the blood of the De Courcys could he stand quiet and hear Mary
accused.  He sprang up another foot in height, and expanded equally in
width as he flung back the insinuation.

'Who says so?  Whoever says so, whoever speaks of Miss Thorne in such
language, says what is not true.  I will pledge my word--'

'My dear doctor, my dear doctor, what took place was quite clearly
heard; 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 be
helped.  The thing must be stopped, that is all.'

'What thing?  Speak out, Lady Arabella.  I will not have Mary's conduct
impugned by innuendoes.  What is that eavesdroppers have heard?'

Dr Thorne, there have been no eavesdroppers.'

'And not talebearers either?  Will you ladyship oblige me by letting me
know what is this 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 been very
imprudent.  Of course he has been to blame.  There has been fault on
both sides, no doubt.'

'I utterly deny it.  I positively deny it.  I know nothing of the
circumstances; 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 assert
that there has not been fault on both sides. Whether there has been any
fault on any side, that I do not 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 lady circumstanced
like your niece.'

'Allurements!' almost shouted the doctor, and, as he did so, Lady
Arabella stepped back a pace or two, retreating from the fire which
shot out of his eyes.  'But the truth is, Lady Arabella, you do not
know my niece.  If you will have the goodness to let me understand what
it is that you desire I will tell you whether I can comply with your
wishes.'

'Of course it will be very inexpedient that the young people should be
thrown together again;--for the present, I mean.'

'Well!'

'Frank has now gone to Courcy Castle; and he talks of going from thence
to Cambridge.  But he will doubtless be here, backwards and forwards;
and perhaps it will be better for all parties--safer, that is, doctor--if
Miss Thorne were to discontinue her visits to Greshamsbury for a
while.'

'Very well!' thundered out the doctor.  'Her visits to Greshamsbury
shall be discontinued.'

'Of course, doctor, this won't change intercourse between us; between
you and the and the family.'

'Not change it!' said he.  'Do you think that I will break bread in a
house from whence she has been ignominiously banished?  Do you think
that I can sit in friendship with those who have spoken of her as you
have now spoken?  You have many daughters; what would you say if 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 belong to
you.  And prudence requires me to look after my one lamb.  Good
morning, Lady Arabella.'

'But, doctor, you are not going to quarrel with us?  You will come when
we want you; eh! won't you?'

Quarrel! quarrel with Greshamsbury!  Angry as he was, the doctor felt
that he could ill bear to quarrel with Greshamsbury.  A man past fifty
cannot easily throw over the ties that have taken twenty years to form,
and wrench himself away from the various close ligatures with which, in
such a period, he has become bound.  He could not quarrel with the 
squire; he could ill bear to quarrel with Frank; though he now began to
conceive that Frank had used him badly, he could not do so; he could
not quarrel with the children, who had almost been born into his arms;
nor even with the very walls, and trees, and grassy knolls with which
he was so dearly intimate. He could not proclaim himself an enemy to 
Greshamsbury; and yet he felt that fealty to Mary required of him that,
for the present, he should put on an enemy's guise.

'If you want me, Lady Arabella, and send for me, I will come to you;
otherwise, if you please, share the sentence which has been passed on
Mary.  I will now wish you good morning.' And then bowing low to her,
he left the room and the house, and sauntered slowly away to his own
home.

What was he to say to Mary?  He walked very slowly, down the 
Greshamsbury avenue with his hands clasped behind his back, thinking
over the whole matter; thinking of it, or rather trying to think of
it.  When a man's heart is warmly concerned in any matter, it is almost
useless for him to endeavour to think of it.  Instead of thinking, he
gives play to his feelings, and feeds his passion by indulging it.  
'Allurements!' he said to himself, repeating Lady Arabella's words.  'A
girl circumstanced like my niece!  How utterly incapable is such a
woman as that to understand the mind, and the heart, and soul of such a
one as Mary Thorne!'  And then his thoughts recurred to Frank.  'It has
been ill done of him; ill done of him: young as he is, he should have
had feeling enough to spared me this.  A thoughtless word has been
spoken which will now make her miserable!'  And then, as he walked on,
he could not divest his mind of 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 the owner of Greshamsbury.

The idea was one which he disliked to entertain, but it would recur to
him again and again.  It might be, that a marriage between his niece
and the nominal heir to the estate might be of all the matches the best
for young Gresham to make.  How sweet would be the revenge, how
glorious the retaliation on Lady Arabella, if, after what had now been
said, it should come to pass that all the difficulties of Greshamsbury
should be made smooth by Mary's love, and Mary's hand!  It was a 
dangerous subject on which to ponder.  And, as he sauntered down the
road, the doctor did his best to banish it from his mind--not altogether
successfully.

But as he went he again encountered Beatrice.  'Tell Mary I went up to
her to-day,' said she, 'and that I expect her up here to-morrow.  If
she does not come here, I shall be savage.'

'Do not be savage,' said he, putting out his hand, 'even though she
should 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; 'of course
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, nor
probably for some time.  But, Miss Gresham, you must not be savage with
her.'

Beatrice tried to interrogate him, but he would not wait to answer her
questions.  While she was speaking he bowed to her in his usual
old-fashioned courteous way, and passed on out of hearing.  'She will
not come up for some time,' said Beatrice to herself.  'Then mamma must
have quarrelled with her.'  And at once in her heart she acquitted her
friend of all blame in the matter, whatever it might be, and condemned 
her mother unheard.

The doctor, when he arrived in his own house, had in nowise made up his
mind as to the manner in which he would break the matter to Mary; but
by the time that he had reached the drawing-room, he had made up his
mind to this, that he would put off the evil hour till the morrow.  He
would sleep on the matter--lie awake on it, more probably--and then at
breakfast, as best he could, tell her what had been 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 had absolutely
left Greshamsbury, and had, therefore, preferred the company of Miss
Oriel to going up to the house.  There was a peculiar cheerfulness
about her friend Patience, a feeling of satisfaction with 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 of her young troubles, a
smiling face, if not a heart altogether happy.

'Uncle,' she said at last, 'what makes you so sombre?  Shall I read to
you?'

'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, she came
over to his arm-chair, and leant over his shoulder.

He looked up at her for a minute in silence, and then, getting up from
his chair, passed his arm round her waist, and pressed her closely to
his heart.

'My darling!' he said, almost convulsively.  'My best own, truest
darling!' and Mary looked up into his face, saw that big tears were
running down his cheeks.

But still he told her nothing that night.



CHAPTER XV

COURCY

When Frank Gresham expressed to his father an opinion that Courcy
Castle was dull, the squire, as may be remembered, did not pretend to
differ from him.  To men such as the squire, and such as the squire's
son, Courcy Castle was dull.  To what class of men it would not be dull
the author is not prepared to say; but it may be presumed that the De
Courcys found it to their liking, or they would have made it other than
it was.

The castle itself was a huge brick pile, built in the days of William
III, which, though they were grand for days of the construction of the
Constitution, were not very grand for architecture of a more material
description.  It had, no doubt, a perfect right to be called a 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, which were, perhaps properly,
called towers, though they did not do much in the way of towering; and,
moreover, along one side of the house, over what would otherwise have
been the cornice, there ran a castellated parapet, through the
assistance of which, the imagination no doubt was intended to supply
the muzzles of defiant artillery. But any artillery which would have so
presented its muzzle must have been very small, and it may be doubted
whether even a bowman could have obtained shelter there.

The grounds about the castle were not very inviting, nor, as grounds,
very extensive; though, no doubt, the entire domain was such as suited
the importance of so puissant a nobleman as Earl de Courcy.  What,
indeed, should have been the park was divided out into various large
paddocks.  The surface was flat and unbroken; and though there were
magnificent elm-trees standing in straight lines, like hedgerows, the
timber had not that beautiful, wild, scattered look which generally 
gives the great charm to English scenery.

The town of Courcy--for the place claimed to rank as a town--was in many
particulars like the castle.  It was built of dingy-red brick--almost
more brown than red--and was solid, dull-looking, ugly and comfortable. 
It consisted of four streets, which were formed by two roads crossing
each other, making at the point of junction a centre for the town. Here
stood the Red Lion; had it been called the brown lion, the nomenclature
would have been more strictly correct; and here, in the old days of
coaching, some life had been wont to stir itself at those house in the
day and night when the Freetraders, Tallyhoes, and Royal Mails changed
their horses. But now there was a railway station a mile and a half 
distant, and the moving life of the town of Courcy was confined to the
Red Lion omnibus, which seemed to pass its entire time in going up and
down between the town and the station, quite unembarrassed by any great
weight of passengers.

There were, so said the Courcyites when away from Courcy, excellent
shops in the place; but they were not the less accustomed, when at home
among themselves, to complain to each other of the vile extortion with
which they were treated by their neighbours.  The ironmonger,
therefore, though he loudly asserted that he could beat Bristol in the
quality of his wares in one direction, and undersell Gloucester in 
another, bought his tea and sugar on the sly in one of those larger
towns; and the grocer, on the other hand equally distrusted the pots
and pans of home production.  Trade, therefore, at Courcy, had not
thriven since the railway opened: and, indeed, had any patient inquirer
stood at the cross through one entire day, counting customers who
entered the neighbouring shops, he might well have wondered that any 
shops in Courcy could be kept open.

And how changed has been the bustle of that once noisy inn to the
present death-like silence of its green courtyard!  There, a lame
ostler crawls about with the hands thrust into the capacious pockets of
his jacket, feeding on memory.  That weary pair of omnibus jades, and
three sorry posters are all that now grace those stables where horses
used to be stalled in close contiguity by the dozen; where twenty
grains apiece, abstracted from every feed of oats consumed during the
day, would have afforded a daily quart to the lucky pilferer.

Come, my friend, and discourse with me.  Let us know what are thy ideas
of the inestimable benefits which science has conferred on us in these,
our latter days.  How dost thou, among others, appreciate railways and
the power of steam, telegraphs, telegrams, and our new expresses?  But 
indifferently, you say.  'Time was I've zeed vifteen pair 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's vather-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, and the governess and the young
leddies, and then the servants-they'd be al'ays the grandest folk of
all--and then the duik and doochess--Lord love 'ee, zur; the money did
fly in them days!  But now--' and the feeling of scorn and contempt
which the lame ostler was enabled by his native talent to throw into
the word 'now', was quite as eloquent against the power of steam as
anything that has been spoken at dinners, or written in pamphlets by
the keenest admirers of latter-day lights.

'Why, luke at this 'ere town,' continued he of the sieve, 'the grass be
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 this way, hour
arter hour, and my heyes is hopen mostly;--I zees who's a-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 became more loud and
powerful than ever--'why, darn me, if maister harns enough with that
there bus to put hiron on them osses' feet, I'll-be-blowed!'  And as he
uttered this hypothetical denunciation on himself he spoke very slowly,
bringing out every word as it were separately, and lowering himself at
his knees at every sound, moving at the same time his right hand up and
down.  When he had finished, he fixed his eyes upon the ground,
pointing downwards, as if there was to be the site of his doom if the
curse that he had called down upon himself should ever come to pass;
and then, waiting no further converse, he hobbled away, melancholy, to
his deserted stables.

Oh, my friend! my poor lame friend! it will avail nothing to tell thee
of Liverpool and Manchester; of the glories of Glasgow, with her
flourishing 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 that
worn-out, all but useless great western turnpike-road?  There is 
nothing left for thee but to be carted away as rubbish--for thee and 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, in his
former visits, had found that the appearance did not belie the
reality.  He had been but little there when the earl had been at
Courcy; and as he had always felt from his childhood a peculiar taste
to the governance of his aunt the countess, this perhaps may have added
to his feeling of dislike.  Now, however, the castle was to be fuller
than he had ever before known it; the earl was to be at home; there was
some talk of the Duke of Omnium coming for a day or two, though that
seemed doubtful; there was some faint doubt of Lord Porlock; Mr Moffat,
intent on the coming election--and also, let us hope, on his coming
bliss--was to be one of the guests; and there was also to be the great
Miss Dunstable.

Frank, however, found that those grandees were not expected quite
immediately.  'I might go back to Greshamsbury for three or four days
as she is not to be here,' he said naively to his aunt, expressing,
with tolerable perspicuity, his feeling, that he regarded his visit to
Courcy Castle quite as a matter of business.  But the countess would
hear of no such arrangement. Now that she had got him, she was not
going to let him fall back into the perils of Miss Thorne's intrigues, 
or even of Miss Thorne's propriety.  'It is quite essential,' 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 understand the reasoning; but he
felt himself unable to rebel, and he therefore, remained there,
comforting himself, as best he might, with the eloquence of the
Honourable George, and the sporting humours of the Honourable John.

Mr Moffat was the earliest arrival of any importance.  Frank had not
hitherto made the acquaintance of his future brother-in-law, and there
was, therefore, some little interest in the first interview.  Mr Moffat
was shown into the drawing-room before the ladies had gone up to dress,
and it so happened that Frank was there also.  As no one else was in
the room but his sister and two of his cousins, he had expected to see 
the lovers rush into each other's arms.  But Mr Moffat restrained his
ardour, and Miss Gresham seemed contented that he should do so.

He was a nice, dapper man, rather above the middle height, and
good-looking enough had he had a little more expression in his face. He
had dark hair, very nicely brushed, small black whiskers, and a small
black moustache.  His boots were excellently well made, and his hands
were very white.  He simpered gently as he took hold of Augusta's
fingers, and expressed a hope that she had been quite will since last
he had the pleasure of seeing her.  Then he touched the hands 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 a pretty,
mincing voice: 'Lady Arabella quite well?--and your father, and
sisters?  Very warm isn't it?--quite hot in town, I do assure you.'

'I hope Augusta likes him,' said Frank to himself, arguing on the
subject exactly as his father had done; 'but for an engaged lover he
seems to me to have a very queer way with him.' Frank, poor fellow! who
was of a coarser mould, would, under such circumstances, have been all
for kissing--sometimes, indeed, even under other circumstances.

Mr Moffat did not do much towards improving the conviviality of the
castle.  He was, of course, a good deal intent upon his coming
election, and spent much of his time with Mr Nearthewinde, the
celebrated parliamentary agent.  It behoved him to be a good deal at
Barchester, canvassing the electors and undermining, by Mr
Nearthewinde's aid, the mines for blowing him out of his seat, which
were daily being contrived by Mr Closerstil, on behalf of Sir Roger. 
The battle was to be fought on the internecine principle, no quarter
being given or taken on either side; and of course this gave Mr Moffat
as much as he knew how to do.

Mr Closerstil was well known to be the sharpest man at his business in
all England, unless the palm should be given to his great rival Mr
Nearthewinde; and in this instance he was to be assisted in the battle
by a very clever young barrister, Mr Romer, who was an admirer of Sir
Roger's career in life.  Some people in Barchester, when they saw 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 Duke of Omnium--and mildly
asserted it to be impossible that the duke's nominee 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, which had cost him
his seat for the county, and had abjured the De Courcy politics.  He
was staunch enough as a Tory now that his being so would no 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 to the Manchester
school, and whose pretensions, through some of those inscrutable twists
in modern politics which are quite unintelligible to the minds of
ordinary men outside the circle, were on this occasion secretly
favoured by the high Conservative party.

How Mr Moffat, who had been brought into the political world by Lord de
Courcy, obtained the weight of the duke's interest I never could
exactly learn.  For the duke and the earl did not generally act as
twin-brothers on such occasions.

There is a great difference in Whigs.  Lord de Courcy was a Court Whig,
following the fortunes, and enjoying, when he could get it, the
sunshine of the throne.  He was a sojourner at Windsor, and a visitor
at Balmoral.  He delighted in gold sticks, and was never so happy as
when holding some cap of maintenance or spur of precedence with due
dignity 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 at
the cost of the Court rather than at his own.

The Duke of Omnium was a Whig of a very different calibre.  He rarely
went near the presence of majesty, and when he did so, he did it merely
as a disagreeable duty incident to his position.  He was very willing
that the Queen should be queen so long as he was allowed to be Duke of
Omnium.  Nor had he begrudged Prince Albert any of his honours till he
was called Prince Consort.  Then, indeed, he had, to his own intimate 
friends, made some remark in three words not flattering to the
discretion of the Prime Minister.  The Queen might be queen so long as
he was Duke of Omnium.  Their revenues were about the same, with the
exception, that the duke's were his own, and he could do what he liked
with them.  This remembrance did not unfrequently present itself to the
duke's mind.  In person, he was a plain, thin man, tall, but 
undistinguished in appearance, except that there was a gleam of pride
in his eye which seemed every moment to be saying, 'I am the Duke of
Omnium'.  He was unmarried, and, if report said true, a great
debauchee; but if so he had always kept his debaucheries decently away
from the eyes of the world, and was not, therefore, open to that loud
condemnation which should fall like a hailstorm round the ears of some
more open sinners.

Why these two mighty nobles put their heads together in order that the
tailor's son should represent Barchester in Parliament, I cannot
explain.  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 his
kindness, as touching Barchester, with some little assistance in the 
county 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 his
ease.  She, apparently, was made in a different mould, and by her
energy and diligence atoned for any want of those qualities which might
be observed in the bishop himself. When asked his opinion, his lordship
would generally reply by saying--'Mrs Proudie and I think so and so.' 
But before that opinion was given, Mrs Proudie would take up the tale,
and she, in her more concise manner, was not wont to quote the bishop
as having at all assisted in the consideration of the subject.  It was
well known in Barsetshire that no married pair consorted more closely
or more tenderly together; and the example of such conjugal affection
among persons in the upper classes is worth mentioning, as it is
believed by those below them, and too often with truth, that the sweet
bliss of connubial reciprocity is not so common as it should be among
the magnates of the earth.

But the arrival even of the bishop and his wife did not make the place
cheerful to Frank Gresham, and he began to long for Miss Dunstable, in
order that he might have something to do. He could not get on at all
with Mr Moffat.  He had expected that the man would at once have called
him Frank, and that he would have called the man Gustavus; but they did
not even get beyond Mr Moffat and Mr Gresham.  'Very hot in Barchester,
today, very,' was the nearest approach to conversation which Frank
could attain with him; and as far as he, Frank, could see, Augusta
never got much beyond it.  There might be tete-a-tete meetings between
them, but, if so, Frank could not detect when they took place; and so,
opening his heart at last to the Honourable George, for the want of
a better confidant, he expressed his opinion that his future 
brother-in-law was a muff.

'A muff--I believe you too.  What do you think now?  I have been with
him and Nearthewinde in Barchester these three days past, looking up
the electors' wives and daughters, and that kind of thing.'

'I say, if there is any fun in it you might as well take me with you.'

'Oh, there is not much fun; they are mostly so slobbered and dirty.  A
sharp 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 was Moffat,
yesterday, in a room behind the milliner's shop near Cuthbert's Gate; I
was with him.  The woman's husband is one of the choristers and an
elector, you know, and Moffat went to look for his vote.  Now, there
was no one there when we got there but the three young women, the wife,
that is, and her two girls--very pretty women they are too.'

'I say, George, I'll go and get the chorister's vote for Moffat; I
ought 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 them, did he?'

'Kiss any of them?  No; but he begged to give them his positive
assurance as a gentleman that if he was returned to Parliament he would
vote for an extension of the franchise, and the admission of the Jews
into the Parliament.'

'Well, he is a muff,' said Frank.



CHAPTER XVI

MISS DUNSTABLE

At last the great Miss Dunstable came.  Frank, when he heard that the
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 for Mary Thorne that
he was more than ever resolved that he would never marry any one but
her.  He knew that he had made her a formal offer for her hand, and 
that it behoved him to keep to it, let the charms of Miss Dunstable be
what they might; but, nevertheless, he was prepared to go through a
certain amount of courtship, in obedience to his aunt's behests, and he
felt a little nervous at being brought up in that way, face to face, to
do battle with two hundred thousand pounds.

'Miss Dunstable has arrived,' said his aunt to him, with great
complacency, on his return from an electioneering visit to the beauties
of Barchester which he made with his cousin George on the day after the
conversation which was repeated at the end of the last chapter.  'She
has arrived, and is looking remarkably well; she has quite a distingue
air, and will grace any circle to which she may be introduced.  I will 
introduce you before dinner, and you can take her out.'

'I couldn't propose to her tonight, I suppose?' said Frank, 
maliciously.

'Don't talk nonsense, Frank,' said the countess angrily.  'I am doing
what I can for you, and taking on an infinity of trouble to endeavour
to place you in an independent position; and now you talk nonsense to
me.'

Frank muttered some sort of apology, and then went to prepare himself
for the encounter.

Miss Dunstable, though she had come by train, had brought with her her
own carriage, her own horses, her own coachman and footman, and her own
maid, of course.  She had also brought with her half a score of trunks,
full of wearing apparel; some of them nearly as rich as that wonderful
box which was stolen a short time since from the top of a cab.  But she
brought these things, not in the least because she wanted them herself,
but because she had been instructed to do so.

Frank was a little more than ordinarily careful in dressing. He spoilt
a couple of white neckties before he was satisfied, and was rather
fastidious as the set of his hair. There was not much of the dandy
about him in the ordinary meaning of the word.  But he felt that it was
incumbent on him to look his best, seeing what it was expected he
should now do.  He certainly did not mean to marry Miss Dunstable; but
as he was to have a flirtation with her, it was well that he should do
so under the best possible auspices.

When he entered the drawing-room he perceived at once that the lady was
there.  She was seated between the countess and Mrs Proudie; and
mammon, in her person, was receiving worship from the temporalities and
spiritualities of the land.  He tried to look unconcerned, and remained
in the farther part of the room, talking with some of his cousins; but
he could not keep his eye off the future possible Mrs Frank Gresham; 
and it seemed as though she was as much constrained to scrutinize him
as he felt to scrutinize her.

Lady de Courcy had declared that she was looking extremely well, and
had particularly alluded to her distingue appearance. Frank at once
felt that he could not altogether go along with his aunt in this
opinion.  Miss Dunstable might be very well; but her style of beauty
was one which did not quite meet with his warmest admiration.

In age she was about thirty; but Frank, who was no great judge in these
matters, and who was accustomed to have very young girls round him, at
once put her down as being ten years older. She had a very high colour,
very red cheeks, a large mouth, big white teeth, a broad nose, and
bright, small, black eyes.  Her hair also was black and bright, but 
very crisp, and strong, and was combed close round her face in small
crisp black ringlets. Since she had been brought out into the
fashionable world some of her instructors in fashion had given her to
understand that curls were not the thing.  'They'll always pass
muster,' Miss Dunstable had replied, 'when they are done up with
bank-notes.'  It may therefore be presumed that Miss Dunstable had a
will of her own.

'Frank,' said the countess, in the most natural and unpremeditated way,
as soon as she caught her nephew's eye, 'come here.  I want to
introduce you to Miss Dunstable.'  The introduction was then made. 'Mrs
Proudie, would you excuse me? I must positively go and say a few words
to Mrs Barlow, or the poor woman will feel herself huffed'; and so
saying, she moved off, leaving the coast clear for Master Frank.

He of course slipped into his aunt's place, and expressed a hope that
Miss 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 a thing
as that.  Why, in May we came through all the way from Rome to Paris
without sleeping--that is, without sleeping in a bed--and we were upset
three times out of the sledges coming over the Simpton.  It was such
fun! Why, I wasn't to say tired even then.'

'All the way from Rome to Paris!' said Mrs Proudie--in a tone of
astonishment, meant to flatter the heiress--'and what made you in such a
hurry?'

'Something about money matters,' said Miss Dunstable, speaking rather
louder than usual.  'Something to do with the ointment. I was selling
the 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 joyous air;
'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 for
the Pope, if he wasn't quite so fat he would be the nicest old fellow
in the world.  Have you been in Rome, Mrs Proudie?'

Mrs Proudie sighed as she replied in the negative, and declared her
belief that danger was 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 Sabbath
observances--'

'And have you been at Rome, Mr Gresham?' said the young lady, turning
almost abruptly round to Frank, and giving a somewhat uncivilly cold
shoulder to Mrs Proudie's exhortation.  She, poor lady, was forced to
finish her speech to the Honourable George, who was standing near to
her.  He having an idea that bishops and all their belongings, like
other things appertaining to religion, should, if possible, be avoided;
but if that were not possible, should be treated with much assumed
gravity, immediately put on a long face, and remarked that--'it was a
deuced shame: for his part he always liked to see people go quiet on
Sundays.  The parsons had only one day out of seven, and he thought
they were fully entitled to that.'  Satisfied with which, or not
satisfied, Mrs Proudie had to remain silent till dinner-time.

'No,' said Frank; 'I never was in Rome.  I was in Paris once, that's
all.'  And then, feeling not unnatural anxiety as to the present state
of Miss Dunstable's worldly concerns, he took an opportunity of falling
back on that part of her conversation which Mrs 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 going to
bed because of selling the business.'

'Oh!--the ointment.  No; it was not sold.  After all, the affair did not
come off, and I might have remained and had another roll in the snow. 
Wasn't it a pity?'

'So,' said Frank to himself, 'if I should do it, I should be owner of
the ointment of Lebanon: how odd!'  And then he gave her his arm and
handed her down to dinner.

He certainly found that his dinner was less dull than any other he had
sat down to at Courcy Castle.  He did not fancy that he should ever
fall in love with Miss Dunstable; but she certainly was an agreeable
companion.  She told him of her tour, and the fun she had in her
journeys; how she took a physician with her for the benefit of her
health, whom she generally was forced to nurse; of the trouble it was
to her to look after and wait upon her numerous servants; of the tricks
she played to bamboozle people who came to stare at her; and, lastly,
she told him of a lover who followed her from country to country, and
was now in hot pursuit of her, having arrived in London the evening
before she left.

'A lover?' said Frank, somewhat startled by the suddenness of the
confidence.

'A lover--yes--Mr Gresham; why should I not have a lover?'

'Oh!--no--of course not.  I dare say you have had a good many.'

'Only three or four, upon my word; that is, only three or four that I
favour.  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 that
the 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 if I
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 or two of them here if
I were to ask her?'

'I am quite sure she would,' said Frank, very briskly.  'She would not
approve of it; nor should I.'

'You--why, what have you to do with it?'

'A great deal--so much so that I positively forbid it; but, Miss
Dunstable--'

'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 the
table, and Miss Dunstable rose from her chair as Frank was preparing
his attack, and accompanied the other ladies into the drawing-room.

His aunt, as she passed him, touched his arm lightly with her fan, so
lightly that the action was perceived by no one else. But Frank well
understood the meaning of the touch, and appreciated the approbation
which it conveyed.  He merely blushed however at his own dissimulation;
for he felt more certain that ever that he would never marry Miss
Dunstable, and he felt nearly equally sure that Miss Dunstable would 
never marry him.

Lord de Courcy was now at home; but his presence did not add much
hilarity to the claret-cup.  The young men, however, were very keen
about the election, and Mr Nearthewinde, who was one of the party, was
full of the most sanguine hopes.

'I have done a good one at any rate,' said Frank; 'I have secured the
chorister's vote.'

'What!  Bagley?' said Neathewinde.  '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 all
the same.'

'What! by a letter?' said Mr Moffat.

'No, not by letter,' said Frank, speaking rather low as he looked at
the bishop and the earl; 'I got a promise from his wife: I think he's a
little in the henpecked line.'

'Ha--ha--ha!' laughed the good bishop, who, in spite of Frank's 
modulation of voice, had overheard what had passed.  'Is that the way
you manage electioneering matters in our cathedral city?'  The idea of
one of his choristers being in the henpecked line was very amusing to
the bishop.

'Oh, I got a distinct promise,' said Frank, in his pride; and then
added incautiously, 'but I had to order bonnets for the whole family.'

'Hush-h-h-h!' said Mr Nearthewinde, absolutely flabbergasted by such
imprudence on the part of one of his client's friends.  'I am quite
sure that you order had no effect, and was intended to have no effect
on Mr Bagley's vote.'

'Is that wrong?' said Frank; 'upon my word I thought it was quite
legitimate.'

'One should never admit anything in electioneering matters, should
one?' 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 in Barchester
ought to feel himself bound to vote for a friend of the duke's he
ought.  Now, I was so thirsty when I was in that man's house, that I
was dying for a glass of beer; but for the life of me I didn't dare
order one.'

'Why not?' said Frank, whose mind was only just beginning to be
enlightened by the great doctrine of purity of election as practised in
English provincial towns.

'Oh, Closerstil had some fellow looking at me; why, I can't walk down
that town without having my very steps counted.  I like sharp fighting
myself, but I never go so sharp as that.'

'Nevertheless I got Bagley's vote,' said Frank, persisting in praise of
his own electioneering prowess; 'and you may be sure of this, Mr
Nearthewinde, none of Closerstil's men were looking at me when I got
it.'

'Who'll pay for the bonnets, Frank?' said George.

'Oh, I'll pay for them if Moffat won't.  I think I shall keep an
account there; they seem to have good gloves and those sort of things.'

'Very good, I have no doubt,' said George.

'I suppose your lordship will be in town soon after the meeting of
Parliament?' said the bishop, questioning the earl.

'Oh! yes; I suppose I must be there.  I am never allowed to remain very
long in the quiet.  It is a great nuisance; but it is too late to think
of that now.'

'Men in high places, my lord, never were, and never will be, allowed to
consider themselves.  They burn their torches not in their own behalf,'
said the bishop, thinking, perhaps, as much of himself as he did of his
noble friend.  'Rest and quiet are the comforts of those who have been
content to remain in obscurity.'

'Perhaps so,' said the earl, finishing his glass of claret with an air
of virtuous resignation.  'Perhaps so.'  His own martyrdom, however,
had not been severe, for the rest and quiet of home had never been
peculiarly satisfactory to his tastes. Soon after this they went to the
ladies.

It was some little time before Frank could find an opportunity of
recommencing his allotted task with Miss Dunstable.  She got into
conversation with the bishop and with some other people, and, except
that he took her teacup and nearly managed to squeeze one of her
fingers as she did so, he made very little further progress till
towards the close of the evening.

At last he found her so nearly alone as to admit of his speaking to her
in a low confidential voice.

'Have you managed that matter with my aunt?'

'What matter?' said Miss Dunstable; and her voice was not low, nor
particularly confidential.

'About those three or four gentlemen whom you wish to invite here?'

'Oh! my attendant knights! no, indeed; you gave me such very slight
hope of success; besides, you said something about my not wanting
them.'

'Yes I did; I really think they'd be quite unnecessary.  If you should
want any one to defend you--'

'At these coming elections, for instance.'

'Then, or at any other time, there are plenty here who will be ready to
stand up for you.'

'Plenty!  I don't want plenty: one good lance in the olden days was
always 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 one good
lance--at least, not good enough to suit my ideas of true prowess.'

What could Frank do but declare that he was ready to lay his own
in rest, now and always in her behalf?

His aunt had been quite angry with him, and had thought that he turned
her into ridicule, when he spoke of making an offer to her guest that
very evening; and yet here he was so placed that he had hardly an
alternative.  Let his inward resolution to abjure the heiress be ever
so strong, he was now in a position which allowed him no choice in the
matter.  Even Mary Thorne could hardly have blamed him for saying, that
so far as his own prowess went, it was quite at Miss Dunstable's 
service.  Had Mary been looking on, she perhaps, might have thought
that he could have done so with less of that look of devotion which he
threw into his eyes.

'Well, Mr Gresham, that's very civil--very civil indeed,' said Miss
Dunstable.  'Upon my word, if a lady wanted a true knight she might do
worse than trust to you.  Only I fear that your courage is of so
exalted a nature that you would be ever ready to do battle for any
beauty that might be in distress--or, indeed, who might not.  You could
never confine your valour to the protection of one maiden.'

'Oh, yes! but I would though if I liked her,' said Frank.  'There isn't
a more constant fellow in the world than I am in that way--you try me,
Miss Dunstable.'

'When young ladies make such trials as that, they sometimes find it too
late to go back if the trial doesn't succeed, Mr Gresham.'

'Oh, of course, there's always some risk.  It's like hunting; there
would be no fun if there was no danger.'

'But if you get a tumble one day you can retrieve your honour the next;
but a poor girl if she once trusts a man who says that he loves her,
has no such chance.  For myself, I would never listen to a man unless
I'd known him for seven years at least.'

'Seven years!' said Frank, who could not help thinking that in seven
years' time Miss Dunstable would be almost an old woman. 'Seven days is
enough to know any person.'

'Or perhaps seven hours; eh, Mr Gresham?'

'Seven hours--well, perhaps seven hours, if they happen to be a good
deal together during that time.'

'There's nothing after all like love at first sight, is there, Mr
Gresham?'

Frank knew well enough that she was quizzing him, and could not resist
the temptation he felt to be revenged on her.  'I am sure it's very
pleasant,' said he; 'but as for myself, I have never experienced it.'

'Ha, ha, ha!' laughed Miss Dunstable.  'Upon my word, Mr Gresham, I
like you amazingly.  I didn't expect to meet anybody down here that I
could like half so much.  You must come and see me in London, and I'll
introduce you to my three knights,' and so saying, she moved away and
fell into conversation with some of the higher powers.

Frank felt himself to be rather snubbed, in spite of the strong
expression which Miss Dunstable had made in his favour.  It was not
quite clear to him that she did not take him for a boy.  He was, to be
sure, avenged on her for that by taking her for a middle-aged woman;
but, nevertheless, he was hardly satisfied with himself; 'and she might
find afterwards that she was left in the lurch with all her money.' And
so he retired, solitary, into a far part of the room, and began to
think of Mary Thorne. As he did so, and as his eyes fell upon Miss
Dunstable's stiff curls, he almost shuddered.

And then the ladies retired.  His aunt, with a good-natured smile on
her face, come to him as she was leaving the room, the last of the
bevy, and putting her hand on his arm, led him out into a small
unoccupied chamber which opened from the grand saloon.

'Upon my word, Master Frank,' said she, 'you seem to be losing no time
with the heiress.  You have quite made an impression already.'

'I don't know much about that, aunt,' said he, looking rather sheepish.

'Oh, I declare you have; but, Frank, my dear boy, you should not
precipitate these sort of things too much.  It is well to take a little
more time: it is more valued; and perhaps, you know, on the whole--'

Perhaps Frank might know; but it was clear that Lady de Courcy did not:
at any rate, she did not know how to express herself. Had she said out
her mind plainly, she would probably have spoken thus: 'I want you to
make love to Miss Dunstable, certainly; or at any rate to make an offer
to her; but you need not make a show of yourself and of her, by doing 
it so openly as all that.' The countess, however, did not want to
reprimand her obedient nephew, and therefore did not speak 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 room where
the men were still standing.  He was right in this: she was an old
fool, or she would have seen that there was no chance whatever that her
nephew and Miss Dunstable should become man and wife.

'Well Frank,' said the Honourable John; 'so you're after the heiress
already.'

'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 is over.  But,
Frank, what will she say of your manner of looking for Barchester
votes?'

'Mr Gresham is certainly an excellent hand at canvassing,' said Mr
Nearthewinde; 'only a little too open in his manner of proceeding.'

'I got that chorister for you at any rate,' said Frank.  'And you would
never have had him without me.'

'I don't think half so much of the chorister's vote as that of Miss
Dunstable,' said the Honourable George: 'that's the interest that is
really worth looking after.'

'But, surely,' said Mr Moffat, 'Miss Dunstable has not property in
Barchester?'  Poor man! his heart was so intent on his election that he
had no 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's
hearts beat quickly enough.  To be or not to a member of the British
Parliament is a question of very considerable moment in a man's mind. 
Much is often said of the great penalties which the ambitious pay for
enjoying this honour; of the tremendous expenses of election; of the
long, tedious hours of unpaid labour: of the weary days passed in the
House; but, nevertheless, the prize is one very well worth the price
paid for it--well worth any price that can be paid for it short of
wading through dirt and dishonour.

No other great European nation has anything like it to offer to the
ambition of its citizens; for in no other great country of Europe, not
even in those which are free, has the popular constitution obtained, as
with us, true sovereignty and power of rule.  Here it is so; and when a
man lays himself out to be a member of Parliament, he plays the highest
game and for the highest stakes which the country affords.

To some men, born silver-spooned, a seat in Parliament comes as a
matter of course.  From the time of their early manhood they hardly
know what it is not to sit there; and the honour is hardly appreciated,
being too much a matter of course.  As a rule, they never know how
great a thing it is to be in Parliament; though, when reverse comes, as
reverses occasionally will come, they fully feel how dreadful it is to 
be left out.

But to men aspiring to be members, or to those who having been once
fortunate have again to fight the battle without assurance of success,
the coming election must be matter of dread concern.  Of, how
delightful to hear that the long-talked of rival has declined the
contest, and that the course is clear! or to find by a short canvass
that one's majority is safe, and the pleasures of crowing over an 
unlucky, friendless foe quite secured!

No such gratification as this filled the bosom of Mr Moffat on the
morning of the Barchester election.  To him had been brought no
positive assurance of success by his indefatigable agent, Mr
Nearthewinde.  It was admitted on all sides that the contest would be a
very close one; and Mr Nearthewinde would not do more than assert that
they ought to win unless things went wrong with them.

Mr Nearthewinde had other elections to attend to, and had not been
remaining at Courcy Castle ever since the coming of Miss Dunstable: but
he had been there, and at Barchester, as often as possible, and Mr
Moffat was made greatly uneasy by reflecting how very high the bill
would be.

The two parties had outdone each other in the loudness of their
assertions, that each would on his side conduct the election in strict
conformity to law.  There was to be no bribery.  Bribery! who indeed in
these days would dare to bribe; to give absolute money for an absolute
vote, and pay for such an article in downright palpable sovereigns? 
No.  Purity was much too rampant for that, and the means of detection
too well understood.  But purity was to be carried much further than
this.  There should be no treating; no hiring of two hundred votes to
act as messengers at twenty shillings a day in looking up some four
hundred other voters; no bands were to be paid for; no carriages
furnished; no ribbons supplied.  British voters were to vote, if vote
they would, for the love and respect they bore to their chosen 
candidate.  If so actuated, they would not vote, they might 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 have some misgivings
about the bill.  The proclaimed arrangement had been one exactly
suitable to his taste; for Mr Moffat loved his money.  He was a man in
whose breast the ambition of being great in the world, and of joining
himself to aristocratic people was continually at war with the great 
cost which such tastes occasioned.  His last election had not been a
cheap triumph.  In one way or another money had been dragged from him
for purposes which had been to his mind unintelligible; and when, about
the middle of his first session, he had, with much grumbling, settled
all demands, he had questioned with himself 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 him money was
his only passport into that Elysium in which he had now lived for two
years.  He probably did not consider it; for when, in those canvassing
days immediately preceding the election, he had seen that all the
beer-houses were open, and half the population was drunk, he had asked
Mr Nearthewinde whether this violation of the treaty was taking place
only on the part of the opponent, and whether, in such case, it would
not by duly noticed with a view to a possible petition.

Mr Nearthewinde assured him triumphantly that half at least of the
wallowing swine were his own especial friends; and that somewhat more
than half of the publicans of the town were eagerly engaged in fighting
his, Mr Moffat's battle.  Mr Moffat groaned, and would have
expostulated had Mr Nearthewinde been willing to hear him.  But that
gentleman's services had been put into requisition by Lord De Courcy 
rather than by the candidate.  For the candidate he cared but little. 
To pay the bill would be enough for him.  He, Mr Nearthewinde, was
doing his business as he well knew how to do it; and it was not likely
that he should submit to be lectured by such as Mr Moffat on a trumpery
score of expense.

It certainly did appear on the morning of the election as though some
great change had been made in that resolution of the candidates to be
very pure.  From and early hour rough bands of music were to be heard
in every part of the usually quiet town; carts and gigs, omnibuses and
flys, all the old carriages from all the inn-yards, and every vehicle
of any description which could be pressed into the service were in 
motion; if the horses and post-boys were not to be paid for by the
candidates, the voters themselves were certainly very liberal in their
mode of bringing themselves to the poll.  The election district of the
city of Barchester extended for some miles on each side 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, by all who chose to ask
for it; and rum and brandy were dispensed to select circles within the
bars with equal profusion.  As for ribbons, the mercers' shops must
have been emptied of that article, as far as scarlet and yellow were
concerned.  Scarlet was Sir Roger's colour, while the friends of Mr
Moffat were decked with yellow.  Seeing what he did see, Mr Moffat
might well ask whether there had not been a violation of the treaty of 
purity!

At the time of this election there was some question whether England
should go to war with all her energy; or whether it would not be better
for her to save her breath to cool her porridge, and not meddle more
than could be helped with foreign quarrels.  The last view of the
matter was advocated by Sir Roger, and his motto of course proclaimed
the merits of domestic peace and quiet.  'Peace abroad and a big loaf at
home', was consequently displayed on four or five huge scarlet banners,
and carried waving over the heads of the people.  But Mr Moffat was a
staunch supporter of the Government, who were already inclined to be
belligerent, and 'England's honour' was therefore the legend under
which he selected to do battle.  It may, however, be doubted whether 
there was in all Barchester one inhabitant--let alone one elector--so
fatuous to suppose that England's honour was in any special manner dear
to Mr Moffat; or that he would be whit more sure of a big loaf than he
was now, should Sir Roger happily become a member of the legislature.

And then the fine arts were resorted to, seeing that language fell
short in telling all that was found necessary to be told. Poor Sir
Roger's failing as regards the bottle were too well known; and it was
also known that, in acquiring this title, he had not quite laid aside
the rough mode of speech which he had used in his early years.  There
was, consequently, a great daub painted up on sundry walls, on which a
navvy, with a pimply, bloated face, was to be seen standing on a
railway bank, leaning on a spade holding a bottle in one hand, while he
invited a comrade to drink.  'Come, Jack, shall us have a drop of
some'at short?' were the words coming out of the navvy's mouth; and
under this was painted in huge letters,

THE LAST NEW BARONET

But Mr Moffat hardly escaped on easier terms.  The trade by which his
father had made his money was as well known as that of the railway
contractor; and every possible symbol of tailordom was displayed in
graphic portraiture on the walls and hoardings of the city.  He was
drawn with his goose, his scissors, with his needle, with his tapes; he
might be seen measuring, cutting, pressing, carrying home his bundle
and presenting his little bill; and under each of these representations
was repeated his own motto: 'England's honour'.

Such were the pleasant little amenities with which the people of
Barchester greeted the two candidates who were desirous of the honour
of serving them in Parliament.

The polling went briskly and merrily.  There were somewhat above nine
hundred registered voters, of whom the greater portion recorded their
votes early in the day.  At two o'clock, according to Sir Roger's
committee, the numbers were as follows:--

    Scatcherd       275
    Moffat          268

Whereas, by the light afforded by Mr Moffat's people, they stood in a
slightly different ratio to each other, being written thus:--

    Moffat          277
    Scatcherd       269

This naturally heightened the excitement, and gave additional delight
to the proceedings.  At half-past two it was agreed by both sides that
Mr Moffat was ahead; the Moffatites claiming a majority of twelve, and
the Scatcherdites allowing a majority of one.  But by three o'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 band of roughs from
Courcy, and Sir Roger was again leading, by ten or a dozen, according
to his own showing.

One little transaction which took place in the earlier part of the day
deserves to be recorded.  There was in Barchester an honest
publican--honest as the world of publicans goes--who not only was
possessed of a vote, but possessed of a son who was a voter.  He was
one Reddypalm in earlier days, before he had learned to appreciate the
full value of an Englishman's franchise, he had been a declared Liberal
and a friend of Roger Scatcherd's.  In latter days he had governed his 
political feelings with more decorum, and had not allowed himself to be
carried away by such foolish fervour as he had evinced in his youth. On
this special occasion, however, his line of conduct was so mysterious
as for a while to baffle even those who knew him best.

His house was apparently open in Sir Roger's interest.  Beer, at any
rate, was flowing there as elsewhere; and scarlet ribbons going in--not
perhaps, in a state of perfect steadiness--came out more unsteady than
before.  Still had Mr Reddypalm been deaf to the voice of that charmer,
Closerstil, though he had charmed with all his wisdom.  Mr Reddypalm
had stated, first his unwillingness to vote at all:--he had, he said,
given over politics, and was not inclined to trouble his mind again
with the subject; then he had spoken of his great devotion to the Duke
of Omnium, under whose grandfathers his grandfather had been bred: Mr
Nearthewinde had, as he said, been with him, and proved to him beyond a
shadow of a doubt that it would show the deepest ingratitude on his
part to vote against the duke's candidate.

Mr Closerstil thought he understood all this, and sent more, and still
more men to drink beer.  He even caused--taking infinite trouble to
secure secrecy in the matter--three gallons of British brandy to be
ordered and paid for as the best French.  But, nevertheless, Mr
Reddypalm made no sign to show that he considered that the right thing
had been done.  On the evening before the election, he told one of Mr 
Closerstil's confidential men, that he had thought a good deal about
it, and that he believed he should be constrained by his conscience to
vote for Mr Moffat.

We have said that Mr Closerstil was accompanied by a learned friend of
his, one Mr Romer, a barrister, who was greatly interested in Sir
Roger, and who, being a strong Liberal, was assisting in the canvass
with much energy.  He, hearing how matters were likely to go with this
conscientious publican, and feeling himself peculiarly capable of
dealing with such delicate scruples, undertook to look into the case in
hand.  Early, therefore, on the morning of the election, he sauntered
down the cross street in which hung out the sign of the Brown Bear,
and, as he expected, found Mr Reddypalm near his own door.

Now it was quite an understood thing that there was to be no bribery. 
This was understood by no one better than Mr Romer, who had, in truth,
drawn up many of the published assurances to that effect.  And, to give
him his due, he was fully minded to act in accordance with these
assurances.  The object of all the parties was to make it worth the
voters' while to give their votes; but to do so without bribery.  Mr 
Romer had repeatedly declared that he would have nothing to do with any
illegal practising; but he had also declared that, as long as all was
done according to law, he was ready to lend his best efforts to assist
Sir Roger.  How he assisted Sir Roger, and adhered to 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 in
electioneering, Mr Romer, any more than in any other pursuits, can a
man touch pitch and not be defiled; as thou, innocent as thou art, wilt
soon learn to thy terrible cost.

'Well, Reddypalm,' said Mr Romer, shaking hands with him.  Mr Romer had
not been equally cautious as Neatherwinde, and had already drunk sundry
glasses of ale at the Brown Bear, in the hope of softening the stern
Bear-warden.  'How is it to-day? Which is to be the man?'

'If any one knows that, Mr Romer, you must be the man.  A poor
numbskull like me knows nothing of them matters.  How should I? All I
looks to, Mr Romer, is selling a trifle of drink now and then--selling
it, and getting paid for it, you know, Mr Romer.'

'Yes, that's important, no doubt.  But come, Reddypalm, such an old
friend as Sir Roger as you are, a man he speaks of as one of his
intimate friends, I wonder how you can hesitate about it?  Now with
another 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 offer you
money, even if money were going.  I should not mention this, only as
money is not going, neither, on our side nor on the other, no harm can
be done.'

'Mr Romer, if you speak of such a thing, you'll hurt me.  I know the
value of an Englishman's franchise too well to wish to sell it.  I
would not demean myself so low; no, not though five-and-twenty pound a
vote was going, as there was in the good old times--and that's not so
long either.'

'I am sure you wouldn't, Reddypalm; I'm sure you wouldn't.  But an
honest man like you should stick to old friends.  Now, tell me,' and
putting his arm through Reddypalm's, he walked with him into the
passage 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 was
perhaps 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 Closerstil brought
a friend of his down to stand here--it wasn't Sir Roger then--but when
he brought a friend of his down, and when I drew two or three hogsheads
of ale on their side, and when my bill was questioned, and only
half-settled, I did say that I wouldn't interfere with no election no
more. And no more I will, Mr Romer--unless it be to give a quiet vote
for the nobleman under whom I and mine always lived 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 on
the 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 that
matters were so nearly balanced, that the votes of Mr Reddypalm and his
son were of inestimable value.

'If it's only about your bill,' said Mr Romer, 'I'll see to have it
settled.  I'll speak to Closerstil about that.'

'All right!' said Reddypalm, seizing the young barrister's hand, and
shaking it warmly; 'all right!'  And late in the afternoon when a vote
or two became matter of intense interest, Mr Reddypalm and his son came
up to the hustings and boldly tendered theirs for their old friend 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 go through
the dreadfully hard work of canvassing and addressing the electors from
eight in the morning till near sunset.  A very perfect recovery, most
men will say.  Yes; a perfect recovery as regarded the temporary use of
his faculties, both physical and mental; though it may be doubted 
whether there can be any permanent recovery from such a disease as
his.  What amount of brandy he consumed to enable him to perform this
election work, and what lurking evil effect the excitement have on
him--of these matters no record was kept in the history of those
proceedings.

Sir Roger's eloquence was of a rough kind; but not perhaps the less
operative on those for whom it was intended.  The aristocracy of
Barchester consisted chiefly of clerical dignitaries, bishops, deans,
prebendaries, and such like: on them and theirs it was not probable
that anything said by Sir Roger would have much effect.  Those men
would either abstain from voting, or vote for the railway hero, with
the view of keeping out the De Courcy candidate.  Then came the 
shopkeepers, 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, were somewhat given to
have an opinion of their own, and over them it was supposed that Sir 
Roger did obtain some power by his gift of talking.

'Now, gentlemen, will you tell me this,' said he, bawling at the top of
his voice from the portico which graced the door of the Dragon of
Wantley, at which celebrated inn Sir Roger's committee sat:--'Who is Mr
Moffat, and what has he done for us? There have been some
picture-makers about the town this week past.  The Lord knows who they
are; I don't.  These clever fellows do tell you who I am, and what 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.  See here,' and he held
up on one side of him one of the great daubs oh himself--'just hold it
there till I can explain it,' and, he handed the paper to one of his
friends.  'That's me,' said Sir Roger, putting up his stick, and
pointing to the pimply-nosed representation of himself.

'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-like
greetings, together with a dead cat which was flung at him from the
crowd, and which he dexterously parried with his stick, were the
answers which he received to this exordium.

'Yes,' said he, quite undismayed by this little missile which had so
nearly reached him: 'that's me.  And look here; this brown,
dirty-looking broad streak here is intended for a railway; and that
thing 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 good
time.  But that thing in my left hand is a spade.  Now, I never handled
a 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 that
hand;' 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 the
railway.  Now I'm very much obliged to those gentlemen over at the
White 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 made
thousands of miles of railway; I am making thousands of miles
railways--some in Europe, some in Asia, some in America.  It's a true
picture,' and he poked his stick right through it and held it up to the
crowd.  'A true picture: but for that spade and that railway, I 
shouldn't be now here asking your votes; and, when next February comes,
I shouldn't be sitting in Westminster to represent you, as by God'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 speech that
is coming out of my mouth--a deal shorter speech, and a better one than
what I am making now.  Here, in the right hand you see a brandy bottle. 
Well, boys, I am not ashamed of that; as long as a man does his
work--and the spade shows that--it's only fair he should have something
to comfort him.  I'm always able to work, and few men work much harder.
I'm always able to work, and no man has a right to expect more of me. I
never expect more than that from those who word with 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'at
short".  Why, that's a good speech too.  When I do drink I like to
share 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 without
a 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 man can
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 of because
the bigwigs chose to make a baronet of me.'

'Nor, no more thee h'ant, Roger.  We'd all be barrownites if so be we
knew the way.'

'But now, having polished off this bit of picture, let me ask you who
Mr Moffat is?  There are pictures enough about him, too; though Heaven
knows where they all come from.  I think Sir Edwin Landseer must have
done 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 fortune at
some of these exhibitions.  Here he is again, with a big pair of 
scissors.  He calls himself "England's honour"; what the deuce
England's honour has to do with tailoring, I can't tell you: perhaps Mr
Moffat can.  But mind you, my friends, I don't say anything against
tailoring: 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 know Barchester there were
tailors here could lick any stone-mason in the trade; I say nothing
against tailors.  But it isn't enough for a man to be a tailor unless
he's something else along with it.  You're not so fond of tailors that
you'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 of
brandy, Roger; you're blown.'

'No, I'm not blown yet.  I've a deal more to say about Mr Moffat before
I shall be blown.  What has he done to entitle him to come here before
you and ask you to send him to Parliament?  Why; he isn't even a
tailor.  I wish he were.  There's always some good in a fellow who
knows how to earn his own bread.  But he isn't a tailor; he can't even
put a stitch in towards mending England's honour.  His father was a 
tailor; not a Barchester tailor, mind you, so as to give him any claim
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 to represent
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 for
you?  has he said much for you in the House of Commons?  Why, he's so
dumb a dog that he can't bark even for a bone.  I'm told it's quite
painful to hear him fumbling and mumbling and trying to get up a speech
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 do
anything for the city.  Then, why on earth does he come here?  I'll 
tell you.  The Earl de Courcy brings him.  He's going to marry the Earl
de Courcy's niece; for they say he's very rich--this tailor's son--only
they do say also that he doesn't much like to spend his money.  He's
going to marry Lord de Courcy's niece, and Lord de Courcy wishes that
his nephew should be in Parliament.  There, that's the claim which Mr 
Moffat has here on the people of Barchester. He's Lord de Courcy's
nominee, and those who feel themselves bound hand and foot, 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 to send him to
Parliament, the city in which I was born must be very much altered
since I was a young man.'

And so finishing his speech, Sir Roger retired within, and recruited 
himself in the usual manner.

Such was the flood of eloquence at the Dragon of Wantly.  At the White
Horse, meanwhile, the friends of the De Courcy interest were treated
perhaps to sounder political views; though not expressed in periods so
intelligibly fluent as those of Sir Roger.

Mr Moffat was a young man, and there was no knowing to what proficiency
in the Parliamentary gift of public talking he might yet attain; 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, fortified with a very pretty
harangue, which he had prepared for himself in the solitude of his 
chamber.  On the three previous days matters had been allowed to
progress with tolerable smoothness, and he had been permitted to
deliver himself of his elaborate eloquence with few other interruptions
than those occasioned by his own want of practice.  But on this, the
day of days, the Barchesterian roughs were not so complaisant.  It
appeared to Mr Moffat, when he essayed to speak, that he was surrounded
by enemies rather than friends; and in his heart he gave great blame to
Mr Nearthewinde for not managing matters better for him.

'Men of Barchester,' he began, in a voice which was every now and then
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 the first
time--'

'Oh! we've tried you.  We know what you're made on.  Go on, Snip; don't
you let 'em put you down.'

'I've had the honour of representing you in Parliament for the last two
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 and
thread like a man--like the ninth part of a man--go on a little faster,
Snip.'

'For the last two years--and--and--' Here Mr Moffat looked round to his
friends for some little support, and the Honourable George, who stood
close behind him, suggested that he had gone through it like a brick.

'And--and I went through it like a brick,' said Mr Moffat, with the
gravest possible face, taking up in his utter confusion the words that
were put into his mouth.

'Hurray!--so you did--you're the real brick.  Well done, Snip; go it
again with the wax and thread!'

'I am a thorough-paced reformer,' continued Mr Moffat, somewhat
reassured by the effect of the opportune words which his friend had
whispered into his ear.  'A thorough-paced reformer--a thorough-paced
reformer--'

'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're
all reformers, we are.'

Poor Mr Moffat was a little thrown back.  It wasn't so easy to tell
these gentlemen anything new, harnessed as he was at this moment; so he
looked back at his honourable supporter for some further hint.  'Say
something about their daughters,' whispered George, whose own flights
of oratory were always on that subject.  Had he counselled Mr Moffat to
way a word or two about the tides, his advice would not have been less
to the purpose.

'Gentlemen,' he began again--'you all know that I am a thorough-paced
reformer--'

'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 and
reform that.'

Mr Moffat, grieved in his soul, was becoming inextricably bewildered by
such facetiae as these, when an egg--and it may be feared not a fresh
egg--flung with unerring precision, struck him on the open part of his
well-plaited shirt, and reduced him to speechless despair.

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, or to
ensure his powers of endurance, when supplied in the manner above
described.  Men there are, doubtless, whose tongues would not be
stopped even by such an argument as this; but Mr Moffat was not one of
them.  As the insidious fluid trickled down beneath his waistcoat, he
felt that all further powers of coaxing the electors out of their 
votes, by words flowing from his tongue sweeter than honey, was for
that occasion denied him.  He could not be self-confident, energetic,
witty, and good-humoured with a rotten egg, drying through his
clothes.  He was forced, therefore, to give way, and with sadly
disconcerted air retired from the open window at which he had been
standing.

It was in vain that the Honourable George, Mr Nearthewinde, and Frank
endeavoured again to bring him to the charge.  He was like a beaten
prize-fighter, whose pluck has been cowed out of him, and who, if he
stands up, only stands up to fall. Mr Moffat got sulky also, and when
he was pressed, said that Barchester and the people in it might be d---. 
'With all my heart,' said Mr Nearthewinde.  'That wouldn't have any
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 closing the poll,
and that was now fast coming. Tremendous exertions had been made about
half-past three, by a safe emissary sent from Nearthewinde, to prove to
Mr Reddypalm that all manner of contingent advantages would accrue to
the Brown Bear if it should turn out that Mr Moffat should take his seat
for Barchester. No bribe was, of course offered or even hinted at. The
purity of Barchester was not contaminated during the day by one such
curse as this. But a man, and a publican, would be required to do some
great deed in the public line. To open some colossal tapp to draw beer
for the million; and no one would be so fit as Mr Reddypalm--if only it
might turn out that Mr Moffat should, in the coming February, take his
seat as member for Barchester.

But Mr Reddypalm was a man of humble desires, whose ambitions scored no
higher than this--that his little bills should be duly settled.  It was
wonderful what love an innkeeper has for his bill in its entirety.  An
account, with a respectable total of five or six pounds, is brought to
you, and you complain but of one article; that fire in the bedroom was 
never lighted; or that second glass of brandy and water was never
called for.  You desire to have the shilling expunged, and all 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 good
man miserable for such a trifle?

It became notified to Reddypalm with sufficient clearness that his bill
for the past election should be paid without further question; and
therefore, at five o'clock the Mayor of Barchester proclaimed the
results of the contests in the following figures:--

    Scatcherd       378
    Moffat          376

Mr Reddypalm's two votes had decided the question.  Mr Nearthewinde
immediately went up to town; and the dinner party at Courcy Castle that
evening was not a particularly pleasant meal.

This much, however, had been absolutely decided before the yellow
committee concluded their labour at the White Horse: there should be a
petition.  Mr Nearthewinde had not been asleep, and already knew
something of the manner in which Mr Reddypalm's mind had been quieted.



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 hardly as a love
affair.  There was a continued succession of jokes between them, which
no one else in the castle understood; but the very fact of there being 
such a good understanding between them rather stood in the way of, than
assisted, that consummation which the countess desired.  People, when
they are in love with each other, or even when they pretend to be, do
not generally show it by loud laughter. Nor is it frequently the case
that a wife with two hundred thousand pounds can be won without some
little preliminary despair.

Lady de Courcy, who thoroughly understood that portion of the world in
which she herself lived, saw that things were not going quite as they
should do, and gave much and repeated advice to Frank on the subject. 
She was the more eager in doing this, because she imagined Frank had
done what he could to obey her first precepts.  He had not turned up
his nose at Miss Dunstable's curls, nor found fault with her loud
voice: he had not objected to her as ugly, nor even shown any dislike
to her age.  A young man who had been so amenable to reason was worthy
of further assistance; and so Lady de Courcy did what she could to
assist him.

'Frank, my dear boy,' she would say, 'you are a little too noisy, I
think.  I don't mean for myself, you know; I don't mind it.  But Miss
Dunstable would like it better if you were a little more quiet with
her.'

'Would she, aunt?' said Frank, looking demurely up into the countess's
face.  'I rather think she likes fun and noise, and that sort of
thing.  You know she's not very quiet herself.'

'Ah!--but, Frank, there are times, you know, when that sort of thing
should be laid aside.  Fun, as you call it, is all very well in its
place.  Indeed, no one likes it better than I do. But that's not the
way to show admiration.  Young ladies like to be admired; and if you'll
be a little more soft-mannered with Miss Dunstable, I'm sure you'll
find it will answer better.'

And so the old bird taught the young bird how to fly--very 
needlessly--for in this matter of flying, Nature gives her own lessons
thoroughly; and the ducklings will take the water, even though the
maternal hen warn them against the perfidious element never so loudly.

Soon after this, Lady de Courcy began to be not very well pleased in
the matter.  She took it into her head that Miss Dunstable was
sometimes almost inclined to laugh at her; and on one or two occasions
it almost seemed as though Frank was joining Miss Dunstable in doing
so.  The fact indeed was, that Miss Dunstable was fond of fun; and,
endowed as she was with all the privileges which two hundred 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 a tolerably correct guess at
Lady De Courcy's plan towards herself; but she did not for a moment
think that Frank had any intention of furthering his aunt's views.  She
was, therefore, not at all ill-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 almost
romping with her--then teasing his sister about Mr Moffat--and then
bothering his lady-cousins out of all their propriety.

'Oh, very!' said Frank: 'she is a dear, good woman, is my Aunt De
Courcy.'

'I declare she takes more notice of you and your doings than of any of
your cousins.  I wonder they aren'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 you
want more of her care.'

'Yes; that's it.  You see she is fond of having a baby to nurse.'

'Tell me, Mr Gresham, what was it she was saying to you last night?  I
know we have been misbehaving ourselves dreadfully. It was all your
fault; you would make me laugh so.'

'That's just what I said to her.'

'She was talking about it, then?'

'How on earth should she talk of any one else as long as you are here? 
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 world 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 was it
she said?  She said, that after all, beauty was but skin deep--and that
she valued you for your virtues and prudence rather than your good
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't
either of you say anything about other matters?'

'What other matters?'

'Oh!   I don't know.  Only some people are sometimes valued rather for
what they've got than for any good qualities belonging to themselves
intrinsically.'

'That can never be the case with Miss Dunstable; especially not at
Courcy Castle,' said Frank, bowing easily from the corner of the sofa
over which he was leaning.

'Of course not,' said Miss Dunstable; and Frank at once perceived that
she spoke in a tone of voice differing much from that half-bantering,
half-good-humoured manner that was customary with her.  'Of course not:
any such idea would be quite out of the question with Lady de Courcy.' 
She paused for a moment, and then added in a tone different again, and 
unlike any that he had yet heard from her:--'It is, at any rate, out of
the question with Mr Frank Gresham--of that I am quite sure.'

Frank ought to have understood her, and have appreciated the good
opinion which she intended to convey; but he did not entirely do so. He
was hardly honest himself towards her; and he could not at first
perceive that she intended to say that she thought him so.  He knew
very well that she was alluding to her own huge fortune, and was
alluding also to the fact that people of fashion sought her because of
it; but he did not know that she intended to express a true acquittal 
as regarded him of any such baseness.

And did he deserve to be acquitted?  Yes, upon the whole he did;--to be
acquitted of that special sin.  His desire to make Miss Dunstable
temporarily subject to his sway arose, not from a hankering after her
fortune, but from an ambition to get the better of a contest in which
other men around him seemed to be failing.

For it must not be imagined that, with such a prize to be struggled
for, all others stood aloof and allowed him to have his own way with
the heiress, undisputed.  The chance of a wife with two hundred
thousand pounds is a godsend, which comes in a man's life too seldom to
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 it most
meet that this daughter of Plutus should, if possible, fall to his
lot.  But not so thought the Honourable George; and not so thought
another 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 so
important a crisis of life is not settled among quips and jokes, and
that Frank was too much in jest to be in earnest.  But be that as it
may, 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 Honourable John
in a properly fraternal manner.  It may be that John had also an eye to
the heiress; but, if so, he had ceded his views to his brother's
superior claims; for it came about that they understood each other very
well, and John favoured George with salutary advice on the occasion.

'If it is to be done at all, it should be done very sharp,' said John.

'As sharp as you like,' said George.  'I'm not the fellow to be
studying 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 to study
how you'll get up again.  If you do it at all, you must do it sharp,'
repeated John, putting great stress on his advice.

'I have said a few soft words to her already, and she didn't seem to
take them badly,' said George.

'She's no chicken, you know,' remarked John; 'and with a woman like
that, beating about the bush never does any good. The chances are she
won't have you--that's of course; plums like that don't fall into a
man'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 six
months.  If I were you I'd write her a letter.'

'Write her a letter--eh?' said George, who did not altogether dislike
the advice, for it seemed to take from his shoulders the burden of
preparing a spoken address.  Though he was so glib in speaking about
the farmers' daughters, he felt that he should have some little
difficulty in making known his passion to Miss Dunstable, by word of
mouth.

'Yes; write a letter.  If she'll take you at all, she'll take you that
way; half the matches going are made up by writing letters.  Write her
a letter and get it put on her dressing-table.'  George said that he
would, and so he did.

George spoke quite truly when he hinted that he had said a few soft
things to Miss Dunstable.  Miss Dunstable, however, was accustomed to
hear soft things.  She had been carried much about in society among
fashionable people since, on the settlement of her father's will, she
had been pronounced heiress to all the ointment of Lebanon; and many
men had made calculations respecting her similar to those which were
now animating the brain of the Honourable George de Courcy.  She was
already quite accustomed to being a target at which spendthrifts and
the needy rich might shoot their arrows: accustomed to being shot at,
and tolerably accustomed to protect herself without making scenes in
the world, or rejecting the advantageous establishments offered to her
with any loud expressions of disdain.  The Honourable George, 
therefore, had been permitted to say soft things very much as a matter
of course.

And very little more outward fracas arose from the correspondence which
followed than had arisen from the soft things so said.  George wrote
the letter, and had it duly conveyed to Miss Dunstable's bed-chamber. 
Miss Dunstable duly received it, and had her answer conveyed back
discreetly to George's hands.  The correspondence ran as follows:--

'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 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 would 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 his mistress. 
She found this letter on her toilet-table one night as she went to
bed.  The next morning she came down to breakfast and met her swain
with the most unconcerned air in the world; so much so that he began to
think, as he munched his toast with rather a shamefaced look, that the
letter on which so much was to depend had not yet come safely to hand. 
But his suspense was not of a prolonged duration.  After breakfast, as
was his wont, he went out to the stables with his brother 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 his
cousin; but he said nothing.  He was, however, a little jealous, and
felt that an injury was done to him by any correspondence between Miss
Dunstable and his cousin George.

Miss Dunstable's reply was as follows; and it may be remarked that it
was written in a very clear and well-penned hand, and one which
certainly 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 that 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 little
proposition, and troubled her with no further courtship. As he said to
his brother John, no harm had been done, and he might have better luck
next time.  But there was an intimate of Courcy Castle who was somewhat
more pertinacious in his search after love and wealth.  This was no
other than Mr Moffat: a gentleman whose ambition was not satisfied by
the cares of his Barchester contest, or the possession of 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 and gains
strength by its own success.  Nor was he a man of so mean a spirit as
to be satisfied with mere wealth.  He desired also place and station,
and gracious countenance among the great ones of the earth.  Hence had 
come his adherence to the De Courcys; hence his seat in Parliament; and
hence, also, his perhaps ill-considered match with Miss Gresham.

There is no doubt but that the privilege of matrimony offers 
opportunities to money-loving young men which ought not to be lightly
abused.  Too many young men marry without giving any consideration to
the matter whatever.  It is not that they are indifferent to money, but
that they recklessly miscalculate their own value, and omit to look
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 special interposition
of Providence, can marry but once.  The chance once thrown away may be
said to be irrevocable!  How, in after-life, do men toil and turmoil
through long years to attain some prospect of doubtful advancement! 
Half that trouble, half that care, a tithe of that circumspection 
would, in early youth, have probably secured to them 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 will spend
years in degrading subserviency to obtain a niche in a will; and the
niche, when at last obtained and enjoyed, is but a sorry payment for
all that has been endured.  Others again, struggle harder still, and go
through even deeper waters: they make wills for themselves, forge
stock-shares, and fight with unremitting, painful labour to appear to
be the thing they are not.  Now, in many of these cases, all this might
have been spared had the men made adequate use of those opportunities
which youth and youthful charms afford once--and once only.  There is no
road to wealth so easy and respectable as that of matrimony; that, is
of course, provided that the aspirant declines the slow course to
honest work.  But then, we can so seldom put old heads on young
shoulders!

In the case of Mr Moffat, we may perhaps say that a specimen was
produced of this bird, so rare in the land. His shoulders were certainly
young, seeing that he was not yet six-and-twenty; but his head had ever
been old. From the moment when he was first put forth to go alone--at
the age of twenty-one--his life had been one calculation how he could
make the most of himself. He had allowed himself to be betrayed into
folly by an unguarded heart; no youthful indiscretion had marred his
prospects. He had made the most of himself. Without wit or depth, or any
mental gift--without honesty of purpose or industry for good work--he
had been for two years 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
Miss Dunstable, sanguine that his re-election to Parliament was secure.

When, however, at this period he began to calculate what his position
in the world really was, it occurred to him that he was doing an
ill-judged thing in marrying Miss Gresham.  Why marry a penniless
girl--for Augusta's trifle of a fortune was not a penny in his
estimation--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 that he could
add the almost fabulous wealth of the great heiress?  Was she not here,
put absolutely in his path?  Would it not be a wilful throwing away of
a chance not to avail himself of it?  He must, to be sure, lose the De
Courcy friendship; but if he should then have secured his Barchester
seat for the usual term of parliamentary session, he might be able to
spare that.  He would also, perhaps, encounter some Gresham enmity:
this was a point on which he did think more than once: but what will a 
man not encounter for the sake of two hundred 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 the
candidate for the great prize.  He also, therefore, began to say soft
things; and it must be admitted that he said them with more considerate
propriety than had the Honourable George.  Mr Moffat had an idea that
Miss Dunstable was not a fool, and that in order to catch 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 bird of some cunning,
not to be caught by an ordinary gin, such as those commonly 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 well knew the
value of her own money, and of her position as dependent on it: he
perceived that she never flattered the countess, and seemed to be no
whit absorbed by the titled grandeur of her host's family.  He gave her
credit, therefore, for an independent spirit: and an independent spirit
in his estimation was one that placed its sole dependence on a
respectable balance at its banker's.

Working on these ideas, Mr Moffat commenced operations in such manner
that his overtures to the heiress should not, if unsuccessful,
interfere with the Greshamsbury engagement.  He began by making common
cause with Miss Dunstable: their positions in the world, he said to
her, were closely similar. They had both risen from the lower classes
by the strength of honest industry: they were both now wealthy, and had
both hitherto made such use of their wealth as to induce the highest
aristocracy in England to admit them into their circles.

'Yes, Mr Moffat,' had Miss Dunstable remarked; 'and if all that I hear
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 something said
on the probability of such an event; but he begged Miss Dunstable not
to believe all that she heard on such subjects.

'I do not believe much,' said she; 'but I certainly did think that that
might be credited.'

Mr Moffat went on to show how it behoved them both, in holding out
their hands half-way to meet the aristocratic overtures that were made
to them, not to allow themselves to be made use of.  The aristocracy,
according to Mr Moffat, were people of a very nice sort; the best
acquaintance in the world; a portion of mankind to be noticed by whom
should be one of the first objects in the life of the Dunstables and 
the Moffats.  But the Dunstables and Moffats should be very careful to
give little or nothing in return.  Much, very much in return, would be
looked for.  The aristocracy, said Mr Moffat, were not a people to
allow in the light of their countenance to shine forth without looking
for a quid pro quo, for some compensating value.  In all their
intercourse with the Dunstables and Moffats, they would expect 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 its market
value.

They way in which she, Miss Dunstable, and he, Mr Moffat, would be
required to pay would be by taking each of them some poor scion of the
aristocracy in marriage; and thus expending their hard-earned wealth in
procuring high-priced pleasures for some well-born pauper.  Against
this, peculiar caution was to be used.  Of course, the further
induction to be shown was this: that people so circumstanced should
marry among themselves; the Dunstables and the Moffats each with the 
other and not tumble into the pitfalls prepared for them.

Whether these great lessons had any lasting effect on Miss Dunstable's
mind may be doubted.  Perhaps she had already made up her mind on the
subject which Mr Moffat so well discussed. She was older than Mr
Moffat, and, in spite of his two years of parliamentary experience, had
perhaps more knowledge of the world with which she had to deal.  But
she listened to what he said with complacency; understood his object as
well as she had that of his aristocratic rival; was no whit offended;
but groaned in her spirit as she thought of the wrongs of Augusta
Gresham.

But all this good advice, however, would not win the money for Mr
Moffat without some more decided step; and that step he soon decided on
taking, feeling assured that what he had said would have its due weight
with the heiress.

The party at Courcy Castle was now soon about to be broken up. The male
De Courcys were going down to a Scotch mountain. The female De Courcys
were to be shipped off to an Irish castle.  Mr Moffat was to go up to
town to prepare his petition.  Miss Dunstable was again about to 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; that is to say,
unless his success with Miss Dunstable should render such a step on his
part quite preposterous.

'I think you may speak now, Frank,' said the countess.  'I really think
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 the
game best.  I suppose you are not afraid to ask her.'

'Afraid!' said Frank, in a tone of considerable scorn.  He almost made
up 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 slightest intention
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 already
declined to come to Courcy; but he had in a measure atoned for this by
asking some of the guests to join a great dinner which he was about 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 morning of
that day.  It was with some difficulty that he brought about an
opportunity; but at last he did so, and found himself alone with Miss
Dunstable in the walks of Courcy Park.

'It is a strange thing, is it not,' said he, recurring to his old view
of the same subject, 'that I should be going to dine with the Duke of
Omnium--the richest man, they say, among the whole English aristocracy?'

'Men of that kind entertain everybody, I believe, now and then,' said
Miss 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 my father's honest
industry.  But it shows what money does in this country of ours.'

'Yes, indeed; money does a great deal many queer things.'  In saying
this Miss Dunstable could not but think that money had done a very
queer thing in inducing Miss Gresham to fall in love with Mr Moffat.

'Yes; wealth is very powerful: here we are, Miss Dunstable, the most
honoured guests in the house.'

'Oh!  I don't know about that; you may be, for you are a member of
Parliament, 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 title
to honour, thank God.'

They walked on in silence for a little while, for Mr Moffat hardly knew
who to manage the business he had in hand.  'It is quite delightful to
watch these people,' he said at last; 'now they accuse us of being
tuft-hunters.'

'Do they?' said Miss Dunstable.  'Upon my word I didn't know that
anybody 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 it seems
to me that toadying is all on the other side.  The countess here does
toady you, and so do the young ladies.'

'Do they? if so, upon my word I didn't know it.  But, to tell the
truth, I don't think much of such things.  I live mostly to myself, Mr
Moffat.'

'I see that you do, and I admire you for it; but, Miss Dunstable, you
cannot always live so,' and Mr Moffat looked at her in a manner which
gave 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 to 
understand now necessary it was that persons situated as they were
should live either for themselves or for each other, and that, above
all things, they should beware of falling into the mouths of voracious
aristocratic lions who go about looking for prey--till they came to a
turn in the grounds; at which Miss Dunstable declared her intention of
going in.  She had walked enough, she said.  As by this time Mr
Moffat's immediate intentions were becoming visible she thought 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 me if 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 of
the 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 let
you return with me, Mr Moffat, because I know you were coming in so
soon.'

'Miss Dunstable; I shall be leaving here 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 be
long--very long--before we meet again.'

'About Easter,' said Miss Dunstable; 'that is, if the doctor doesn't
known up on the road.'

'And I had, had wish to say something before we part for so long a
time.  Miss Dunstable--'

'Stop!--Mr Moffat.  Let me ask you one question.  I'll hear anything
that you have got to say, but on one condition: that is, that Miss
Augusta Gresham shall be by while you say it.  Will you consent to
that?'

'Miss Augusta Gresham,' said he, 'has no right to listen to my private
conversation.'

'Has she not, Mr Moffat? then I think she should have.  I, at any rate,
will not so far interfere with what I look on as her undoubted
privileges as to be a party to any secret in which she may not
participate.'

'But, Miss Dunstable--'

And to tell you fairly, Mr Moffat, any secret that you do tell me, I
shall most undoubtedly repeat to her before dinner.  Good morning, Mr
Moffat; my feet are certainly a little damp, and if I stay a moment
longer, 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 by
thinking how he might avenge himself on Miss Dunstable.  Soon, however,
such futile ideas left his brain. Why should he give over the chase
because the rich galleon had escaped him on this, his first cruise in
pursuit of her? Such prizes were not to be won so easily.  His present 
objection clearly consisted in his engagement to Miss Gresham, and in
that only.  Let that engagement be at an end, notoriously and publicly
broken off, and this objection would fall to the ground.  Yes; ships so
richly freighted were not to be run down in one summer morning's plain
sailing.  Instead of looking for his revenge on Miss Dunstable, it 
would be more prudent in him--more in keeping with his character--to
pursue his object, and overcome such difficulties as he might find his
way.



CHAPTER XIX

THE DUKE OF OMNIUM

The Duke of Omnium was, as we have said, a bachelor.  Not the less on
that account did he on certain rare gala days entertain the beauty of
the county in his magnificent rural seat, or the female fashion of
London in Belgrave Square; but on this occasion the dinner at Gatherum
Castle--for such was the name of his mansion--was to be confined to the
lords of the creation.  It was to be one of those days on which he 
collected round his board all the notables of the county, in order that
his popularity might not wane, or the established glory of his
hospitable house become dim.

On such an occasion it was not probable that Lord de Courcy would be
one of the guests.  They party, indeed, who went from Courcy Castle was
not large, and consisted of the Honourable George, Mr Moffat, and Frank
Gresham.  They went in a tax-cart, with a tandem horse, driven very
knowingly by George de Courcy; and the fourth seat on the back of the 
vehicle was occupied by a servant, who was to look after the horses at
Gatherum.

The Honourable George drove either well or luckily, for he reached the
duke's house in safety; but he drove very fast.  Poor Miss Dunstable! 
what would have been her lot had anything but good happened to that
vehicle, so richly freighted with her three lovers!  They did not
quarrel as to the prize, and all reached Gatherum Castle in good-humour
with each other.

The castle was new building of white stone, lately erected at an
enormous cost by one of the first architects of the day.  It was an
immense pile, and seemed to cover ground enough for a moderate-sized
town.  But, nevertheless, report said that when it was completed, the
noble owner found that he had no rooms to live in; and that, on this
account, when disposed to study his own comfort, he resided in a house
of perhaps one-tenth of the size, built by his grandfather in another 
county.

Gatherum Castle would probably be called Italian in its style of
architecture; though it may, I think, be doubted whether any such
edifice, or anything like it, was ever seen in any part of Italy.  It
was a vast edifice; irregular in height--or it appeared to be--having
long wings on each side too high to be passed over by the eye as mere
adjuncts to the mansion, and a portico so large as to make the house
behind it look like another building of a greater altitude.  This
portico was supported by Ionic columns, and was in itself doubtless a 
beautiful structure.  It was approached by a flight of steps, very
broad and very grand; but, as an approach, by a flight of steps hardly
suits an Englishman's house, to the immediate entrance of which it is
necessary that his carriage should drive, there was another front door
in one of the wings which was commonly used.  A carriage, however,
could on very stupendously grand occasions--the visits, for instance, of
queens and kings, and royal dukes--be brought up under the portico; as
the steps had been so constructed as to admit of a road, with a rather
stiff ascent, being made close in front of the wing up into the very
porch.

0pening from the porch was the grand hall, which extended up to the top
of the house.  It was magnificent, indeed; being decorated with
many-coloured marbles, and hung round with various trophies of the
house of Omnium; banners were there, and armour; the sculptured busts
of many noble progenitors; full-length figures of marble of those who
had been especially prominent; and every monument of glory and wealth, 
long years, and great achievements could bring together.  If only 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 the fact was, that
the architect, in contriving this magnificent entrance for his own
honour and fame, had destroyed the duke's house as regards most of the
ordinary purposes of residence.

Nevertheless, Gatherum Castle is a very noble pile; and, standing as it
does an eminence, has a very fine effect when seen from many a distant
knoll and verdant-wooded hill.

At seven o'clock, Mr de Courcy and his friends got down from their drag
at the smaller door--for this was no day on which to mount up under the
portico; nor was that any suitable vehicle to have been entitled to
such honour.  Frank felt some excitement a little stronger than that
usual to him at such moments, for he had never yet been in company with
the Duke of Omnium; and he rather puzzled himself to think on what
points he would talk to the man who was the largest landowner in that
county in which he himself had so great an interest.  He, however, made
up his mind that he would allow the duke to choose his own subjects;
merely reserving to himself the right of pointing out how deficient in
gorse covers was West Barsetshire--that being the duke's division.

They were soon divested of their coats and hats, and, without entering
on the magnificence of the great hall, were conducted through rather a
narrow passage into rather a small drawing-room--small, that is, in
proportion to the number of gentlemen there assembled.  There might be
about thirty, and Frank was inclined to think that they were almost
crowded.  A man came forward to greet them when their names were 
announced; but our hero at once knew 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 talking
to his neighbour; or, in default of a neighbour, to himself.  It was
clear that the exalted rank of their host had put very little
constraint on his guests' tongues, for they chatted away with as much
freedom as farmers at an ordinary.

'Which is the duke?' at last Frank contrived to whisper to his cousin.

'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 to
feel himself a little snubbed: he thought that the duke, duke though he
was, when he asked people to dinner should be there to tell them that
he was glad to see them.

More people flashed into the room, and Frank found himself rather
closely wedged in with a stout clergyman of his acquaintance.  He was
not badly off, for Mr Athill was a friend of his own, who had held a
living near Greshamsbury.  Lately, however, at the lamented decease of
Dr Stanhope--who had died of apoplexy at his villa in Italy--Mr Athill
had been presented with the better preferment of Eiderdown, and had, 
therefore, removed to another part of the county.  He was somewhat of a
bon-vivant, and a man who thoroughly understood dinner-parties; and
with much good nature he took Frank under his special protection.

'You stick to me, Mr Gresham,' he said, 'when we go into the 
dining-room.  I'm an old hand at the duke's dinners, and know how to
make 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.'

He was beginning to be impatient, for the room was now nearly full, and
it seemed evident that no other guests were coming; when suddenly a
bell rang, and a gong was sounded, and at the same instant a door that
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 at last 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 the rug,
with his back to the empty grate, and spoke one or two words in a very
low voice to one or two gentlemen who stood nearest to him.  The crowd,
in the meanwhile, became suddenly silent.  Frank, when he found that 
the duke did not come and speak to him, felt that he ought to go and
speak to the duke; but no one else did so, and when he whispered his
surprise to Mr Athill, that gentleman told him that this was the duke's
practice on all such occasions.

'Fothergill,' said the duke--and it was the only word he had yet spoken
out loud--'I believe we are ready for dinner.'  Now Mr Fothergill was
the duke's land-agent, and he it was who had greeted Frank and his
friends at their entrance.

Immediately the gong was again sounded, and another door leading out of
the drawing-room into the dining-room was opened.  The duke led the
way, and then the guests followed. 'Stick close to me, Mr Gresham,'
said Athill, 'we'll get about the middle of the table, where we shall
be cosy--and on the other side of the room, out of this dreadful
draught--I know the place well, Mr Gresham; stick to me.'

Mr Athill, who was a pleasant, chatty companion, had hardly seated
himself, and was talking to Frank as quickly as he could, when Mr
Fothergill, who sat at the bottom of the table, asked him to say
grace.  It seemed to be quite out of the question that the duke should
take any trouble over his guests whatever.  Mr Athill consequently
dropped the word he was speaking, and uttered a prayer--if it was a
prayer--that they might all have grateful hearts for which God was about
to give them.

If it was a prayer!  As far as my own experience goes, such utterances
are seldom prayers, seldom can be prayers.  And if not prayers, what
then?  To me it is unintelligible that the full tide of glibbest chatter
can be stopped at a moment in the midst of profuse good living, and the
Given thanked becomingly in words of heartfelt praise.  Setting aside
for the moment what one daily hears and sees, may not one declare that
a change so sudden is not within the compass of the human mind? But
then, to such reasoning one cannot but add what one does hear and see;
one cannot but judge of the ceremony by the manner in which one sees it
performed--uttered, that is--and listened to.  Clergymen there are--one 
meets them now and then--who endeavour to give to the dinner-table
grace some of the solemnity of a church ritual, and what is the
effect?  Much the same as though one were to be interrupted for a
minute in the midst of one of our church liturgies to hear a
drinking-song.

And it will be argued, that a man need be less thankful because, at the
moment of receiving, he utters not thanksgiving? or will it be
thought that a man is made thankful because what is called a grace is
uttered after dinner?  It can hardly be imagined that any one will so
argue, or so think.

Dinner-graces are, probably, the last remaining relic of certain daily
services which the Church in olden days enjoined: nones, complines, and
vespers were others.  Of the nones and complines we have happily got
quit; and it might be well if we could get rid of the dinner-grace
also.  Let any man ask himself whether, on his own part, they are acts
of prayer and thanksgiving--and if not that, what then?  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 gentlemen might
be seen to come in from some other door and set themselves at the table
near to the duke's chair.  These were guests of his own, who were
staying in the house, his particular friends, the men with whom he
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 who 
distributed food and wine hospitably through the county.  The food and
wine, the attendance also, and the view of the vast repository of plate
he vouchsafed willingly to his county neighbours;--but it was beyond his
good nature to talk to them.  To judge by the present appearance of
most of them, they were quite as well satisfied to be left alone.

Frank was altogether a stranger there, but Mr Athill knew every one at
the table.

'That's Apjohn,' said he: 'don't you know, Mr Apjohn, the attorney from
Barchester?  he's always here; he does some of Fothergill's law
business, and makes himself useful.  If any fellow knows the value of a
good dinner, he does.  You'll see that the duke's hospitality will not
be thrown away on him.'

'It's very much thrown away on me, I know,' said Frank, who could not
at all put up with the idea of sitting down to dinner without having
been spoken to by his host.

'Oh, nonsense!' said his clerical friend; 'you'll enjoy yourself
amazingly by and by.  There is not much champagne in any other house in
Barsetshire; and then the claret--' And Mr Athill pressed his lips
together, and gently shook his head, meaning to signify by the motion
that the claret of Gatherum Castle was sufficient atonement for any
penance which a man might have to go through in his mode of obtaining
it.

'Who is that funny little man sitting there, next but one to Mr de
Courcy?  I never saw such a queer fellow in my life.'

'Don't you know old Bolus?  Well, I thought every one in Barsetshire
knew Bolus; you especially should do so, as he is such a dear friend of
Dr Thorne.'

'A dear friend of Dr Thorne?'

'Yes; he was apothecary at Scarington in the old days, before Dr
Fillgrave came into vogue.  I remember when Bolus was thought to be a
very 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 he is
quite as good, at any rate, as many others there are here--' and Mr
Athill, as he spoke, whispered into Frank's ear, 'You see there's
Finnie here, another Barchester attorney.  Now, I really think where
Finnie 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. Do you
know, Mr Athill, I think he was quite right not to come. As for myself,
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; he
ought to show himself here.'

The gormandizing was now going on at a tremendous rate.  Though the
volubility of their tongues had been for a while stopped by the first
shock of the duke's presence, the guests seemed to feel no such
constraint upon their teeth.  They fed, one may almost say, rabidly,
and gave their orders to the servants in an eager manner; much more
impressive than that usual at smaller parties.  Mr Apjohn, who sat 
immediately 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.  A
very limited portion--so at least thought Mr Apjohn--had been put on his
plate; and a servant, with a huge sauce tureen, absolutely passed
behind his back inattentive to his audible requests.  Poor Mr Apjohn in
his despair turned round to arrest the man by his coat-tails; but he
was a moment too late, and all but fell backwards on the floor.  As he
righted himself he muttered an anathema, and looked with a face of
anguish at his plate.

'Anything the matter, Apjohn?' said Mr Fothergill, kindly, seeing the
utter despair written on the poor man's countenance; 'can I get
anything for you?'

'The sauce!' said Mr Apjohn, in a voice that would have melted a
hermit; and as he looked at Mr Fothergill, he point at the now distant
sinner, who was dispensing his melted ambrosia at least ten heads
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's
content.

'Well,' said Frank to his neighbour, 'it may be very well once in a
way; 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 own appetite,
though with an energy less evident than that of the gentleman
opposite.  'See the world on all sides if you have an opportunity; and,
believe me, a good dinner now and then is a very good thing.'

'Yes; but I don't like eating with hogs.'

'Whish-h! softly, softly, Mr Gresham, or you'll disturb Mr Apjohn's
digestion.  Upon my word, he'll want it all before he has done.  Now, I
like 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, what
harm does it do?'

'My idea is that people should live with those whose society is
pleasant to them.'

'Live--yes, Mr Gresham--I agree with you there.  It wouldn't do for me
to live with the Duke of Omnium; I shouldn't understand, or probably
approve, his ways. Nor should I, perhaps, much like the constant
presence of Mr Apjohn. But now and then--once in a year or so--I do own
I like to see them both. Here's the cup; now, whatever you do, Mr
Gresham, don't pass the cup without tasting it.'

And so the dinner passed on, slowly enough as Frank thought, but all
too quickly for Mr Apjohn.  It passed away, and the wine came
circulating freely.  The tongues again were loosed, the teeth being
released from their labours, and under the influence of the claret the
duke's presence was forgotten.

But very speedily the coffee was brought.  'This will soon be over
now,' said Frank, to himself, thankfully; for, though he be no means
despised good claret, he had lost his temper too completely to enjoy it
at the present moment.  But he was much mistaken; the farce as yet was
only at its commencement. The duke took his cup of coffee, and so did
the few friends who sat close to him; but the beverage did not seem to
be in great request with the majority of the guests.  When the duke had
taken his modicum, he rose up and silently retired, saying no 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 the
Madeira; you are quite right, for there isn't too much of it left, and
my belief is there'll never be more like it.'

And so the duke's hospitality went on, and the duke's guests drank
merrily 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 coffee
comes.  It's brought in as an excuse.  We've had enough of the light of
his countenance to last till next year.  The duke and I are excellent
friends; and have been so these fifteen years; but I never see more of
him than that.'

'I shall go away,' said Frank.

'Nonsense.  Mr de Courcy and your other friend won't stir for this hour
yet.'

'I don't care.  I shall walk on, and they may catch me.  I may be
wrong; but it seems to me that a man insults me when he asks me to dine
with him and never speaks to me.  I don't care if he be ten times Duke
of Omnium; he can't be more than a gentleman, and as such I am his
equal.'  And then, having thus given vent to his feelings in somewhat
high-flown language, he walked forth and trudged away along the road 
towards Courcy.

Frank Gresham had been born and bred a Conservative, whereas the Duke
of Omnium was well known as a consistent Whig.  There is no one so
devoutly resolved to admit of no superior as your Conservative, born
and bred, no one so inclined to high domestic despotism as your
thoroughgoing consistent old Whig.

When he had proceeded about six miles, Frank was picked up by his
friends; but even then his anger had hardly cooled.

'Was the duke as civil as ever when you took your leave of him?' said
he 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 leader under
the flank.



CHAPTER XX

THE PROPOSAL

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'I wish with all my heart she had.'

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

'That I might have joined you in your exile.  I hate Courcy Castle, and
should have rejoiced to leave--and--and--'

'And what?'

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

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

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

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

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

'And what have you seen, Mr Gresham?'

'Why, I know you have been writing to him.'

'Did he tell you so?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'So I am--very.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'You are going--or rather you were going, for I shall stop you--to make
a profession of love.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'You have utterly mistaken me, Miss Dunstable,' said Frank.

'If I have, I will humbly beg your pardon,' said she, 'but--but--but--'

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

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

'And am I dishonest?'

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

'I am not against you, Miss Dunstable.'

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

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

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

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

'Then, Mr Gresham, what did you intend?'

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

'You never thought of making me your wife, then?'

'Never,' said Frank, looking boldly into her face.

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

'Never for a moment,' said he.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XXI

MR MOFFAT FALLS INTO TROUBLE

We will now, with the reader's kind permission, skip over some months
in our narrative.  Frank returned from Courcy Castle to Greshamsbury,
and having communicated to his mother--much in the same manner as he had
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 at 
Greshamsbury he did not even catch a glimpse of Mary.  He asked for
her, of course, and was told that it was not likely that she would be
at the house just at present.  He called at the doctor's, but she was
denied to him there; 'she was out,' Janet said,--'probably with Miss
Oriel.'  He went to the parsonage and found Miss Oriel at home; but
Mary had not been seen that morning.  He then returned to the house;
and, having come to the conclusion that she had not thus vanished into
air, otherwise than by preconcerted arrangement, he boldly taxed
Beatrice on the subject.

Beatrice looked very demure; declared that no one in the house had
quarrelled with Mary; confessed that it had been thought prudent that
she should for a while stay away from Greshamsbury; and, of course,
ended by telling her brother everything, including all the scenes that
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 than poor Mary
herself;' and Beatrice looked the very personification of domestic
prudence.

'I know nothing of the kind,' said he, with the headlong imperative air
that was usual with him in discussing matters with his sisters.  'I
know nothing of the kind.  Of course I cannot say what Mary's feelings
may be: a pretty life she must have had of it among you.  But you may
be sure of this, Beatrice, and so may my mother, that nothing on earth
shall make me give her up--nothing.'  And Frank, as he made this 
protestation, strengthened his own resolution by thinking of all the
counsel that Miss Dunstable had given him.

The brother and sister could hardly agree, as Beatrice was dead against
the match.  Not that she would not have liked Mary Thorne for a
sister-in-law, but that she shared to a certain degree the feeling
which was now common to all the Greshams--that Frank must marry money. 
It seemed, at any rate, to be imperative that he should either do that
or not marry at all.  Poor Beatrice was not very mercenary in her 
views: she had no wish to sacrifice her brother to any Miss Dunstable;
but yet she felt, as they all felt--Mary Thorne included--that such as a
match as that, of the young heir with the doctor's niece, was not to be
thought of;--not to be spoken of as a thing that was in any way
possible.  Therefore, Beatrice, though she was Mary's great friend, 
though she was her brother's favourite sister, could give Frank no
encouragement.  Poor Frank! circumstances had made but one bride
possible to him: he must marry money.

His mother said nothing to him on the subject: when she learnt that the
affair with Miss Dunstable was not to come off, she merely remarked
that it would perhaps be best for him to return to Cambridge as soon as
possible.  Had she spoken her mind out, she would probably have also
advised him to remain there as long as possible.  The countess had not 
omitted to write to her when Frank had left Courcy Castle; and the
countess's letter certainly made the anxious mother think that her
son's education had hardly yet been completed. With this secondary
object, but with that of keeping him out of the way of Mary Thorne in
the first place, Lady Arabella was now quite satisfied that her son
should enjoy such advantages as an education completed at the
university might give him.

With his father Frank had a long conversation; but, alas!  the gist of
his father's conversation was this, that it behoved him, Frank, to
marry 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 could find
possessed of wealth. It was with inward self-reproaches, and true grief
of spirit, that the father told the son that it was not possible 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 had
injured his own heir.

'I don't care about money, sir,' said Frank.  'I shall be just as happy
if Boxall Hill had never been sold.  I don't care a straw about 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 I
could earn my own living.  Earn it!  of course I could, why not I as
well 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 he
could think of to lessen his father's regrets.  In their conversation
not a word was spoken about Mary Thorne.  Frank was not aware whether
or no his father had been told of the great family danger which was
dreaded in that quarter.  That he had been told, we may surmise, as
Lady Arabella was not wont to confine the family dangers to her own
bosom.  Moreover, Mary's presence had, of course, been missed.  The 
truth was, that the squire had been told, with great bitterness, of
what 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 a
daughter of the house of Greshamsbury: he it was who taught that odious
doctor--odious on all but his aptitude for good doctoring--to think
himself a fit match for the aristocracy of the county.  It had been his
fault, this great necessity that Frank should marry money; and now it
was his fault that Frank was absolutely talking of marrying a pauper.

By no means in quiescence did the squire hear these charges brought
against him.  The Lady Arabella, in each attack, got quite as much as
she gave, and, at last, was driven to retreat in a state of headache,
which she declared to be chronic; and which, so she assured her
daughter Augusta, must prevent her from having any more lengthened
conversations 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 as the
victor 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 much
towards ruining his son; and he also could think of no other remedy
than matrimony.  It was Frank's doom, pronounced even by the voice of
his father, that he must marry money.

And so, Frank went off again to Cambridge, feeling himself, as he went,
to be a much lesser man in Greshamsbury estimation than he had been
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 afraid to ask
after Mary; and the doctor had been too diffident of himself to speak
of her.  They had met casually on the road, and, though each in his
heart loved the other, the meeting had been anything but pleasant.

And so Frank went to Cambridge; and, as he did so, he stoutly resolved
that nothing should make him untrue to Mary Thorne. 'Beatrice,' said
he, on the morning he went away, when she came into his room to
superintend his packing--'Beatrice, if she ever talks about me--'

'Oh, Frank, my darling Frank, don't think of it--it is madness; she
knows it is madness.'

'Never mind; if she ever talks about me, tell her that the last word I
said was, that I would never forget her.  She can do as she likes.'

Beatrice made no promise, never hinted that she would give the message;
but it may be taken for granted that she had not been long in company
with Mary Thorne before she did give it.

And then there were other troubles at Greshamsbury.  It had been
decided that Augusta's marriage was to take place in September; but Mr
Moffat had, unfortunately, been obliged to postpone the happy day.  He
himself had told Augusta--not, of course, without protestations as to
his regret--and had written to this effect to Mr Gresham,
'Electioneering matters, and other troubles had,' he said, 'made this 
peculiarly painful postponement absolutely necessary.'

Augusta seemed to bear her misfortune with more equanimity than is, we
believe, usual with young ladies under such circumstances.  She spoke
of it to her mother in a very matter-of-fact way, and seemed almost
contented at the idea of remaining at Greshamsbury till February; which
was the time now named for the marriage.  But Lady Arabella was not 
equally well satisfied, nor was the squire.

'I half believe that fellow is not honest,' he had once said out loud
before Frank, and this set Frank a-thinking of what dishonesty in the
matter it was probable that Mr Moffat might be guilty, and what would
be the fitting punishment for such a crime.  Nor did he think on the
subject in vain; especially after a conference on the matter which he
had with his friend Harry Baker.  This conference took place during the
Christmas vacation.

It should be mentioned, that the time spent by Frank at Courcy Castle
had 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 at Cambridge
another year.  When he came home at Christmas he found that the house
was not peculiarly lively.  Mary was absent on a visit with Miss
Oriel.  Both these young ladies were staying with Miss Oriel's aunt, in
the neighbourhood of London; and Frank soon learnt that there was no
chance that either of them would be home before his return. No message
had been left for him by Mary--none at least had been left with
Beatrice; and he began in his heart to accuse her of coldness and
perfidy;--not, certainly, with much justice, seeing that she had never
given him the slightest encouragement.

The absence of Patience Oriel added to the dullness of the place.  It
was certainly hard upon Frank that all the attraction of the village
should be removed to make way and prepare for his return--harder,
perhaps, on them; for, to tell the truth, Miss Oriel's visit had been
entirely planned to enable her to give Mary a comfortable way of
leaving Greshamsbury during the time that Frank should remain at home.
Frank thought himself cruelly used.  But what did Mr Oriel think when
doomed to eat his Christmas pudding alone, because the young squire
would be unreasonable in his love?  What did the doctor think, as he
sat solitary by his deserted hearth--the doctor, who no longer permitted
himself to enjoy the comforts of the Greshamsbury dining-table?  Frank
hinted and grumbled; talked to Beatrice of the determined constancy of
his love, and occasionally consoled himself by a stray smile from some
of the neighbouring belles.  The black horse was made perfect; the old
grey pony was by no means discarded; and much that was satisfactory was
done in the sporting line.  But still the house was dull, and Frank
felt that he was the cause of its being so.  Of the doctor he saw but
little: he never came to Greshamsbury, unless to see Lady Arabella as
doctor, or to be closeted with the squire.  There were no special
evenings with him; no animated confabulations at the doctor's house; no
discourses between them, as there was wont to be, about the merits of
the different covers, and the capacities of the different hounds. These
were dull days on the whole for Frank; and sad enough, we may say, for
our friend the doctor.

In February Frank again went back to college; having settled with Harry
Baker certain affairs which weighed on his mind.  He went back to
Cambridge, promising to be home on the twentieth of the month, so as to
be present at his sister's wedding.  A cold and chilling time had been
named for these hymeneal joys, but one not altogether unsuited to the 
feelings of the happy pair.  February is certainly not a warm month;
but with the rich it is generally a cosy, comfortable time.  Good
fires, winter cheer, groaning tables, and warm blankets, make a
fictitious summer, which, to some tastes, is more delightful than the
long days and the hot sun.  And some marriages are especially winter
matches.  They depend for their charm on the same substantial
attractions: instead of heart beating to heart in sympathetic unison,
purse chinks to purse.  The rich new furniture of the new abode is
looked to instead of the rapture of a pure embrace.  The new carriage 
is depended on rather than the new heart's companion; and the first
bright gloss, prepared by the upholsterer's hands, stands in lieu of
the rosy tints which young love lends to his true votaries.

Mr Moffat had not spent his Christmas at Greshamsbury.  That eternal
election petition, those eternal lawyers, the eternal care of his
well-managed wealth, forbade him the enjoyment of any such pleasures. 
He could not come to Greshamsbury for Christmas, nor yet for the
festivities of the new year; but now and then he wrote prettily worded
notes, sending occasionally a silver-gilt pencil-case, or a small
brooch, and informed Lady Arabella that he looked forward to the 
twentieth 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 in
that town, and wrote a confidential letter to Harry Baker.

Poor Mr Moffat!  It is well known that none but the brave deserve the
fair; but thou, without much excuse for bravery, had secured for
thyself one who, at any rate, was fair enough for thee.  Would it not
have been well hadst thou looked to thyself to see what real bravery
might be in thee, before thou hadst prepared to desert this fair 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 to
Gatherum Castle, planning how he would be off with Miss Gresham and
afterwards on with Miss Dunstable, it is wonderful that he should not
then have cast his eye behind him, and looked at that stalwart pair of
shoulders which were so close to his own back.  As he afterwards
pondered on his scheme while sipping the duke's claret, it is odd that
he should not have observed the fiery pride of purpose and power of
wrath which was so plainly written on that young man's brow: or, when
he matured, and finished, and carried out his purpose, that he did not
think of that keen grasp which had already squeezed his own hand 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 at all
as connected with his promised bride; it is probable that he looked
forward only to the squire's violence and the enmity of the house of
Courcy; and that he found from enquiry at his heart's pulses, that he
was man enough to meet these.  Could he have guessed what a whip Frank
Gresham would have bought at Cambridge--could he have divined what a
letter would have been written to Harry Baker--it is probable, nay, we
think we may say certain, that Miss Gresham would have become Mrs
Moffat.

Miss Gresham, however, never did become Mrs Moffat.  About two days
after Frank's departure for Cambridge--it is just possible that Mr
Moffat was so prudent as to make himself aware of the fact--but just two
days after Frank's departure, a very long, elaborate, and clearly
explanatory letter was received at Greshamsbury.  Mr Moffat was quite
sure that Miss Gresham and her very excellent parents would do him the 
justice to believe that he was not actuated, &c, &c, &c.  The long and
the short of this was, that Mr Moffat signified his intention of
breaking off the match without offering any intelligible reason.

Augusta again bore her disappointment well: not, indeed, without sorrow
and heartache, and inward, hidden tears; but still well.  She neither
raved, nor fainted, nor walked about by moonlight alone.  She wrote no
poetry, and never once thought of suicide.  When, indeed, she
remembered the rosy-tinted lining, the unfathomable softness of that
Long-acre carriage, her spirit did for one moment give way; but, on the
whole, she bore it as a strong-minded woman and a De Courcy should do.

But both Lady Arabella and the squire were greatly vexed.  The former
had made the match, and the latter, having consented to it, had
incurred deeper responsibilities to enable him to bring it about.  The
money which was to have been given to Mr Moffat was still to the fore;
but alas! how much, how much that he could ill spare, had been thrown
away in bridal preparations!  It is, moreover, an unpleasant thing for
a gentleman to have his daughter jilted; perhaps peculiarly so to have
her jilted by a tailor's son.

Lady Arabella's woe was really piteous.  It seemed to her as though
cruel fate were heaping misery after misery upon the wretched house of
Greshamsbury.  A few weeks since things were going so well with her! 
Frank then was still all but the accepted husband of almost untold
wealth--so, at least, she was informed by her sister-in-law--whereas,
Augusta, was the accepted wife of wealth, not indeed untold, but of 
dimensions quite sufficiently respectable to cause much joy in the
telling.  Where now were her golden hopes?  Where now the splendid
future of her poor duped children?  Augusta was left to pine alone; and
Frank, in a still worse plight, insisted on maintaining his love for a
bastard and a pauper.

For Frank's affairs she had received some poor consolation by laying
all the blame on the squire's shoulders.  What she had then said was
now repaid to her with interest; for not only had she been the maker of
Augusta's match, but she had boasted of the deed with all a mother's
pride.

It was from Beatrice that Frank had obtained his tidings.  This last
resolve on the part of Mr Moffat had not altogether been unsuspected by
some of the Greshams, though altogether unsuspected by the Lady
Arabella.  Frank had spoken of it as a possibility to Beatrice, and was
not quite unprepared when the information reached him.  He consequently
bought his cutting-whip, and wrote his confidential letter to Harry 
Baker.

On the following day Frank and Harry might have been seen, with their
heads nearly close together, leaning over one of the tables in the
large breakfast-room at the Tavistock Hotel in Covent Garden.  The
ominous whip, to the handle of which Frank had already made his hand
well accustomed, was lying on the table between them; and ever and anon
Harry Baker would take it up and feel its weight approvingly.  Oh, Mr
Moffat! poor Mr Moffat! go not out into the fashionable world to-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'clock in the
afternoon!

With much care did those two young generals lay their plans of attack. 
Let it not for a moment be thought that it was ever in the minds of
either of them that two men should attack one.  But it was thought that
Mr Moffat might be rather coy in coming out from his seclusion to meet
the proffered hand of his once intended brother-in-law when he should
see that hand armed with a heavy whip.  Baker, therefore, was content
to act as a decoy duck, and remarked that he might no doubt make
himself useful in restraining the public mercy, 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, Mr
Moffat!  five or six shies with such a whip, and such an arm!  For
myself, I would sooner join the second Balaclava gallop than encounter
it.

At ten minutes before four these two heroes might be seen walking up
Pall Mall, towards the --- Club.  Young Baker walked with an eager
disengaged air.  Mr Moffat did not know his appearance; he had,
therefore, no anxiety to pass along unnoticed.  But Frank had in some
mysterious way drawn his hat very far over his forehead, and had
buttoned his shooting-coat up round his chin.  Harry had recommended to
him a great-coat, in order that he might the better conceal his face;
but Frank had found the great-coat was an encumbrance to his 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 the lighter garment.  He
contented himself, therefore, with looking down on the pavement as he 
walked along, letting the long point of the whip stick up from his
pocket, and flattering himself that even Mr Moffat 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 for a
moment separate: Frank remains standing on the pavement, under the
shade of the high stone area-railing, while Harry jauntily skips up
three steps at a time, and with a very civil word of inquiry of the
hall porter, sends 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 sweetest
smile, addresses him.

Now the plan of the campaign had been settled in this wise: Baker was
to send into the club for Mr Moffat, and invite that gentleman down
into the street.  It was probable that the invitation might be
declined; and it had been calculated in such case the two gentlemen
would retire for parley into the strangers' room, which was known to be
immediately opposite the hall door.  Frank was to keep his eye on the 
portals, and if he found that Mr Moffat did not appear as readily as
might be desired, he also was to ascend the steps and hurry into the
strangers' room.  Then, whether he met Mr Moffat there or elsewhere, or
wherever, he might meet him, he was to greet him with all the friendly
vigour in his power, while Harry disposed of the club porters.

But fortune, who ever favours the brave, specially favoured Frank
Gresham on this occasion. Just as Harry Baker had put his card into the
servant's hand, Mr Moffat, with his hat on, prepared for the street,
appeared in the hall; Mr Baker addressed him with his sweetest smile,
and begged the pleasure of saying a word or two as they descended into
the street. Had not Mr Moffat been going thither it would have been very
improbable that he should have done so at Harry's instance. But, as it
was, he merely looked rather solemn at his visitor--it was his wont to
look solemn--and continued the descent of the steps.

Frank, his heart leaping the while, saw his prey, and retreated two
steps behind the area-railing, the dread weapon already well poised in
his hand.  Oh!  Mr Moffat!  Mr Moffat! if there be any goddess to
interfere in thy favour, let her come forward now without delay; let
her now bear thee off on a cloud if there be one to whom thou art
sufficiently dear!  But there is no such goddess.

Harry smiled blandly till they were well on the pavement, saying some
nothing, and keeping the victim's face averted from the avenging angel;
and then, when the raised hand was sufficiently nigh, he withdrew two
steps towards the nearest lamp-post.  Not for him was the honour of the
interview;--unless, indeed, succouring policemen might give 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 the
poor ex-legislator?  In Scotland Yard, sitting dozing on your benches,
or talking soft nothings to the housemaids round the corner; for ye
were not walking on your beats, nor standing at coign of vantage, to
watch the tumults of the day.  Had Sir Richard himself been on the spot
Frank Gresham would still, we may say, have had his five shies at that
unfortunate one.

When Harry Baker quickly seceded from the way, Mr Moffat at once saw
the fate before him.  His hair doubtless stood on end, and his voice
refused to give the loud screech with which he sought to invoke the
club.  An ashy paleness suffused his cheeks, and his tottering steps
were unable to bear him away in flight.  Once, and twice, the cutting
whip came well down across his back.  Had he been wise enough to stand
still and take his thrashing in that attitude, it would have been well
for him.  But men so circumstanced have never such prudence.  After two
blows he made a dash at the steps, thinking to get back into the club;
but Harry, who had by no means reclined in idleness against the
lamp-post, here stopped him: 'You had better go back into the street,'
said Harry; 'indeed you had,' giving him a shove from off the second
step.

Then of course Frank could do no other than hit him anywhere. When a
gentleman is dancing about with much energy it is hardly possible to
strike him fairly on his back.  The blows, therefore, came now on his
legs and now on his head; and Frank unfortunately got more than his
five or six shies before he was interrupted.

The interruption however came, all too soon for Frank's idea of
justice.  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 sympathize with the wrong side, and, in nine cases out of
ten, expend their generous energy in protecting thieves and
pickpockets.  When it was seen with what tremendous ardour that dread
weapon fell about the ears of the poor undefended gentleman,
interference was at last, in spite of Harry Baker's best endeavours,
and loudest protestations.

'Do not interrupt them, sir,' said he; 'pray do not.  It is a family
affair, and they will neither of them like it.'

In the teeth, however, of these assurances, rude people did interfere,
and after some nine or ten shies Frank found himself encompassed by the
arms, and encumbered by the weight of a very stout gentleman, who hung
affectionately about his neck and shoulders; whereas, Mr Moffat was
already sitting in a state of syncope on the good-natured knees of a 
fishmonger's apprentice.

Frank was thoroughly out of breath: nothing came from his lips but
half-muttered expletives and unintelligible denunciations of the
iniquity of his foe.  But still he struggled to be at him again.  We
all know how dangerous is the taste of blood; now cruelly it will
become a custom even with the most tender-hearted.  Frank felt that he
had hardly fleshed his virgin lash: he thought, almost with despair, 
that he had not yet at all succeeded as became a man and a brother; his
memory told him of but one or two of the slightest touches that had
gone well home to the offender.  He made a desperate effort to throw
off that incubus round his neck and rush again to the combat.

'Harry--Harry; don't let him go--don't let him go,' he barely 
articulated.

'Do you want to murder the man, sir; to murder him?' said the stout
gentleman over his shoulder, speaking solemnly into his very ear.

'I don't care,' said Frank, struggling manfully but uselessly. 'Let me
out, I say; I don't care--don't let him go, Harry, whatever you do.'

'He has got it prettily tidily,' said Harry; 'I think that will perhaps
do for the present.'

By this time there was a considerable concourse.  The club steps were
crowded with members; among whom there were may of Mr Moffat's
acquaintance.  Policemen now flocked up, and the question arose as to
what should be done with the originators of the affray.  Frank and
Harry found that they were to consider themselves under a gentle
arrest, and Mr Moffat, in a fainting state, was carried into the
interior of the club.

Frank, in his innocence, had intended to have celebrated this little
affair when it was over by a light repast and a bottle of claret with
his friend, and then to have gone back to Cambridge by the mail train. 
He found, however, that his schemes in this respect were frustrated. He
had to get bail to attend at Marlborough Street police-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 the police, 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 slight repast,
and also their bottle of claret.

On the second morning after this occurrence, Frank was again sitting in
that public room at the Tavistock, and Harry was again sitting opposite
to him.  The whip was not now so conspicuously produced between them,
having been carefully packed up and put away among Frank's other
travelling properties.  They were so sitting, rather glum, when the
door swung open, and a heavy quick step was heard advancing towards
them.  It was the squire; whose arrival there had been momentarily
expected.

'Frank,' said he--'Frank, what on earth is all this?' and as he spoke he
stretched out both hands, the right to his son and the left to his
friend.

'He has given a blackguard a licking, that is all,' said Harry.

Frank felt that his hand was held with a peculiarly warm grasp; and he
could not but think that his father's face, raised though his eyebrows
were--though there was on it an intended expression of amazement and,
perhaps, regret--nevertheless he could not but think that 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 his
father's hand.

'Oh, isn't he!' said Harry, shrugging his shoulders.  'He must be made
of some very strong article then.'

'But my dear boys, I hope there's no danger.  I hope there's no
danger.'

'Danger!' said Frank, who could not yet induce himself to believe that
he had been allowed a fair chance with Mr Moffat.

'Oh, Frank!  Frank! how could you be so rash?  In the middle of Pall
Mall, too.  Well! well! well!   All the women down at Greshamsbury will
have 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 from Harry
Baker, the full story of his son's prowess.  And then they did not
separate without another slight repast and another bottle of claret.

Mr Moffat retired to the country for a while, and then went abroad;
having doubtless learnt that the petition was not likely to give him a
seat for the city of Barchester.  And this was the end of the wooing
with Miss Gresham.



CHAPTER XXII

SIR ROGER IS UNSEATED

After this, little occurred at Greshamsbury, or among Greshamsbury
people, which it will be necessary for us to record.  Some notice was,
of course, taking of Frank's prolonged absence from his college; and
tidings, perhaps exaggerated tidings, of what had happened at Pall Mall
were not slow to reach the High Street of Cambridge.  But that affair
was gradually hushed up; and Frank went on with his studies.

He went back to his studies: it then being an understood arrangement
between him and his father that he should not return to Greshamsbury
till the summer vacation.  On this occasion, the squire and Lady
Arabella had, strange to say, been of the same mind.  They both wished
to keep their son away from Miss Thorne; and both calculated, that at
his age and with his disposition, it was not probable that any passion
would last out a six month absence.  'And when that summer comes it
will be an excellent opportunity for us to go abroad,' said Lady
Arabella.  'Poor Augusta will require some change to renovate her
spirits.'

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 to
return till midsummer.

It will be remembered that Sir Roger Scatcherd had been elected as
sitting member for the city of Barchester; but it will also be
remembered that a petition against his return was threatened.  Had the
petition depended solely on Mr Moffat, Sir Roger's seat no doubt would
have been saved by Frank Gresham's cutting whip.  But such was not the
case.  Mr Moffat had been put forward by the De Courcy interest; and 
that noble family with its dependants was not to go to the wall because
Mr Moffat had had a thrashing.  No; the petition was to go on; and Mr
Nearthewinde declared, that no petition in his hands had half so good a
chance of success.  'Chance, no, but certainty,' said Mr Nearthewinde;
for Mr Nearthewinde had learnt something with reference to that honest
publican and the payment of his little bill.

The petition was presented and duly backed; the recognisances were
signed, and all the proper formalities formally executed; and Sir Roger
found that his seat was in jeopardy. His return had been a great
triumph to him; and, unfortunately, he had celebrated that triumph as
he had been in the habit of celebrating most of the very triumphant 
occasions of his life. Though he was than hardly yet recovered from the
effects of his last attack, he indulged in another violent drinking
bout; and, strange to say, did so without any immediate visible bad
effects.

In February he took his seat amidst the warm congratulations of all men
of his own class, and early in the month of April his case came on for
trial.  Every kind of electioneering sin known to the electioneering
world was brought to his charge; he was accused of falseness,
dishonesty, and bribery of every sort: he had, it was said in the paper
of indictment, bought votes, obtained them by treating, carried them
off by violence, conquered them by strong drink, polled them twice 
over, counted those of dead men, stolen them, forged them, and created
them by every possible, fictitious contrivance: there was no
description of wickedness appertaining to the task of procuring votes
of which Sir Roger had not been guilty, either by himself or by his
agents.  He was quite horror-struck at the list of his own enormities. 
But he was somewhat comforted when Mr Closerstil told him that the 
meaning of it all was that Mr Romer, the barrister, had paid a former
bill due to Mr Reddypalm, the publican.

'I fear he was indiscreet, Sir Roger; I really fear he was.  Those
young mean always are.  Being energetic, they work like horses; but
what's the use of energy without discretion, Sir Roger?'

'But, Mr Closerstil, I knew nothing of it from first to last.'

'The agency can be proved, Sir Roger,' said Mr Closerstil, shaking his
head.  And then there was nothing further to be said on the matter.

In these days of snow-white purity all political delinquency is
abominable in the eyes of British politicians; but no delinquency is so
abominable than the venality at elections. The sin of bribery is
damnable.  It is the one sin for which, in the House of Commons, there
can be no forgiveness. When discovered, it should render the culprit
liable to political death, without hope of pardon.  It is treason 
against a higher throne than that on which the Queen sits.  It is a
heresy which requires an auto-da-fe.  It is a pollution to the whole
House, which can only be cleansed by a great sacrifice.  Anathema
maranatha! out with it from amongst us, even though half of our heart's
blood be poured from the conflict!  Out with it, and for ever!

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 man
should sell them.  By all means let us repudiate such a system with
heartfelt disgust.

With heartfelt disgust, if we can do so, by all means; but not with
disgust pretended only and not felt in the heart at all. The laws
against bribery at elections are now so stringent that an unfortunate
candidate may easily become guilty, even though actuated by the purest
intentions.  But not the less on that account does any gentleman,
ambitious of the honour of serving his country in Parliament, think it 
necessary as a preliminary measure to provide a round sum of money at
his banker's.  A candidate must pay for no treating, no refreshments,
no band of music; he must give neither ribbons to the girls nor ale to
the men.  If a huzza be uttered in his favour, it is at his peril; it
may be necessary for him to prove before a committee that it was the 
spontaneous result of British feeling in his favour, and not the
purchased result of British beer.  He cannot safely ask any one to
share his hotel dinner.  Bribery hides itself now in the most
impalpable shapes, and may be effected by the offer of a glass of
sherry.  But not the less on this account does a poor man find that he
is quite unable to overcome the difficulties of a contested election.

We strain at our gnats with a vengeance, but we swallow our camels with
ease.  For what purpose is it that we employ those peculiarly safe men
of business--Messrs Nearthewinde and Closerstil--when we wish to win our
path through all obstacles into that sacred recess?  Alas! the money is
still necessary, is still prepared, or at any rate, expended.  The poor
candidate of course knows nothing of the matter till the attorney's
bill is laid before him, when all danger of petitions has passed away. 
He little dreamed till then, not he, that there had been banquetings
and junketings, secret doings and deep drinkings at his expense.  Poor
candidate!  Poor member!  Who was so ignorant as he!  'Tis true he has 
paid bills before; but 'tis equally true that he specially begged his
managing friend Mr Nearthewinde, to be very 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 inner sanctuary
does reach the eyes of ordinary mortal men without; some slight
accidental peep into those mysteries from when all corruption has been
so thoroughly expelled; and then, how delightfully refreshing is the
sight, when, perhaps, some ex-member, hurled from his paradise like a
fallen peri, reveals the secret of that pure heaven, and, in the agony
of his despair, tells us all that it cost him to sit for--through those
few halcyon years!

But Mr Nearthewinde is a safe man, and easy to be employed with but
little danger.  All these stringent bribery laws only enhance the value
of such very safe men as Mr Nearthewinde.  To him, stringent laws
against bribery are the strongest assurance of valuable employment. 
Were these laws of a nature to be evaded with ease, any indifferent
attorney might manage a candidate's affairs and enable him to take his 
seat with security.

It would have been well for Sir Roger if he had trusted solely to Mr
Closerstil; well also for Mr Romer had he never fished in those
troubled waters.  In due process of time the hearing of the petition
came on, and then who so happy, sitting at his ease in the London inn,
blowing his cloud from a long pipe, with measureless content, as Mr
Reddypalm?  Mr Reddypalm was the one great man of the contest.  All
depended on Mr Reddypalm; and well he did his duty.

The result of the petition was declared by the committee to be read as
follows:--that Sir Roger's election was null and void--that Sir Roger
had, by his agent, been guilty of bribery in obtaining a vote, by the
payment of a bill alleged to have been previously refused payment--this
is always a matter of course;--but that Sir Roger's agent, Mr Romer, had
been willingly guilty of bribery with reference to the transaction above
declared. 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 which we
live.  Not long after those days, it so happening that some
considerable amount of youthful energy and quidnunc ability were
required to set litigation afloat at Hong Kong, Mr Romer was sent
thither as the fittest man for such work, with rich assurance of future
guerdon.  Who are so happy then as Mr Romer!  But even among the pure
there is room for envy and detraction.  Mr Romer had not yet ceased to
wonder at new worlds, as he skimmed among the islands of that southern
ocean, before the edict had gone forth for his return.  There were men
sitting in that huge court of Parliament on whose breasts it lay as an
intolerable burden, that England should be represented among the
antipodes by one who had tampered with the purity of the franchise. For
them there was no rest till this great disgrace should be wiped out and
atoned for.  Men they were of that calibre, that the slightest
reflection on them of such a stigma seemed to themselves to blacken
their own character.  They could not break bread with satisfaction till
Mr Romer was recalled.  He was recalled, and of course ruined--and the
minds of those just men were then at peace.

To any honourable gentleman who really felt his brow suffused with a
patriotic blush, as he thought of his country dishonoured by Mr Romer's
presence at Hong Kong--to any such gentleman, if any such there were,
let all honour be given, even though the intensity of his purity may
create amazement to our less finely organized souls.  But if no such
blush suffused the brow of any honourable gentleman; if Mr Romer was
recalled from quite other feelings--what then in lieu of honour shall we
allot to those honourable gentlemen who were most concerned?

Sir Roger, however, lost his seat, and, after three months of the joys
of legislation, found himself reduced by a terrible blow to the low
level of private life.

And the blow to him was very heavy.  Men but seldom tell the truth of
what is in them, even to their dearest friends; they are ashamed of
having feelings, or rather of showing that they are troubled by any
intensity of feeling.  It is the practice of the time to treat all
pursuits as though they were only half important to us, as though in
what we desire we were only half in earnest.  To be visibly eager seems
childish, and is always bad policy; and men, therefore, nowadays,
though they strive as hard as ever in the service of ambition--harder
than ever in that of mammon--usually do so with a pleasant smile on, as
though after all they were but amusing themselves with the little
matter in hand.

Perhaps it had been so with Sir Roger in those electioneering days when
he was looking for votes.  At any rate, he had spoken of his seat in
Parliament as but a doubtful good.  'He was willing, indeed, to stand,
having been asked; but the thing would interfere wonderfully with his
business; and then, what did he know about Parliament?  Nothing on
earth: it was the maddest scheme, but nevertheless, he was not going to
hang back when called upon--he had always been rough and ready when
wanted--and there he was now ready as ever, and rough enough 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 and class
to which he belonged.  But men did not know that his inner heart will
swelling with triumph, and that his bosom could hardly contain his
pride as he reflected that the poor Barchester stone-mason was now the 
representative of his native city.  And so, when his seat was attacked,
he still laughed and joked.  'They were welcome to it for him,' he
said; 'he could keep it or want it; and of the two, perhaps, the want
of it would come most convenient to him. He did not exactly think that
he had bribed any one; but if the bigwigs chose to say so, it was all
one to him.  He was rough and ready, now as ever,' &c &c.

But when the struggle came, it was to him a fearful one; not the less
fearful because there was no one, no, not one friend in all the world,
to whom he could open his mind and speak out honestly what was in his
heart.  To Dr Thorne he might perhaps have done so had his intercourse
with the doctor been sufficiently frequent; but it was only now and
then when he was ill, or when the squire wanted to borrow money, that
he saw Dr Thorne.  He had plenty of friends, heaps of friends in the
parliamentary sense; friends who talked about him, and lauded him at
public meetings; who shook hands with him on platforms and drank his
health at dinners; but he had no friends who could sit with him over
his own hearth, in true friendship, and listen to, and sympathize with,
and moderate the sighings of the inner man.  For him there was no 
sympathy; no tenderness of love; no retreat, save into himself, from
the loud brass band of the outer world.

The blow hit him terribly hard.  It did not come altogether 
unexpectedly, 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 the sons of
dukes and the curled darlings of the nation.  Money had given him
nothing, nothing but the mere feeling of brute power: with his three
hundred thousand pounds he had felt himself to be no more palpably near
to the goal of his ambition than when he had chipped stones for three
shillings and sixpence a day.  But when he was led up and introduced at
that table, when he shook the old premier's hand on the floor of the
House of Commons, when he heard the honourable member for Barchester
alluded to in grave debate as the greatest living authority on railway 
matters, then, indeed, he felt that he had achieved something.

And now this cup was ravished from his lips, almost before it was
tasted.  When he was first told as a certainty that the decision of the
committee was against him, he bore up against the misfortune like a
man.  He laughed heartily, and declared himself well rid of a very
profitless profession; cut some little joke about Mr Moffat and his
thrashing, and left on those around him an impression that he was a man
so constituted, so strong in his own resolves, so steadily pursuant of
his own work, that no little contentions of this kind could affect
him.  Men admired his easy laughter, as, shuffling his half-crowns with
both his hands in his trouser-pockets, he declared that Messrs Romer
and Reddypalm were the best friends he had known for many a day.

But not the less did he walk out from the room in which he was standing
a broken-hearted man.  Hope could not buoy him up as she may do other
ex-members in similarly disagreeable circumstances.  He could not
afford to look forward to what further favours parliamentary future
have in store for him after a lapse of five or six years.  Five or six
years!  Why, his life was not worth four years' purchase; of that he
was perfectly aware: he could not now live without the stimulus of
brandy; and yet, while he took it, he knew he was killing himself. 
Death he did not fear; but he would fain have wished, after his life of
labour, to have lived, while yet he could live, in the blaze of that
high world to which for a moment he had attained.

He laughed loud and cheerily as he left his parliamentary friends, and,
putting himself into the train, went down to Boxall Hill.  He laughed
loud and cheerily; but he never laughed again.  It had not been his
habit to laugh much at Boxall Hill.  It was there he kept his wife, and
Mr Winterbones, and the brandy bottle behind his pillow.  He had not
often there found it necessary to assume that loud and cheery laugh.

On this occasion he was apparently well in health when he got home; but
both Lady Scatcherd and Mr Winterbones found him more than ordinarily
cross.  He made an affectation at sitting very hard to business, and
even talked of going abroad to look at some of his foreign contracts. 
But even Winterbones found that his patron did not work as he had been 
wont to do; and at last, with some misgivings, he told 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 Mr Winterbones's
allusion meant.

'Always, my lady.  I never saw nothing like it.  Now, there's me--I can
always go my half-hour when I've had my drop; but he, why, he don't go
ten minutes, not now.'

This was not cheerful to Lady Scatcherd; but what was the poor woman to
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 to mention the
subject of his drinking. She had never known him so savage in his
humour as he was now, so bearish in his habits, so little 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 what
guise to send for him,--whether as doctor or as friend: under neither
would he now be welcome; and she well knew that Sir Roger was not the
man to accept in good part either a doctor or a friend who might be
unwelcome.  She knew that this husband of hers, this man, who, with all
his faults, was the best of her friends whom she loved best--she knew
that he was killing himself, and yet she could do nothing.  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 not
take one huge dose of his consuming poison, and then fall dead upon the
floor.  It would perhaps have been better for himself, and better for
those around him, had he done so. No; the doctors had time to
congregate round his bed; Lady Scatcherd was allowed a period of
nurse-tending; the sick man was able to say his last few words and bid
his adieu to his portion of the lower world with dying decency.  As
these last words will have some lasting effect upon the surviving 
personages of our story, the reader must be content to stand for a
short while by the side of Sir Roger's sick-bed, and help us bid him
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 to
be our hero; but it would appear very much as though he had latterly
been forgotten.  Since that evening when he retired to rest without
letting Mary share the grievous weight which was on his mind, we have
neither seen nor heard aught of him. 

It was then full midsummer, and it now early spring: and during the
intervening months the doctor had not had a happy time of it.  On that
night, as we have before told, he took his niece to his heart; but he
could not then bring himself to tell her that which it was so
imperative that she should know.  Like a coward, he would put off the
evil hour, till the next morning, and thus robbed himself of his
night's sleep.

But when the morning came the duty could not be postponed.  Lady
Arabella had given him to understand that his niece would no longer be
a guest at Greshamsbury; and it was quite out of the question that
Mary, after this, should be allowed to put her foot within the gate of
the domain without having learnt what Lady Arabella had said.  So he
told it before breakfast, walking round their little garden, she with
her hand in his.

He was perfectly thunderstruck by the collected--nay, cool way in which
she received his tidings.  She turned pale, indeed; he felt also that
her hand somewhat trembled in his own, and he perceived that for a
moment her voice shook; but no angry word escaped her lip, nor did she
even deign to repudiate the charge, which was, as it were, conveyed in
Lady Arabella's request.  The doctor knew, or thought he knew--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 part of the young heir;
but, nevertheless, he had expected that she would avouch her own
innocence.  This, however, she by no means did.

'Lady Arabella is quite right,' she said, 'quite right; if she has any
fear of that kind, she cannot be too careful.'

'She is a selfish, proud woman,' said the doctor; 'quite indifferent to
the feelings of others; quite careless how deeply she may hurt her
neighbours, if, in doing so, she may possibly benefit herself.'

'She will not hurt me, uncle, nor yet you.  I can live without going to
Greshamsbury.'

'But it is not to be endured that she should dare to cast an imputation
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 blame
her.  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 so
easily: could you send me away, uncle?'

He merely answered her by twining his arm round her waist and pressing
her to his side.  He was well sure that she was badly treated; and yet
now that she so unaccountably took Lady Arabella's part, 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 be
banished from his father's house?  No, uncle; there is an end of my
visits there.  They shall find that I will not thrust myself in their
way.'

And then Mary, with a calm brow and steady gait, went in and made the
tea.

And what might be the feelings of her heart when she so sententiously
told her uncle that Frank had been foolish?  She was of the same age
with him; as impressionable, though more powerful in hiding such
impressions,--as all women should be; her heart was as warm, her blood
as full of life, her innate desire for the companionship of some
much-loved object as strong as his.  Frank had been foolish in avowing
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 to walk
heart-whole by his side, while he chatted his commonplaces about love? 
Yes, they are commonplaces when we read them in novels; common enough,
too, to some of us when we write them; but they are by no means
commonplace when first heard by a young girl in the rich, balmy
fragrance of July evening stroll.

Nor are they commonplaces when so uttered for the first or second time
at least, or perhaps the third.  'Tis a pity that so heavenly a
pleasure should pall upon the senses.

If it was so that Frank's folly had been listened to with a certain
amount of pleasure, Mary did not even admit so much to herself.  But
why should it have been otherwise?  Why should she have been less prone
to love than he was?  Had he not everything which girls do love? which
girls should love? which God created noble, beautiful, all but godlike,
in order that women, all but goddesslike, might love?  To love 
thoroughly, truly, heartily, with her whole body, soul, heart, and
strength; should not that be counted for a merit in a woman?  And yet
we are wont to make a disgrace of it.  We do so most unnaturally, most
unreasonably; for we expect our daughters to get themselves married off
our hands.  When the period of that step comes, then love is proper
enough; but up to that--before that--as regards all those preliminary 
passages which must, we suppose, be necessary--in all those it becomes a
young lady to be icy-hearted as a river-god in winter.

    '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 her
hand proudly in that of her lover, and consents that they two shall be
made one flesh.

Mary felt no such love as this.  She, too, had some inner perception of
that dread destiny by which it behoved Frank Gresham to be forewarned.
She, too--though she had never heard so much said in words--had an
almost instinctive knowledge that his fate required him to marry money.
Thinking over this in her own way, she was not slow to convince herself
that it was out of the question that she should allow herself to love
Frank Gresham. However well her heart might be inclined to such a
feeling, it was her duty to repress it. She resolved, therefore, to do
so; and she sometimes flattered herself that she had kept her
resolution.

These were bad times for the doctor, and bad times for Mary too.  She
had declared that she could live without going to Greshamsbury; but she
did not find it so easy.  She had been going to Greshambury all her life,
and it was customary with her to be there as at
home. Such old customs are not broken without pain.  Had she left the
place it would have been far different; but, as it was, she daily
passed the gates, daily saw and spoke to some of the servants, who knew
her as well as they did the young ladies of the family--was in hourly
contact, as it were, with Greshamsbury.  It was not only that she did
not go there, but that every one knew that she had suddenly
discontinued doing so.  Yes, she could live without going to
Greshamsbury; but for some time she had but a poor life of it.  She
felt, nay, almost heard, that every man and woman, boy and girl in the
village was telling his and her neighbour that Mary Thorne no longer
went to the house because of Lady Arabella and the young squire.

But Beatrice, of course, came to her.  What was she to say to
Beatrice?  The truth!  Nay, but it is not always so easy to say the
truth, 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 Lady
Arabella, nor to me either.  No, Trichy, dearest; my visits to dear old
Greshamsbury are done, done, done: perhaps in some twenty years' time I
may be walking down the lawn with your brother, and discussing the
childish days--that is, always, if the then Mrs Gresham shall have
invited me.'

'How can Frank have been so wrong, so unkind, so cruel?' said Beatrice.

This, however, was a light in which Miss Thorne did not take any
pleasure, in discussing the matter.  Her ideas of Frank's fault, and
unkindness and cruelty, were doubtless different from those of her
sister.  Such cruelty was not unnaturally excused in her eyes by many
circumstances which Beatrice did not fully understand.  Mary was quite
ready to go hand in hand with Lady Arabella and the rest of
Greshamsbury fold in putting an end, if possible, to Frank's passion:
she would give not one a right to accuse her of assisting to ruin the 
young heir; but she could hardly bring herself to admit that he was so
very wrong--no, nor yet even so very cruel.

And then the squire came to see her, and this was a yet harder trial
than the visit of Beatrice.  It was so difficult for her to speak to
him 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 helped somehow--I
am quite sure you have not been to blame.'

'No,' said she, very quietly, as though the position was one quite a
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 any unpleasantness
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 lonely here.'

'Oh!   I shall got over all that.  Here, you know, Mr Gresham, "I am
monarch of all I survey"; and there is a great deal in that.'

The squire did not catch her meaning, but a glimmering of it did reach
him.  It was competent to Lady Arabella to banish her from
Greshamsbury; it was within the sphere of the squire's duties to
prohibit his son from an imprudent match; it was for the Greshams to
guard their Greshamsbury treasure as best they could within their own
territories: but let them beware that they did not attack her on hers. 
In obedience to the first expression of their wishes, she had submitted
herself to this public mark of their disapproval because she had seen
at once, with her clear intellect, that they were only doing that which
her conscience must approve.  Without a murmur, therefore, she
consented to be pointed at as the young lady who had been turned out of
Greshamsbury because of the young squire.  She had no help for it. But
let them take care that they did not go beyond that.  Outside those 
Greshamsbury gates she and Frank Gresham, she and Lady Arabella met on
equal terms; let them each fight their own battle.

The squire kissed her forehead affectionately and took his leave,
feeling somehow, that he had been excused and pitied, and made much of;
whereas he had called on his young neighbour with the intention of
excusing, and pitying, and making much of her.  He was not quite
comfortable as he left the house; but, nevertheless, he was
sufficiently honest-hearted to own to himself that Mary Thorne was a
fine girl.  Only that it was so absolutely necessary that Frank should 
marry money--and only, also, that poor Mary was such a birthless
foundling in the world's esteem--only, but for these things, what a wife
she would have made for that son of his!

To one person only did she talk freely on the subject, and that one was
Patience Oriel; and even with her the freedom was rather of the mind
than of the heart.  She never said a word of her feeling with reference
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 all with
him, and the punishment all with you.'

'Oh!  as for that,' said Mary, laughing, 'I will not confess to any
offence, not 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 disgrace in
punishment: now I am not going to hold myself in the least disgraced.'

'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.  'Tis
that I am the wild beast, and 'tis that they must avoid me,' and then
she added, after a pause--slightly blushing--'I have not the slightest
objection even to meet him if chance brings him in my way.  Let them
look to that.  My undertaking goes no further than this, that I 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 much wanted
the assistance of such a friend as Patience Oriel.

After an absence of some six weeks, Frank, as we have seen, returned
home.  Nothing was said to him, except by Beatrice, as to those new
Greshamsbury arrangements; and he, when he found Mary was not at the
place, went boldly to the doctor's house to seek her.  But it has been
seen, also, that she discreetly kept out of his way.  This she had
thought fit to do when the time came, although she had been so ready
with her boast that she had no objection on earth to meet him.

After that there had been the Christmas vacation, and Mary had again
found discretion the better part of valour.  This was doubtless
disagreeable enough.  She had no particular wish to spend her Christmas
with Miss Oriel's aunt instead of at her uncle's fireside.  Indeed, her
Christmas festivities had hitherto been kept at Greshamsbury, the
doctor and herself having a part of the family circle there assembled. 
This was out of the question now; and perhaps the absolute change to
old Miss Oriel's house was better for her than the lesser change to her
uncle's drawing-room.  Besides, how could she have demeaned herself
when she met Frank in their parish church?  All this had been fully
understood by Patience, and, therefore, had this Christmas visit been 
planned.

And then this affair of Frank and Mary Thorne ceased for a while to be
talked of at Greshamsbury, for that other affair of  Mr Moffat and
Augusta monopolized 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 soon the news
arrived of Frank's exploit in Pall Mall; and then the Greshamburyites 
forgot to think much more of Augusta, being fully occupied in thinking
of what Frank had done.

The tale, as it was first told, declared the Frank had followed Mr
Moffat up into his club; had dragged him thence into the middle of Pall
Mall, and had then slaughtered him on the spot. This was by degrees
modified till a sobered fiction became generally prevalent, that Mr
Moffat was lying somewhere, still alive, but with all his bones in a
state of compound fracture. This adventure again brought Frank into the
ascendant, and restored to Mary her former position 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.  One
might 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 much, Mary!'

'Oh, I suppose a man can't exactly stand measuring how much he does
these things.  I like your brother for what he has done, and I may say
so frankly--though I suppose I ought to eat my tongue out before I
should 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 in that--if that
were all.'

'Wouldn't there?' said Mary, in a low tone of bantering satire; 'that
is so kind, Trichy, coming from you--from one of the family, you know.'

'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 you could
have your way I should be admitted into heaven again; shouldn't I? Only
with this proviso, that if a stray angel should ever whisper to me with
bated breath, mistaking me, perchance, for one of his own class, I
should be bound to close my ears to his whispering, and remind him
humbly that I was only a poor mortal.  You would trust me so far,
wouldn't you, Trichy?'

'I would trust you in any way, Mary.  But I think you are unkind in
saying such things to me.'

'Into whatever heaven I am admitted, I will go only on this 
understanding: that I am to be as good an angel as any of those around
me.'

'But, Mary dear, why do you say this to me?'

'Because--because--because--ah me!  Why, indeed, but because I have no 
one else to say it to.  Certainly not because you have deserved it.'

'It seems as if you were finding fault with me.'

'And so I am; how can I do other than find fault?  How can I help being
sore?  Trichy, you hardly realize my position; you hardly see how I am
treated; how I am forced to allow myself to be treated without a sign
of complaint.  You don't see it all. If you did, you would not wonder
that I should be sore.'

Beatrice did not quite see it all; but she saw enough of it to know
that Mary was to be pitied; so, instead of scolding her friend for
being cross, she threw her arms round her and kissed her
affectionately.

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 lamb had
been ill treated; he could not even have the pleasure of openly
quarrelling with Lady Arabella; but not the less did he feel it to be
most cruel that Mary should have to live before the world as an
outcast, because it had pleased Frank Gresham to fall in love with her.

But his bitterness was not chiefly against Frank.  That Frank had been
very foolish he could not but acknowledge; but it was a kind of folly
for which the doctor was able to find excuse. For Lady Arabella's cold
propriety he could find no excuse.

With the squire he had spoken no word on the subject up to this period
of which we are now writing.  With her ladyship he had never spoken on
it since that day when she had told him that Mary was to come no more
to Greshamsbury.  He never now dined or spent his evenings at
Greshamsbury, and seldom was to be seen at the house, except when
called in professionally.  The squire, indeed, he frequently met; but 
he either did so in the village, or out on horseback, or at his own
house.

When the doctor first heard that Sir Roger had lost his seat, and had
returned to Boxall Hill, he resolved to go over and see him.  But the
visit was postponed from day to day, as visits are postponed which may
be made any day, and he did not in fact go till summoned there somewhat
peremptorily.  A message was brought to him one evening to say that Sir
Roger had been struck by paralysis, and that not a moment was to be 
lost.

'It always happens at night,' said Mary, who had more sympathy for the
living uncle whom she did know, than for the other dying uncle whom she
did not know.

'What matters?--there--just give me my scarf.  In all probability I may
not be home to-night--perhaps not till late to-morrow.  God bless you,
Mary!' and away the doctor went on his cold bleak ride to Boxall Hill.

'Who is to be his heir?'  As the doctor rode along, he could not quite
rid his mind of the question.  The poor man now about to die had wealth
enough to make many heirs.  What if his heart should have softened
towards his sister's child!  What if Mary should be found to be
possessed of such wealth that the Greshams should be again be happy to
welcome her at Greshamsbury!

The doctor was not a lover of money--and he did his best to get rid of
such pernicious thoughts.  But his longings, perhaps, were not so much
that Mary should be rich, as that she should have the power of heaping
coals of fire upon the heads of those people who had so injured her.



CHAPTER XXIV

LOUIS SCATCHERD

When Dr Thorne reached Boxall Hill he found Mr Rerechild from 
Barchester there before him.  Poor Lady Scatcherd, when her husband was
stricken by the fit, hardly knew in her dismay what adequate steps to
take.  She had, as a matter of course, sent for Dr Thorne; but she had
thought it so grave a peril that the medical skill of no one man could
suffice.  It was, she knew, quite out of the question for her to invoke
the aid of Dr Fillgrave, whom no earthly persuasion could have brought
to Boxall Hill; and as Mr Rerechild was supposed in the Barchester
world to be second--though at a long interval--to that 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 doctor as
sure as light from the lamp of Aesculapius.  He could not therefore be
other than an enemy of Dr Thorne.  But he was a prudent, discreet man,
with a long family, averse to professional hostilities, as knowing that
he could make more by medical friends than medical foes, and not 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 been put upon his
friend, as had all the 'medical world'--and all the medical world at
least of Barsetshire; and he had often expressed sympathy with Dr 
Fillgrave and his abhorrence of Dr Thorne's anti-professional 
practices.  But now that he found himself about to be brought in
contact with Dr Thorne, he reflected that the Galen of Greshamsbury was
at any rate equal in reputation to him of Barchester; that the one was
probably on the rise, whereas the other was already considered by some
as rather antiquated; and he therefore wisely resolved that the present
would be an excellent opportunity for him to make a friend of Dr
Thorne.

Poor Lady Scatcherd had an inkling that Dr Fillgrave and Mr Rerechild
were accustomed to row in the same boat, and she was not altogether
free from fear that there might be an outbreak. She therefore took an
opportunity before Dr Thorne's arrival to deprecate any wrathful
tendency.

'Oh, Lady Scatcherd!  I have the greatest respect for Dr Thorne,' said
he; 'the greatest possible respect; a most skilful
practitioner--something brusque, certainly, and perhaps a little
obstinate.  But what then?  we have all our faults, Lady Scatcherd.'

'Oh--yes; we all have, Mr Rerechild; that's a certain.'

'There's my friend Fillgrave--Lady Scatcherd.  He cannot bear anything
of that sort.  Now I think he's wrong; and so I tell him.' Mr Rerechild
was in error here; for he had never yet ventured to tell Dr Fillgrave
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 visit to
his patient: what steps were immediately taken for the relief of the
sufferer we need not describe.  They were doubtless well intended, and
were, perhaps, as well adapted to stave off the coming evil day as any
that Dr Fillgrave, or even the great Sir Omicron Pie might have used.

And then Dr Thorne arrived.

'Oh, doctor!  doctor!' exclaimed Lady Scatcherd, almost hanging round
his neck in the hall.  'What are we to do?  What are we to do?  He's
very 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!  he has
never been like this before.

It was easy to see where Lady Scatcherd placed any such faith as she
might still have in the healing art.  'Mr Rerechild is here and has
seen him,' she continued.  'I thought it best to send for two, for fear
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 went up and saw his patient; and had he literally complied
with Lady Scatcherd's request, he might have told her at once that
there was no hope.  As, however, he had not the heart to do this, he
mystified the case as doctors so well know how to do, and told her that
'there was cause to fear, great cause for fear; he was sorry to say,
very great cause for much fear.'

Dr Thorne promised to stay the night there, and, if possible, the
following night also; and then Lady Scatcherd became troubled in her
mind as to what she should do with Mr Rerechild.  He also declared,
with much medical humanity, that, let the inconvenience be what it
might, he too would stay the night.  'The loss,' he said, 'of such a
man as Sir Roger Scatcherd was of such paramount importance as to make 
other matters trivial.  He would certainly not allow the whole weight
to fall on the shoulders of his friend Dr Thorne: he also would stay at
any rate that night by the sick man's bedside.  By the following
morning some change might be excpected.'

'I say, Dr Thorne,' said her ladyship, calling the doctor into the
housekeeping-room, in which she and Hannah spent any time that they
were not required upstairs; 'just come in, doctor: you wouldn't tell
him we don't want him no 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 might go away if he pleased; but
that it would by no means be proper for one doctor to tell another to
leave the house.  And so Mr Rerechild was allowed to share the glories
of the night.

In the meantime the patient remained speechless; but it soon became
evident that Nature was using all her efforts to make one final rally. 
From time to time he moaned and muttered as though he was conscious,
and it seemed as though he strove to speak.  He gradually became awake,
at any rate to suffering, and Dr Thorne began to think that the last
scene would be postponed for yet a while longer.

'Wonderful constitution--eh, Dr Thorne?  wonderful!' said Mr Rerechild.

'Yes; he has been a strong man.'

'Strong as a horse, Dr Thorne.  Lord, what that man would have been if
he 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 left to
the stomach; and yet what a struggle he makes--an interesting case,
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 have
seen this case.  He is a very clever man, is Fillgrave--in his way, you
know.'

'I'm sure he is,' said Dr Thorne.

'Not that he'd make anything of a case like this now--he's not, you
know, quite--quite--perhaps not quite up to the new time of day, one
might 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 of money
to put by in a little town like Barchester.'

'Yes, indeed.'

'What I say to Fillgrave is--keep your eyes open; one should never be
too old to learn--there's always something new worth picking up.  But
no--he won't believe that.  He can't believe that any new ideas can be
worth anything.  You know a man must go to the wall in that 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 to
hope he'll rally; fair ground, is there not, doctor?'

'Yes; he'll rally; but how long that may last, that we can hardly say.'

'Oh, no, certainly not, certainly not--that is not with any certainty;
but still he's doing finely, Lady Scatcherd, considering everything.'

'How long will you give him, doctor?' said Mr Rerechild to his new
friend, when they were again alone.  'Ten days?  I dare say ten days,
or from that to a fortnight.'

'Perhaps so,' said the doctor.  'I should not like to say exactly to a
day.'

'No, certainly not.  We cannot say exactly to a day; but I say ten
days; 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 saw them so
swelled before: now when the periporollida are swollen like that--'

'Yes, very much; it's always the case when paralysis has been brought
about by intemperance.'

'Always, always; I have remarked that always; the periporollida in such
cases are always extended; most interesting case, isn't it?  I do wish
Fillgrave could have seen it.  But, I believe you and Dr Fillgrave
don't quite--eh?'

'No, not quite,'said Dr Thorne; who, as he thought of his last
interview with Dr Fillgrave, and of that gentleman's exceeding anger as
he stood in the hall below, could not keep himself from smiling, sad as
the occasion was.

Nothing would induced Lady Scatcherd to go to bed; but the two doctors
agreed to lie down, each in a room on one side of the patient.  How was
it possible that anything but good should come to him, being so
guarded?  'He's going on finely, Lady Scatcherd, quite finely,' were
the last words Mr Rerechild said as he left the room.

And then Dr Thorne, taking Lady Scatcherd's hand and leading her out
into another chamber, told her the truth.

'Lady Scatcherd,' said he, in his tenderest voice--and his voice could
be very tender when occasion required it--'Lady Scatcherd, do not hope;
you must not hope; it would be cruel to bid you to do so.'

'Oh, doctor!  oh, doctor!'

'My dear friend, there is no hope.'

'Oh, Dr Thorne!' said the wife, looking wildly up into her companion's
face, though she hardly yet realized the meaning of what he said,
although her senses were half stunned by the blow.

'Dear Lady Scatcherd, is it not better that I should tell you the
truth?'

'Oh, I suppose so; oh yes, oh yes; ah me! ah me! ah me!'  And then she
began rocking herself backwards and forwards on her chair, with her
apron up to her eyes.

'Look to Him, Lady Scatcherd, who only can make such grief endurable.'

'Yes, yes, yes; I suppose so.  Ah me!  ah me!  But, Dr Thorne, there
must be some chance--isn't there any chance?  That man says he's going
on so well.'

'I fear there is no chance--as far as my knowledge goes there is no
chance.'

'Then why does that chattering magpie tell such lies to a woman?  Ah
me! ah me! oh, doctor!  doctor!  what shall I do? what shall I do?' and
poor Lady Scatcherd, fairly overcome by her sorrow, burst out crying
like a great school-girl.

And yet what had her husband done for her that she should thus weep for
him?  Would not her life be much more blessed when this cause of all
her troubles should be removed from her?  Would she not then be a free
woman instead of a slave? Might she not then expect to begin to taste
the comforts of life?  What had that harsh tyrant of hers done that was
good or serviceable for her?  Why should she thus weep for him in 
paroxysms of truest grief?

We hear a good deal of jolly widows; and the slanderous raillery of the
world tell much of conjugal disturbances as a cure for which women will
look forward to a state of widowhood with not unwilling eyes.  The
raillery of the world is very slanderous.  In our daily jests we
attribute to each other vices of which neither we, nor our neighbours,
nor our friends, nor even our enemies are ever guilty.  It is our 
favourite parlance to talk of the family troubles of Mrs Green on our
right, and to tell now Mrs Young on our left is strongly suspected of
having raised her hand to her lord and master.  What right have we to
make these charges?  What have we seen in our own personal walks
through life to make us believe that women are devils?  There may
possibly have been Xantippe here and there, but Imogenes are to be
found in every bush.  Lady Scatcherd, in spite of the life 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.  Oh
me!  oh me!  poor boy, what will he do?  I shall never know what to do
with him, never!  never!'  And with such sorrowful wailings she sat
rocking herself through the long night, every now and then comforting
herself by the performance of some menial service in the sick man's
room.

Sir Roger passed the night much as he had passed the day, except that
he appeared gradually to be growing nearer to a state of
consciousness.  On the following morning they succeeded at last in
making Mr Rerechild understand that they were not desirous of keeping
him longer from his Barchester practice; and at about twelve o'clock Dr
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 his senses,
and when he did so his son was standing at his bedside. Louis Philippe
Scatcherd--or as it may be more convenient to call him, Louis--was a
young man just of the age of Frank Gresham.  But there could hardly be
two youths more different in their appearance.  Louis, though his
father and mother were both robust persons, was short and slight, and 
now of a sickly frame.  Frank was a picture of health and strength;
but, though manly in disposition, was by no means precocious either in
appearance or manners.  Louis Scatcherd looked as though he was four
years the other's senior.  He had been sent to Eton when he was
fifteen, his father being under the impression that this was the most
ready and best-recognized method of making him a gentleman.  Here he
did not altogether fail as regarded the coveted object of his becoming
the companion of gentlemen.  He had more pocket-money than any other
lad in the school, and was possessed of a certain effrontery which
carried him ahead among boys of his own age.  He gained, therefore, a
degree of eclat, even among those who knew, and very frequently said to
each other, that young Scatcherd was not fit to be their companion
except on such open occasions as those of cricket-matches and boat-
races.  Boys, in this respect, are at least as exclusive as men, and
understand as well the difference between an inner and outer circle. 
Scatcherd had many companions at school who were glad enough to go up
to Maidenhead with him his boat; but there was not one among them who
would have talked to him of his sister.

Sir Roger was vastly proud of his son's success, and did his best to
stimulate it by lavish expenditure at the Christopher, whenever he
could manage to run down to Eton.  But this practice, though
sufficiently unexceptionable to the boys, was not held in equal delight
by the masters.  To tell the truth, neither Sir Roger nor his son were
favourites with these stern custodians.  At last it was felt necessary
to get rid of them both; and Louis was not long in giving them an 
opportunity, by getting tipsy twice in one week.  On the second
occasion he was sent away, and he and Sir Roger, though long talked of,
were  seen no more at Eton.

But the universities were still open to Louis Philippe, and before he
was eighteen he was entered as a gentleman-commoner at Trinity.  As he
was, moreover, the eldest son of a baronet, and had almost unlimited
command of money, here also he was enabled for a while to shine.

To shine!  but very fitfully; and one may say almost with a ghastly
glare.  The very lads who had eaten his father's dinners at Eton, and
shared his four-oar at Eton, knew much better than to associate with
him at Cambridge now that they had put on the toga virilis.  They were
still as prone as ever to fun, frolic, and devilry--perhaps more so than
ever, seeing that more was in their power; but they acquired an idea
that it behoved them to be somewhat circumspect as to the men with whom
their pranks were perpetrated.  So, in those days, Louis Scatcherd was
coldly looked on by his whilom Eton friends.

But young Scatcherd did not fail to find companions at Cambridge also. 
There are few places indeed in which a rich man cannot buy
companionship.  But the set with whom he lived, were the worst of the
place.  They were fast, slang men, who were fast and slang, and nothing
else--men who imitated grooms in more than their dress, and who looked
on the customary heroes of race-courses as the highest lords of the
ascendant upon earth.  Among those at college young Scatcherd did shine
as long as such lustre was permitted him. Here, indeed, his father, who
had striven only to encourage him at Eton, 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 his debauchery on credit.  There
were plenty to lend money to the son of a great millionaire; and so, 
after eighteen months' trial of a university education, Sir Roger had
no alternative but to withdraw his son from his alma mater.

What was he to do with him?  Unluckily it was considered quite
unnecessary to take any steps towards enabling him to earn his bread. 
Now nothing on earth can be more difficult than bringing up well a
young man who has not to earn his own bread, and who has no recognized
station among other men similarly circumstanced.  Juvenile dukes, and
sprouting earls, find their duties and their places as easily as embryo
clergymen and sucking barristers.  Provision is made for their peculiar
positions: and, though they may possibly go astray, they have a fair
chance given to them of running within the posts.  The same may be said
of such youths as Frank Gresham.  There are enough of them in the
community to have made it necessary that their well-being should be a 
matter of care and forethought.  But there are but few men turned out
in the world in the position of Louis Scatcherd; and, of those few, but
very few enter the real battle of life under good auspices.

Poor Sir Roger though he had hardly time with all his multitudinous
railways to look into this thoroughly, had a glimmering of it.  When he
saw his son's pale face, and paid his wine bills, and heard of his
doings 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 some ten 
thousand a year might be doing better.  But what was he to do?  he
could not watch over his boy himself; so he took a tutor for him and
sent him abroad.

Louis and the tutor got as far as Berlin, with what mutual satisfaction
to each other need not be specially described.  But from Berlin Sir
Roger received a letter in which the tutor declined to go any further
in the task which he had undertaken. He found that he had no influence
over his pupil, and he could not reconcile it to his conscience to be 
the spectator of such a life as that which Mr Scatcherd led. He had no
power in inducing Mr Scatcherd to leave Berlin; but he would remain
there himself till he should hear from Sir Roger.  So Sir Roger had to
leave the huge Government works which he was then erecting on the
southern coast, and hurry off to Berlin to see what could be done with
young Hopeful.

The young Hopeful was by no means a fool; and in some matters was more
than a match for his father.  Sir Roger, in his anger, threatened to
cast him off without a shilling.  Louis, with mixed penitence and
effrontery, reminded him that he could not change the descent of the
title; promised amendment; declared that he had done only as do other
young men of fortune; and hinted that the tutor was a strait-laced 
ass.  The father and the son returned together to Boxall Hill, and
three months afterwards Mr Scatcherd set up for himself in London.

And now his life, if not more virtuous, was more crafty than it had
been.  He had no tutor to watch his doings and complain of them, and he
had sufficient sense to keep himself from absolute pecuniary ruin.  He
lived, it is true, where sharpers and blacklegs had too often
opportunities of plucking him; but, young as he was, he had been
sufficiently long about the world to take care he was not openly
robbed; and as he was not openly robbed, his father, in a certain 
sense, was proud of him.

Tidings, however, came--came at least in those last days--which cut Sir
Roger to the quick; tidings of vice in the son which the father could
not but attribute to his own example.  Twice his mother was called up
to the sick-bed of her only child, while he lay raving in that horrid
madness by which the outraged mind avenges itself on the body!  Twice
he was found raging in delirium tremens, and twice the father was told 
that a continuance of such life must end in early death.

It may easily be conceived that Sir Roger was not a happy man. Lying
there with that brandy bottle beneath his pillow, reflecting in his
moments of rest that that son of his had his brandy bottle beneath his
pillow, he could hardly have been happy.  But he was not a man to say
much about his misery.  Though he could restrain neither himself nor
his heir, he could endure in silence; and in silence he did endure,
till, opening his eyes to the consciousness of death, he at last spoke
a few words to the only friend he knew.

Louis Scatcherd was not a fool, nor was he naturally, perhaps, of a
depraved disposition; but he had to reap the fruits of the worst
education which England was able to give him.  There were moments in
his life when he felt that a better, a higher, nay, a much happier
career was open to him than that which he had prepared himself to
lead.  Now and then, he would reflect what money and rank might have
done for him; he would look with wishful eyes to the proud doings of
others of his age; would dream of quiet joys, of a sweet wife, a house
to which might be asked friends who were neither jockeys nor drunkards;
he would dream of such things in his short intervals of constrained
sobriety; but the dream would only serve to make him moody.

This was the best side of his character; the worst, probably, was that
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--perhaps also in
another--had he been a fool.  As it was, he was no fool: he was not to
be done, not he; he knew, no one better, the value of a shilling; he
knew, also, how to keep his shillings, and how to spend them.  He
consorted much with blacklegs and such-like because blacklegs were to
his taste.  But he boasted daily, nay, hourly to himself, and 
frequently to those around him, that the leeches who were stuck round
him could draw but little blood from him.  He could spend his money
freely; but he would so spend it that he himself might reap the
gratification of the expenditure.  He was acute, crafty, knowing, and
up to every damnable dodge practised by men of the class with whom he
lived.  At one-and-twenty he was that most odious of all odious
characters-a close-fisted reprobate.

He was a small man, not ill-made by Nature, but reduced to unnatural
tenuity by dissipation-a corporeal attribute of which he was apt to
boast, as it enabled him, as he said, to put himself up at 7st 7lb
without any 'd--- nonsense of not eating and drinking'.  The power,
however, was one of which he did not often avail himself, as his nerves
were seldom in a fit state for riding.  His hair was dark red, and he
wore red moustaches, and a great deal of red beard beneath 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 an American trader and an
English groom; and his eyes were keen and fixed, and cold and knowing.

Such was the son whom Sir Roger saw standing at his bedside when first
he awoke to his consciousness.  It must not be supposed that Sir Roger
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 most heart-stirring
remembrancer of those days, when he had been so much a poorer, and so
much a happier man. Let that boy be bad or good, he was all Sir Roger
had; and the father was still able to hope, when others thought that
all ground for hope was gone.

The mother also loved her son with a mother's natural love; but Louis
had ever been ashamed of his mother, and had, as far as possible,
estranged himself from her.  Her heart, perhaps, fixed itself almost
with almost a warmer love on Frank Gresham, her foster-son.  Frank she
saw but seldom, but when she did see him he never refused her embrace. 
There was, too, a joyous, genial lustre about Frank's face which always
endeared him to women, and made his former nurse regard him as the pet
creation of the age.  Though she but seldom interfered with any
monetary arrangement of her husband's, yet once or twice she had
ventured to hint that a legacy left to the young squire would make her
a happy woman. Sir Roger, however, on these occasions had not appeared
very desirous of making his wife happy.

'Ah, Louis!  is that you?' ejaculated Sir Roger, in tones hardly more
than half-formed: afterwards in a day or two that is, he fully
recovered his voice; but just then he could hardly open his jaws, and
spoke almost through his teeth.  He managed, however, to put out his
hand 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 a
trivet in a day or two--eh, governor?'

The 'governor' smiled with a ghastly smile.  He already pretty well
knew that he would never again be 'right' as his son called it, on that
side of the grave.  It did not, moreover, suit him to say much just at
that moment, so he contented himself with holding his son's hand.  He
lay still in this position for a moment, and then, turning round 
painfully on his side, endeavoured to put his hand to the place where
his dire enemy usually was concealed.  Sir Roger, however, was too 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 now been
removed.

Then Lady Scatcherd came in, and seeing that her husband was not longer
unconscious, she could not but believe that Dr Thorne had been wrong;
she could not but think that there must be some ground for hope.  She
threw herself on her knees at the bedside bursting into tears as she
did so, and taking Sir Roger's hand in hers and covered it with kisses.

'Bother!' said Sir Roger.

She did not, however, long occupy herself with the indulgence of her
feelings; but going speedily to work, produced such sustenance as the
doctors had ordered to be given when the patient might awake.  A
breakfast-cup was brought to him, and a few drops were put into his
mouth; but he soon made it manifest that he would take nothing more of
a description so perfectly innocent.

'A drop of brandy--just a little drop,' said he, half-ordering,
half-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 the
son.

After some altercation the brandy bottle was brought, and Louis, with
what a thought a very sparing hand, proceeded to pour about half a
wine--glass 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 the
dose.



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 during the
latter part of Sir Roger's illness.  He returned home to Greshamsbury;
for he had his patients there, to whom he was as necessary as to Sir
Roger, the foremost of whom was Lady Arabella.  He had, therefore, no
slight work on his hands, seeing that his nights were by no means
wholly devoted to rest.

Mr Rerechild had not been much wrong as to the remaining space of life
which he had allotted to the dying man.  Once or twice Dr Thorne had
thought that the great original strength of his patient would have
enabled him to fight against death for a somewhat longer period; but
Sir Roger would give himself no chance.  Whenever he was strong enough 
to have a will of his own, he insisted on having his very medicine
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.  'Do
what you can to keep down the quantity, but do not irritate him by
refusing to obey.  It does not much signify now.'  So Lady Scatcherd
still administered the alcohol, and he from day to day invented little
schemes for increasing the amount, over which he chuckled with ghastly 
laughter.

Two or three times these days Sir Roger essayed to speak seriously to
his son; but Louis always frustrated him.  He either got out of the
room on some excuse, or made his mother interfere on the score that so
much talking would be bad for his father.  He already knew with
tolerable accuracy what was the purport of his father's will, and by no
means approved of it; but as he could not now hope to induce his father
to alter it so as to make it more favourable to himself, he conceived
that no conversation on matters of business could be of use to him.

'Louis,' said Sir Roger, one afternoon to his son; 'Louis, I have not
done by you as I ought to have done--I know that now.'

'Nonsense, governor; never mind about it now; I shall do well enough I
dare say.  Besides, it isn't too late; you can make it twenty-three
years instead of twenty-five.'

'I do not mean as to money, Louis.  There are things besides money
which a father ought to look to.'

'Now, father, don't fret yourself--I'm all right; you may be sure of
that.'

'Louis, it's that accursed brandy--it's that that I'm afraid of: you see
me here, my boy, I'm lying here now.'

'Don't you be annoying yourself, governor; I'm all right--quite right;
and as for you, why, you'll be up and about yourself in another month
or so.'

'I shall never be off this bed, my boy, till I'm carried into my
coffin, 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 that
accursed bottle.'

'I'm all right, governor; right as a trivet.  It's very little I take,
except at an odd time or two.'

'Oh, Louis!  Louis!'

'Come, father, cheer up; this sort of thing isn't the thing for you at
all.  I wonder where mother is: she ought to be here with the broth;
just let me go, and I'll see for her.'

The father understood it all.  He saw that it was now much beyond his
faded powers to touch the heart or conscience of such a youth as his
son had become.  What now could he do for his boy except die?  What
else, what other benefit, did his son require of him but to die; to die
so that his means of dissipation might be unbounded?  He let go the
unresisting hand which he held, and, as the young man crept out of the 
room, he turned his face to the wall.  He turned his face to the wall,
and held bitter commune with his own heart.  To what had he brought
himself?  To what had he brought his son? Oh, how happy would it have
been for him could he have remained all his days a working stone-mason
in Barchester!  How happy could he have died as such, years ago!  Such
tears as those which wet the pillow are the bitterest which human eyes
can shed.

But while they were dropping, the memoir of his life was in quick
course of preparation.  It was, indeed, nearly completed, with
considerable detail.  He had lingered on four days longer than might
have been expected, and the author had thus had more than usual time
for the work.  In these days a man is nobody unless his biography is
kept so far posted up that it may be ready for the national
breakfast-table on the morning after his demise.  When it chances that
the dead hero is one who is taken in his prime of life, of whose
departure from among us the most far-seeing, biographical scribe can 
have no prophetic inkling, this must be difficult.  Of great men, full
of years, who are ripe of the sickle, who in the course of Nature must
soon fall, it is of course comparatively easy for an active compiler to
have his complete memoir ready in his desk.  But in order that the idea
of omnipresent and omniscient information may be kept up, the young
must be chronicled as quickly as the old.  In some cases this task
must, one would say, be difficult.  Nevertheless it is done.

The memoir of Sir Roger Scatcherd was progressing favourably. In this
it was told how fortunate had been his life; now, in his case, industry
and genius combined had triumphed over the difficulties which humble
birth and deficient education had thrown in his way; how he had made a
name among England's great men; how the Queen had delighted to honour
him, and nobles had been proud to have him as a guest at their 
mansions.  Then followed a list of all the great works which he had
achieved, of the railroads, canals, docks, harbours, jails, and
hospitals which he had constructed.  His name was held up as an example
to the labouring classes of his countrymen, and he was pointed at as
one who had lived and died happy--ever happy, said the biographer,
because ever industrious.  And so a great moral question was
inculcated.  A short paragraph was devoted to his appearance in 
Parliament; and unfortunate Mr Romer was again held up for disgrace,
for the thirtieth time, as having been the means of depriving our
legislative councils of the great assistance of Sir Roger's experience.

'Sir Roger,' said the biographer in his concluding passage, 'was
possessed of an iron frame; but even iron will yield to the repeated
blows of the hammer.  In the latter years of his life he was known to
overtask himself; and at length the body gave way, though the mind
remained firm to the last.  The subject of this memoir was only
fifty-nine when he was taken from us.'

And thus Sir Roger's life was written, while the tears were yet falling
on his pillow at Boxall Hill.  It was a pity that a proof-sheet could
not have been sent to him.  No man was vainer of his reputation, and it
would have greatly gratified him to know that posterity was about to
speak of him in such terms--to speak of him with a voice that would be
audible for twenty-four hours.

Sir Roger made no further attempt to give counsel to his son. It was
too evidently useless.  The old dying lion felt that the lion's power
had already passed from him, and that he was helpless in the hands of
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 to his
worldly hopes and worldly cares; and his old friend did not turn a deaf
ear to him.

It was during the night that Sir Roger was most anxious to talk, and
most capable of talking.  He would lie through the day in a state
half-comatose; but towards evening would rouse himself, and by midnight
he would be full of fitful energy.  One night, as he lay wakeful and
full of thought, he thus poured forth his whole heart to Dr Thorne.

'Thorne,' said he, 'I told you about my will, you know.'

'Yes,' said the other; 'and I have blamed myself greatly that I have
not 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.  Not
but that I have altered it since I spoke to you.  I did it that day
after 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 eldest
child: 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 have
added a postscript--a codicil they call it--saying that you, and you
only, know who is her eldest child.  Winterbones and Jack Martin have
witnessed that.'

Dr Thorne was going to explain how very injudicious such an arrangement
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 was a matter of
but minor interest who might inherit his money if his son should die
early; his care was solely for his son's welfare.  At twenty-five the
heir might make his own will--might bequeath all this wealth according
to his own fancy. Sir Roger would not bring himself to believe that his
son could follow him to the grave in so short a time.

'Never mind that, doctor, now; but about Louis; you will be his
guardian, you know.'

'Not his guardian.  He is more than of age.'

'Ah!  but doctor, you will be his guardian.  The property will not be
his till he be twenty-five.  You will not desert him?'

'I will not desert him; but I doubt whether I can do much for him--what
can I do, Scatcherd?'

'Use the power that a strong man has over a weak one.  Use the power
that my will will give you.  Do for him as you would for a son of your
own if you saw him going in bad courses.  Do as a friend should do for
a friend that is dead and gone.  I would do so for you, doctor, if our
places were changed.'

'What can I do, that I will do,' said Thorne, solemnly, taking as he
spoke 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 as
I do now!  May you on your death-bed have no dread as I have, as to the
fate of those you will leave behind you!'

Doctor Thorne felt that he could not say much in answer to this.  The
future fate of Louis Scatcherd was, he could not but own to himself,
greatly to be dreaded.  What good, what happiness, could be presaged
for 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 of this
unfortunate with those of his own darling; to contrast all that was 
murky, foul, and disheartening, with all that was perfect--for to him
she was all but perfect; to liken Louis Scatcherd to the angel who
brightened his own hearthstone.  How could he answer to such an appeal?

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 asked of him. 
Sir Roger looked up sadly into the doctor's face, as though expecting
some word of consolation.  There was no comfort, no consolation.

'For three or four years, he must greatly depend on you,' continued Sir
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 fall mainly
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 would
marry, 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 his own
income.'

'I will be governed entirely by your wishes: under any circumstances
his 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 the best
of them.  For what I have made the money for if not for that?  Now if
he marries--decently, that is--some woman you know that can assist him in
the world, let him have what he wants.  It is not to save the money
that I have put it into your hands.'

'No, Scatcherd; not to save the money, but to save him.  I think that
while you are yet with him you should advise him to marry.'

'He does not care a straw for what I advise, not one straw.  Why should
he?  How can I tell him to be sober when I have been a beast all my
life?  How can I advise him?  That's where it is!  It is that that now
kills me.  Advise!  Why, when I speak to him he treats me like a
child.'

'He fears that you are too weak, you know: he thinks that you should
not be allowed to talk.'

'Nonsense!  he knows better; you know better.  Too weak!  what
signifies?  Would I not give all that I have of strength at one blow if
I could open his eyes to see as I see but for one minute?'  And the
sick man raised himself in his bed as though he were actually going to
expend all that remained to him of vigour in the energy of the moment.

'Gently, Scatcherd; gently.  He will listen to you yet; but do not be
so 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 he
was desired.

'Do as I ask you, doctor.  It can do no harm now; you know that well
enough.  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 without
it.  What's the use of canting now?  You know it can make no
difference.'

Sir Roger was right.  It could make no difference; and Dr Thorne gave
him the half glass of brandy.

'Ah, well; you've a stingy hand, doctor; confounded stingy.  You don't
measure your medicines out in such light doses.'

'You will be wanting more before morning, you know.'

'Before morning!  indeed I shall; a pint or two before that. I remember
the time, doctor, when I have drunk to my own cheek above two quarts
between dinner and breakfast!  aye, and worked all day after it!'

'You have been a wonderful man, Scatcherd, very wonderful.'

'Aye, wonderful!  well, never mind.  It's over now.  But what was I
saying?--about Louis, doctor; you'll not desert him?'

'Certainly not.'

'He's not strong; I know that.  How should he be strong, living as he
has 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 the
world; that he had to trudge about with an apron round his waist as I
did.  But it's too late now to think of that. If he would marry,
doctor.'

Dr Thorne again expressed an opinion that no step would be so likely to
reform the habits of the young heir as marriage; and repeated his
advice to the father to implore his son to take a wife.

'I'll tell you what, Thorne,' said he.  And then, after a pause, he
went on.  'I have not half told you as yet what is on my mind; and I'm
nearly afraid to tell it; though, indeed, I don't know what I should
be.'

'I never knew you afraid of anything yet,' said the doctor, smiling
gently.

'Well, then, I'll not end by turning coward.  Now, doctor, tell the
truth to me; what do you expect me to do for that girl of yours that we
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 as
truly as yours.'

'Nothing,' at last said the doctor, slowly.  'I expect nothing. I would
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 the
other.  'Not that I ask you or wish you to do so.  Mary, thank God, can
do without wealth.'

'Thorne, on one condition I will put her name into it.  I will alter it
on one condition.  Let the two cousins be man and wife--let Louis marry
poor Mary's child.'

The proposition for a moment took away the doctor's breath, and he was
unable to answer.  Not for all the wealth of India would he have given
up his lamb to that young wolf, even though he had had the power to do
so.  But that lamb--lamb though she was--had, as he well knew, a will of
her own on such a matter. What alliance could be more impossible, 
thought he to himself, than one between Mary Thorne and Louis 
Scatcherd?

'I will alter it all if you will give me your hand upon it that you
will do your best to bring about this marriage.  Everything shall be
his on the day he marries her; and should he die unmarried, it shall
all then be hers by name.  Say the word, Thorne, and she shall come
here at once.  I shall yet have time to see her.'

But Dr Thorne did not say the word; just at the moment he said nothing,
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 the father
is so dangerously ill!  Bid her come to look for a rich husband!  That
would not be seemly, would it?'

'No; not for that: let her come merely that I may see her; that we may
all know her.  I will leave the matter then in your hands if you will
promise me to do your best.'

'But, my friend, in this matter I cannot do my best.  I can do
nothing.  And, indeed, I may say at once, that it is altogether out of
the 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 a
pearl 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 money
will not win her.  Let us talk of something else; believe me, it is
useless for us to think of this.'

'Yes; if you set your face against it obstinately.  You must think very
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's lady! 
Why, doctor, what is it you expect for this girl?'

'Not much, indeed; not much.  A quiet heart and a quiet home; not much
more.'

'Thorne, if you will be ruled by me in this, she shall be the most
topping woman in this county.'

'My friend, my friend, why thus grieve me?  Why should you thus harass
yourself?  I tell you it is impossible.  They have never seen each
other; they have nothing, and can have nothing in common; their tastes,
and wishes, and pursuits are different. Besides, Scatcherd, marriages
never answer that are so made; believe me, it is impossible.'

The contractor threw himself back on his bed, and lay for some ten
minutes perfectly quiet; so much so that the doctor began to think that
he was sleeping.  So thinking, and wearied by the watching, Dr Thorne
was beginning to creep quietly from the room, when his companion 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.  Such
things 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 a shilling
of mine.  Give me some of that stuff there,' and he again pointed to
the brandy bottle which stood ever within his sight.'

The doctor poured out and handed to him another small modicum of
spirit.

'Nonsense, man; fill the glass.  I'll stand no nonsense now. I'll be
master of my own house to the last.  Give it here, I tell you.  Ten
thousand devils are tearing me within.  You--you could have comforted
me; 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
you suppose 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
fetch it.'

'No, Scatcherd.  I cannot give it to you; not while I am here. Do you
remember how you were engaged this morning?'--he had that morning taken
the sacrament from the parish clergyman--'you would not wish to make me
guilty of murder, would you?'

'Nonsense!  You are talking nonsense; habit is second nature. I tell
you I shall sink without it.  Why, you know, I always get it directly
your back it 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 to you--I will help you.  It may be
that habit is second nature.'  Sir Roger in his determined energy had
swallowed, without thinking of it, the small quantity which the doctor
had before poured out for him, and still held the empty glass within
his hand.  This the doctor now took and filled nearly to the brim.

'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 about as full as you can hold it, Scatcherd.'

'Try me; try me!  my hand is a rock; at least at holding liquor.'  And
then he drained the contents of the glass, which were in sufficient
quantity to have taken away the breath of 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 peculiar hoarse
guttural tone of his voice.  The sounds came from him as though steeped
in brandy, and told, all too plainly, the havoc which the alcohol had
made.  There was a fire too about his eyes which contrasted with his
sunken cheeks: his hanging jaw, unshorn beard, and haggard face were 
terrible to look at.  His hands and arms were hot and clammy, but so
thin and wasted!  Of his lower limbs the lost use had not returned to
him, so that in all his efforts at vehemence he was controlled by his
own want of vitality.  When he supported himself, half-sitting against
the pillows, he was in a continual tremor; and yet, as he boasted, he
could still lift his glass steadily to his mouth.  Such now was the
hero of whom that ready compiler of memoirs had just finished his 
correct and succinct account.

After he had had his brandy, he sat glaring a while at vacancy, as
though 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 nothing
for Louis, then?'

'I will do everything for him that I can do.'

'Ah, yes!  everything but the one thing that will save him.  Well, I
will not ask you again.  But remember, Thorne, I shall alter my will
to-morrow.'

'Do so, by all means; you may well alter it for the better.  If I may
advise you, you will have down your own business attorney from London. 
If you will let me send he will be here before to-morrow night.'

'Thank you for nothing, Thorne: I can manage that matter myself.  Now
leave 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 as it
were, fed himself with hope that Mary's future might be made more
secure, aye, and brighter too, by some small unheeded fraction broken
off from the huge mass of her uncle's wealth.  Such hope, if it had
amounted to hope, was now all gone.  But this was not all, nor was this
the worst of it.  That he had done right in utterly repudiating all
idea of a marriage between Mary and her cousin--of that he was certain
enough; that no earthly consideration would have induced Mary to plight
her troth to such a man--that, with him, was as certain as doom.  But
how far had he done right in keeping her from the sight of her uncle? 
How could he justify it to himself if he had thus robbed her of her 
inheritance, seeing that he had done so from a selfish fear lest she,
who was now all his own, should be known to the world as belonging to
others rather than to him?  He had taken upon him on her behalf to
reject wealth as valueless; and yet he had no sooner done so than he
began to consume his hours with reflecting how great to her would be
the value of wealth.  And thus, when Sir Roger told him, as he left the
room, that he had ruined Mary's fortune, he was hardly able to bear the
taunt with equanimity.

On the next morning, after paying his professional visit to his
patient, and satisfying himself that the end was now drawing near with
steps terribly quickened, he went down to Greshamsbury.

'How long is this to last, uncle?' said his niece, with sad voice, as
he 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 son
with him?'  And then, perversely enough, she persisted in asking
numerous 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 with red
hair.'

'Uncle, you are the worst hand in describing I ever knew.  If I'd seen
him for five minutes, I'd be bound to make a portrait of him; and you,
if you were describing a dog, you'd only say what colour his hair was.'

'Well, he's a little man.'

'Exactly, just as I should say that Mrs Umbleby had a red-haired
little dog.  I wish I had known these Scatcherds, uncle. I do admire
people that can push themselves in the world.  I wish I had known Sir
Roger.'

'You will never know him, 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; I
wonder whether you ever mention me to them.  If you do, tell her from
me 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 ease than
he had been on the preceding night.  He said nothing about his will,
and not a word about Mary Thorne; but the doctor knew that Winterbones
and a notary's clerk from Barchester had been in the bedroom a great
part of the day; and, as he knew also that the great man of business 
was accustomed to do his most important work by the hands of such tools
as these, he did not doubt but that the will had been altered and
remodelled.  Indeed, he thought it more than probable, that when it was
opened it would be found to be wholly different in its provisions from
that which Sir Roger had already described.

'Louis is clever enough,' he said, 'sharp enough, I mean.  He won't
squander 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 empty
wine-glass which stood by his bedside.  'What a life he may have before
him!--and to throw it away for this!' and as he spoke he took the glass
and tossed it across the room.  'Oh, doctor!  would that it were 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 you regret
nothing.  I am worth half a million in one way or another, and I regret
everything-everything--everything!'

'You should not think 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't
have been civil to have told him that his time and words were all
thrown away.  But, Thorne, believe me, when a man's heart is
sad--sad--sad to the core, a few words from a parson at the last moment
will never make it right.'

'May He have mercy on you, my friend!--if you will think of Him, and
look 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 to be
my lady!  Why, when I came out of jail that time, the poor creature had
hardly a shoe to her foot.  But it wasn't her fault, Thorne; it was
none of her doing.  She never asked for such nonsense.'

'She has been an excellent wife, Scatcherd; and what is more, she is an
excellent woman.  She is, and ever will be, one of my dearest friends.'

'Thank'ee, doctor, thank'ee.  Yes; she has been a good wife--better for
a poor man than a rich one; but then, that was what she was born to. 
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 Scatcherd
should 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 the
baronet, 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, Louis.'

'If he will let me, I will,' said the doctor.

'And, doctor, when you see a glass at his mouth, dash it down; thrust
it 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 have been
but for that; tell him how his father died like a beast, because he
could not keep himself from drink.'

These, reader, were the last words spoken by Sir Roger Scatcherd.  As
he uttered them he rose up in bed with the same vehemence which he had
shown on the former evening.  But in the very act of doing so he was
again struck by paralysis, and before nine on the following morning all
was over. 

'Oh, my man--my own, own man!' exclaimed the widow, remembering in the
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 and
ceremony, within the precincts of Barchester Cathedral; and a monument
was put up to him soon after, in which he was portrayed, as smoothing a
block of granite with a mallet and chisel; while his eagle eye,
disdaining such humble work, was fixed upon some intricate mathematical
instrument above him. Could Sir Roger have seen it himself, he would
probably have declared, that no workman was ever worth his salt who
looked one way while he rowed another.

Immediately after the funeral the will was opened, and Dr Thorne
discovered that the clauses of it were exactly identical with those his
friend had described to him some months back.  Nothing had been
altered; nor had the document been unfolded since that strange codicil
had been added, in which it was declared that Dr Thorne knew--and only
Dr Thorne--who was the eldest child of the testator's only sister.  At 
the same time, however, a joint executor with Dr Thorne had been
named--one Mr Stock, a man of railway fame--and Dr Thorne himself 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 baked
meats which were furnished for his funeral banquet.  Such men as Sir
Roger Scatcherd are always well buried, and we have already seen that
his glories were duly told to posterity in the graphic diction of his
sepulchral monument. In a few days the doctor had returned to his quite
home and Sir Louis found himself reigning at Boxall Hill in his 
father's stead--with, however, a much diminished sway, and, as he
thought it, but a poor exchequer.  We must soon return to him and say
something of his career as a baronet; but for the present, we may go
back to our more pleasant friends at Greshamsbury.

But our friends at Greshamsbury had not been making themselves
pleasant--not so pleasant to each other as circumstances would have
admitted.  In those days which the doctor had felt himself bound to
pass, if not altogether at Boxall Hill, yet altogether away from his
own home, so as to admit of his being as much as possible with his
patient, Mary had been thrown more than ever with Patience Oriel, and, 
also, almost more than ever with Beatrice Gresham.  As regarded Mary,
she would doubtless have preferred the companionship of Patience,
though she loved Beatrice far the best; but she had no choice.  When
she went to the parsonage Beatrice came there also, and when Patience
came to the doctor's house Beatrice either accompanied or followed
her.  Mary could hardly have rejected their society, even had she felt
it wise to do so.  She would in such case have been all alone, and her
severance from the Greshamsbury house and household, from the big
family in which she had for so many years been almost at home, would
have made such solitude almost unendurable.

And then these two girls both knew--not her secret; she had no 
secret--but the little history of her ill-treatment.  They knew that
though she had been blameless in this matter, yet she had been the one
to bear the punishment; and, as girls and bosom friends, they could not
but sympathize with her, and endow her with heroic attributes; make
her, in fact, as we are doing, their little heroine for the nonce. This
was, perhaps, not serviceable for Mary; but it was far from being 
disagreeable.

The tendency to finding matter for hero-worship in Mary's endurance was
much stronger with Beatrice than with Miss Oriel. Miss Oriel was the
elder, and naturally less afflicted with the sentimentation of
romance.  She had thrown herself into Mary's arms because she had seen
that it was essentially necessary for Mary's comfort that she should do
so.  She was anxious to make her friend smile, and to smile with her.  
Beatrice was quite as true in her sympathy; but she rather wished that
she and Mary might weep in unison, shed mutual tears, and break their
hearts together.

Patience had spoken of Frank's love as a misfortune, of his conduct as
erroneous, and to be excused only by his youth, and had never appeared
to surmise that Mary also might be in love as well as he.  But to
Beatrice the affair was a tragic difficulty, admitting of no solution;
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 have done. 

As for a marriage between them, that was impossible; Beatrice was well
sure of that: it was Frank's unfortunate destiny that he must marry
money--money, and, as Beatrice sometimes thoughtlessly added, cutting
Mary to the quick,--money and family also.  Under such circumstances a
marriage between them was quite impossible; but not the less did 
Beatrice declare, that she would have loved Mary as her sister-in-law
had it been possible; and how worthy Frank was of a girl's love, had
such love been possible.

'It is so cruel,' Beatrice would say; 'so very, very, cruel. 
 You would have suited him in every way.'

'Nonsense, Trichy; I should have suited him in no possible way at all;
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 the
daughter, naively.  '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 De Courcys
himself.'

'My dear, it does not matter one straw whom your brother can endure or
not endure just at present.  His character is to be formed, and his
tastes, and his heart also.'

'Oh, Mary!--his heart.'

'Yes, his heart; not the fact of his having a heart.  I think he has a
heart; 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 sort of
sympathy from Beatrice, than for Miss Oriel's pleasant but less piquant
gaiety.

So the days of the doctor's absence were passed, and so also the first
week after his return.  During this week it was almost daily necessary
that the squire should be with him.  The doctor was now the legal
holder of Sir Roger's property, and, as such, the holder also of all
the mortgages on Mr Gresham's property; and it was natural that they
should be much together. The doctor would not, however, go up to 
Greshamsbury on any other than medical business; and it therefore
became necessary that the squire should be a good deal at the doctor's
house.

Then the Lady Arabella became unhappy in her mind.  Frank, it was true,
was away at Cambridge, and had been successfully kept out of Mary's way
since the suspicion of danger had fallen upon Lady Arabella's mind. 
Frank was away, and Mary was systematically banished, with due
acknowledgement from all the powers in Greshamsbury.  But this was not
enough for Lady Arabella as long as her daughter still habitually 
consorted with the female culprit, and as long as her husband consorted
with the male culprit.  It seemed to Lady Arabella at this moment as
though, in banishing Mary from the house, she had in effect banished
herself from the most intimate of the Greshamsbury social circles.  She
magnified in her own mind the importance of the conferences between the
girls, and was not without some fear that the doctor might be talking 
the squire over into very dangerous compliance.

Her object was to break of all confidential intercourse between
Beatrice and Mary, and to interrupt, as far as she could do it, that
between the doctor and the squire.  This, it may be said, could be more
easily done by skilful management within her own household.  She had,
however, tried that and failed.  She had said much to Beatrice as to
the imprudence of her friendship with Mary, and she had done this 
purposely before the squire; injudiciously however--for the squire had
immediately taken Mary's part, and had declared that he had no wish to
see a quarrel between his family and that of the doctor; that Mary
Thorne was in every way a good girl, and an eligible friend for his own
child; and had ended by declaring, that he would not have Mary
persecuted for Frank's fault.  This had not been the end, nor nearly
the end of what had been said on the matter at Greshamsbury; but the 
end, when it came, came in this wise, that Lady Arabella determined to
say a few words to the doctor as to the expediency of forbidding
familiar intercourse between Mary and any of the Greshamsbury 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 Beatrice were
to pass a certain afternoon at the parsonage, and took that opportunity
of calling at the doctor's house.  A period of many years had passed
since she had last so honoured that abode.  Mary, indeed, had been so 
much one of her own family that the ceremony of calling on her had
never been thought necessary; and thus, unless Mary had been absolutely
ill, there would have been nothing to bring her ladyship to the house. 
All this she knew would add to the importance of the occasion, and she
judged it prudent to make the occasion as important as it might well
be.

She was so far successful that she soon found herself tete-a-tete with
the doctor in his own study.  She was no whit dismayed by the pair 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 constant habit of
handling with much energy; nor was she frightened out of her propriety
even by the little child's skull which grinned at her from off the 
chimney-piece.

'Doctor,' she said, as soon as the first complimentary greetings were
over, speaking in her kindest and most would-be-confidential tone. 
'Doctor, I am still uneasy about that boy of mine, and I have thought
it best to come and see you at once, and tell you freely what I think.'

The doctor bowed, and said that he was very sorry that she should have
any cause for uneasiness about his young friend Frank.

'Indeed, I am very uneasy, doctor; and having, as I do have, such
reliance on your prudence, and such perfect confidence in your
friendship, 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's
affairs.'

'Not so 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 know
how much he owes to this young man: I do not, for the squire never
tells anything to me; but I know that it is a very large sum of money;
enough to swamp the estate and ruin Frank. Now I call that very
dreadful.'

'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 in
this that, as a mother, I cannot but be interested about my only son,'
and Lady Arabella put her cambric handkerchief to her eyes.

'Of course you are; of course you are,' said the doctor; 'and, Lady
Arabella, my opinion of Frank is such, that I feel sure that he will do
well;' and, in his energy, Dr Thorne brandished one of the thigh-bones
almost in the lady's face.

'I hope he will; I am sure I hope he will.  But, doctor, he has such
dangers to contend with; he is so warm and impulsive that I fear his
heart will bring him into trouble.  Now, you know, unless Frank marries
money he is lost.'

The doctor made no answer to this last appeal, but as he sat and
listened a slight frown came across his brow.

'He must marry money, doctor.  Now we have, you see, with your
assistance, contrived to separate him from dear Mary--'

'With my assistance, Lady Arabella!  I have given no assistance, nor
have 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 only
never agreed that Mary had been imprudent, but I will not agree to it
now, and will not allow any one to assert it in my presence without
contradicting it:' and then the doctor worked away at the thigh-bones
in a manner that did rather alarm her ladyship.

'At any rate, you thought that the young people had better be kept
apart.'

'No; neither did I think that: my niece, I felt sure, was safe from
danger.  I knew that she would do nothing that would bring either her
or me to shame.'

'Not to shame,' said the lady apologetically, as it were, using the
word perhaps not exactly in the doctor's sense.

'I felt no alarm for her,' continued the doctor, 'and desired no
change.  Frank is your son, and it is for you to look to him.  You
thought proper to do so by desiring Mary to absent herself from
Greshamsbury.'

'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 me.'

Lady Arabella had hardly expected that the doctor would reply to her
mild and conciliatory exordium with so much sternness. He had yielded
so easily to her on the former occasion.  She did not comprehend that
when she uttered her sentence of exile against Mary, she had given an
order which she had the power of enforcing; but that obedience to that
order had now placed Mary altogether beyond her jurisdiction.  She was,
therefore, a little surprised, and for a few moments overawed 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 tone more
befitting a De Courcy than that hitherto used, 'I make no complaint
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 to
anything like a love affair between my son and your niece.'

'I have not the least objection in life.  If there is such a love
affair, put a stop to it--that is, if you have the power.'

Here the doctor was doubtless imprudent.  But he had begun to think
that he had yielded sufficiently to the lady; and he had begun to
resolve, also, that though it would not become him to encourage even
the idea of such a marriage, he would make Lady Arabella understand
that he thought his niece quite good enough for her son, and that the
match, if regarded as imprudent, was to be regarded as equally
imprudent on both sides.  He would not suffer that Mary and her heart
and feelings and interest should be altogether postponed to those of
the young heir; and, perhaps, he was unconsciously encouraged in this
determination by the reflection that Mary herself might perhaps become
a young heiress.

'It is my duty,' said Lady Arabella, repeating her words with even a
stronger De Courcy intonation; 'and your duty also, Dr Thorne.'

'My duty!' said he, rising from his chair and leaning on the table with
the two thigh-bones.  'Lady Arabella, pray understand at once, that I
repudiate any such duty, and will have nothing whatever to do with it.'

'But you do not mean to say that you will encourage this unfortunate
boy to marry your niece?'

'The unfortunate boy, Lady Arabella--whom, by the by, I regard as a very
fortunate young man--is your son, not mine.  I shall take no steps about
his marriage, either one way or the other.'

'You think it right, then, that your niece should throw herself in his
way?'

'Throw herself in his way!  What would you say if I came up to
Greshamsbury, and spoke of your daughters in such language?  What would
my dear friend, Mr Gresham say, if some neighbour's wife should 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 only with her own
matters.'

This was dreadful to Lady Arabella.  Even Dr Thorne had never before
dared thus to lower her to the level of common humanity, and liken her
to any other wife in the country-side.  Moreover, she was not quite
sure whether he, the parish doctor, was not desiring her, the earl's
daughter, to go home and mind her own business.  On this first point, 
however, there seemed to be no room for doubt, of which she gave
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's care.'

'Neither am I, nor is Mary, ungrateful for the kindness she has
received at Greshamsbury.'

'But I must do my duty: my own children must be my first 
consideration.'

'Of course they must, Lady Arabella; that's of course.'

'And, therefore, I have called on you to say that I think it is
imprudent that Beatrice and Mary should be so much together.'

The doctor had been standing during the latter part of this 
conversation, but now he began to walk about, still holding the  two
bones 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 you think
that Beatrice is assisting Mary in preparing this wicked clandestine
marriage?  I tell you fairly, Lady Arabella, the present tone 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. Lady
Arabella, Mary is the same to me as my own daughter, and owes me the
obedience of a child; but as I do not disapprove of your daughter
Beatrice as an acquaintance for her, but rather, on the other hand,
regard with pleasure their friendship, you cannot expect that I should
take any steps to put an end to it.'

'But suppose it should lead to renewed intercourse between Frank and
Mary?'

'I have no objection.  Frank is a very nice young fellow, gentlemanlike
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 do
I intend to do so.  Mary is at liberty, within certain bounds--which I
am sure she will not pass--to choose her own friends.  I think she has
not chosen badly as regards Miss Beatrice Gresham; and should she even
add Frank Gresham to the number--'

'Friends!  why they were more than friends; they were declared lovers.'

'I doubt that, Lady Arabella, because I have not heard of it from
Mary.  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 a
state of too evident perturbation.

'Why should I object?  It is for you, Lady Arabella, to look after your
lambs; for me to see that, if possible, no harm shall come to mine.  If
you think that Mary is an improper acquaintance for your children, it
is for you to guide them; for you and their father.  Say what you think
fit to your own daughter; but pray understand, once for all, that I
will allow no one to interfere with my niece.'

'Interfere!' said Lady Arabella, now absolutely confused by the
severity 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 most unjustly
thrown on her.  It was, however, your undoubted right to turn her out
of your house if you thought fit;--though, as a woman who had known her
for so many years, you might, I think, have treated her with more 
forbearance.  That, however, was your right, and you exercised it. 
There your privilege stops; yes, and must stop, Lady Arabella.  You
shall not persecute her here, on the only spot of ground she can call
her own.'

'Persecute her, Dr Thorne!  You do not mean to say that I have
persecuted her?'

'Ah!  but I do mean to say so.  You do persecute her, and would
continue to do so did I not defend her.  It is not sufficient that she
is forbidden to enter your domain--and so forbidden with the knowledge
of all the country round--but you must come here also with the hope of
interrupting all the innocent pleasures of her life.  Fearing lest she
should be allowed even to speak to your son, to hear of 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; he is
the heir of Greshamsbury; he is your son, an earl's grandson.  It is
only natural, after all, that he should throw a few foolish words at
the doctor's niece.  But she!  it is an offence not to be forgiven on
her part that she should, however, unwillingly, have been forced to
listen to them!  Now understand me, Lady Arabella; if any of your 
family come to my house I shall be delighted to welcome them; if Mary
should 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, I
should talk the matter over with her, quite coolly, solely with a view
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 my mind, Lady
Arabella.  It is so I should do my duty;--you can do yours as you may
think fit.'

Lady Arabella had by this time perceived that she was not destined, on
this occasion to gain any great victory.  She, however, was angry as
well as the doctor.  It was not the man's vehemence that provoked her
so much as his evident determination to break down the prestige of her
rank, and place her on a footing in no respect superior to his own.  He
had never before been so audaciously arrogant; and, as she moved
towards the door, she determined in her wrath that she would never
again have confidential intercourse with him in any relation of life
whatsoever.

'Dr Thorne,' said she.  'I think you have forgotten yourself. You must
excuse me if I say that after what has passed I--I--I--'

'Certainly,' said he, fully understanding what she meant; and bowing
low as he opened first the study-door, then the front-door, then the
garden-gate.

And then the Lady Arabella stalked off, not without full observation
from Mrs Yates Umbleby and her friend Miss Gustring, who lived close
by.



CHAPTER XXVII

MISS THORNE GOES ON A VISIT

And now began the unpleasant things at Greshamsbury of which we have
here told.  When Lady Arabella walked away from the doctor's house she
resolved that, let it cost what it might, there should be war to the
knife between her and him.  She had been insulted by him--so at least
she said to herself, and so she was prepared to say to others also--and
it was not to be borne that a De Courcy should allow her parish doctor
to insult her with impunity.  She would tell her husband with all the
dignity that she could assume, that it had now become absolutely
necessary that he should protect his wife by breaking entirely with his
unmannered neighbour; and, as regarded the young members of her family,
she would use the authority of a mother, and absolutely forbid them to
hold any intercourse with Mary Thorne.  So resolving, she walked 
quickly back to her own house.

The doctor, when left alone, was not quite satisfied with the part he
had taken in the interview.  He had spoken from impulse rather than
from judgement, and, as is generally the case with men who do so speak,
he had afterwards to acknowledge to himself that he had been
imprudent.  He accused himself probably with more violence than he had 
really used, and was therefore unhappy; but, nevertheless, his
indignation was not at rest.  He was angry with himself; but not on
that account the less angry with Lady Arabella.  She was cruel of
manners, so he thought; but not on that account was he justified in
forgetting the forbearance due from a gentleman to a lady.  Mary,
moreover, had owed much to the kindness of this woman, and, therefore,
Dr Thorne felt that he should have forgiven much.

Thus the doctor walked about his room, much disturbed; now accusing
himself for having been so angry with Lady Arabella, and then feeding
his own anger by thinking of her misconduct.

The only immediate conclusion at which he resolved was this, that it
was unnecessary that he should say anything to Mary on the subject of
her ladyship's visit.  There was no doubt, sorrow enough in store for
his darling; why should he aggravate it?  Lady Arabella would doubtless
not stop now in her course; but why should he accelerate the evil which
she would doubtless be able to effect?

Lady Arabella, when she returned to the house, allowed no grass to grow
under her feet.  As she entered the house she desired that Miss
Beatrice should be sent to her directly she returned; and she desired
also, that as soon as the squire should be in his room a message to
that 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 I
must make it a positive request that you will for the future drop all
intercourse with Dr Thorne's family.'

Beatrice, who had received Lady Arabella's message immediately on
entering the house, and had run upstairs imagining that some instant
haste 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 has
happened; but I must ask you to give me positive your assurance that
you 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 you
that your brother's interest imperatively demands it, I am sure that
you will not refuse me.'

Beatrice did not refuse, but she did not appear too willing to comply. 
She stood silent, leaning against the end of a sofa and twisting 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 she
found it necessary to attempt to do so.

'Dr Thorne has openly declared to me that a marriage between poor Frank
and Mary is all he could desire for his niece.  After such unparalleled
audacity as that, even your father will see the necessity 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 am so
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 been
candid in what he said; there can be no doubt on earth that he has
spoken his true thoughts; there can be no reason to doubt him; of
course 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 these
people, and that you are always inclined to contradict what I say to
you; but, remember, I expect that you will obey me when I tell you not
to go to Dr Thorne's house any more.'

'But, mamma--'

'I expect you to obey me, Beatrice.  Though you are so prone to
contradict, you have never disobeyed me; and I fully trust that you
will 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 better to
give up the point without a dispute.  It might be that Beatrice would
absolutely refuse to pay this respect to her mother's authority, and
then where would she have been?

At this moment a servant came up to say that the squire was in his
room, and Lady Arabella was opportunely saved the necessity of
discussing the matter further with her daughter. 'I am now,' she said,
'going to see your father on the same subject; you may be quite sure,
Beatrice that I should not willingly speak to him on any matter
relating to Dr Thorne did I not find it absolutely necessary to do so.'

This Beatrice knew was true, and she did therefore feel convinced that
something terrible must have happened.

While Lady Arabella opened her budget the squire sat quite silent,
listening to her with appropriate respect.  She found it necessary that
her description to him should be much more elaborate than that which
she had vouchsafed to her daughter, and, in telling her grievance, she
insisted most especially on the personal insult which had been offered
to herself.

'After what has now happened,' said she, not quite able to repress a
tone of triumph as she spoke, 'I do expect, Mr Gresham, that you
will--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 and attack you?   As
far as I can understand, he never comes near the place, unless you send
for him.'

'No; I do not think that he will come to Greshamsbury any more. I
believe 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 she
now had to play was not very easy; she knew, or thought she knew, that
her husband, in his heart of hearts, much preferred his friend to the
wife of his bosom, and that he would, if he could, shuffle out of
noticing the doctor's iniquities.  It behoved her, therefore, to put
them forward in such a way that they must be noticed.

'I suppose, Mr Gresham, you do not wish that Frank should marry the
girl?'

'I do not think there is the slightest chance of such a thing; and I am
quite sure that Dr Thorne would not encourage it.'

'But I tell you, Mr Gresham, that he says he will encourage it.'

'Oh, you misunderstand him.'

'Of course; I always misunderstand everything.  I know that. I
misunderstood it when I told you how you would distress yourself if you
took those nasty hounds.'

'I have had other troubles more expensive than the hounds,' said the
poor squire, sighing.

'Oh, yes; I know what you mean; a wife and family are expensive, of
course.  It is a little too late to complain of that.'

'My dear, it is always too late to complain of any troubles when they
are no longer to be avoided.  We need not, therefore, talk any more
about 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 to know
what you intend to do about Dr Thorne.'

'To do?'

'Yes; I suppose you will do something: you do not wish to see your son
marry such a girl as Mary Thorne.'

'As far as the girl herself is concerned,' said the squire, turning
rather red, 'I am not sure that he could do much better.  I know
nothing whatever against Mary.  Frank, however, cannot afford to make
such a match.  It would be his ruin.'

'Of course it would; utter ruin; he never could hold up his head
again.  Therefore it is I ask, What do you intend to do?'

The squire was bothered.  He had no intention whatever of doing
anything, an no belief in his wife's assertion as to Dr Thorne's
iniquity.  But he did not know how to get her out of the room.  She
asked him the same question over and over again, and on each occasion
urged on him the heinousness of the insult to which she personally had
been subjected; so that at last he was driven to ask her what it was
she wished him to do.

'Well, then, Mr Gresham, if you ask me, I must say, that I think you
should 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 not
to go to see him at his own.'

'I certainly think that you ought to discontinue your visits to Dr
Thorne 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 do my duty
by my son.  As you justly observe, such a marriage as this would be
utter ruin to him.  When I found that the young people were actually
talking of being in love with each other, making vows and all 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.  In the kindest
possible manner--'

'Well--well--well; I know all that.  There, they are gone, and that's
enough.  I don't complain; surely that ought to be enough.'

'Enough!  Mr Gresham.  No; it is not enough.  I find that, in spite of
what has occurred, the closest intimacy exists between the two
families; that poor Beatrice, who is so very young, and not so prudent
as she should be, is made to act as a go-between; and when I speak to
the doctor, hoping that he will assist me in preventing this, he not
only tells me that he means to encourage Mary in her plans, but
positively insults me to my face, laughs at me for being an earl's 
daughter, and tells me--yes, he absolutely told me--to get out of his
house.'

Let it be told with some shame as to the squire's conduct, that his
first feeling on hearing this was one of envy--of envy and regret that
he could not make the same uncivil request.  Not that he wished to turn
his wife absolutely out of his house; but he would have been very glad
to have had the power of dismissing her summarily from his own room.  
This, however, was at present impossible; so he was obliged to make
some mild reply.

'You must have mistaken him, my dear.  He could not have intended to
say that.'

'Oh!  of course, Mr Gresham.  It is a mistake, of course.  It will be a
mistake, only a mistake when you find your son married to Mary Thorne.'

'Well, my dear, I cannot undertake to quarrel with Dr Thorne.' This was
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, I
did not expect much co-operation from you; but I did think that you
would have shown some little anger when you heard that I had been so
ill-treated.  I shall, however, know how to take care of myself; and I
shall continue to do the best I can to protect Frank from these wicked
intrigues.'

So saying, her ladyship arose and left the room, having succeeded in
destroying to comfort of all our Greshamsbury friends.  It was very
well for the squire to declare that he would not quarrel with Dr
Thorne, and of course he did not do so.  But he, himself, had no wish
whatever that his son should marry Mary Thorne; and as a falling drop
will hollow a stone, so did the continual harping of his wife on the 
subject give rise to some amount of suspicion in his own mind.  Then as
to Beatrice, though she had made no promise that she would not again
visit Mary, she was by no means prepared to set her mother's authority
altogether at defiance; and she also was sufficiently uncomfortable.

Dr Thorne said nothing of the matter to his niece, and she, therefore,
would have been absolutely bewildered by Beatrice's absence, had she
not received some tidings of what had taken place at Greshamsbury
through Patience Oriel.  Beatrice and Patience discussed the matter
fully, and it was agreed between them that it would be better that Mary
should know what sterner orders respecting her had gone forth from the
tyrant at Greshamsbury, and that she might understand that Beatrice's
absence was compulsory.  Patience was thus placed in this position,
that on one day she walked and talked with Beatrice, and on the next
with Mary; and so matters went on for a while at Greshamsbury--not very 
pleasantly.

Very unpleasantly and very uncomfortably did the months of May and June
pass away.  Beatrice and Mary occasionally met, drinking tea together
at the parsonage, or in some other of the ordinary meetings of the
country society; but there were no more confidentially distressing
confidential discourses, no more whispering of Frank's name, no more
sweet allusions to the inexpediency of a passion, which, according to 
Beatrice's views, would have been so delightful had it been expedient.

The squire and the doctor also met constantly; there were unfortunately
many subjects on which they were obliged to meet. Louis Philippe--or Sir
Louis as we must call him--though he had no power over his own property,
was wide awake to all the coming privileges of ownership, and he would
constantly point out to his guardian the manner in which, according to 
his ideas, the most should be made of it.  The young baronet's ideas of
good taste were not of the most refined description, and he did not
hesitate to tell Dr Thorne that his, 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 gave Dr Thorne to understand, that, according
to his ideas, the sum due on Mr Gresham's property was too large to be
left on its present footing; the title-deeds, he said, should be
surrendered or the mortgage foreclosed.  All this added to the sadness
which now seemed to envelop the village of Greshamsbury.

Early in July Frank was to come home.  The manner in which the comings
and goings of 'poor Frank' were allowed to disturb the arrangements of
all the ladies, and some of the gentlemen, of Greshamsbury was most
abominable.  And yet it can hardly be said to have been his fault.  He
would have been only too well pleased had things been allowed to go on 
after their old fashion.  Things were not allowed so to go on.  At
Christmas Miss Oriel had submitted to be exiled, in order that she
might carry Mary away from the presence of the young Bashaw, an
arrangement by which all the winter festivities of the poor doctor had
been thoroughly sacrificed; and now it began to be said that some
similar plan for the summer must be arranged.

It must not be supposed that any direction to this effect was conveyed
either to Mary or to the doctor. The suggestion came from them, and was
mentioned only to Patience. But Patience, as a matter of course, told
Beatrice, and Beatrice told her mother, somewhat triumphantly, hoping
thereby to convince the she-dragon of Mary's innocence. Alas!
she-dragons are not easily convinced of the innocence of any one. Lady
Arabella quite coincided the propriety of Mary's being sent
off,--whither she never inquired,--in order that the coast might be
clear for 'poor Frank'; but she did not a whit the more 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 been
left to the contractor's son; it being understood that the property
would not be at present in his own hands, but that he might inhabit the
house if he chose to do so.  It would thus be necessary for Lady
Scatcherd to find a home for herself, unless she could remain at Boxall
Hill by her son's permission. In this position of affairs the doctor
had been obliged to make a bargain between them.  Sir Louis did wish 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 was also willing to
let his mother live at the house; but not without a consideration. 
After a prolonged degree of haggling, terms were agreed upon; and a few
weeks after her husband's death, Lady Scatcherd found herself alone at
Boxall Hill--alone as regards society in the ordinary sense, but not 
quite alone as concerned her ladyship, for the faithful Hannah was
still with her.

The doctor was of course often at Boxall Hill, and never left it
without an urgent request from Lady Scatcherd that he would bring his
niece over to see her.  Now Lady Scatcherd was no fit companion for
Mary Thorne, and though Mary had often asked to be taken to Boxall
Hill, certain considerations had hitherto induced the doctor to refuse
the request; but there was about Lady Scatcherd,--a kind of homely 
honesty of purpose, an absence of all conceit as to her own position,
and a strength of womanly confidence in the doctor as her friend, which
by degrees won upon his heart.  When, therefore, both he and Mary felt
that it would be better for her again to absent herself for 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 a
princess.  Mary had all her life been accustomed to women of rank, and
had never habituated herself to feel much trepidation in the presence
of titled grandees; but she had prepared herself to be more than
ordinarily submissive to Lady Scatcherd.  Her hostess was a widow, was
not 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, and pay
to her every consideration.  But when she settled down in the house she
found it almost impossible to do so.  Lady Scatcherd treated her as a
farmer's wife might have treated a convalescent young lady who had been
sent to her charge for a few weeks, in order that she might benefit by 
the country air. Her ladyship could hardly bring herself to sit still
and eat her dinner tranquilly in her guest's presence.  And then
nothing was good enough for Mary.  Lady Scatcherd besought her, almost
with tears, to say what she liked best to eat and drink; and was in
despair when Mary declared she didn't care, that she liked anything,
and that she was in nowise particular in such 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 tried
hard 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 best
mashed or baked?'

Mary finding herself obliged to vote, voted for mashed potatoes.

'Very well.  But, Miss Thorne, if you like boiled fowl better, with a
little bit of ham, you know, I do hope you'll say so.  And there's lamb
in the house, quite beautiful; now do'ee say something; do'ee, Miss
Thorne.'

So invoked, Mary felt herself obliged to say something, and declared
for the roast fowl and sausages; but she found it very difficult to pay
much outward respect to a person who would pay so much outward respect
to her.  A day or two after her arrival it was decided that she should
ride about the place on a donkey; she was accustomed to riding, the
doctor having generally taken care that one of his own horses should,
when required, consent to carry a lady; but there was no steed at
Boxall Hill that she could mount; and when Lady Scatcherd had offered
to get a pony for her, she had willingly compromised matters by
expressing the delight she would have in making a campaign on a
donkey.  Upon this, Lady Scatcherd had herself set off in quest of the
desired animal, much to Mary's horror; and did not return till the
necessary purchase had been effected.  Then she came back with the 
donkey close at her heels, almost holding its collar, and stood there
at 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 quite nicely;
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 quite as
quiet as the shes ain't they?'

'Oh, yes, my lady; a deal quieter, all the world over, and twice as
useful.'

'I'm so glad of that, Miss Thorne,' said Lady Scatcherd, her eyes
bright with joy.

And so Mary was established with her donkey, who did all that could be
expected from an animal in his position.

'But, dear Lady Scatcherd,' said Mary, as they sat together at the open
drawing-room window the same evening, 'you must not go on calling me
Miss Thorne; my name is Mary, you know. Won't you call me Mary?' and
she came and knelt at Lady Scatcherd's feet, and took hold of her,
looking up into her face.

Lady Scatcherd's cheeks became rather red, as though she was somewhat
ashamed of her position.

'You are very kind to me,' continued Mary, 'and it seems so cold to
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 think Mary 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; ten times
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! I declare
that sometimes think you are like her.'

'Oh, dear!  then she must have been very beautiful indeed!' said Mary,
laughing.

'She was very beautiful.  I just remember her--oh, so beautiful! she was
quite a poor girl, you know; and so was I then.  Isn't it odd that I
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 was
saying, I do so dislike being called "my lady": I always think the
people 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, Miss
Thorne--'

'Mary, Mary, Mary.'

'Ah, well!  I shall do it in time.  But, Miss--Mary, ha!  ha! ha!  never
mind, let me alone.  But what I want to say is this: do you think I
could drop it?  Hannah says, that if I go the right way about it she is
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 gained
great honour, you know.'

'Ah, well,' said she, sighing after a short pause; 'if you think it
will do him any good, of course I'll put up with it. And then I know
Louis 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 the days of
her life if she can help it.'

'But, Lady Scatcherd,' said Mary, when this question of the title had
been duly settled, and her ladyship made to understand that she must
bear the burden for the rest of her life, 'but, Lady Scatcherd, you
were speaking of Sir Roger's sister; what became of her?'

'Oh, she did very well at last, as Sir Roger did himself; but in early
life she was very unfortunate--just at Historia Augusta time of my
marriage to dear Roger--,' and then, just as she was about to commence
so much as she knew of the history of Mary Scatcherd, she remembered
that the author of her sister-in-law's misery had been a Thorne, a
brother of the doctor; and, therefore, as she presumed, a relative of 
her 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 not in
the least know how to turn the conversation or escape from the trouble
into which she had fallen.  All manner of reflections began to crowd
upon her.  In her early days she had known very little of the Thornes,
nor had she thought much of them since, except as regarded her friend
the doctor; but at this moment she began to think that she had never
heard more than two brothers in the family.  Who then could have Mary's
father?  She felt at once that it would be improper for to say anything
as to Henry Thorne's terrible faults and sudden fate;--improper also, to
say more about Mary Scatcherd; but she was quite unable to drop the
matter otherwise than 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 in time. 
Yes, she was; but now I think of it, I had better say nothing more
about it.  There are reasons, and I ought not to have spoken of it. You
won't be provoked with me, will you?'

Mary assured her that she would not be provoked, and of course asked no
more questions about Mary Scatcherd; nor did she think much more about
it.  It was not so however with her ladyship, who could not keep
herself from reflecting that the old clergyman at the Close at
Barchester certainly had but two sons, one of whom was now the doctor
at Greshamsbury, and the other of whom had perished so wretchedly at
the gate of that farmyard.  Who then was the father of Mary Thorne?

The days passed very quietly at Boxall Hill.  Every morning Mary went
out on her donkey, who justified by his demeanour all that had been
said in his praise; then she would read or draw, then walk with Lady
Scatcherd, then dine, then walk again; and so the days passed quietly
away.  Once or twice a week the doctor would come over and drink his
tea there, riding home in the cool of the evening.  Mary also received 
one visit from her friend Patience.

So the days passed quietly away till the tranquillity of the house was
suddenly broken by tidings from London.  Lady Scatcherd received a
letter from her son, contained in three lines, in which he intimated
that on the following day he meant to honour them with a visit.  He had
intended, he said, to have gone to Brighton with some friends; but as
he felt himself a little out of sorts, he would postpone his marine 
trip 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 been 
understood, as it had been also by her uncle, that Lady Scatcherd would
have had the house to herself; but as there was no means of preventing
the evil, Mary could only inform the doctor, and prepare herself 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 of
sorts, and when he reached Boxall Hill it certainly did not appear that
he had given any exaggerated statement of his own maladies.  He
certainly was a good deal out of sorts. He had had more than one attack
of delirium tremens after his father's death, and had almost been at
death's door.

Nothing had been said about this by Dr Thorne at Boxall Hill; but he
was by no means ignorant of his ward's state.  Twice he had gone up to
London to visit him; twice he had begged him to go down into the
country and place himself under his mother's care.  On the last
occasion, the doctor had threatened him with all manner of pains and
penalties: with pains, as to his speedy departure from this world and
all its joys; and with penalties, in the shape of poverty if that 
departure should by any chance be retarded.  But these threats had at
the moment been in vain, and the doctor had compromised matters by
inducing Sir Louis to promise that he would go to Brighton.  The
baronet, however, who was at length frightened by some renewed attack,
gave up his Brighton scheme, and, without notice to the doctor, hurried
down to Boxall Hill.

Mary did not see him on the first day of his coming, but the doctor
did.  He received such intimation of the visit as enabled him to be at
the house soon after the young man's arrival; and, knowing that his
assistance might be necessary, he rode over to Boxall Hill.  It was a
dreadful task to him, this of making the same fruitless endeavour for
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 had promised
the father that he would do for the son all that was in his power; and
he had, moreover, the consciousness, that should Sir Louis succeed in
destroying himself, the next heir to all the property was his own
niece, Mary Thorne.

He found Sir Louis in a low, wretched, miserable state.  Though he was
a drunkard as his father was, he was not at all such a drunkard as his
father.  The physical capacities of the men were very different.  The
daily amount of alcohol which the father had consumed would have burnt
up the son in a week; whereas, though the son was continually tipsy,
what he swallowed would hardly have had an injurious effect upon the
father.

'You are all wrong, quite wrong,' said Sir Louis petulantly; 'it isn't
that at all.  I have taken nothing this week past--literally nothing. I
think it's the liver.'

Dr Thorne wanted no one to tell him what was the matter with his ward. 
It was his liver; his liver, and his head, and his stomach, and his
heart.  Every organ in his body had been destroyed, or was in the
course of destruction.  His father had killed himself with brandy; the
son more elevated in his tastes, was doing the same thing with curacoa,
maraschino, and cherry-bounce.

'Sir Louis,' said the doctor--he was obliged to be much more punctilious
with him than he had been with the contractor--'the matter is in your
hands entirely: if you cannot keep your lips from that accursed poison,
you have nothing in this world to look forward to; nothing, nothing!'

Mary proposed to return with her uncle to Greshamsbury, and he was at
first inclined that she should do so.  But this idea was overruled,
partly in compliance with Lady Scatcherd's entreaties, and partly
because it would have seemed as though they had both thought the
presence of the owner had made the house an unfit habitation for decent
people.  The doctor, therefore, returned, leaving Mary there; and Lady
Scatcherd busied herself between her two guests.

On the next day Sir Louis was able to come down to a late dinner, and
Mary was introduced to him. He had dressed himself in his best array;
and as he had--at any rate for the present moment--been frightened out
of his libations, he was prepared to make himself as agreeable as
possible. 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 love of
a mother. She was fidgety in her attentions, and worried him by
endeavouring to make her evening sitting-room agreeable.

But Sir Louis, though he was not very sweetly behaved under these
manipulations from his mother's hands, was quite complaisant to Miss
Thorne; nay, after the expiration of a week he was almost more than
complaisant.  He piqued himself on his gallantry, and now found that,
in the otherwise dull seclusion of Boxall Hill, he had a good
opportunity of exercising it.  To do him justice it must be admitted
that he would not have been incapable of a decent career had he 
stumbled on some girl who could have loved him before he stumbled upon
his maraschino bottle.  Such might have been the case with many a lost
rake. The things that are bad are accepted because the things that are
good do not come easily in his way.  How many a miserable father
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 partly frightened
by the doctor's threats--did, for a while, keep himself within decent
bounds.  He did not usually appear before Mary's eyes till three or
four in the afternoon; but when he did come forth, he came forth sober
and resolute to please.  His mother was delighted, and was not slow to
sing his praises; and even the doctor, who now visited Boxall Hill more
frequently than ever, began to have some hopes.

One constant subject, I must not say of conversation, on the part of
Lady Scatcherd, but rather of declamation, had hitherto been the beauty
and manly attributes of Frank Gresham.  She had hardly ceased to talk
to Mary of the infinite good qualities of the young squire, and
especially of his prowess in the matter of Mr Moffat.  Mary had
listened to all this eloquence, not perhaps with inattention, but 
without much reply.  She had not been exactly sorry to hear Frank
talked about; indeed, had she been so minded, she could herself have
said something on the same subject; but she did not wish to take Lady
Scatcherd altogether into her confidence, and she had been unable to
say much about Frank Gresham without doing so.  Lady Scatcherd had,
therefore, gradually conceived that her darling was not a favourite
with her guest.

Now, therefore, she changed the subject; and, as her own son was
behaving with such unexampled propriety, she dropped Frank and confined
her eulogies to Louis.  He had been a little wild, she admitted; young
men so often were so; but she hoped that it was now over.

'He does still take a little drop of those French drinks in the
morning,' said Lady Scatcherd, in her confidence; for she was too
honest to be false, even in her own cause.  'He does that, I know: but
that's nothing, my dear, to swilling all day; and everything can't be
done at once, can it, Miss Thorne?'

On this subject Mary found her tongue loosened.  She could not talk
about Frank Gresham, but she could speak with hope to the mother of her
only son.  She could say that Sir Louis was still very young; that
there was reason to trust that he might now reform; that his present
conduct was apparently good; and that he appeared capable of better
things.  So much she did say; and the mother took her sympathy for more
than it was worth.

On this matter, and on this matter perhaps alone, Sir Louis and Lady
Scatcherd were in accord.  There was much to recommend Mary to the
baronet; not only did he see her to be beautiful, and perceive her to
be attractive and ladylike; but she was also the niece of the man who,
for the present, held the purse-strings of his wealth.  Mary, it is
true, had no fortune.  But Sir Louis knew that she was acknowledged to 
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 between her and the
dignity of being Lady Scatcherd the second;--no obstacle whatever, if
only she could bring herself to wish it. 

It was some time--two or three weeks, perhaps--before Mary's mind was
first opened to this new brilliancy in her prospects.  Sir Louis at
first was rather afraid of her, and did not declare his admiration in
any very determined terms. He certainly paid her many compliments
which, from any one else she would have regarded as abominable.  But
she did not expect great things from the baronet's taste: she concluded
that he was only doing what he thought a gentleman should do; and she
was willing to forgive much for Lady Scatcherd's sake.

His first attempts were, perhaps, more ludicrous than passionate.  He
was still too much an invalid to take walks, and Mary was therefore
saved from his company in her rambles; but he had a horse of his own at
Boxall Hill, and had been advised to ride by the doctor.  Mary also
rode--on a donkey only, it is true--but Sir Louis found himself bound in 
gallantry to accompany her.  Mary's steed had answered every 
expectations, and proved himself very quiet; so quiet, that without the
admonition of a cudgel behind him, he could hardly be persuaded into
the demurest trot.  Now, as Sir Louis's horse was of a very different
mettle, he found it rather difficult not to step faster than his
inamorata; and, let it him struggle as he would, was generally so far
ahead as to be debarred the delights of conversation.

When the second time he proposed to accompany her, Mary did what she
could to hinder it.  She saw that he had been rather ashamed of the
manner in which his companion was mounted, and she herself would have
enjoyed the ride much more without him. He was an invalid, however; it
was necessary to make much of him, and Mary did not absolutely refuse
the offer.

'Lady Scatcherd,' said he, as they were standing at the door previous
to mounting--he always called his mother Lady Scatcherd--'why don't you
take a horse for Miss Thorne?  This donkey is--is--really is, so
very--very--can't go at all, you know?'

Lady Scatcherd began to declare that she would willing have got a pony
if Mary would have let her do it.

'Oh, no, Lady Scatcherd; not on any account.  I do like the donkey so
much--I do indeed.'

'But he won't go,' said Sir Louis.  'And for a person who rides like
you, Miss Thorne--such a horsewoman you know--why, you know, Lady
Scatcherd, it's positively ridiculous; d---- absurd, you know.'

And then, with an angry look at his mother, he mounted his horse, and
was soon leading the way down the avenue.

'Miss Thorne,' said he, pulling himself up at the gate, 'if I had known
that I was to be so extremely happy as to have found you here, I would
have brought you down the most beautiful creature, and Arab.  She
belongs to my friend Jenkins; but I wouldn't have stood at any price in
getting her for you.  By Jove!  if you were on that mare, I'd back you,
for style and appearance, against anything in Hyde Park.'

The offer of this sporting wager, which naturally would have been very
gratifying to Mary, was lost upon her, for Sir Louis had again
unwittingly got on in advance, but he stopped himself in time to hear
Mary again declare her passion was a donkey.

'If you could only see Jenkins's little mare, Miss Thorne!  Only say
one word, and she shall be down here before the week's end.  Price
shall be no obstacle--none whatever.  By Jove, what a pair you would
be!'

This generous offer was repeated four or five times; but on each
occasion Mary only half heard what was said, and on each occasion the
baronet was far too much in advance to hear Mary's reply.  At last he
recollected that he wanted to call on one of his tenants, and begged
his companion to allow him to ride on.

'If you at all dislike being 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 this horse
of 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, even when
in his best behaviour, could not quite give up his ordinary mode of
conversation.  'When she was fortunate enough to get such a girl as you
to come and stay with her, she ought to have had something proper for
her to ride upon; but I'll look to it as soon as I am a little
stronger, 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 what was
to him a very long period, and his health felt the good effects of it. 
No one rejoiced at this more cordially than did the doctor.  To rejoice
at it was with him a point of conscience.  He could not help telling
himself now and again that, circumstanced as he was, he was most 
specially bound to take joy in any sign of reformation that the baronet
might show.  Not to do so would be almost tantamount to wishing that he
might die in order that Mary might inherit his wealth; and, therefore,
the doctor did with all his energy devote himself to the difficult task
of hoping and striving that Sir Louis might yet live to enjoy what was 
his own.  But the task was altogether a difficult one, for as Sir Louis
became stronger in health, so also did he become more exorbitant in his
demands on the doctor's patience, and more repugnant to the doctor's
tastes.

In his worst fits of disreputable living he was ashamed to apply to his
guardian for money; and in his worst fits of illness he was through
fear, somewhat patient under his doctor's hands; but just at present he
had nothing of which to be ashamed, and was not at all patient.

'Doctor,'--said he, one day, at Boxall Hill--'how about those 
Greshamsbury title-deeds?'

'Oh, that will all be properly settled between my lawyer and your own.'

'Oh--ah--yes; no doubt the lawyers will settle it; settle it with a fine
bill of costs.  But, as Finnie says,'--Finnie was Sir Louis's legal
adviser--'I have got a tremendously large interest at stake in this
matter; eighty thousand pounds is no joke.  It ain't everybody that can
shell out eighty thousand pounds when they're wanted; and I should like
to know how the thing's going on.  I've a right to ask, you know; eh,
doctor?'

'The title-deeds of a large portion of Greshamsbury estate will be
placed with the mortgage-deeds before the end of next month.'

'Oh, that's all right.  I choose to know about these things; for though
my father did make such a con-foun-ded will, that's no reason I
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
quiet line altogether now: I've done with 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 I
know 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 all
right in time, if you will live with decent prudence.  You shouldn't
take that filth in the morning though.'

'Filth in the morning!   That's my mother, I suppose!  That's her
ladyship!  She's been talking, has she?  Don't you believe her,
doctor.  There's not a young man in Barsetshire is going more regular,
all right within the posts, than I am.'

The doctor was obliged to acknowledge that there did seem to be some
improvement.

'And now, doctor, how about money, eh?'

Doctor Thorne, like other guardians similarly circumstanced, began to
explain that Sir Louis had already had a good deal of money, and had
begun also to promise that more should be forthcoming in the event of
good behaviour, when he was somewhat suddenly interrupted by Sir Louis.

'Well, now; I'll tell you what, doctor; I've got a bit of news for you;
something that I think will astonish you.'

The doctor opened his eyes, and tried to look as though ready to be
surprised.

'Something that will really make you look about; and something, too,
that will be very much to the hearer's advantage,--as the newspaper
advertisements say.'

'Something to my advantage?' said the doctor.

'Well, I hope you'll think so.  Doctor, what would you think now of my
getting married?'

'I should be delighted to hear of it--more delighted than I can express;
that is, of course, if you were to marry well.  It was your father's
most eager wish that you should marry early.'

'That's partly my reason,' said the young hypocrite.  'But then if I
marry I must have an income fit to live on; eh, doctor?'

The doctor had some fear that his interesting protege was desirous of a
wife for the sake of the income, instead of desiring the income for 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 put in possession of
sufficient income to maintain the new Lady Scatcherd in a manner
becoming her dignity.

'As to marrying well,' said Sir Louis, 'you, I take it, will the be the
last man, doctor, to quarrel with my choice.'

'Will I?' said the doctor, smiling.

'Well, you won't disapprove, I guess, as the Yankee says.  What would
you think of Miss Mary Thorne?'

It must be said in Sir Louis's favour that he had probably no idea
whatever of the estimation in which such young ladies as Mary Thorne
are held by those who are nearest and dearest to them.  He had no sort
of conception that she was regarded by her uncle and inestimable
treasure, almost too precious to be rendered up to the arms of any man;
and infinitely beyond any price in silver and gold, baronet's incomes
of eight or ten thousand a year, and such coins usually current in the 
world's markets.  He was a rich man and a baronet, and Mary was an
unmarried girl without a portion.  In Louis's estimation he was
offering everything, and asking for nothing.  He certainly had some
idea that girls were apt to be coy, and required a little wooing in the
shape of presents, civil speeches--perhaps kisses also.  The civil 
speeches he had, he thought, done, and imagined that they had been well
received.  The other things were to follow; 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 any difficulty
with the uncle.  How should there be?  Was he not a baronet with ten
thousand a year coming to him?  Had he not everything which fathers
want for portionless daughters, and uncles for dependant nieces?  Might
he not well inform the doctor that he had something to tell him for his
advantage?

And yet, to tell the truth, the doctor did not seem to be overjoyed
when the announcement was first made to him.  He was by no means
overjoyed.  On the contrary, even Sir Louis could perceive his
guardian's surprise was altogether unmixed with delight.

What a question was this that was asked him!  What would he think of a
marriage between Mary Thorne--his Mary and Sir Louis Scatcherd?  Between
the alpha of the whole alphabet, and him whom he could not but regard
as the omega!  Think of it!  Why he would think of it as though a lamb
and a wolf were to stand at the altar together.  Had Sir Louis been a 
Hottentot, or an Esquimaux, the proposal could not have astonished him
more.  The two persons were so totally of a different class, that the
idea of the one falling in love with the other had never occurred to
him.  'What would you think of Miss Mary Thorne?'  Sir Louis had asked;
and the doctor, instead of answering him with ready and pleasant 
alacrity, stood silent, thunderstruck with amazement.

'Well, wouldn't she be a good wife?' said Sir Louis, rather in a tone
of disgust at the evident disapproval shown in his choice.  'I thought
you would have been so delighted.'

'Mary Thorne!' ejaculated the doctor at last.  'Have you spoken to my
niece about this, Sir Louis?'

'Well, I have and yet I haven't; I haven't, and yet in a manner I
have.'

'I don't understand you,' said the doctor.

'Why, you see, I haven't exactly popped to her yet; but I have been
doing the civil; and if she's up to snuff, as I take her to be, she
knows very well what I'm after by this time.'

Up to snuff!  Mary Thorne, his Mary Thorne, up to snuff!  To snuff too
of such a very disagreeable description!

'I think, Sir Louis, that you are in mistake about this.  I think you
will find that Mary will not be disposed to avail herself of the great
advantages--for great they undoubtedly are--which you are able to offer
to your intended wife.  If you will take my advice, you will give up
thinking of Mary.  She would not suit you.'

'Not suit me!  Oh, but I think she just would.  She's got no money, you
mean?'

'No, I did not mean that.  It will not signify to you whether your wife
has money or not.  You need not look for money.  But you should think
of some one more nearly of your temperament. I am quite sure that my
niece would refuse you.'

These last words the doctor uttered with much emphasis.  His intention
was to make the baronet understand that the matter was quite hopeless,
and to induce him if possible to drop it on the spot.  But he did not
know Sir Louis; he ranked him too low in the scale of human beings, and
gave him no credit for any strength of character.  Sir Louis in his way
did love Mary Thorne.  And could not bring himself to believe that Mary
did not, or at any rate, would not soon return his passion.  He was,
moreover, sufficiently obstinate, firm we ought perhaps to say--for his
pursuit in this case was certainly not an evil one,--and he at once made
up his mind to succeed in spite of the uncle.

'If she consents, however, you will do so too?' asked he.

'It is impossible that she should consent,' said the doctor.

'Impossible!  I don't see anything at all impossible.  But if she
does?'

'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 dear
friend; believe me you are only preparing unhappiness for yourself;'
and the doctor put his hand kindly on the young man's arm.  'She will
not, cannot, accept such an offer.'

'Will not!  cannot!' said the baronet, thinking over all the reasons
which in his estimation could possibly be inducing the doctor to be so
hostile to his views, and shaking the hand of his arm.  'Will not! 
cannot!  But come, doctor, answer my question fairly.  If she'll have
me 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 the pain
of a refusal?'

'Oh, as for that, I must stand my chance like another.  And as for her,
why d---, doctor, you wouldn't have me believe that any young lady
thinks it so very dreadful to have a baronet with ten thousand pounds a
year at her feet, specially when that same baronet ain't very old, nor
yet particularly ugly. I ain't so green as that, doctor.'

'I suppose she must go through with it, then,' said the doctor, musing.

'But, Dr Thorne, I did look for a kinder answer from you, considering
all 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. Could it
be possible that Mary should wish to marry this odious man, could such
a state of things be imagined to be the case, he would not refuse his
consent, infinitely as he would be disgusted by her choice.  But he
would not give Sir Louis any excuse of telling Mary that her uncle
approved of so odious a match.

'I cannot say that in case I would approve of such a marriage, Sir
Louis.  I cannot bring myself to say so; for I know it would make you
both miserable.  But on that matter my niece will choose wholly for
herself.'

'And about money, doctor?'

'If you marry a decent woman you shall not want the means of supporting
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 somewhat
discouraged; but he was not induced to give up his object.  The first
effort of his mind was made in conjecturing what private motive Dr
Thorne could possibly have in wishing to debar his niece from marrying
a rich young baronet.  That the objection was personal to himself, Sir 
Louis did not for a moment imagine.  Could it be that the doctor did
not wish that his niece should be richer, and grander, and altogether
bigger than himself?  Or was it possible that his guardian was anxious
to prevent him from marrying from some view of the reversion of the
large fortune?  That there was some such reason, Sir Louis was well 
sure; but let it be what it might, he would get the better of the
doctor.  'He knew so,' so he said to himself, 'what stuff girls were
made of.  Baronets did not grow like blackberries.'  And so, assuring
himself with such philosophy, he determined to make his offer.

The time he selected for doing this was the hour before dinner; but on
the day on which his conversation with the doctor had taken place, he
was deterred by the presence of a strange visitor.  To account for this
strange visit it will be necessary that we should return to
Greshamsbury for a few minutes. 

Frank, when he returned home for his summer vacation, found that Mary
had again flown; and the very fact of her absence added fuel to the
fire of his love, more perhaps then even her presence might have done. 
For the flight of the quarry ever adds eagerness to the pursuit of the
huntsman.  Lady Arabella, moreover, had a bitter enemy; a foe, utterly 
opposed to her side in the contest, where she had once fondly looked
for her staunchest ally.  Frank was now in the habit of corresponding
with Miss Dunstable, and received from her most energetic admonitions
to be true to the love which he had sworn.  True to it he resolved to
be; and, therefore, when he found that Mary was flown, he resolved to
fly after her. 

He did not, however, do this till he had been in a measure provoked by
it by the sharp-tongued cautions and blunted irony of his mother.  It
was not enough for her that she had banished Mary out of the parish,
and made Dr Thorne's life miserable; not enough that she harassed her
husband with harangues on the constant subject of Frank's marrying
money, and dismayed Beatrice with invectives against the iniquity of 
her friend.  The snake was so but scotched; to kill it outright 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 partly
with indignation, as he made the frank avowal, 'since you press me
about it, I tell you fairly that my mind is made up to marry Mary
sooner or later, if--'

'Oh, Frank!  good heavens!  you wicked boy; you are saying this
purposely 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 the
corner of her sofa, she buried her face in her handkerchief.

'Yes, mother, if she will consent.  And now that I have told you so
much, it is only just that I should tell you this also; that as far as
I can see at present I have no reason to hope that she will do so.'

'Oh, Frank, the girl is doing all she can to catch you,' said Lady
Arabella,--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--she has
behaved exactly as you would have wanted her to do; but not at all as I
wished her.  She has given me no encouragement.  You have turned her
out among you'--Frank was beginning to be very bitter now--'but she has 
done nothing to deserve it.  If there has been any fault it has been
mine.  But it is well now that we should understand each other.  My
intention is to marry Mary if I can.'  And, so speaking, certainly
without due filial respect, he turned towards the door.

'Frank,' said his mother, raising herself up with energy to make one
last 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 see me
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 is
but one course left open to you.  You MUST marry money.'  And then Lady
Arabella stood up before her son as Lady Macbeth might have stood, had
Lady Macbeth lived to have a son of Frank's years.

'Miss Dunstable, I suppose,' said Frank, scornfully.  'No, mother; I
made an ass and worse than an ass of myself once in that way, and I
won'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 buy it
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 will
never have a word of complaint from me.  I am ready to go into a
profession to-morrow.  I'll be a lawyer, or a doctor, or an engineer; I
don't care what.' Frank, in his enthusiasm, probably overlooked some 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 more about 
marrying money.'  And, so saying, Frank left the room.

Frank, it will be remembered, was twenty-one when he was first
introduced to the reader; he is now twenty-two.  It may be said that
there was a great difference between his character then and now.  A
year at that period will make a great difference; but the change has
been, not in his character, but in his feelings.

Frank went out from his mother and immediately ordered his black horse
to be got ready for him.  He would at once go over to Boxall Hill.  He
went himself to the stables to give his orders; and as he returned to
get his gloves and whip he met Beatrice in the corridor.

'Beatrice,' said he, 'step in here,' and she followed him into his
room.  'I'm not going to bear this any longer; I'm going to Boxall
Hill.'

'Oh, Frank!  how can you be so imprudent?'

'You, at any rate, have some decent feeling for Mary.  I believe you
have some regard for her; and therefore I tell you. Will you send her
any 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 infinitely distressed.'

'Do not mention this, not at present; not that I mean you to make any
secret of it.  I shall tell my father everything.  I'm off now!' and
then, paying no attention to her remonstrance, he turned down the
stairs and was soon on horseback.

He took the road to Boxall Hill, but he did not ride very fast: he did
not go jauntily as a jolly, thriving wooer; but musingly, and often
with diffidence, meditating every now and then whether it would not be
better for him to turn back: to turn back--but not from fear of his
mother; not from prudential motives; not because that often-repeated
lesson as to marrying money was beginning to take effect; not from such
causes as these; but because he doubted how he might be received by
Mary.

He did, it is true, think something about his worldly prospects.  He
had talked rather grandiloquently to his mother as to his hating money,
and hating the estate.  His mother's never-ceasing worldly cares on
such subjects perhaps demanded that a little grandiloquence should be
opposed to them.  But Frank did not hate the estate; nor did he at all 
hate the position of an English country gentleman.  Miss Dunstable's
eloquence, however, rang in his ears.  For Miss Dunstable had an
eloquence of her own, even in her letters.  'Never let them talk you
out of your own true, honest, hearty feelings,' she had said. 
'Greshamsbury is a very nice place, I am sure; and I hope I shall 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.  That is 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't mortgage 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, he turned
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 had
repeatedly met since Frank's return from Cambridge, both in the village
and in the doctor's house; but not a word had been said between them
about Mary beyond what the merest courtesy had required.  Not that each
did not love the other sufficiently to make a full confidence between
them desirable to both; but neither had had the courage 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 at
home?'

'Yes; Lady Scatcherd is there; but Sir Louis is there also--an invalid:
perhaps you would not wish to meet him.'

'Oh!   I don't mind,' said Frank, trying to laugh; 'he won't bite, I
suppose?'

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 cause a
more bitter estrangement between himself and the squire.  But he had
not the courage to do it.  He could not bring himself to accuse Frank
of being in love with his niece. So after a few more senseless words on
either side, words which each knew to be senseless as he uttered them,
they both rode on their own ways.

And then the doctor silently, and almost unconsciously, made such a
comparison between Louis Scatcherd and Frank Gresham as Hamlet made
between the dead and live king.  It was Hyperion to a satyr.  Was it
not as impossible that Mary should not love the one, as that she should
love the other?  Frank's offer of his affections had at first probably
been but a boyish ebullition of feeling; but if it should now be, that
this had grown into a manly and disinterested love, how could Mary
remain unmoved?  What could her heart want more, better, more
beautiful, more rich than such a love as this?  Was he not personally
all that a girl could like?  Were not his disposition, mind, character,
acquirements, all such as women most delight to love?  Was it not
impossible that Mary should be indifferent to him?

So meditated the doctor as he road along, with only too true a
knowledge of human nature.  Ah!  it was impossible, quite impossible
that Mary should be indifferent.  She had never been indifferent since
Frank had uttered his first half-joking word of love.  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 he loved 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 his advances.  When, in her hearing,
he had said soft nothings to Patience Oriel, a hated, irrepressible
tear had gathered in her eye.  When he had pressed in his warm, loving 
grasp the hand which she had offered in him in token of mere 
friendship, her heart had forgiven him the treachery, nay, almost
thanked him for it, before her eyes or her words had been ready to
rebuke him.  When the rumour of his liaison with Miss Dunstable reached
her ears, when she heard of Miss Dunstable's fortune, she had wept,
wept outright, in her chamber--wept, as she said to herself, to think
that he could be so mercenary; but she had wept, as she should have
said to herself, at finding that he was so faithless.  Then, when she 
knew at last that this rumour was false, when she found that she was
banished from Greshamsbury for his sake, when she was forced to retreat
with her friend Patience, how could she but love him, in that he was
not mercenary?  How could she not love him in that was so faithful?

It was impossible that she should not love him.  Was he not the
brightest and the best of men that she had ever seen, or was like to
see?--that she could possibly ever see, she would have said to herself,
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 merit in her eyes
which was so great a fault in theirs?  When Beatrice, with would-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, how could
Mary do other than love him?  'Beatrice is his sister,' she would say
within her own mind, 'otherwise she would never talk like this; were
she not his sister, she could not but know the value of such love as
this.'  Ah!  yes; Mary did love him; love him with all the strength of
her heart; and the strength of her heart was very great.  And now by
degrees, in those lonely donkey-rides at Boxall Hill, in those solitary
walks, she was beginning to own to herself the truth.

And now that she did own it, what should be her course?  What should
she do, how should she act if this loved one persevered in his love? 
And, ah!  what should she do, how should she act if he did not
persevere?  Could it be that there should be happiness in store for
her?  Was it not too clear that, let the matter go how it would, there
was no happiness in store for her?  Much as she might love Frank 
Gresham, she could never consent to be his wife unless the squire would
smile on her as his daughter-in-law.  The squire had been all that was
kind, all that was affectionate.  And then, too, Lady Arabella!  As she
thought of the Lady Arabella a sterner form of thought came across her
brow.  Why should Lady Arabella rob her of her heart's joy?  What was 
Lady Arabella that she, Mary Thorne, need quail before her?  Had Lady
Arabella stood only in her way, Lady Arabella, flanked by the De Courcy
legion, Mary felt that she could have demanded Frank's hand as her own
before them all without a blush of shame or a moment's hesitation. 
Thus, when her heart was all but ready to collapse within her, would
she gain some little strength by thinking of the Lady Arabella.

'Please, my lady, here be young squire Gresham,' said one of the
untutored servants at Boxall Hill, opening Lady Scatcherd's little
parlour door as her ladyship was amusing herself by pulling down and
turning, and re-folding, and putting up again, a heap of household
linen which was kept in a huge press for the express purpose of
supplying her with occupation.

Lady Scatcherd, holding a vast counterpane in her arms, looked back
over her shoulders and perceived that Frank was in the room.  Down went
the counterpane on the ground, and Frank soon found himself in the very
position which that useful article had so lately filled.

'Oh!  Master Frank!  oh, Master Frank!' said her ladyship, almost in an
hysterical fit of joy; and then she hugged and kissed him as she had
never kissed and hugged her own son since that son had first left the
parent nest.

Frank bore it patiently and with a merry laugh.  'But, Lady Scatcherd,'
said he, 'what will they all say?  you forget I am a man now,' and he
stooped his head as she again pressed her lips upon his forehead.

'I don't care what none of 'em say,' said her ladyship, quite going
back to her old days; 'I will kiss my own boy; so I will. Eh, but
Master Frank, this is good on you.  A sight of you is good for sore
eyes; and my eyes have been sore enough since I saw you;' and she put
her apron up to wipe a tear away.

'Yes,' said Frank, gently trying to disengage himself, but not
successfully: 'yes, you have had a great loss, Lady Scatcherd. I was so
sorry when I heard of your grief.'

'You always had a soft, kind heart, Master Frank; so you had. God's
blessing on you!  What a fine man you have grown!  Deary me!  Well, it
seems as though it were only just t'other day like.'  And she pushed
him a little from her, so that she might look the better into his face.

'Well.  Is it all right?  I suppose you would hardly know me again now
I've got a pair of whiskers?'

'Know you!  I should know you well if I saw but the heel of your foot. 
Why, what a head of hair you have got, and so dark too!  but it doesn't
curl as it used once.'  And she stroked his hair, and looked into his
eyes, and put her hand to his cheeks.  'You'll think me an old 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; so you will.'

By degrees, slow degrees, Frank managed to change the conversation, and
to induce Lady Scatcherd to speak on some other topic than his own
infantine perfections.  He affected an indifference as he spoke of her
guest, which would have deceived no one but Lady Scatcherd; but her it
did deceive; and then he asked where Mary was.

'She's just gone out on her donkey--somewhere about the place. She rides
on a donkey mostly every day.  But you'll stop and take a bit of dinner
with us?  Eh, now do'ee, Master Frank.'

But Master Frank excused himself.  He did not choose to pledge himself
to sit down to dinner with Mary.  He did not know in what mood they
might return with regard to each other at dinner-time.  He said,
therefore, that he would return to the house again before he went.

Lady Scatcherd then began making apologies for Sir Louis.  She was an
invalid; the doctor had been with him all the morning, and he was not
yet out of his room.

These apologies Frank willingly accepted, and then made his way as his
could on to the lawn.  A gardener, of whom he inquired, offered to go
with him in pursuit of Miss Thorne.  This assistance, however, he
declined, and set forth in quest of her, having learnt what were her
most usual haunts.  Nor was he directed wrongly; for after walking
about twenty minutes, he saw through the trees the legs of a donkey
moving on the green-sward, at about two hundred yards from him.  On 
that 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 him if he
stood still.  He did stand still, and soon emerging from the trees,
Mary saw him all but close to her.

Her heart gave a leap within her, but she was so far mistress of
herself as to repress any visible sign of outward emotion. She did not
fall from her donkey, or scream, or burst into tears.  She merely
uttered the words, 'Mr Gresham!' in a tone of not unnatural surprise.

'Yes,' said he, trying to laugh, but less successful than she had been
suppressing a show of feeling.  'Mr Gresham!  I have come over at last
to pay my respects to you.  You must have thought me very uncourteous
not to do so before.'

This she denied.  She had not, she said, thought him at all uncivil. 
She had come to Boxall Hill to be out of the way; and, of course, had
not expected any such formalities.  As she uttered this she almost
blushed at the abrupt truth of what she was saying.  But she was taken
so much unawares that she did not know how to make the truth other than
abrupt.

'To be out of the way!' said Frank.  'And why should you want to be out
of the way?'

'Oh!  there were reasons,'said she, laughing.  'Perhaps I have
quarrelled dreadfully with my uncle.'

Frank at the present moment had not about him a scrap of badinage.  He
had not a single easy word at his command.  He could not answer her
with anything in guise of a joke; so he walked on, not answering at
all.

'I hope all my friends at Greshamsbury are well,' said Mary. 'Is
Beatrice quite well?'

'Quite well,' said he.

'And Patience?'

'What, Miss Oriel; yes, I believe so.  I haven't seen her this day or
two.'  How was it that Mary felt a little flush of joy, as Frank spoke
in 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 does
Beatrice.'  And then he walked about six steps in silence, plucking up
courage for the great attempt.  He did pluck up his courage and then
rushed at once to the attack.

'Mary!' said he, and as he spoke he put his hand on the donkey's neck,
and looked tenderly into her face.  He looked tenderly, and, as Mary's
ear at once told her, his voice sounded more soft than it had ever
sounded before.  'Mary, do you remember the last time that we were
together?'

Mary did remember it well.  It was on that occasion when he had
treacherously held her hand; on that day when, according to law, he had
become a man; when he had outraged all the propriety of the De Courcy
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 was your
birthday, I think,' said she.

'Yes, it was my birthday.  I wonder whether you remember what I said to
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 it awkwardly, like
a boy.  Perhaps I may be just as awkward now; but you ought at any rate
to believe me when you find that a year has not altered me.'

Mary did not think him at all awkward, and she did believe him. But how
was she to answer him?  She had not yet taught herself what answer she
ought to make if he persisted in his suit.  She had hitherto been
content to run away from him; but she had done so because she would not
submit to be accused of the indelicacy of putting herself in his way. 
She had rebuked him when he first spoke of his love; but she had done
so because she looked on what he said as a boy's nonsense.  She had
schooled herself in obedience to the Greshamsbury doctrines.  Was there
any real reason, any reason founded on truth and honesty, why she
should not be a fitting wife to Frank Gresham,--Francis Newbold Gresham,
of Greshamsbury, though he was, or was to be?'

He was well born--as well born as any gentleman in England.  She was
basely born--as basely born as any lady could be.  Was this sufficient
bar against such a match?  Mary felt in her heart that some twelvemonth
since, before she knew what little she did now know of her own story,
she would have said it was so. And would she indulge her own love by
inveigling him she loved into a base marriage?  But then reason spoke 
again.  What, after all, was this blood of which she had taught herself
to think so much?  Would she have been more honest, more fit to grace
an honest man's hearthstone, had she been the legitimate descendant of
a score of legitimate duchesses?  Was it not her first duty to think of
him--of what would make him happy?  Then of her uncle--what he would 
approve?  Then of herself--what would best become her modesty; her sense
of honour?  Could it be well that she should sacrifice the happiness of
two persons to a theoretic love of pure 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 other former
occasions as she had ridden along demurely among those trees.  So she
had argued; but she had never brought her arguments to a decision.  All
manner of thoughts crowded on her to prevent her doing so.  She would 
think of the squire, and resolve to reject Frank; and would then
remember Lady Arabella, and resolve to accept him.  Her resolutions,
however, were most irresolute; and so, when Frank appeared in person
before her, carrying his heart in his hand, she did not know what
answer to make to him.  Thus it was with her as with so many other
maidens similarly circumstanced; at last she left it all to chance.

'You ought at any rate, to believe me,' said Frank, 'when you find that
a year has not altered me.'

'A year should have taught you to be wiser,'said she.  'You should have
learnt by this time, Mr Gresham, that your lot and mine are not cast in
the same mould; that our stations in life are different.  Would your
father or mother approve of your even coming here to see me?'

Mary, as she spoke these sensible words, felt that they were 'flat,
stale, and unprofitable.'  She felt also, that they were not true in
sense; that they did not come from her heart; that they were not such
as Frank deserved at her hands, and she was ashamed of herself.

'My father I hope will approve of it,' said he.  'That my mother should
disapprove of it is a misfortune which I cannot help; but on this point
I will take no answer from my father or mother; the question is one too
personal to myself. Mary, if you say that you will not, or cannot return
my love, I will go away;--not from here only, but from Greshamsbury. My
presence shall not banish you from all that you hold dear. If you can
honestly say that I am nothing to you, can be nothing to you, I will
then tell my mother that she may be 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 Mary with him that she also had hardly a
gasp of hope in her heart. There he paused for a moment, and then
looking up into her face, he spoke but one word more. 'But,' said
he--and there he stopped. It was clearly told in that 'but'. Thus would
he do if Mary would declare that she did not care for him. If, however,
she could not bring herself so to declare, then was he ready to throw
his father and mother to the winds; then would he stand his ground; then
would he look all other difficulties in the face, sure that they might
finally be overcome. Poor Mary! the whole onus of settling the matter
was thus thrown upon her. She had only to say that he was indifferent to
her;--that was all.

If 'all the blood of the Howards' had depended upon it, she could not
have brought herself to utter such a falsehood.  Indifferent to her, as
he walked there by her donkey's side, talking thus earnestly of his
love for her!  Was he not to her like some god come from the heavens to
make her blessed? Did not the sun shine upon him with a halo, so that
he was bright as an angel?  Indifferent to her!  Could the open 
unadulterated truth have been practicable for her, she would have
declared her indifference in terms that would truly have astonished
him. As it was, she found it easier to say nothing.  She bit her lips
to keep herself from sobbing.  She struggled hard, but in vain, to
prevent her hands and feet from trembling.  She seemed to swing upon
her donkey as though like to fall, and would have given much to be upon
her own feet in the sward.

'Si la jeunesse savait . . .'  There is so much in that wicked old
French 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 have been
sure of his game, and have felt that Mary's silence told him all he
wished to know. But then, had been forty-two instead of twenty-two, he
would not have been so ready to risk the acres of Greshamsbury 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 came
over.  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 him
to stand still also.  The beast required very little persuasion to be
so guided, and obligingly remained meekly passive.

'Mary, Mary!' said Frank, throwing his arms round her knees as she sat
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 was
beyond that, and was now using all her efforts to prevent her tears
from falling absolutely on her lover's face. She said nothing.  She
could no more rebuke him now and send him from her than she could
encourage him.  She could only sit there shaking and crying and wishing
she was on the ground.  Frank, on the whole, rather liked the donkey. 
It enabled him to approach somewhat nearer to an embrace than he might
have found practicable had they both been on their feet.  The donkey
himself was quite at his ease, and looked as though he was approvingly
conscious of what was going on behind his ears.

'I have a right to a word, Mary; say, "Go", and I will leave you at
once.'

But Mary did not say 'Go'.  Perhaps she would have done so had she been
able; but just at present she could say nothing. This came from her
having failed to make up her mind in due time as to what course it
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 fingers on to her
palm, and there it remained unrepulsed.  'La jeuness' was beginning to
get a lesson; experience when duly sought after sometimes 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 of
acquiescence.  'My life, my own, my own Mary!' and then the hand was
caught hold of and was at his lips before an effort could be made to
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 to Boxall
Hill.' Frank turned round and instantly found himself shaking hands
with Sir Louis Scatcherd.

How Mary got over her confusion Frank never saw, for he had enough to
do to get over his own.  He involuntarily deserted Mary and began
talking very fast to Sir Louis.  Sir Louis did not once look at Miss
Thorne, but walked back towards the house with Mr Gresham, sulky enough
in temper, but still making some effort to do the fine gentleman. Mary,
glad to be left alone, merely occupied herself with sitting on the 
donkey; and the donkey, when he found that the two gentlemen went
towards the house, for company's sake and for his stable's sake,
followed after them.

Frank stayed but three minutes in the house; gave another kiss to Lady
Scatcherd, getting three in return, and thereby infinitely disgusting
Sir Louis, shook hands, anything but warmly, with the young baronet,
and just felt the warmth of Mary's hand within his own.  He felt also
the warmth of her eyes' last glance, and rode home a happy man.



CHAPTER XXX

POST PRANDIAL

Frank rode home a happy man, cheering himself, as successful lovers do
cheer themselves, with the brilliancy of his late exploit: nor was it
till he had turned the corner into the Greshamsbury stables that he
began to reflect what he would do next.  It was all very well to have
induced Mary to allow his three fingers to lie half a minute in her
soft hand; the having done so might certainly be sufficient evidence
that he had overcome one of the lions in his path; but it could hardly
be said that all his difficulties were now smoothed.  How was 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.  To her
at least belonged this passive comfort, that at present no act hostile
to the De Courcy interest would be expected from her.  All that she
could do would be to tell her uncle so much as it was fitting that he 
should know.  The doing this would doubtless be in some degree
difficult; but it was not probable that there would be much 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,' she said to herself, 'will
give him an opportunity of retracting what he has done should he choose
to avail himself of it.  It is well he should have such opportunity.'

But Frank had more than this to do.  He had told Beatrice that he would
make no secret of his love, and he fully resolved to be as good as his
word.  To his father he owed an unreserved confidence; and he was fully
minded to give it.  It was, he knew, altogether out of the question
that he should at once marry a portionless girl without his father's 
consent; probably out of the question that he should do so even with
it.  But he would, at any rate, tell his father, and then decide as to
what should be done next.  So resolving, he put his black horse into
the stable and went into dinner.  After dinner he and his father would
be alone.

Yes; after dinner he and his father would be alone.  He dressed himself
hurriedly, for the dinner-bell was almost on the stroke as he entered
the house.  He said this to himself once and again; but when the meats
and the puddings, and then the cheese were borne away, as the decanters
were placed before his father, and Lady Arabella sipped her one glass
of claret, and his sisters ate their portion of strawberries, his
pressing anxiety for the coming interview began to wax somewhat dull.

His mother and sisters, however, rendered him no assistance by
prolonging their stay.  With unwonted assiduity he pressed a second
glass of claret on his mother.  But Lady Arabella was not only
temperate in her habits, but also at the present moment very angry with
her son.  She thought that he had been to Boxall Hill, and was only
waiting a proper moment to cross-question him sternly on the subject. 
Now she departed, taking her train of daughters with her.

'Give me one big gooseberry,' said Nina, as she squeezed herself in
under her brother's arm, prior to making her retreat.  Frank would
willingly have given her a dozen of the biggest, had she wanted them;
but having got the one, she squeezed herself out again and scampered
off. 

The squire was very cheery this evening; from what cause cannot now be
said.  Perhaps he had succeeded in negotiating a further loan, thus
temporarily sprinkling a drop of water over the ever-rising dust of his
difficulties.

'Well, Frank, what have you been after to-day?  Peter told me you had
the black horse out,' said he, pushing the decanter to his son.  'Take
my advice, my boy, and don't give him too much summer road-work.  Legs
won't stand it, let them be ever so good.'

'Why, sir, I was obliged to go out to-day, and therefore, it had to be
either the old mare or the young horse.'

'Why didn't you take Ramble?'  Now Ramble was the squire's own saddle
hack, 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 let me
have a little wine, Frank--quite at your service; any riding I have 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 should
I want it.'

'Do, and pray, pray take care of that black horse's legs.  He's turning
out more of a horse than I took him to be, and I should be sorry 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 assumed anxiety
about the black horse, gave place to a heaviness of visage which
acrimony and misfortune had made so habitual to him.  'Something to
tell me!'  Any grave words like these always presaged some money
difficulty to the squire's ears.  He loved Frank with the tenderest
love.  He would have done so under almost any circumstances; but, 
doubtless, that love had been made more palpable to himself by the fact
that Frank had been a good son as regards money--not exigeant as was
Lady Arabella, or selfishly reckless as was his nephew Lord Porlock. 
But now Frank must be in some difficulty about money. This was his
first idea.  'What is it, Frank; you have seldom had anything to say
that has not been pleasant for me to hear?'  And then the heaviness of 
visage again gave way for a moment as his eye fell upon his son.

'I have been to Boxall Hill, sir.'

The tenor of his father's thoughts was changed in an instant; and the
dread of immediate temporary annoyance gave place to true anxiety for
his son.  He, the squire, had been no party to Mary's exile from his
own domain; and he had seen with pain that she had now a second time
been driven from her home: but he had never hitherto questioned the
expediency of separating his son from Mary Thorne.  Alas!  it had
become too necessary--too necessary through his own default--that Frank
should marry money!

'At Boxall Hill, Frank!  Has that been prudent?  Or, indeed, has it
been 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 about this--'

'Fill your glass, Frank;' Frank mechanically did as he was told, and
passed the bottle.

'I should never forgive myself were I to deceive you, or keep anything
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 shall
be my wife--sooner or later, that is, unless, of course, she should
utterly refuse.  Hitherto, she has utterly refused me.  I believe I may
now say that she has accepted me.'

The squire sipped his claret, but at the moment said nothing. There was
a quiet, manly, but yet modest determination about his son that he had
hardly noticed before.  Frank had become legally of age, legally a man,
when he was twenty-one.  Nature, it seems, had postponed the ceremony
till he was twenty-two.  Nature often does postpone 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 the matter
a while before he could answer a statement so deliberately made by his
son.

'I think I may say so,' continued Frank, with perhaps unnecessary
modesty.  'She is so honest that, had she not intended it, she would
have said so honestly.  Am I right, father, in thinking that, as
regards Mary, personally, you would not reject her as a
daughter-in-law?'

'Personally!' said the squire, glad to have the subject presented to
him in a view that enabled him to speak out.  'Oh, no; personally, I
should 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 liked
her; liked to see her about the house.  But--'

'I know what you would say, father.'  This was rather more than the
squire knew himself.  'Such a marriage is imprudent.'

'It is more than that, Frank; I fear that is impossible.'

'Impossible!  No, father; it is not impossible.'

'It is impossible, Frank, in the usual sense.  What are you to live
upon?  What would you do with your children?  You would not wish to see
your 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 it as a
ruined man.  If you were now to marry Miss Thorne such would, I fear,
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 I
certainly cannot go back.  And now that I have told you all this, what
is your advice to me?'

The father again sat silent, still sipping his wine.  There was nothing
in his son that he could be ashamed of, nothing that he could meet with
anger, nothing that he could not love; but how should he answer him? 
The fact was, that the son had more in him than the father; this his
mind and spirit were of a calibre not to be opposed successfully by the
mind and the spirit of the squire.

'Do you know Mary's history?' said Mr Gresham, at last; 'the history of
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 know it
now. And, Frank, I will tell it you; not to turn you from her--not with
that object, though I think that, to a certain extent, it should have
that effect. Mary's birth was not such that would become your wife, and
be beneficial to your children.'

'If so, father, I should have known it sooner.  Why was she brought
here among us?'

'True, Frank.  The fault is mine; mine and your mother's.  
Circumstances brought it all about years ago, when it never occurred to
us 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 to be
kept from all the world but one, you are quite at liberty to let the
doctor know I have told you.  Indeed, I shall be careful to let him
know myself should it ever be necessary that he and I should speak 
together as to this engagement.'  The squire then told his son the
whole story of Mary's birth, as it is known to the reader.

Frank sat silent, looking very blank; he also had, as had every
Gresham, a great love for his pure blood.  He had said to his mother
that he hated money, that he hated the estate; but he would have been
very slow to say, even in his warmest opposition to her, that he hated
the roll of the family pedigree.  He loved it dearly, though he seldom
spoke of it;--as men of good family seldom do speak of it.  It is one
of those possessions which to have is sufficient.  A man having it 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 a cutting duly
taken from the Ullathorne tree; not, indeed, as a grafting branch, full
of flower, just separated from the parent stalk, but as being not a
whit the less truly endowed with the pure sap of that venerable trunk. 
When, therefore, he heard her true history he sat awhile dismayed.

'It is a sad story,' said the father.

'Yes, sad enough,' said Frank, rising from his chair and standing with
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 by
the very sigh, 'it could have had no effect had I learned it ever so
soon.'

'I should have told you before,' said the father; 'certainly I ought to
have done so.'

'It would have been no good,' said Frank.  'Ah, sir, tell me this: who
were Miss Dunstable's parents?  What was that fellow Moffat's family?'

This was perhaps cruel of Frank.  The squire, however, made no answer
to the question.  'I have thought it right to tell you,' said he.  'I
leave all the commentary to yourself.  I need not tell you what your
mother will think.'

'What did she think of miss Dunstable's birth?' said he, again more
bitterly 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 my
love less, even if it could have prevented it. Nor, even, could it do
so--which it can't in the least, not in the least--but could it do so,
it could not break my engagement. I am now engaged to Mary Thorne.'

And then he again repeated his question, asking for his father's advice
under the present circumstances.  The conversation was a very long one,
as long as to disarrange all Lady Arabella's plans.  She had determined
to take her son more stringently to task that very evening; and with
this object had ensconced herself in the small drawing-room which had
formerly been used for a similar purpose by the august countess
herself. Here she now sat, having desired Augusta and Beatrice, as well
as the twins, to beg Frank to go to her as soon as he should come out
of the dining-room.  Poor lady! there she waited till ten
o'clock,--tealess.  There was not much of the Bluebeard about the
squire; but he had succeeded in making it understood through the
household that he was not to be interrupted by messages from his wife
during the post-prandial hour, which, though no toper, he loved so
well.

As a period of twelve months will now have to be passed over, the
upshot of this long conversation must be told in as few words as
possible.  The father found it impracticable to talk his son out of his
intended marriage; indeed, he hardly attempted to do so by any direct
persuasion.  He explained to him that it was impossible that he should
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 be her
uncle's wishes, and ended by inducing Frank to promise, that after
taking his degree in October he would go abroad for some months, and
that he would not indeed return to Greshamsbury until he was
three-and-twenty.

'He may perhaps forget her,' said the father to himself.

'He thinks that I shall forget her,' said Frank to himself at the same
time; 'but he does not know me.'

When Lady Arabella at last got hold of her son she found that the time
for her preaching had utterly gone by.  He told he, almost with
sang-froid, what his plans were; and when she came to understand them,
and to understand also what had taken place at Boxall Hill, she could
not blame the squire for what he had done.  She also said to herself,
more confidently than the squire had done, that Frank would quite 
forget Mary before the year was out.  'Lord Buckish,' said she to
herself, rejoicingly, 'is now with the ambassador at Paris'--Lord
Buckish was her nephew--'and with him Frank will meet women that are
really beautiful--women of fashion.  When with Lord Buckish he will 
soon forget Mary Thorne.'

But not on this account did she change her resolve to follow up to the
furthest point her hostility to the Thornes.  She was fully enabled now
to do so, for Dr Fillgrave was already reinstated at Greshamsbury as
her medical adviser.

One other short visit did Frank pay to Boxall Hill, and one interview
had he with Dr Thorne.  Mary told him all she knew of her own sad
history, and was answered only by a kiss,--a kiss absolutely not in any
way by her to be avoided; the first, and only one, that had ever yet
reached her lips from his.  And then he went away.

The doctor told him the full story.  'Yes,' said Frank, 'I knew it all
before.  Dear Mary, dearest Mary!  Don't you, doctor, teach yourself to
believe that I shall forget her.'  And then also he went his way from
him--went his way also from Greshamsbury, and was absent for the full
period of the allotted banishment--twelve months, namely, and a day.



CHAPTER XXXI

THE SMALL EDGE OF THE WEDGE

Frank Gresham was absent from Greshamsbury twelve months and a day: a
day is always added to the period of such absences, as shown in the
history of Lord Bateman and other noble heroes.  We need not detail all
the circumstances of his banishment, all the details of the compact
that was made.  One detail of course was this, that there should be no 
corresponding; a point to which the squire found some difficulty in
bringing his son to assent.

It must not be supposed that Mary Thorne or the doctor were in any way
parties to, or privy to these agreements.  By no means. The agreements
were drawn out, and made, and signed, and sealed at Greshamsbury, and
were known nowhere else.  The reader must not imagine that Lady
Arabella was prepared to give up her son, if only his love could remain
constant for one year.  Neither did Lady Arabella consent to any such 
arrangement, nor did the squire.  It was settled rather in this wise:
that Frank should be subjected to no torturing process, pestered to
give no promises, should in no way be bullied about Mary--that is, not
at present--if he would go away for a year.  Then, at the end of the
year, the matter should again be discussed.  Agreeing to this, Frank
took his departure, and was absent as per agreement.

What were Mary's fortunes immediately after his departure must be
shortly told, and then we will again join some of our Greshamsbury
friends at a period about a month before Frank's return.

When Sir Louis saw Frank Gresham standing by Mary's donkey, with his
arms round Mary's knees, he began to fear that there must be something
in it.  He had intended that very day to throw himself at Mary's feet,
and now it appeared to his inexperienced eyes as though somebody else
had been at the same work before him.  This not unnaturally made him
cross; so, after having sullenly wished his visitor good-bye, he betook
himself to his room, and there drank curacoa 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 many advantages over young Gresham. 
In the first place, he was a baronet, and could make his wife a
'lady'.  In the next place, Frank's father was alive and like to live,
whereas his own was dead. He possessed Boxall Hill in his own right,
but his rival had neither house nor land of his own.  After all, might
it not be possible for him also to put his arm round Mary'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 be
told.  He certainly did not get nearly so far as putting his hand even
upon her knee before he was made to understand that it 'was no go', as
he graphically described it to his mother. He tried once and again.  On
the first time Mary was very civil, though very determined.  On the
second, she was more determined, though less civil; and then she told 
him, that if he pressed her further he would drive her from her
mother's house.  There was something then about Mary's eye, a fixed
composure round her mouth, and an authority in her face, which went far
to quell him; and he did not press her again.

He immediately left Boxall Hill, and, returning to London, had more
violent recourse to the curacoa.  It was not long before the doctor
heard of him, and was obliged to follow him, and then again occurred
those 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 she
therefore could resume her place at Greshamsbury.  Yes, she came back
to Greshamsbury; but Greshamsbury was by no means the same place that
it was formerly.  Almost all intercourse was now over between the
doctor and the Greshamsbury people.  He rarely ever saw the squire, and
then only on business.  Not that the squire had purposely quarrelled
with him; but Dr Thorne himself had chosen that it should be so, since
Frank had openly proposed to his niece.  Frank was now gone, and Lady
Arabella was in arms against him.  It should not be said that he kept
up any intimacy for the sake of aiding the lovers in their love.  No
one should rightfully accuse him of inveigling the heir to marry his 
niece.

Mary, therefore, found herself utterly separated from Beatrice. She was
not even able to learn what Beatrice would think, or did think, of the
engagement as it now stood.  She could not even explain to her friend
that love had been too strong for her, and endeavour to get some
comfort from that friend's absolution from her sin.  This estrangement
was now carried so far that she and Beatrice did not even meet on 
neutral ground. Lady Arabella made it known to Miss Oriel that her
daughter could not meet Mary Thorne, even as strangers meet; and it was
made known to others also.  Mrs Yates Umbleby, and her dear friend Miss
Gushing, to whose charming tea-parties none of the Greshamsbury ladies
went above once in a twelvemonth, talked through the parish of this
distressing difficulty.  They would have been so happy to have asked
dear Mary Thorne, only the Greshamsbury ladies did not approve.

Mary was thus tabooed from all society in the place in which a
twelvemonth since she had been, of all its denizens, perhaps the most
courted.  In those days, no bevy of Greshamsbury young ladies had
fairly represented the Greshamsbury young ladyhood if Mary Thorne was
not there.  Now she was excluded from all such bevies.  Patience did
not quarrel with her, certainly;--came to see her frequently;--invited
her to walk;--invited her frequently to the parsonage. But Mary was shy
of acceding to such invitations and at last frankly told her friend
Patience, that she would not again break bread in Greshamsbury in any
house in which she was not thought fit to meet the other guests who
habitually resorted there.

In truth, both the doctor and his niece were very sore, but there were
of that temperament that keeps all its soreness to itself.  Mary walked
out by herself boldly, looking at least as though she were indifferent
to all the world.  She was, indeed, hardly treated.  Young ladies'
engagements are generally matters of profoundest secrecy, and are
hardly known of by their near friends till marriage is a thing 
settled.  But all the world knew of Mary's engagement within a month of
that day on which she had neglected to expel Frank's finger from her
hand; it had been told openly through the country-side that she had
confessed her love for the young squire.  Now it is disagreeable for a
young lady to walk about under such circumstances, especially so when
she has no female friend to keep her in countenance, more especially so
when the gentleman is such importance in the neighbourhood as Frank was
in that locality.  It was a matter of moment to every farmer, and every
farmer's wife, which bride Frank should marry of those bespoken for
him; Mary, namely, or Money.  Every yokel about the place had been made
to understand that, by some feminine sleight of hand, the doctor's
niece had managed to trap Master Frank, and that Master Frank had been
sent out of the way so that he might, if yet possible, break through
the trapping.  All this made life rather unpleasant for her.

One day, walking solitary in the lanes, she met that sturdy farmer to
whose daughter she had in former days been so serviceable.  'God bless
'ee, Miss Mary,' said he--he always bid God bless her when he saw her. 
'And, Miss Mary, to say my mind out freely, thee be quite gude enough
for un, quite gude enough; so thee be'st tho'f he were ten squoires.'  
There may, perhaps, have been something pleasant in the heartiness of
this; but it was not pleasant to have this heart affair of hers thus
publicly scanned and talked over: to have it known to every one that
she had set her heart on marrying Frank gem, and that all the Greshams
had set their hearts in preventing it.  And yet she could in nowise
help it.  No girl could have been more staid and demure, less 
demonstrative and boastful about her love.  She had never yet 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 it
should be known, far and wide, that a nameless pauper--Lady Arabella
only surmised that her foe was nameless; but she did not scruple to
declare it--was intriguing to catch the heir of Greshamsbury.  None of
the Greshams must meet Mary Thorne; that was the edict sent out about
the county; and the edict was well understood.  Those, therefore, were 
bad days for Miss Thorne.

She had never yet spoken on the matter freely, out of her full heart to
one human being.  Not to one?  Not to him?  Not to her uncle?  No, not
even to him, fully and freely.  She had told him that that had passed
between Frank and her which amounted, at any rate on his part, to a
proposal.

'Well, dearest, and what was your answer?' said her uncle, drawing her
close to him, and speaking in his kindest voice.

'I hardly made an answer, uncle.'

'You did not reject him, Mary?'

'No, uncle,' and then she paused;--he had never known her tremble as 
she 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 answer
yourself.'

'Must I?' said she, plaintively.  And then she sat for the next half
hour with her head against his shoulder; but nothing more was said
about it.  They both acquiesced in the sentence that had been
pronounced against them, and went on together more lovingly than
before.

The doctor was quite as weak as his niece; nay, weaker.  She hesitated
fearfully as to what she ought to do: whether she should obey her heart
or the dictates of Greshamsbury.  But he had other doubts than hers,
which nearly set him wild when he strove to bring his mind to a
decision.  He himself was now in possession--of course as a trustee
only--of the title-deeds of the estate; more of the estate, much more,
belonged to the heirs under Sir Roger Scatcherd's will than to the 
squire.  It was now more than probable that that heir must be Mary
Thorne. His conviction became stronger and stronger that no human
effort would keep Sir Louis in the land of the living till he was
twenty-five.  Could he, therefore, wisely or honestly, in true
friendship to the squire, to Frank, or to his niece, take any steps to
separate two persons who loved each other, and whose marriage would in
human probability be so suitable?

And yet he could not bring himself to encourage it then.  The idea of
'looking after dead man's shoes' was abhorrent to his mind, especially
when the man whose death he contemplated had been so trusted to him as
had been Sir Louis Scatcherd.  He could not speak of the event, even to
the squire, as being possible.  So he kept his peace from day to day,
and gave no counsel to Mary in the matter.

And then he had his own individual annoyances, and very aggravating
annoyances they were.  The carriage--or rather the post-chaise--of Dr
Fillgrave was now frequent in Greshamsbury, passing him constantly in
the street, among the lanes, and on the high roads.  It seemed as
though Dr Fillgrave could never get to his patients at the big house
without showing himself to his beaten rival, either on is way thither
or on his return.  This alone would, perhaps, not have hurt the doctor 
much; but it did hurt him to know that Dr Fillgrave was attending the
squire for a little incipient gout, and that dear Nina was in measles
under those unloving hands.

And then, also, the old-fashioned phaeton, of old-fashioned old Dr
Century was seen to rumble up to the big house, and it became known
that Lady Arabella was not very well.  'Not very well,' when pronounced
in a low, grave voice about Lady Arabella, always meant something
serious.  And, in this case, something serious was meant.  Lady
Arabella was not only ill, but frightened.  It appeared even to her,
that Dr Fillgrave hardly knew what he was about, that he was not so
sure in his opinion, so confident in himself as Dr Thorne used to be.  
how should he be, seeing that Dr Thorne had medically had Lady Arabella
in his hands for the last ten years?

If sitting with dignity in his hired carriage, and stepping with
authority up the big front steps, would have done anything, Dr
Fillgrave might have done much.  Lady Arabella was greatly taken with
his looks when he first came to her, and it was only when she by
degrees that the symptoms, which she knew so well, did not yield to him
that she began to doubt those looks.

After a while Dr Fillgrave himself suggested Dr Century.  'Not that I
fear anything, Lady Arabella,' said he,--lying hugely, for he did fear;
fear both for himself and for her.  'But Dr Century has great
experience, and in such a matter, when the interests are so important,
one cannot be too safe.'

So Dr Century came and toddled slowly into her ladyship's room. He did
not say much; he left the talking to his learned brother, who certainly
was able to do that part of the business.  But Dr Century, though he
said very little, looked very grave, and by no means quieted Lady
Arabella's mind.  She, as she saw the two putting their heads together,
already had misgivings that she had done wrong.  She knew that she 
could not be safe without Dr Thorne at her bedside, and she already
felt that she had exercised a most injudicious courage in driving him
away.

'Well, doctor?' said she, as soon as Dr Century had toddled downstairs
to see the squire.

'Oh!  we shall be all right, Lady Arabella; all right, very soon.  But
we must be careful, very careful; I am glad I've had Dr Century here,
very; but there's nothing to alter; little or nothing.'

There was but few words spoken between Dr Century and the squire; but
few as they were, they frightened Mr Gresham.  When Dr Fillgrave came
down the grand stairs, a servant waited at the bottom to ask him also
to go to the squire.  Now there never had been much cordiality between
the squire and Dr Fillgrave, though Mr Gresham had consented to take a 
preventative pill from his hands, and the little man therefore swelled
himself out somewhat more than ordinarily as he followed 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 I may
be justified in expressing a hope that she is not in danger.  Her state
is, no doubt, rather serious;--rather serious--as Dr Century has
probably told you;' and Dr Fillgrave made a bow to the old man, who sat
quiet in one of the dining-room arm-chairs.

'Well, doctor,' said the squire, 'I have not any grounds on which to
doubt your judgement.'

Dr Fillgrave bowed, but with the stiffest, slightest inclination which
a head could possibly make.  He rather thought that Mr Gresham had 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 then
decorously rubbed his hands one over the other.

'I am afraid, Dr Fillgrave, that you and my friend Thorne are not the
best 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 been
circumstances--'

'I am not going to discuss anything, Dr Fillgrave; I say I am sorry for
it, because I believe that prudence will imperatively require Lady
Arabella to have Doctor Thorne back again.  Now, if you would not
object to meet him--'

'Mr Gresham, I beg pardon; I beg pardon, indeed; but you must really
excuse 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 most happy
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, Mr Gresham,'
continued the doctor, 'I did understand from Lady Arabella that
his--that is, Dr Thorne's--conduct to her ladyship had been such--so
very outrageous, I may say, that--that--that--of course, Mr Gresham, you
know best; but I did think that Lady Arabella herself was quite
unwilling to see Doctor Thorne again;' and Dr Fillgrave looked very big,
and very dignified, and very exclusive.

The squire did not ask again.  He had no warrant for supposing that
Lady Arabella would receive Dr Thorne if he did come; and he saw that
it was useless to attempt to overcome the rancour of the man so
pig-headed as the little Galen now before him.  Other propositions were
then broached, and it was at last decided that assistance should be
sought for from London, in the person of the great Sir Omicron Pie.

Sir Omicron came, and Drs Fillgrave and Century were there to meet
him.  When they all assembled in Lady Arabella's room, the poor woman's
heart almost sand within her,--as well it might, at such a sight.  If
she could only reconcile it with her honour, her consistency, with her
high De Courcy principles, to send once more for Dr Thorne.  Oh,
Frank!  Frank!  to what misery your disobedience brought 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 Fillgrave is
a very good man, and so is Dr Century; very good, I'm sure.  But Thorne
has known her ladyship so long.'  And then, on the following morning,
Sir Omicron also went his way.

And then there was a scene between the squire and her ladyship. Lady
Arabella had given herself credit for great good generalship when she
found that the squire had been induced to take that pill.  We have all
heard of the little end of the wedge, and we have most of us an idea
that the little end is the difficulty.  That pill had been the little 
end of Lady Arabella's wedge.  Up to that period she had been 
struggling in vain to make a severance between her husband and her
enemy.  That pill should do the business.  She well knew how to make
the most of it; to have it published in Greshamsbury that the squire
had put his gouty toe into Dr Fillgrave's hands; how to let it be
known--especially at that humble house in the corner of the street--that
Fillgrave's prescriptions now ran current through the whole 
establishment.  Dr Thorne did hear of it, and did suffer.  He had been
a true friend to the squire, and he thought the squire should have
stood to him more staunchly.

'After all,' said he himself, 'perhaps it's as well--perhaps it will be
best that I should leave this place altogether.'  And then he thought
of Sir Roger and his will, and of Mary and her lover.  And then of
Mary's birth, and of his own theoretical doctrines as to pure blood. 
And so his troubles multiplied, and he saw no present daylight through
them.

Such had been the way in which Lady Arabella had got in the little end
of the wedge.  And she would have triumphed joyfully had not her
increased doubts and fears as to herself then come in to check her
triumph and destroy her joy.  She had not yet confessed to any one her
secret regret for the friend she had driven away.  She hardly yet
acknowledged 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 to
tell 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 good
news:' the squire never called his wife Bell, except when he wanted her
to be on particularly good terms with him.

'Well?' she said again.  She was not over-anxious to be gracious, and
did not reciprocate his familiarity.

'Sir Omicron says that you should have Thorne back again, and upon my
honour, I cannot but agree with him.  Now, Thorne is a clever man, a
very 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 damped
by her husband's advocacy.

'I suppose he thought it better to say it to me,' said the squire.

'He should have spoken to myself,' said Lady Arabella, who, though she
did not absolutely doubt her husband's word, gave him credit for having
induced and led on Sir Omicron to the uttering of the opinion.  'Doctor
Thorne has behaved to me in so gross, so indecent a manner!  And then,
as I understand, he is absolutely encouraging that girl--'

'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 an acquaintance,
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 one
looks upon him as one's worst enemy?' And Lady Arabella, softening,
almost melted with 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 not very
eloquent expression of thanks for the squire's solicitude, or as an
ironical jeer at his want of sincerity.

'And, therefore, I have not lost a moment in telling you what Sir
Omicron said.  "You should have Thorne back here;" those were his very
words.  You can think it over, my dear.  And remember this, Bell; if he
is to do any good no time is to 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 do it--introduce
a new character to my reader.  Mention has been made of the rectory of
Greshamsbury; but, hitherto, no opportunity has offered itself for the
Rev Caleb Oriel to come upon the boards.

Mr Oriel was a man of family and fortune, who, having gone to Oxford
with the usual views of such men, had become inoculated there with very
High-Church principles, and had gone into orders influenced by a
feeling of enthusiastic love for the priesthood.  He was by no means an
ascetic--such men, indeed, seldom are--nor was he a devotee.  He was a
man well able, and certainly willing to do the work of a parish 
clergyman; and when he became one, he was efficacious in his 
profession.  But it may perhaps be said of him, without speaking
slanderously, that his original calling, as a young man, was rather to
the outward and visible signs of religion than to its inward and
spiritual graces.

He delighted in lecterns and credence-tables, in services at dark hours
of winter mornings when no one would attend, in high waistcoats and
narrow white neckties, in chanted services and intoned prayers, and in
all the paraphernalia of Anglican formalities which have given such
offence to those of our brethren who live in daily fear of the scarlet
lady.  Many of his friends declared that Mr Oriel would sooner or later
deliver himself over body and soul to that lady; but there was no need
to fear for him: for though sufficiently enthusiastic to get out of bed
at five am on winter mornings--he did so, at least, all through his
first winter at Greshamsbury--he was not made of that stuff which is
necessary for a staunch, burning, self-denying convert.  It was not in 
him to change his very sleek black coat for a Capuchin's filthy
cassock, nor his pleasant parsonage for some dirty hole in Rome.  And
it was better so both for him and others. There are but 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 a false 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 him as a
priest to do so.  He fasted rigorously on Fridays; and the neighbours
declared that he scourged himself.

Mr Oriel was, 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 he took
it into his head to go into the Church, his friends bought for him the
next presentation to the living at Greshamsbury; and, a year after his
ordination, the living falling in, Mr Oriel brought himself and his
sister to the rectory.

Mr Oriel soon became popular.  He was a dark-haired, good-looking man,
of polished manners, agreeable in society, not given to monkish
austerities--except in the matter of Fridays--nor yet to the Low-Church
severity of demeanour.  He was thoroughly a gentleman, good-humoured,
inoffensive, and sociable.  But he had one fault: he was not a marrying
man.

On this ground there was a feeling against him so strong as almost at
one time to throw him into serious danger.  It was not only that he
should be sworn against matrimony in his individual self--he whom fate
had made so able to sustain the weight of a wife and family; but what
an example he was setting!  If other clergymen all around should
declare against wives and families, what was to become of the country? 
What was to be done in the rural districts?  The religious observances,
as regards women, of a Brigham Young were hardly so bad as this!

There were around Greshamsbury very many unmarried ladies--I believe
there generally are so round must such villages.  From the great house
he did not receive much annoyance.  Beatrice was then only just on the
verge of being brought out, and was not perhaps inclined to think very
much of a young clergyman; and Augusta certainly intended to fly at 
higher game.  But there were the Miss Athelings, the daughters of a
neighbouring clergyman, who were ready to go all lengths with him in
High-Church matters, except as that one tremendously papal step of
celibacy; and the two Miss Hesterwells, of Hesterwell Park, the younger
of whom boldly declared her purpose of civilizing 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, and who declared
her opinion that Mr Oriel was quite right in his view of a clergyman's
position.  How could a woman, situated as she was, have the comfort of
a clergyman's attention if he were to be regarded just as any other
man?  She could now know in what light to regard Mr Oriel, and would be
able without scruple to avail herself of his zeal.  So she did avail
herself of his zeal,--and that without any scruple.

And then there was Miss Gushing,--a young thing.  Miss Gushing had a
great advantage over the other competitors for the civilization of Mr
Oriel, namely, in this--that she was able to attend his morning
services.  If Mr Oriel was to be reached in any way, it was probable
that he might be reached in this way. If anything could civilize him,
this would do it.  Therefore, the young thing, through all one long, 
tedious winter, tore herself from her warm bed, and was to be seen--no,
not seen, but heard--entering Mr Oriel's church at six o'clock.  With
indefatigable assiduity the responses were made, uttered from under a
close bonnet, and out of a dark corner, in an enthusiastically feminine
voice, through the whole winter.

Nor did Miss Gushing altogether fail in her object.  When a clergyman's
daily audience consists of but one person, and that person is a young
lady, it is hardly possible that he should not become personally
intimate with her; hardly possible that he should not be in some
measure grateful.  Miss Gushing's responses came from her with such
fervour, and she begged for ghostly advice with such eager longing to
have her scruples satisfied, that Mr Oriel had nothing for it but to
give way to a certain amount of civilization.

By degrees it came to pass that Miss Gushing could never get her final
prayer said, her shawl and boa adjusted, and stow away her nice new
Prayer Book with the red letters inside, and the cross on the back,
till Mr Oriel had been into his vestry and got rid of his surplice. And
then they met at the church-porch, and naturally walked together till
Mr Oriel's cruel gateway separated them.  The young thing did sometimes
think that, as the parson's civilization progressed, he might have
taken the trouble to walk with her as far as Mrs Yates Umbleby's hall
door; but she had hope to sustain her, and a firm resolve to merit 
success, even though she might not attain it.

'It is not ten thousand pities,' she once said to him, 'that none here
should avail themselves of the inestimable privilege which your coming
has conferred upon us?  Oh, Mr Oriel, I do so wonder at it!  To me it
is so delightful!  The morning service in the dark church is so
beautiful, so touching!'

'I suppose they think it a bore getting up so early,' said Mr Oriel.

'Ah, a bore!' said Miss Gushing, in an enthusiastic tone of 
depreciation.  'How insensate they must be!  To me it gives a new charm
to life.  It quiets one for the day; makes one so fitter for one'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 same
time.  I spoke to Mrs Umbleby about it, but she said she could not
leave the children.'

'No: I dare say not,' said Mr Oriel.

'And Mr Umbleby said 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 in church.'

'Oh, ah, no; perhaps not.'  And then Miss Gushing began to bethink
herself of whom should be composed the congregation which it must be
presumed that Mr Oriel wished to see around him.  But on this matter he
did not enlighten her.

Then Miss Gushing took to fasting on Fridays, and made some futile
attempts to induce her priest to give her the comfort of confessional
absolution.  But, unfortunately, the zeal of the  master waxed cool as
that of the pupil waxed hot; and, at last, when the young thing
returned to Greshamsbury from an autumn excursion which she made with
Mrs Umbleby to Weston-super-Mare, she found that the delicious morning 
services had died a natural death.  Miss Gushing did not on that
account give up the game, but she was bound to fight with no particular
advantage in her favour.

Miss Oriel, though a good Churchwoman, was by no means a convert to her
brother's extremist views, and perhaps gave but scanty credit to the
Gushings, Athelings, and Opie Greens for the sincerity of their
religion.  But, nevertheless, she and her brother were staunch friends;
and she still hoped to see the day when he might be induced to think
that an English parson might get through his parish work with the
assistance of a wife better than he could do without such feminine 
encumbrance.  The girl whom she selected for his bride was not the
young thing, but Beatrice Gresham.

And at last it seemed probable to Mr Oriel's nearest friends that he
was in a fair way to be overcome.  Not that he had begun to make love
to Beatrice, or committed himself by the utterance of any opinion as to
the propriety of clerical marriages; but he daily became looser about
his peculiar tenets, raved less immoderately than heretofore as to the 
atrocity of the Greshamsbury church pews, and was observed to take some
opportunities of conversing alone with Beatrice.  Beatrice had always
denied the imputation--this had usually been  made by Mary in their
happy days--with the vehement asseverations of anger; and Miss Gushing
had tittered, and expressed herself as supposing that great people's
daughters might be as barefaced as they pleased.

All this had happened previous to the great Greshamsbury feud. Mr Oriel
gradually got himself into a way of sauntering up to the great house,
sauntering into the drawing-room for the purpose, as I am sure he
thought, of talking with Lady Arabella, and then of sauntering home
again, having usually found an opportunity for saying a few words to
Beatrice during the visit.  This went on all through the feud up to the
period of Lady Arabella's illness; and then one morning, about a month
before the date fixed for Frank's return, Mr Oriel found himself
engaged to Miss Beatrice Gresham.

From the day that Miss Gushing heard of it--which was not however for
some considerable time after this--she became an Independent Methodist. 
She could no longer, she said at first, have any faith in any religion;
and for an hour or so she was almost tempted to swear that she could no
longer have any faith in any man.  She had nearly completed a worked 
cover for a credence-table when the news reached her, as to which, in
the young enthusiasm of her heart, she had not been able to remain
silent; it had already been promised to Mr Oriel; that promise she
swore should not be kept.  He was an apostate, she said, from his
principles; an utter pervert; a false, designing man, with whom she
would never have trusted herself alone on dark mornings had she known
that he had such grovelling, worldly inclinations.  So Miss Gushing
became an Independent Methodist; the credence-table covering was cut up
into slippers for the preacher's feet; and the young thing herself,
more happy in this direction than she had been in the other, became the
arbiter of that preacher's domestic happiness.

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 time informed of
the matter.  It was arranged very differently from those other two
matches--embryo, or not embryo, those, namely, of Augusta with Mr 
Moffat, and Frank with Mary Thorne.  All Barsetshire had heard of them;
but that of Beatrice and Mr Oriel was managed in a much more private
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 thinks
of himself, and thinks so much of those he loves.'

Beatrice took her friend's hand in her own and kissed it.  She was full
of joy.  When a girl is about to be married, when she may lawfully talk
of love, there is no music in her ears so sweet as the 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 there were
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 is very pretty,' said Beatrice, who could afford to be
good-natured.  Now Miss Gushing certainly was pretty; and would have
been very pretty had her nose not turned up so much, and could she have
parted her hair in the centre.

'Well, I am very glad you chose me;--if it was you who chose,' said
Beatrice, modestly; having, however, in her own mind a strong opinion
that Mr Oriel had chosen for himself, and had never any doubt in the
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 of
course 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 never have
liked her well enough nor would she have ever 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 loved her
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 to her.  Tell
that I will have her for my bridesmaid.  Oh!   I do hope that before
that all this horrid quarrel will be settled.

Patience undertook the commission, and did tell Mary; did give her also
the message which Beatrice had sent.  And Mary was rejoiced to hear it;
for though, as Patience had said of her, she had never herself felt any
inclination to fall in love with Mr Oriel, she believed him to be one
in whose hands her friend's happiness would be secure.  Then, by
degrees, the conversation changed from the loves of Mr Oriel and
Beatrice to the troubles of Frank Gresham and herself.

'She says that let what will happen you shall be one of her 
bridesmaids.'

'Ah, yes, dear Trichy!  that was settled between us in auld lang syne;
but those settlements are all unsettled now, and must be broken.  No, I
cannot be her bridesmaid; but I shall yet hope to see her once before
her marriage.'

'And why not be her bridesmaid?  Lady Arabella will hardly object to
that.'

'Lady Arabella!' said Mary, curling up her lip with deep scorn. 'I do
not care that for Lady Arabella,' and she let her silver thimble fall
from her fingers onto the table.  'If Beatrice invited me to her
wedding, she might manage as to that; I should ask no question as to
Lady Arabella.'

'Then why not come to it?'

She remained silent for a while, and then boldly answered.  'Though I
do not care for Lady Arabella, I do care for Mr Gresham:--and I do care
for his son.'

'But the squire always loved you.'

'Yes, and therefore I will not be there to vex his sight.  I will tell
you the truth, Patience.  I can never be in that house again till Frank
Gresham is a married man, or till I am about to be a married woman.  I
do not think they have treated me well, but I will not treat them 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 of
their fetes!  No, Patience.'  And then she turned her head to the arm
of the sofa, and silently, without audible sobs, hiding her face, she
endeavoured to get rid of the tears unseen.  For one moment she had all
but resolved to pour out the whole truth of her love into her friend's
ears; but suddenly she changed her mind.  Why should she talk of her
own unhappiness?  Why should she speak of her own love when she was
fully determined not to speak of Frank's promises.

'Mary, dear Mary.'

'Anything, but pity, Patience; anything but that,' said she, 
convulsively, swallowing her sobs, and rubbing away her tears. 'I
cannot bear that.  Tell Beatrice from me, that I wish her every
happiness; and, with such a husband, I am sure she will be happy.  I
wish her every joy; give her my kindest love; but tell her that I
cannot be at her marriage.  Oh, I should like to see her; not there,
you know, 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, you
know.'

'Now, or this day twelvemonth, can make no difference.  I will not go
into that house again, unless--but never mind; I will not go into it
all; never, never again.  If I could forgive her for myself, I could
not forgive her for my uncle. But tell me, Patience, might not Beatrice
now come here?  It is so dreadful to see her every Sunday in church
and never to speak to her, never to kiss her.  She seems to look 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 would
not advise Beatrice to come without telling her mother; but she could
not think that Lady Arabella would be so cruel as to make any
objection, 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 to
comfort 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, so
determined to take all the punishment that comes in your way.'

'What I do take, I'll take without complaint,' said Mary; and then they
kissed each other and parted.



CHAPTER XXXIII

A MORNING VISIT

It must be remembered that Mary, among her miseries, had to suffer
this: that since Frank's departure, now nearly twelve months ago, she
had not heard a word about him; or rather, she had only heard that he
was very much in love with some lady in London.  This news reached her
in a manner so circuitous, and from such a doubtful source; it seemed
to her to savour so strongly of Lady Arabella's precautions, that she
attributed it at once to malice, and blew it to the winds.  It might
not improbably be the case that Frank was untrue to her; but she would
not take it for granted because she was now told so.  It was more than
probable that he should amuse himself with some one; flirting was his 
prevailing sin; and if he did flirt, the most would of course be made
of it.

But she found it to be very desolate to be thus left alone without a
word of comfort or a word of love; without being able to speak to any
one of what filled her heart; doubting, nay, more than doubting, being
all but sure that her passion must terminate in misery.  Why had she
not obeyed her conscience and her better instinct int hat moment when
the necessity for deciding had come upon her?  Why had she allowed him
to understand that he was master of her heart?  Did she not know that
there was everything against such a marriage as that which was
proposed?  Had she not done wrong, very wrong, even to think of it? Had
she not sinned deeply, against Mr Gresham, who had ever been so kind to
her?  Could she hope, was it possible, that a boy like Frank should be 
true to his first love?  And, if he were true, if he were ready to go
to the altar with her to-morrow, ought she to allow him to degrade
himself by such a marriage?

There was, alas!  some truth about the London lady.  Frank had taken
his degree, as arranged, and had then gone abroad for the winter, doing
the fashionable things, going up the Nile, crossing over to Mount
Sinai, thence over the long desert to Jerusalem, and home by Damascus,
Beyrout, and Constantinople, bringing back a long beard, a red cap, and
a chibook, just as our fathers used to go through Italy and 
Switzerland, and our grandfathers to spend a season in Paris. He had
then remained for a couple of months in London, going through all the
society which the De Courcys were able to open to him.  And it was true
that a certain belle of the season, of that season and some others, had
been captivated--for the tenth time--by the silken sheens of his long
beard.  Frank had probably been more demonstrative, perhaps, ever more
susceptible, than he should have been; and hence the rumour, which had
all too willingly been forwarded to Greshamsbury.

But young Gresham had also met another lady in London, namely Miss
Dunstable.  Mary would indeed have been grateful to Miss Dunstable,
could she have know all that lady did for her.  Frank's love was never
allowed to flag.  When he spoke of the difficulties in his way, she
twitted him by being overcome by straws; and told him that no one was
ever worth having who was afraid of every lion he met in his path. 
When he spoke of money, she bade him earn it; and always ended by
offering to smooth for him any real difficulty which want of means 
might put in his way.

'No,' Frank used to say to himself, when these offers were made, 'I
never intended to take her and her money together; and, therefore, I
certainly will never take the money alone.'

A day or two after Miss Oriel's visit, Mary received the following note
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
twelfth. Mr Oriel wants the wedding to be on the first 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'

Though Mary was delighted at the idea of once more having her friend in
her arms, there was, nevertheless, something in the letter which
oppressed her. She could not put up with the idea that Beatrice should
have permission given to come to her--just for once. She hardly wished
to be seen by permission. Nevertheless, she did not refuse the proffered
visit, and the first sight of Beatrice's face, the first touch of the
first embrace, dissipated for the moment her anger.

And then Beatrice fully enjoyed the delicious talk which she had
promised herself. Mary let her have her way, and for two hours all the
delights and all the duties, all the comforts and all the
responsibilities of a parson's wife were discussed with almost equal
ardour on both sides. The duties and responsibilities were not exactly
those which too often fall to the lot of the mistress of an English
vicarage. Beatrice was not doomed to make her husband comfortable, to
educate her children, dress herself like a lady, and exercise
open-handed charity on an income of two hundred pounds a year. Her
duties and responsibilities would have to spread themselves over seven
or eight times that amount of worldly burden. Living also close to
Greshamsbury, and not far from Courcy Castle, she would have the full
advantage and all the privileges of county society. In fact, it was all
couleur de rose, and so she chatted deliciously with her friend.

But it was impossible that they should separate without something having
been said as to Mary's own lot. It would, perhaps, have been better that
they should do so; but this was hardly within the compass of human
nature.

'And Mary, you know, I shall be able to see you as often as I like;--you
and Dr Thorne, too, when I have a house of my own.'

Mary said nothing, but essayed to smile.  It was but a ghastly attempt.

'You know how happy that will make me,' continued Beatrice.  'Of course
mamma won't expect me to be led by her then; if he likes it, there can
be no objection; and he will like it, you may be sure of that.'

'You are very kind, Trichy,' said Mary; but she spoke in a tone very
different from that she would have used eighteen months ago.

'Why, what is the matter, Mary?  Shan't you be glad to come and see us?'

'I do not know, dearest; that must depend on circumstances.  To see you,
you yourself, your own dear, sweet, loving face must always be pleasant
to me.'

'And shan't you be glad to see him?'

'Yes, certainly, if he loves you.'

'Of course he loves me.'

'All that alone would be pleasant enough, Trichy.  But what if there
should be circumstances which should still make us enemies; should make
your friends and my friends--friend, I should say, for I have only
one--should make them opposed to each other?'

'Circumstances!  What circumstances?'

'You are going to be married, Trichy, to the man you love; are you not?'

'Indeed I am!'

'And it is not pleasant?  is it not a happy feeling?'

'Pleasant!  happy!  yes, very pleasant; very happy.  But, Mary, I am not
at all in such a hurry as he is,' said Beatrice, naturally thinking of
her own little affairs.

'And, suppose I should wish to be married to the man that I love?' Mary
said this slowly and gravely, and as she spoke she looked her friend
full in the face.

Beatrice was somewhat astonished, and for the moment hardly understood. 
'I am sure I hope you will some day.'

'No, Trichy; no, you hope the other way.  I love your brother; I love
Frank Gresham; I love him quite as well, quite as warmly, as you love
Caleb Oriel.'

'Do you?' said Beatrice, staring with all her eyes, and giving one long
sigh, as this new subject for sorrow was so distinctly put before her.

'It that so odd?' said Mary.  'You love Mr Oriel, though you have been
intimate with him hardly more than two years. Is it so odd that I should
love your brother, whom I have known almost all my life?'

'But, Mary, I thought it was always understood between us that--that--I
mean that you were not to care about him; not in the way of loving him,
you know--I thought you always said so--I have always told mamma so as
if it came from yourself.'

'Beatrice, do not tell anything to Lady Arabella as though it came from
me; I do not want anything to be told to her, either of me or from me.
Say what you like to me yourself; whatever you say will not anger 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 away from me!'

There was such a mixture in Mary's manner of tenderness and almost
ferocity, that poor Beatrice could hardly follow her. 'Turn away from
you, Mary! no never; but this does make me unhappy.'

'It is better that you should know it all, and then you will not be led
into fighting my battles again. You cannot fight them so that I should
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 Mr Oriel.'

'But, Mary, you cannot marry him!'

'Why not?' said she, in a loud voice.  'Why can I not marry him?  If the
priest says a blessing over us, shall we not be married as well as 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! do not
you talk about money. It is horrible. But, Trichy, I will grant it--I
cannot marry him; but still, I love him. He has a name, a place in 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 cast--I am pledged to him; but he is
not pledged to me.'

'But, Mary, don't look at me in that way.  I do not quite understand
you. 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 make
myself 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 coming
to your house. Your ways and my ways must be different.'

Beatrice was startled, and, for a time, silenced.  What Mary said of the
difference of their ways was quite true. Beatrice had dearly loved her
friend, and had thought of her with affection through all this long
period in which they had been separated; but she had given her love and
her thoughts on the understanding, as it were, that they were in unison
as to the impropriety of Frank's conduct.

She had always spoken, with a grave face, of Frank and his love as of a
great misfortune, even to Mary herself; and her pity for Mary had been
founded on the conviction of her innocence. Now all those ideas had to
be altered. Mary owned her fault, confessed herself to be guilty of all
that Lady Arabella so frequently laid to her charge, and confessed
herself anxious to commit every crime as to which Beatrice 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 sympathized with her more or less sooner or later.
As it was, is was beyond all doubt that she would soon sympathize with
her. But, at the moment, the suddenness of the declaration 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 she
thought that her ways and Mary's ways must be different.

Mary saw all that was passing in the other's mind: no, not all; all the
hostility, the disappointment, the disapproval, the unhappiness, she did
see; but not the under-current of love, which was strong enough to well
up and drown all these, if only time could be allowed for it to do so.

'I am so glad to have told you,' said Mary, curbing herself, 'for deceit
and hypocrisy are detestable.'

'It was a misunderstanding, not deceit,' said Beatrice.

'Well, now we understand each other; now you know that I have a heart
within me, which like those of some others has not always been under my
own control. Lady Arabella believes that I am intriguing to be the
mistress of Greshamsbury. You, at any rate, will not think that of me.
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 a case I must
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 early in
life; even now, I believe he is attached to some lady in London, whom,
of course, he cannot marry.'

Beatrice had said this in perfect trueness of heart.  She had heard of
Frank's new love-affair, and believing what she had heard, thought it
best to tell the truth. But the information was not of a kind to quiet
Mary's spirit.

'Very well,' said she, 'let it be so.  I have nothing to say against
it.'

'But are you not preparing wretchedness and unhappiness for yourself?'

'Very likely.'

'Oh, Mary, do not be so cold with me!  you know how delighted I should
be to have you for a sister-in-law, if only it were possible.'

'Yes, Trichy; but it is impossible, is it not?  Impossible that Francis
Gresham of Greshamsbury should disgrace himself by marrying such a poor
creature as I am. Of course I know it; of course, I am prepared for
unhappiness and misery. He can amuse himself as he likes with me or
others--with anybody. It is his privilege. It is quite enough to say
that he is not made for settling down. I know my own position;--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 ever told
you that he has done so?'

At this moment Beatrice was not disposed to repeat all that Frank had
said. A year ago, before he went away, he had told his sister a score of
times that he meant to marry Mary Thorne if she would have him; but
Beatrice now looked on all that as idle, boyish vapouring. The pity 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 if he likes.
You may tell him so from me. But, Trichy, what else I have told you, I
have told you only.'

'Oh, yes!' said Beatrice, sadly; 'I shall say nothing of it to anybody. 
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 to which she
had looked forward with so much eagerness.

'Don't be wretched about me, dearest; I shall get through it. I
sometimes think I was born to be unhappy, and that unhappiness agrees
with 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 the
right-hand side of the passage deeply engaged in some derogatory branch
of an apothecary's mechanical trade; mixing a dose, perhaps, for a
little child. She would have passed him without speaking, if she could
have been sure of doing so without notice, for her heart was full, and
her eyes were red with tears; but it was so long since she had been in
his house that she was more than ordinarily anxious not to appear
uncourteous or unkind to him.

'Good morning, doctor,' she said, changing her countenance as best she
might, and attempting a smile.

'Ah, my fairy!' said he, leaving his villainous compounds, and coming
out 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 old, for
the next ten years. But who has told you? I suppose Mary has been a
traitor.'

'Well, I will confess Mary was the traitor.  But hadn't I a right to be
told, seeing how often I have brought you sugar-plums in my pocket? 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 he
had.'

'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 of all
my friends.'

'And none of your friends wish prettier things for you.  I do
congratulate you, Beatrice, and hope you may be happy with the man you
have chosen;' and taking both her hands in his, he pressed them warmly,
and bade God bless her.

'Oh, doctor!  I do so hope the time will come when we shall all be
friends again.'

'I hope it as well, my dear.  But let it come, or let it not come, my
regard 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 niece
excepting Beatrice's future happiness; nothing, at least, having
reference to what had passed that morning. But on the following morning,
circumstances led to Frank Gresham's name being mentioned.

At the usual breakfast-hour the doctor entered the parlour with a
harassed face. He had an open letter in his hand, and it was at once
clear to Mary that he was going to speak on some subject that vexed him.

'That unfortunate fellow is again in trouble.  Here is a letter from
Greyson.' Greyson was a London apothecary, who had been appointed as
medical attendant to Sir Louis Scatcherd, and whose real business
consisted in keeping a watch on the baronet, and reporting to Dr Thorne
when anything was very much amiss. 'Here is a letter from Greyson; he
has been drunk for the last three days, and is now laid up 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 down
here to Greshamsbury.'

'Who, Sir Louis?'

'Yes, Sir Louis.  Greyson says that he will be down as soon as he can
get out of his room.'

'What!  to this house?'

'What other home can he come to?'

'Oh, uncle!  I hope not.  Pray, pray do not let him come here.'

'I cannot prevent it, dear.  I cannot shut my door on him.'

They sat down to breakfast, and Mary gave him his tea in silence.  'I am
going over to Boxall Hill before dinner,' said he. 'Have you any message
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 had suddenly
struck her, she spoke with more energy. 'But, couldn't I go to Boxall
Hill again? I should be so delighted.'

'What!  to run away from Sir Louis?  No, dearest, we will have no more
running away. He will probably also go to Boxall Hill, and he could
annoy you much more there than he can here.'

'But, uncle, Mr Gresham will be home on the twelfth,' she said,
blushing.

'What!  Frank?'

'Yes.  Beatrice said he was to be here on the twelfth.'

'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 did so.
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 cup
which she had held, and, leaning her elbows on the table, rested her
forehead on her hands.

'And would you be happier at Boxall Hill?  It is not the place that
makes the happiness.'

'No, I know that; it is not the place.  I do not look to be happy in any
place; but I should be quieter, more tranquil elsewhere than here.'

'I also sometimes think that it would be better for us to take up our
staves and walk away from Greshamsbury;--leave it altogether, and settle
elsewhere; miles, miles, miles away from here. Should you like that,
dearest?'

Miles, miles, miles away from Greshamsbury!  There was something in the
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 had passed,
was still so dear to her! Was she prepared to take up her staff, as her
uncle said, and walk forth from the place with the full understanding
that she was to return to it no more; with a mind resolved that there
should be an inseparable gulf between her and its inhabitants? Such she
knew was the proposed nature of the walking away of which her uncle
spoke. So she sat there, resting on her arms, and gave no answer to the
question that had been put to her.

'No, we will stay here a while yet,' said her uncle.  'It may come to
that, but this is not the time. For one season longer let us face--I
will not say our enemies; I cannot call anybody my enemy who bears the
name of Gresham.' And then he went on for a moment with his breakfast.
'So Frank will be here on the twelfth?'

'Yes, uncle.'

'Well, dearest, I have no questions to ask you; no directions to give. I
know how good you are, and how prudent; I am anxious only for your
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 the
question. But, as I was saying, I am quite satisfied your conduct will
be good, and, therefore, I have no questions to ask. We will remain
here; and, whether good or evil come, we will not be ashamed to show our
faces.'

She sat for a while again silent; collecting her courage on the subject
that was nearest her heart. She would have given the world that 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 unless he did so.
'Will he come here?' at last she said, in a low-toned voice.

'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 he should
come here?'

'I do not know,' she said.  'No, I suppose not.  But, uncle, I don't
think he will come.'

She was now sitting on a sofa, away from the table, and he got up sat
down beside her, and took her hands in his. 'Mary,' said he, 'you must
be strong now; strong to endure, not to attack. I think that you have
that strength; but, if not, perhaps it will be better that we should go
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 be
base, cowardly, mean to run away; very base in me to make you do so.'

'No, dearest, not so; it will be the same to me.'

'No,' said she, 'I will not run away from Lady Arabella.  And, as for
him--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 her arms
around him and kissed him. And, still restraining her tears, she got
safely to her bedroom. In what way she may there have shown her
strength, 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 very
efficacious in bringing trouble, turmoil, and vexation upon
Greshamsbury. 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 to entail
upon him duties that he would find it almost impossible to perform. Sir
Louis, though his father had wished to make him still a child in the eye
of the law, was no child. He knew his own rights and was determined to
exact them; and before Sir Roger had been dead three months, the doctor
found himself in continual litigation with a low Barchester attorney,
who was acting on behalf of his, the doctor's, own ward.

And if the doctor suffered so did the squire, and so did those who had
hitherto had the management of the squire's affairs. Dr Thorne soon
perceived that he was to be driven into litigation, not only with Mr
Finnie, the Barchester attorney, but with the squire himself. While
Finnie harassed him, he was compelled to harass Mr Gresham. He was no
lawyer himself; and though he had been able to manage very well between
the squire and Sir Roger, and had perhaps given himself some credit for
his lawyer-like ability in so doing, he was utterly unable to manage
between Sir Louis and Mr Gresham.

He had, therefore, to employ a lawyer on his own account, and it seemed
probable that the whole amount of Sir Roger's legacy to himself would by
degrees be expended in this manner. And then the squire's lawyers had to
take up the matter; and they did so greatly to the detriment of poor Mr
Yates Umbleby, who was found to have made a mess of the affairs
entrusted to him. Mr Umbleby's accounts were incorrect; his mind was
anything but clear, and he confessed, when put to it by the very sharp
gentleman that came down from London, that he was 'bothered'; and so,
after a while, he was suspended from his duties, and Mr Gazebee, the
sharp gentleman from London, reigned over the diminished rent-roll of
the Greshamsbury estate.

Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury--with the one exception
of Mr Oriel and his love-suit. Miss Gushing attributed the deposition of
Mr Umbleby to the narrowness of the victory which Beatrice had won in
carrying off Mr Oriel. For Miss Gushing was a relation of the Umblebys,
and had been for many years one of their family. 'If she had only chosen
to exert herself as Miss Gresham had done, she could have had Mr Oriel,
easily; oh, too easily! but she had despised such work,' so she said.
'But though she had despised it, the Greshams had not been less
irritated, and, therefore, Mr Umbleby had been driven out of his house.'
We can hardly believe this, as victory generally makes men generous.
Miss Gushing, however, stated it as a fact so often that it is probable
she was induced to believe it herself.

Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury, and the squire himself
was especially a sufferer. Umbleby had at any rate been his own man, and
he could do what he liked with him. He could see him when he liked, and
where he liked, and now he liked; could scold him if in an ill-humour,
and laugh at him when in a good humour. All this Mr Umbleby knew, and
bore. But Mr Gazebee was a very different sort of gentleman; he was the
junior partner in the firm of Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee of Mount
Street, a house that never defiled itself with any other business than
the agency business, and that in the very highest line. They drew out
leases, and managed property both for the Duke of Omnium and Lord De
Courcy; and ever since her marriage, it had been one of the objects
dearest to Lady Arabella's heart that the Greshamsbury acres should be
superintended by the polite skill and polished legal ability of that all
but elegant firm in Mount Street.

The squire had long stood firm, and had delighted in having everything
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 as long as he could; he
had deferred the odious work of investigation till things had seemed
resolved on investigating themselves; and then, when it was absolutely
necessary that Mr Umbleby should go, there was nothing for him left but
to fall into the ready hands of Messrs Gumption, Gazebee and Gazebee.

It must not be supposed that Messrs Gumption, Gazebee and Gazebee were
in the least like the ordinary run of attorneys. They wrote no letters
for six-and-eightpence each: they collected no debts, filed no bills,
made no charge per folio for 'whereases' and 'as aforesaids'; they did
no dirty work, and probably were as ignorant of the interior of a court
of law as any young lady living in their Mayfair vicinity. No; their
business was to manage the property of great people, draw up leases,
make legal assignments, get the family marriage settlements made, and
look after wills. Occasionally, also, they had to raise money; but it
was generally understood that this was done by proxy.

The firm had been going on for a hundred and fifty years, and the
designation had often been altered; but it always consisted of Gumptions
and Gazebees differently arranged, and no less hallowed names had ever
been permitted to appear. It had been Gazebee, Gazebee and Gumption;
then Gazebee and Gumption; then Gazebee, Gumption and Gumption; then
Gumption, Gumption and Gazebee; and now it was Gumption, Gazebee and
Gazebee.

Mr Gazebee, the junior member of this firm, was a very elegant young
man. While looking at him riding in Rotten Row, you would hardly have
taken him for an attorney; and had he heard that you had so taken him,
he would have been very much surprised indeed. He was rather bald; not
being, as people say, quite so young as he was once. His exact age was
thirty-eight. But he had a really remarkable pair of jet-black whiskers,
which fully made up for his deficiency as to his head; he had also dark
eyes, and a beaked nose, what may be called a distinguished mouth, and
was always dressed in fashionable attire. The fact was, that Mr Mortimer
Gazebee, junior partner in the firm Gumption, Gazebee, and Gazebee, by
no means considered himself to be made of that very disagreeable
material which mortals call small beer.

When this great firm was applied to get Mr Gresham through his
difficulties, and when the state of his affairs was made known to them,
they at first expressed rather a disinclination for the work. But at
last, moved doubtless by their respect for the De Courcy interest, they
assented; and Mr Gazebee, junior, went down to Greshamsbury. The poor
squire passed many a sad day after that before he again felt himself to
be master even of his own domain.

Nevertheless, when Mr Mortimer Gazebee visited Greshamsbury, which he
did on more than one or two occasions, he was always received en grand
seigneur. To Lady Arabella he was by no means an unwelcome guest, for
she found herself able, for the first time in her life, to speak
confidentially on her husband's pecuniary affairs with the man who had
the management of her husband's property. Mr Gazebee also was a pet with
Lady De Courcy; and being known to be a fashionable man in London, and
quite a different sort of person from poor Mr Umbleby, he was always
received with smiles. He had a hundred little ways of making himself
agreeable, and Augusta declared to her cousin, the Lady Amelia, after
having been acquainted with him for a few months, that he would be a
perfect gentleman, only, that his family had never been anything but
attorneys. The Lady Amelia smiled in her own peculiarly aristocratic
way, shrugged her shoulders slightly, and said, 'that Mr Mortimer
Gazebee was a very good sort of person, very.' Poor Augusta felt herself
snubbed, thinking perhaps of the tailor's son; but as there was never
any appeal against the Lady Amelia, she said nothing more at that moment
in favour of Mr Mortimer Gazebee.

All these evils--Mr Mortimer Gazebee being the worst of them--had Sir
Louis Scatcherd brought down on the poor squire's head. There may be
those who will say that the squire had brought them on himself, by
running into debt; and so, doubtless, he had; but it was not the less
true that the baronet's interference was unnecessary, vexatious, and one
might almost say, malicious. His interest would have been quite safe in
the doctor's hands, and he had, in fact, no legal right to meddle; but
neither the doctor nor the squire could prevent him. Mr Finnie knew very
well what he was about, if Sir Louis did not; and so the three went on,
each with his own lawyer, and each of them distrustful, 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 to
Greshamsbury would much improve matters. It must be presumed that he was
not coming with any amicable views, but with the object rather of
looking after his own; a phrase which was now constantly in his mouth.
He might probably find it necessary while looking after his own at
Greshamsbury, to say some very disagreeable things to the squire; and
the doctor, therefore, hardly expected that the visit would go off
pleasantly.

When last he saw Sir Louis, now nearly twelve months since, he was
intent on making a proposal of marriage to Miss Thorne. This intention
he carried out about two days after Frank Gresham had done the same
thing. He had delayed doing so till he had succeeded in purchasing his
friend Jenkins's Arab pony, imagining that such a present could not but
go far in weaning Mary's heart from her other lover. Poor Mary was put
to the trouble of refusing both the baronet and the pony, and a very bad
time she had of it while doing so. Sir Louis was a man easily angered,
and not very easily pacified, and Mary 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 perseverance of three days, returned to London in
disgust; and Mary had not seen him since.

Mr Greyson's first letter was followed by a second; and the second was
followed by the baronet in person. He also required to be received en
grand seigneur, perhaps more imperatively than Mr Mortimer Gazebee
himself. He came with four posters from the Barchester Station, and had
himself rattled up to the doctor's door in a way that took the breath
away from all Greshamsbury. Why! the squire himself for a many long year
had been contented to come home with a pair of horses; and four were
never seen in the place, except when the De Courcys came to
Greshamsbury, or Lady Arabella, with all her daughters returned from her
hard-fought metropolitan campaigns.

Sir Louis, however, came with four, and very arrogant 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 the dicky behind was a
servant, more arrogant, if possible, than his master--the baronet's own
man, who was the object of Dr Thorne's special detestation and disgust.
He was a little fellow, chosen originally on account of his light weight
on horseback; but if that may be considered a merit, it was the only one
he had. His out-door show dress was a little tight frock-coat, round
which a polished strap was always buckled tightly, a stiff white choker,
leather breeches, top-boots, and a hat, with a cockade, stuck on one
side of his head. His name was Jonah, which his master and his master's
friends shortened to Joe; none, however, but those who were very
intimate with his master were allowed to do so with impunity.

This Joe was Dr Thorne's special aversion.  In his anxiety to take every
possible step to keep Sir Louis from poisoning himself, he had at first
attempted to enlist the baronet's 'own man' in the cause. Joe had
promised fairly, but had betrayed the doctor at once, and had become the
worst instrument of his master's dissipation. When, therefore, his hat
and the cockade were seen, as the carriage dashed up 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 too
knowing to allow himself to be kept under the doctor's thumb. It had,
indeed, become his plan to rebel against his guardian in almost
everything. He had at first been decently submissive, with the view of
obtaining increased supplies of ready money; but he had been sharp
enough to perceive that, let his conduct be what it would, the doctor
would keep him out of debt; but that the doing so took so large a sum
that he could not hope for any further advances. In this respect Sir
Louis 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 to meet his
ward, but as soon as he saw the cockade he darted almost involuntarily
into his shop and shut the door. This protection, however, lasted only
for a moment; he felt that decency required him to meet his guest, and
so he went forth and faced the enemy.

'I say,' said Joe, speaking to Janet, who stood curtsying at the gate,
with Bridget, the other maid, behind her, 'I say, are there any chaps
about the place to take the things--eh? come, look sharp here.'

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 offering his
hand to the baronet. Sir Louis, when he saw his host, roused himself
slowly from the back of his carriage. 'How do, doctor?' said he. 'What
terrible bad roads you have here! and, upon my word, it's as 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 his
generation, a year wiser. He had then been somewhat humble before the
doctor; but now he was determined to let his guardian see that he knew
how to act the baronet; that he had acquired the manners of a great man;
and that he was not to be put upon. He had learnt some lessons 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 after his
health. 'Oh, I'm right enough,' said Sir Louis. 'You mustn't believe all
that fellow Greyson tells you: he wants me to take salts and senna,
opodeldoc, and all that sort of stuff; looks after his bill, you
know--eh? like all the rest of you. But I won't have it;--not at any
price; and then he writes to you.'

'I'm glad to see you are able to travel,' said Dr Thorne, who could not
force himself to tell his guest that he was glad to see him at
Greshamsbury.

'Oh, travel; yes, I can travel well enough.  But I wish you had some
better 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 mine up
here with hot water.

So dismissed, the doctor went his way, and met Joe swaggering in one of
the passages, while Janet and her colleague dragged along between them 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 to the
girl, and speaking before the doctor was out of hearing, 'seems to me,
my dear, you be rather short-handed here; lots of work and nothing to
get; that's about the ticket, ain't it?' Bridget was too demurely 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 himself to
be all right; but his appearance was anything but all right. Twelve
months since, a life of dissipation, or rather, perhaps, a life of
drinking, had not had upon him so strong an effect but that some of the
salt of youth was still left; some of the freshness of young years might
still be seen in his face. But this was now all gone; his eyes were
sunken and watery, his cheeks were hollow and wan, 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 to step down from his carriage as
an old man would do. Alas, alas! he had no further chance now of ever
being all right again.

Mary had secluded herself in her bedroom as soon as the carriage had
driven up to the door, and there she remained till dinner-time. But she
could not shut herself up altogether. It would be necessary that she
should appear at dinner; and, therefore, a few minutes before the hour,
she crept out into the drawing-room. As she opened the door, she looked
in timidly, expecting Sir Louis to be there; but when she saw that her
uncle was the only occupant of the room, her brow cleared, 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 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 uncle
insisted on having in his house.

'Goodness knows what he will do!  Come up?  Yes.  He will not stay in
the dining-room all night.'

'But, dear uncle, do be serious.'

'Serious!'

'Yes; serious.  Don't you think that I might go to bed, instead of
waiting?'

The doctor was saved the trouble of answering by the entrance of the
baronet. He was dressed in what he considered the most fashionable style
of the day. He had on a new dress-coat lined with satin, new
dress-trousers, a silk waistcoat covered with chains, a white cravat,
polished pumps, and silk stockings, and he carried a scented
handkerchief in his hand; he had rings on his fingers, and carbuncle
studs in his shirt, and he smelt as sweet as patchouli could make him.
But he could hardly do more than shuffle into the room, and seemed
almost to drag one of his legs behind him.

Mary, in spite of her aversion, was shocked and distressed when she saw
him. He, however, seemed to think himself perfect, and was no whit
abashed by the unfavourable reception which twelve months since had been
paid to his suit. Mary came up and shook hands with him, and he received
her with a compliment which no doubt he thought must be acceptable.
'Upon my word, Miss Thorne, every place seems to agree with you; one
better than another. You were looking charming at Boxall Hill; but, upon
my word, charming isn't half strong enough now.'

Mary sat down quietly, and the doctor assumed a face of unutterable
disgust. This was the creature for whom all his sympathies had been
demanded, all his best energies put in requisition; on whose behalf he
was to quarrel with his oldest friends, lose his peace and quietness of
life, and exercise all the functions of a loving friend! This was his
self-invited guest, whom he was bound to foster, and whom he could not
turn from his door.

The dinner came, and Mary had to put her hand upon his arm.  She
certainly did not lean upon him, and once or twice felt inclined to give
him some support. They reached the dining-room, however, the doctor
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 in and
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 at
table. I say, Janet, just send that fellow in, will you?'

'We shall do very well without him,' said the doctor, becoming rather
red about the cheek-bones, and with a slight gleam of determination
about the eye. Janet, who saw how matters stood, made no attempt to obey
the baronet's order.

'Oh, nonsense, doctor; you think he's an uppish sort of fellow, I know,
and you don't like to trouble him; but when I'm near him, he's all
right; just send him in, will you?'

'Sir Louis,' said the doctor, 'I'm accustomed to none but my own old
woman here in my own house, and if you will allow me, I'll keep my old
ways. I shall be sorry if you are not comfortable.' The baronet said
nothing more, and the dinner passed off slowly and wearily enough.

When Mary had eaten her fruit and escaped, the doctor got into one
arm-chair and the baronet into another, and the latter began the only
work 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.  He
loved 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 hear it
praised; to look at it turned towards the light, and to count over the
years it had lain in his cellar.

'Yes,' said he, 'it's pretty fair wine.  It was, at least, when I got
it, twenty years ago, and I don't suppose time has hurt it;' and he held
the glass up to the window, and looked at the evening light through the
rosy tint of the liquid. 'Ah, dear, there's not much of it left; more's
the pity.'

'A good thing won't last for ever.  I'll tell you what now; I wish I had
brought down a dozen or two of claret. I've some prime stuff in London;
got it from Muzzle and Drug, at ninety-six shillings; it was a great
favour, though. I'll tell you what now, I'll send up for a couple of
dozen to-morrow. I mustn't drink you out of the house, high and dry;
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 last some
little time longer yet.'

Sir Louis drank two or three glasses of wine very quickly after each
other, and they immediately began to tell upon his weak stomach. But
before he was tipsy, he became more impudent and more disagreeable.

'Doctor,' said he, 'when are we going to see any of this Greshamsbury
money? That's what I want to know.'

'Your money is quite safe, Sir Louis; and the interest is paid to the
day.'

'Interest yes; but how do I know how long it will be paid?  I should
like to see the principal. A hundred thousand pounds, or something like
it, is a precious large stake to have in one man's hands, and he is
preciously hard up himself. I'll tell you what, doctor--I shall look the
squire up myself.'

'Look him up?'

'Yes; look him up; ferret him out; tell him a bit of my mind. I'll thank
you to pass the bottle. D--- me doctor; I mean to know how things 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 Squire
Gresham--'

'What do you mean, Sir Louis?'

'Mean!  why I mean that I'll sell the squire up; that's what I
mean--hallo--beg pardon. I'm blessed if I haven't broken the water-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 he himself had caused, he
nearly fell into the doctor's arms.

'You're tired with your journey, Sir Louis; perhaps you'd better go to
bed.'

'Well, I am a bit seedy or so.  Those cursed roads of yours shake a
fellow so.'

The doctor rang the bell, and, on this occasion, did request that Joe
might be sent for. Joe came in, and, though he was much steadier than
his master, looked as though he also had found some bin of which he had
approved.

'Sir Louis wishes to go to bed,' said the doctor; 'you had better give
him your arm.'

'Oh, yes; in course I will,' said Joe, standing immoveable about
half-way between the door and the table.

'I'll just take one more glass of the old port--eh, doctor?' said Sir
Louis, putting out his hand and clutching the decanter.

It is very hard for any man to deny his guest in his own house, and the
doctor, at the moment, did not know how to do it; so Sir Louis got 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, Dr
Thorne--' and Joe put his hand up to his hair in a manner that a great
deal more impudence than reverence in it--'I just want to ax one
question; where be I to sleep?'

Now this was a question which the doctor was not prepared to answer on
the spur of the moment, however well Janet or Mary might have been able
to do so.

'Sleep,' said he, 'I don't know where you are to sleep, and don't care;
ask Janet.'

'That's all very well, master--'

'Hold your tongue, sirrah!' said Sir Louis.  'What the devil do you want
of sleep?--come here,' and then, with his servant's help, he made 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 uncle
joined her in the drawing-room.

'Don't talk of it,' said he.  'Poor wretch!  poor wretch!  Let's have
some tea now, Molly, and pray don't talk any more about him to-night.'
Then Mary did make the tea, and did not talk any more about Sir Louis
that night.

What on earth were they to do with him?  He had come there self-invited;
but his connexion with the doctor was such, that it was impossible he
should be told to go away, either he himself, or that servant of his.
There was no reason to disbelieve him when he declared that he had come
down to ferret out the squire. Such was, doubtless, his intention. He
would ferret out the squire. Perhaps he might ferret out Lady Arabella
also. Frank would be home in a few days; and he, too, might be ferreted
out.

But the matter took a very singular turn, and one quite unexpected on
the doctor's part. On the morning following the little dinner of which
we have spoken, one of the Greshamsbury grooms rode up to the doctor's
door with two notes. One was addressed to the doctor in the squire's
well-known large handwriting, and the other was for Sir Louis. 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's staying in the house.

'Yours ever, F.N.GRESHAM'

'PS--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 ordered
Janet to take the other note up to Sir Louis. As these invitations were
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 must be
presumed, that things were not allowed to go on after their old fashion.
Mr Gazebee was an acute as well as fashionable man; one who knew what he
was about, and who, moreover, had determined to give his very best
efforts on behalf of the Greshamsbury property. His energy, in this
respect, will explain itself hereafter. It was not probable that the
arrival in the village of such a person as Sir Louis Scatcherd should
escape attention. He had heard of it before dinner, and, before the
evening was over, had discussed it with Lady Arabella.

Her ladyship was not at first inclined to make much of Sir Louis, and
expressed herself as but little inclined to agree with Mr Gazebee when
that gentleman suggested that he should be treated with civility at
Greshamsbury. But she was at last talked over. She found it pleasant
enough to have more to do with the secret management of the estate than
Mr Gresham himself; and when Mr Gazebee proved to her, by sundry nods
and winks, and subtle allusions to her own infinite good sense, that it
was necessary to catch this obscene bird which had come to prey upon the
estate, by throwing a little salt upon his tail, she also nodded and
winked, and directed Augusta to prepare the salt according to order.

'But won't it be odd, Mr Gazebee, asking him out of Dr Thorne's house?'

'Oh, we must have the doctor, too, Lady Arabella; by all means ask the
doctor also.'

Lady Arabella's brow grew dark.  'Mr Gazebee,' she said, 'you can hardly
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 do
not think I can sit down to table with Doctor Thorne.'

But, nevertheless, Mr Gazebee gained his point.  It was now about a week
since Sir Omicron Pie had been at Greshamsbury, and the squire had,
almost daily, spoken to his wife as to that learned man's advice. Lady
Arabella always answered in the same tone: 'You can hardly know, Mr
Gresham, how that man has insulted me.' But, nevertheless, the
physician's advice had not been disbelieved: it tallied too well with
her own inward convictions. She was anxious enough to have Doctor Thorne
back at her bedside, if she could only get him there without damage to
her pride. Her husband, she thought, might probably send the doctor
there without absolute permission from herself; in which case she would
have been able to scold, and show that she was offended; and, at the
same time, profit by what had been done. But Mr Gresham never thought of
taking so violent a step as this, 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 might be
gained. 'Well,' said she, at last, with infinite self-denial, 'if you
think it is for Mr Gresham's advantage, and if he chooses to ask Dr
Thorne, I will not refuse to receive him.'

Mr Gazebee's next task was to discuss the matter with the squire.  Nor
was this easy, for Mr Gazebee was no favourite with Mr Gresham. But the
task was at last performed successfully. Mr Gresham was so glad at heart
to find himself able, once more, to ask his old friend to his own house;
and, though it would have pleased him better that this sign of relenting
on his wife's part should have reached him by other means, he did not
refuse to take advantage of it; and so he wrote the above letter to Dr
Thorne.

The doctor, as we have said, read it twice; and he at once resolved
stoutly that he would not go.

'Oh, do, do, do go!' said Mary.  She well knew how wretched this feud
had made her uncle. 'Pray, pray go!'

'Indeed, I will not,' said he.  'There are some things a man should
bear, and some he should not.'

'You must go,' said Mary, who had taken the note from her uncle's hand,
and read it. 'You cannot refuse him when he asks you like that.'

'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 that way.'

'Yes; and had he asked you, I also would have gone.'

'Oh!  now I shall be so wretched.  It is his invitation, not hers: Mr
Gresham could not ask me. As for her, do not think of her; but do, do go
when he asks you like that. You will make me so miserable if you do not.
And then Sir Louis cannot go without you,'--and Mary pointed
upstairs--'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 up to
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 preparing
his razor and hot water. The doctor's nose immediately told him that
there was more in the coffee-cup than had come out of his own kitchen,
and he would not let the offence pass unnoticed.

'Are you taking brandy this morning, Sir Louis?'

'Just a little chasse-cafe,' said he, not exactly understanding the word
he used. 'It's all the go now; and a capital thing for the stomach.'

'It's not a capital thing for your stomach;--about the least capital
thing you can take; that is, if you wish to live.'

'Never mind about that now, doctor, but look here.  This is what we call
the civil thing--eh?' and he showed the Greshamsbury note. 'Not but that
they have an object, of course. I understand all that. Lots of girls
there--eh?'

The doctor took the note and read it.  'It is civil,' said he; 'very
civil.'

'Well; I shall go, of course.  I don't bear malice because he can't pay
me the money he owes me. I'll eat his dinner, and look at the girls.
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 he wanted but
the slightest encouragement to disobey the doctor's orders; but not
seeing it, he slowly retired, and placed himself, of course, at the
keyhole.

And then, the doctor began a long and very useless lecture.  The first
object 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 frightening his
unhappy guest. Sir Louis did not possess the iron nerves of his
father--nerves which even brandy had not been able to subdue. The doctor
spoke, strongly, very strongly; spoke of quick, almost immediate death
in case of further excesses; spoke to him of the certainty there would
be that he could not live to dispose of his own property if he could not
refrain. And thus he did frighten Sir Louis. The father he had never
been able to frighten. But there are men who, though they fear death
hugely, fear present suffering more; who, indeed, will not bear a moment
of pain if there by any mode of escape. Sir Louis was such: he had no
strength of nerve, no courage, no ability to make a resolution and keep
it. He promised the doctor that he would refrain; and, as he did so, he
swallowed down his cup of coffee and brandy, in which the two articles
bore about equal proportions.

The doctor did, at last, make up his mind to go.  Whichever way he
determined, he found that he was not contented with himself. He did not
like to trust Sir Louis by himself, and he did not like to show that he
was angry. Still less did he like the idea of breaking bread in Lady
Arabella's house till some amends had been made to Mary. But his heart
would not allow him to refuse the petition contained in the squire's
postscript, and the matter ended in his accepting the invitation.

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 alone with
Mary. On the afternoon of the second day, she escaped to the parsonage
for an hour or so, and then, walked away among the lanes, calling on
some of her old friends among the farmers' wives. But even then, the
doctor was afraid to leave Sir Louis. What could such a man do, left
alone in a village like Greshamsbury? So he stayed at home, and the two
together went over their accounts. The baronet was particular about his
accounts, and said a good deal as to having Finnie over to Greshamsbury.
To this, however, Dr Thorne positively refused his consent.

The evening passed off better than the preceding one; at least the early
part of it. Sir Louis did not get tipsy; he came up to tea, and Mary,
who did not feel so keenly on the subject as her uncle, almost wished
that he had done so. At ten o'clock he went to bed.

But after that new troubles came on.  The doctor had gone downstairs
into his study to make up some of the time which he had lost, and had
just seated himself at his desk, when Janet, without announcing herself,
burst into the room; and Bridget, dissolved in hysterical tears, with
her apron to her eyes, appeared behind the senior domestic.

'Please, sir,' said Janet, driven by excitement much beyond her usual
place of speaking, and becoming unintentionally a little less respectful
than usual, 'please sir, that 'ere young man must go out of this here
house; or else no respectable young 'ooman can't stop here; no, indeed,
sir; and we be sorry to trouble you, Dr Thorne; so we be.'

'What young man?  Sir Louis?' asked the doctor.

'Man!' sobbed Bridget from behind.  'He an't no man, no nothing like a
man. If Tummas had been here, he wouldn't have dared; so he wouldn't.'
Thomas was the groom, and, if all Greshamsbury reports were true, it was
probable, that on some happy, future day, Thomas and Bridget would
become one flesh and one bone.

'Please sir,' continued Janet, 'there'll be bad work here if there 'ere
young man doesn't quit this here house this very night, and I'm sorry to
trouble you, doctor; and so I am. But Tom, he be given to fight a'most
for nothin'. He's out now; but if that there young man be's here when
Tom comes home, Tom will be punching his head; I know he will.'

'He wouldn't stand by and see a poor girl put upon; no more he
wouldn't,' said Bridget, through her tears.

After many futile inquiries, the doctor ascertained that Mr Jonah had
expressed some admiration for Bridget's youthful charms, and had, in the
absence of Janet, thrown himself at the lady's feet in a manner which
had not been altogether pleasing to her. She had defended herself
stoutly and loudly, and in the middle of the row Janet had come down.

'And where is he now?' said the doctor.

'Why, sir,' said Janet, 'the poor girl was so put about that she did
give him one touch across the face with the rolling-pin, and he be all
bloody now, in the back kitchen.' At hearing this achievement of hers
thus spoken of, Bridget sobbed more hysterically than ever; but the
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 Thomas the groom.

And such turned out to be the case.  The bridge of Joe's nose was
broken; and the doctor had to set it for him in a little bedroom at the
village public-house, Bridget having positively refused to go to bed in
the same house with so dreadful a character.

'Quiet now, or I'll be serving thee the same way; thee see I've found
the trick of it.' The doctor could not but hear so much as he made into
his own house by the back door, after finishing his surgical operation.
Bridget was recounting to her champion the fracas that had occurred; and
he, as was so natural, was expressing his admiration for her valour.



CHAPTER XXXV

SIR LOUIS GOES OUT TO DINNER

The next day Joe did not make his appearance, and Sir Louis with many
execrations, was driven to the terrible necessity of dressing himself.
Then came an unexpected difficulty: how were they to get up to the
house? Walking out to dinner, though it was merely through the village
and up the avenue seemed to Sir Louis to be a thing impossible. Indeed,
he was not well able to walk at all, and positively declared that he
should never be able to make his way over the gravel in pumps. His
mother would not have thought half as much of 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 some
unwonted bustle. In the drawing-room there was no one but Mr Mortimer
Gazebee, who introduced himself to them both. Sir Louis, who knew that
he was only an attorney, did not take much notice of him, but the doctor
entered into conversation.

'Have you not heard that Mr Gresham has come home?'

'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 was now
undergoing his father's smiles, his mother's embraces, and his sisters'
questions.

'Quite unexpectedly,' said Mr Gazebee.  'I don't know what has brought
him back before his time. I suppose he found London too hot.'

'Deuced hot,' said the baronet.  'I found it so, at least.  I don't know
what keeps men in London when it's so hot; except those fellows who have
business to do: they're paid for it.'

Mr Mortimer Gazebee looked at him.  He was managing an estate which owed
Sir Louis an enormous sum of money, and, therefore, he could not afford
to despise the baronet; but he thought to himself, what a very abject
fellow the man would be if he were not a baronet, and had not a large
fortune!

And the squire came in.  His broad, honest face was covered with a smile
when he saw the doctor.

'Thorne,' said he, almost in a whisper, 'you're the best fellow
breathing; I have hardly deserved this.' The doctor, as he took his old
friend's hand, could not but be glad that he had followed Mary's
counsel.

'So Frank has come home?'

'Oh, yes; quite unexpectedly.  He was to have stayed a week longer in
London. You would hardly know him if you met him. Sir Louis, I beg your
pardon.' And the squire went up to his other guest, who had remained
somewhat sullenly standing in one corner of the room. He was the man of
highest rank present, or to be present, and he expected to be 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 my accounts--ha! ha!
ha!' and Sir Louis laughed as though he had said something very good.

The meeting between Lady Arabella and the doctor was rather distressing
to the former; but she managed to get over it. She shook hands with him
graciously, and said that it was a fine day. The doctor said that it was
fine, only perhaps a little rainy. And then they went into different
parts of the room.

When Frank came in, the doctor hardly did know him.  His hair was darker
than it had been, and so was his complexion; but his chief disguise was
in a long silken beard, which hung down over his cravat. The doctor had
hitherto not been much in favour of long beards, but he could not deny
that Frank looked very well with the appendage.

'Oh, doctor, I am so delighted to find you here,' said he, coming up to
him; 'so very, very glad:' and, taking the doctor's arm, he led him 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 news about her, is there?'

'News--what news?'

'Oh, well; no news is good news: you will give her my love, won't you?'

The doctor said that he would.  What else could he say?   It appeared
quite clear to him that some of Mary's fears were groundless.

Frank was again very much altered.  It has been said, that though he 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. His manners
were easy, his voice under his control, and words were at his command:
he was no longer either shy or noisy; but, perhaps, was open to the
charge of seeming, at least, to be too conscious of his own merits. He
was, indeed, very handsome; tall, manly, and powerfully built, his form
was such as women's eyes have ever loved to look upon. 'Ah, if he would
but marry money!' said Lady Arabella to herself, taken up by a mother's
natural admiration for her son. His sisters clung around 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 soup with
that beard?' said the squire, when they were seated round the table. He
had not ceased to rally his son as to this patriarchal adornment; but,
nevertheless, any one could have seen, with half and eye, 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 with beards
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 if I
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 Ninth.  He was left as surgeon at
Scutari 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's pun. 
'Why, his beard descends to his ankles, and he is obliged to tie it in a
bag at night, because his feet get entangled in it when he is asleep!'

'Oh, Frank!' said one of the girls.

This was all very well for the squire, and Lady Arabella, and the girls.
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 a personal
interest in the young hero. But Sir Louis did not like it at all. He was
the only baronet in the room, and yet nobody took any notice of him. He
was seated in the post of honour, next to Lady Arabella; but even Lady
Arabella seemed to think more of her own son than of him. Seeing he was
ill-used, he meditated revenge; but not the less did it behove him to
make some effort to attract attention.

'Was your ladyship in London, this season?'

Lady Arabella had not been in London at all this year, and it was a sore
subject with her. 'No,' said she, very graciously; 'circumstances have
kept us at home.'

'Ah, indeed!  I am very sorry for that; that must be very distressing to
a person like your ladyship. But things are mending, perhaps?'

Lady Arabella did not in the least understand him.  'Mending!' she said,
in her peculiar tone of aristocratic indifference; and then turned 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 the
room, and he knew his own importance. It was not to be borne that Lady
Arabella should turn to talk to a dirty attorney, and leave him, a
baronet, to eat his dinner without notice. If nothing else would move
her, he would let her know who was the real owner of the Greshamsbury
title-deeds.

'I think I saw your ladyship out to-day, taking a ride,' Lady Arabella
had driven through the village in her pony-chair.

'I never ride,' said she, turning her head for one moment from Mr
Gazebee.

'In the one-horse carriage, I mean, my lady.  I was delighted with the
way you whipped him up round the corner.'

Whipped him up round the corner!  Lady Arabella could make no answer to
this; so she went on talking to Mr Gazebee. Sir Louis, repulsed, but not
vanquished-resolved not to be vanquished by any Lady Arabella-- turned
his attention to his plate for a minute or two, and then 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 was becoming
intolerable to her, and she was beginning to fear that it would 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 not to
be put down.

'This is a nice-looking country about her,' said he.

'Yes; very nice,' said Mr Gazebee, endeavouring to relieve the lady of
the mansion.

'I hardly know which I like best; this, or my own place at Boxall Hill. 
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 seen it since my
governor bought it. How much do you think he spent about the house and
grounds, pineries included, you know, and those sort of things.'

Lady Arabella shook her head.

'Now guess, my lady,' said he.  But it was not to be supposed that Lady
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 about
building, I think, Mr Gazebee.'

'Not much,' said Mr Gazebee, 'as to such magnificent places as Boxall
Hill.'

'Well, my lady, if you won't guess, I'll tell you.  It cost twenty-two
thousand four hundred and nineteen pounds four shillings and eightpence.
I've all the accounts exact. Now, that's a tidy lot of money for a house
for a man to live in.'

Sir Louis spoke this in a loud tone, which at least commanded the
attention of the table. Lady Arabella, vanquished, bowed her head, and
said that it was a large sum; Mr Gazebee went on sedulously eating his
dinner; the squire was struck momentarily dumb in the middle of a long
chat with the doctor; even Mr Oriel ceased to whisper; and the girls
opened their eyes with astonishment. Before the end of his speech, Sir
Louis's voice had become very loud.

'Yes, indeed,' said Frank; 'a very tidy lot of money.  I'd have
generously dropped the four and eightpence if I'd been the architect.'

'It wasn't on one bill; but that's the tot.  I can show the bills;' and
Sir Louis, well pleased with his triumph, swallowed a glass of wine.

Almost immediately after the cloth was removed, Lady Arabella escaped,
and the gentlemen clustered together. Sir Louis found himself 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 his future
wife, found it difficult to make any reply.

'You parsons always have your own luck,' said Sir Louis.  'You get all
the beauty, and generally all the money, too. Not much of the latter in
this case, though--eh?'

Mr Oriel was dumbfounded.  He had never said a word any creature as to
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 away from
the subject as one that was hardly fit for conversation, even between
him and his future father-in-law; and now he was abruptly questioned on
the subject by a man he had never seen before in his life. Of course, he
could make no answer.

'The squire has muddled his matters most uncommonly,' continued Sir
Louis, filling his glass for the second time before he passed the
bottle. '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, nor
would he sit there for tidings as to Mr Gresham's embarrassments. So he
fairly retreated, without having said one word to his neighbour, finding
such discretion to be the only kind of valour left to him.

'What, Oriel!  off already?' said the squire.  'Anything the matter?'

'Oh, no; nothing particular.  I'm not just quite--I think I will go out
for a few minutes.'

'See what it is to be in love,' said the squire, half-whispering to Dr
Thorne. 'You're not in the same way, I hope?'

Sir Louis then shifted his seat again, and found himself next to Frank. 
Mr Gazebee was opposite to him, and the doctor opposite to Frank.

'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 the
question.

'I mean, he's got something more than his bare living.'

'Oh, yes,' said Frank, laughing.  'He's got what will buy him bread and
cheese when the Rads shut up the Church:--unless, indeed, they shut up
the Funds too.'

'Ah, there's nothing like land,'said Sir Louis: 'nothing like dirty
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 when they
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 out of
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 plenty more before they let us alone.'

Here Mr Gazebee got up, and followed Mr Oriel out of the room. He was
not, 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 the severity of
the miseries to which he was subjected. He and Mr Oriel were soon to be
seen through the dining-room window, walking about the 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 began to 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 broken Mary's heart by walking there
too lovingly with Patience Oriel?

Sir Louis, if he continued his brilliant career of success, would soon
be left the cock of the walk. The squire, to be sure, could not bolt,
nor could the doctor very well; but they might be equally vanquished,
remaining there in their chairs. Dr Thorne, during all this time, was
sitting with tingling ears. Indeed, it may be said that his whole body
tingled. He was in a manner responsible for this horrible scene; but
what could he do to stop it? He could not take Sir Louis up bodily and
carry him away. One idea did occur to him. The fly had been ordered for
ten o'clock. He could rush out and send for it instantly.

'You're not going to leave me?' said the squire, in a voice of horror,
as he saw the doctor rising from his chair.

'Oh, no, no, no,' said the doctor; and then he whispered the purpose of
his mission. 'I will be back in two minutes.' The doctor would have
given twenty pounds to have closed the scene at once; but he was not the
man to desert his friend in such a strait as that.

'He's a well-meaning fellow, the doctor,' said Sir Louis, when his
guardian was out of the room, 'very; but he's not up to trap--not at
all.'

'Up to trap--well, I should say he was; that is, if I know what trap
means,' said Frank.

'Ah, but that's just the ticket.  Do you know?  Now I say Dr Thorne's
not 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; and so
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 look here,
squire--'

'If you don't mind, sir,' said Frank, 'I've got something very
particular--perhaps, however--'

'Stay till Thorne returns, thanks Frank.'

Frank did stay till Thorne returned, and then escaped.

'Excuse me, doctor,' said he, 'but I've something very particular to
say; I'll explain to-morrow.' And then the three were left alone.

Sir Louis was no becoming almost drunk, and was knocking his words
together. The squire had already attempted to stop the bottle; but the
baronet had contrived to get hold of a modicum of Madeira, and there was
no preventing him from helping himself; at least, none at the moment.

'As we were saying about lawyers,' continued Sir Louis.  'Let's see,
what were we saying? Why, squire, it's just here. These fellows will
fleece 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---- doctors are
handling?'

'D---- doctors!' said the squire in a tone of dismay.

'Lawyers, I mean, of course.  Why, now, Gresham, we're all totted now,
you see; you're down in my books, I take it, for pretty near a hundred
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 present moment.
Perhaps we had better go to the ladies.'

This latter proposition had certainly not come from the squire's heart:
going to the ladies was the very last thing for which Sir Louis was now
fit. But the squire had said it as being the only recognised formal way
he could think of for breaking up the symposium.

'Oh, very well,' hiccupped the baronet, 'I'm always ready for the
ladies,' and he stretched out his hand to the decanter to get a last
glass of Madeira.

'No,' said the doctor, rising stoutly, and speaking with a determined
voice. 'No; you will have no more wine.'

'What's all this about?' said Sir Louis, with a drunken laugh.

'Of course he cannot go into the drawing-room, Mr Gresham.  If you will
leave him here with me, I will stay with him, till the fly comes. Pray
tell Lady Arabella from me how sorry I am that this has occurred.'

The squire took him by the hand affectionately.  'I've seen a tipsy man
before to-night,' said he.

'Yes,' said the doctor, 'and so have I, but--' He did not express the
rest of his thoughts.



CHAPTER XXXVI

WILL HE COME AGAIN?

Long before the doctor returned home after the little dinner-party above
described, Mary had learnt that Frank was already at Greshamsbury. She
had heard nothing of him, not a word, nothing in the shape of a message,
for twelve months; and at her age twelve months is a long period. Would
he come and see her in spite of his mother? Would he send her any
tidings of is return, or notice her in any way? If he did not, what
would she do? and if he did, what then 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! She continued to say to herself, that it would be
better that they should be strangers; and she could hardly keep herself
from tears in the fear that they might be so. What chance could there be
that he should care for her, after an absence spent in travelling over
the world? No; she would forget that affair of his hand; and then,
immediately after having so determined, she would confess to herself
that it was a thing not to be forgotten, and impossible of oblivion.

On her uncle's return, she would hear some word about him; and so she
sat alone, with a book before her, of which she could not read a line.
She expected them about eleven, and was, therefore, rather surprised
when the fly stopped at the door before nine.

She immediately heard her uncle's voice, loud and angry, calling for
Thomas. Both Thomas and Bridget were unfortunately out, being, at this
moment, forgetful of all sublunary cares, and seated in happiness under
a beech-tree in the park. Janet flew to the little gate, and there found
Sir Louis insisting that he would be taken at once to his own mansion at
Boxall Hill, and positively swearing that he would not longer submit to
the insult of the doctor's surveillance.

In the absence of Thomas, the doctor was forced to apply for assistance
to the driver of the fly. Between them the baronet was dragged out of
the vehicle, the windows suffered much, and the doctor's hat also. In
this way, he was taken upstairs, and was at last put to bed, Janet
assisting: nor did the doctor leave the room till his guest was asleep.
Then he went into the drawing-room to Mary. It may easily be conceived
that he was hardly in a humour to talk much about Frank Gresham.

'What am I to do with him?' said he, almost in tears: 'what am I to do
with him?'

'Can you send him to Boxall Hill?' asked Mary.

'Yes; to kill himself there!  But it is no matter; he will kill himself
somewhere. Oh! what that family have done for me!' And then, suddenly
remembering a portion of their doings, he took Mary in his arms, and
kissed and blessed her; and declared that, in spite of all this, he was
a happy man.

There was no word about Frank that night.  The next morning the doctor
found Sir Louis very weak, and begging for stimulants. He was worse than
weak; he was in such a state of wretched misery and mental prostration;
so low in heart, in such collapse of energy and spirit, that Dr Thorne
thought it prudent to remove his razors from his reach.

'For God's sake do let me have a little chasse-cafe; I'm always used 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 doctor left him for
the breakfast-table, abjectly implored Janet to get him some curacoa
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 strict orders
as to his treatment--Bridget and Thomas being now both in the
house--went forth to some of his too much neglected patients.

Then Mary was again alone, and her mind flew away to her lover. How
should she be able to compose herself when she should first see him? See
him she must. People cannot live in the same village without meeting. If
she passed him at the church-door, as she often passed Lady Arabella,
what should she do? Lady Arabella always smiled a peculiar, little,
bitter smile, and this, with half a nod of recognition, carried off the
meeting. Should she try the bitter smile, the half-nod with Frank? Alas!
she knew it was not in her to be so much mistress of her own heart's
blood.

As she thus thought, she stood in the drawing-room window, looking out
into her garden; and, as she leant against the sill, her head was
surrounded 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 into the
room.

There he was, Frank Gresham himself standing there in her immediate
presence, beautiful as Apollo. Her next thought was how she might escape
from out of his arms. How it happened that she had fallen into them, 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 depended on it.  The exertion
necessary for not crying was quite enough for her. This, then, was the
bitter smile and the half-nod that was to pass between them; this was
the manner in which estrangement was to grow into indifference; this was
the mode of meeting by which she was to prove that she was mistress of
her conduct, if not her heart! There he held her 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 heart had said also. Here now was the answer.

'You know you cannot marry him,' Beatrice had said, also.  Ah! if that
really were so, was not this embrace deplorable for them both? And yet
how could she not be happy? She endeavoured to repel him; but with what
a weak endeavour! Her pride had been wounded to the core, not by Lady
Arabella's scorn, but by the conviction which had grown on her, that
though she had given her own heart absolutely away, had parted with it
wholly and for ever, she had received nothing in return. The world, her
world, would know that she had loved, and loved in vain. But here now
was the loved one at her feet; the first moment that his enforced
banishment was over, had brought him here. How could she not be happy?

They all said that she could not marry him.  Well, perhaps it might be
so; nay, when she thought of it, must not that edict too probably be
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 in allowing him to do so;
but she could not regret it now. She could endure to suffer; nay, it
would not be suffering while he suffered with 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 a
fool thou art! Was any word necessary for thee? Had not her heart beat
against thine? Had she not borne thy caresses? Had there been one touch
of anger when she warded off thy threatened kisses? Bridget, in the
kitchen, when Jonah became amorous, smashed his nose with the
rolling-pin. But when Thomas sinned, perhaps as deeply, she only talked
of doing so. Miss Thorne, in the drawing-room, had she needed
self-protection, could doubtless have found the means, though the
process would probably have been less violent.

At last Mary succeeded in her efforts at enfranchisement, and she and
Frank stood at some little distance from each other. She could not but
marvel at him. That long, soft beard, which just now had been so close
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, the very Frank
who had chattered of his boyish love, two years since, in the 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 to get
any further.

'Speak to me honestly, Mary; honestly and bravely.  I offered you my
hand once before; there it is again. Will you take it?'

She looked wistfully up in his eyes; and would fain have taken it.  But
though a girl may be honest in such a case, it is so hard for her to 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 be
difficulties; but if you can love me, we will get over them. I am a free
man; free to do as I please with myself, except so far as I am bound to
you. There is my hand. Will you have it?' And then he, too, looked into
her eyes, and waited composedly, as though determined to have an answer.

She slowly raised her hand, and, as she did so, her eyes fell to the
ground. 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 within
his grasp. 'There, now you are my own!' he said, 'and none of them shall
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 for
wrong--no. I say it is not wrong; certainly not wrong if we love each
other. 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 so
many 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 cause for
fear.'

'And I will have no cause for fear.'

'Ah; but your father, Frank, and my uncle.  I can never bring myself to
do anything that shall bring either of them to sorrow.'

Frank, of course, ran through all his arguments.  He would go into a
profession, or take a farm and live in it. He would wait; that is, for a
few months. 'A few months, Frank!' said Mary. 'Well, perhaps six.' 'Oh,
Frank!' But Frank would not be stopped. He would do anything that his
father might ask him. Anything but the one thing. He would not give up
the wife he had chosen. It would not be reasonable, 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 offer in
opposition of all this. She could only leave her hand in his, and feel
that she was happier than she had been at any time since the day of the
donkey-ride at Boxall Hill.

'But, Mary,' continued he, becoming very grave and serious.  'We must be
true to each other, and firm in this. Nothing that any of them can say
shall drive me from my purpose; will you say as much?'

Her hand was still in his, and so she stood, thinking for a moment
before she answered him. But she could not do less for him than he was
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 they can
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 before he did
go; and, at last, she was obliged to take the matter into her own 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 they
think?'

'Who cares what they think?  Let them think the truth: that's after a
year's absence, I have much to say to you.' However, at last, he did go,
and Mary was left alone.

Frank, although he had been so slow to move, had a thousand other things
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 other pursuits. In the
first place, he had to see Harry Baker, and Harry Baker's stud. Harry
had been specially charged to look after the black horse during Frank's
absence, and the holiday doings of that valuable animal had to be
inquired into. Then the kennel of the hounds had to be visited, and--as
a matter of second-rate importance--the master. This could not be done
on the same day; but a plan for doing so must be concocted with
Harry--and then there were the two young pointer pups.

Frank, when he left his betrothed, went about these things quite as
vehemently as though he were not in love at all; quite as vehemently as
though he had said nothing as to going into some profession which must
necessarily separate him from horses and dogs. But Mary sat there at her
window, thinking of her love, and thinking of nothing else. It was all
in all to her now. She had pledged herself not to be shaken from her
troth by anything, by any person; and it would behove her to be true to
this pledge. True to it, though all the Greshams but one should oppose
her with all their power; true to it, even though her own uncle should
oppose her.

And how could she have done any other than to pledge herself, invoked to
it as she had been? How could she do less for him than he was so anxious
to do for her? They would talk to her of maiden delicacy, and tell her
that she had put a stain on that snow-white coat of proof, in confessing
her love for one whose friends were unwilling to receive her. Let them
so talk. Honour, honesty, and truth, out-spoken truth, self-denying
truth, and fealty from man to man, are worth more than maiden delicacy;
more, at any rate, than the talk of it. It was not for herself that this
pledge had been made. She knew her position, 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. He had name, and old repute, family, honour,
and what eventually would at least be wealth to her. She was nameless,
fameless, portionless. He had come there with all his ardour, with the
impulse of his character, and asked her for her love. It was already his
own. He had then demanded her troth, and she acknowledged that he had a
right to demand it. She would be his if ever it should be in his power
to take her.

But there let the bargain end.  She would always remember, that though
it was in her power to keep her pledge, it might too probably not be in
his power to keep his. That doctrine, laid down so imperatively by the
great authorities of Greshamsbury, that edict, which demanded that Frank
should marry money, had come home also to her with a certain force. It
would be sad that the fame of Greshamsbury should perish, and that the
glory should depart from the old house. It might be, that Frank also
should perceive that he must marry money. It would 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 unnoticed
lying beside her. The sun had been in the mid-sky when Frank had left
her, but its rays were beginning to stream into the room from the west
before she moved from her position. Her first thought in the morning had
been this: Would he come to see her? Her last now was more soothing to
her, less full of absolute fear: Would it be right that he should come
again?

The first sounds she heard were the footsteps of her uncle, as he came
up to the drawing-room, three steps at a time. His step was always
heavy; but when he was disturbed in spirit, it was slow; when merely
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 a great
man for summer-drinks. In his house, lemonade, currant-juice,
orange-mixtures, and raspberry-vinegar were used by the quart. He
frequently disapproved of these things for his patients, as being apt to
disarrange the digestion; but he consumed enough himself to throw a
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 Mrs Green?'

'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 pointed towards
the room occupied by Sir Louis.

Mary's conscience struck her that she had not even asked.  She had
hardly remembered, during the whole day, that the baronet was in the
house. 'I do not think he has been doing much,' she said. 'Janet has
been with him all day.'

'Has he been drinking?'

'Upon my word, I don't know, uncle.  I think not, for Janet has been
with 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 he made
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 his patient
in the next room.

'If he disapproves of it, why does he not say so?' said Mary to herself.
'Why does he not advise me?'

But it was not so easy to give advice while Sir Louis Scatcherd was
lying there in that state.



CHAPTER XXXVII

SIR LOUIS LEAVES GRESHAMSBURY

Janet had been sedulous in her attentions to Sir Louis, and had not
troubled her mistress; but she had not had an easy time of it. Her
orders had been, that either she or Thomas should remain in the room the
whole day, and those orders had been obeyed.

Immediately after breakfast, the baronet had inquired after his own
servant. 'His confounded nose must be right by this time, I suppose?'

'It was very bad, Sir Louis,' said the old woman, who imagined that it
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,' said his
master, with a whine. 'I'll see and get a man who won't break his nose.'

Thomas was sent to the inn three or four times, but in vain. The man was
sitting up, well enough, in the tap-room; but the middle of his face was
covered with streaks of plaster, and he could not bring himself to
expose his wounds before his conqueror.

Sir Louis began by ordering the woman to bring him chasse-cafe. She
offered him coffee, as much as he would; but no chasse. 'A glass of port
wine,' she said, at twelve o'clock, and another at three had been
ordered for him.

'I don't care a--for the orders,' said Sir Louis; 'send me my own man.' 
The man was again sent for; but would not come. 'There's a bottle of
that stuff that I take, in that portmanteau, in the left-hand
corner--just hand it to me.'

But Janet was not to be done.  She would give him no stuff, except what
the doctor had ordered, till the doctor came back. The doctor would
then, no doubt, give him anything that was proper.

Sir Louis swore a good deal, and stormed as much as he could. He drank,
however, his two glasses of wine, and he got no more. Once or twice 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, still under the
clothes when the doctor returned.

'I'll tell you what it is,' said he, as soon as his guardian entered the
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--that old
woman--takes it upon her to say she'll do nothing without your orders.'

'Well; she's right there.'

'Right!  I don't know what you call right; but I won't stand it.  You
are not going to make a child of me, Dr Thorne; so you need not think
it.'

And then there was a long quarrel, between them, and but an indifferent
reconciliation. The baronet said that he would go to Boxall Hill, and
was vehement in his intention to do so because the doctor opposed it. He
had not, however, as yet ferreted out the squire, or given a bit of his
mind to Mr Gazebee, and it behoved him to do this before he took himself
off to his own country mansion. He ended, 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 make
me 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 more
distressing for the doctor to bear. His compelled absence from
intemperate drinking had, no doubt, been good for him; but his mind had
so much sunk under the pain of the privation, that his state was piteous
to behold. He had cried for his servant, as a child cries for its nurse,
till at last the doctor, moved to pity, had himself gone out and brought
the man in from the public-house. But when he did come, Joe was of but
little service to his master, as he was altogether prevented from
bringing him either wine or spirits; and when he searched for the
liqueur-case, he found that even that had been carried away.

'I believe you want me to die,' he said, as the doctor, sitting by his
bedside, was tyring, for the hundredth time, to make him understand that
he had but one chance of living.

The doctor was not in the least irritated.  It would have been as wise
to be irritated by the want of reason in a dog.

'I am doing what I can to save your life,' he said calmly; 'but as you
said just now, I have no power over you. As long as you are able to move
and remain in my house, you certainly shall not have the means of
destroying yourself. You will be very wise to stay here for 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 spoke of
sending for his attorney Finnie, to come to Greshamsbury to look after
him.

'Send for him if you choose,' said the doctor.  'His coming will cost
you three or four pounds, but can do no other harm.'

It was certainly hard upon Dr Thorne that he should be obliged to
entertain such a guest in the house;--to entertain him, and foster him,
and care for him, almost as though he were a son. But he had no
alternative; he had accepted the charge from Sir Roger, and he must go
through with it. His conscience, moreover, allowed him no rest in the
matter: it harassed him day and night, driving him on sometimes to great
wretchedness. He could not love this incubus that was on his shoulders;
he could not do other than be very far from loving him. Of what use or
value was he to any one? What could the world make of him that would be
good, or he of the world? Was not an early death his certain fate? The
earlier it might be, would it not be better? Were he to linger on yet
for two years longer--and such a space of life was possible for him--how
great would be the mischief that he might do; nay, certainly would do!
Farewell then to all hopes for Greshamsbury, as far as Mary was
concerned. Farewell then to that dear scheme which lay deep in the
doctor's heart, that hope that he might in his niece's name, give back
to the son the lost property of his 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 but confess that Frank, as the heir to an old,
but grievously embarrassed property, had no right to marry, at his early
age, a girl without a shilling. Mary, his niece, his own child, would
probably be the heiress 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 by so doing he should achieve this marriage for his niece, and
that then Sir Louis should live to dispose of his own? How then would he
face the anger of Lady Arabella?

'I will never hanker after a dead man's shoes, neither for myself nor
for another,' he had said to himself a hundred times; and as often did
he accuse himself of doing so. One path, however, was plainly open
before him. He would keep his peace as to the will; and would use such
efforts as he might use for a son of his own loins to preserve the life
that was so valueless. His wishes, his hopes, his thoughts, he could not
control; but his conduct was at his own disposal.

'I say, doctor, you don't really think that I'm going to die?' Sir Louis
said, when Dr Thorne again visited him.

'I don't think at all; I am sure you will kill yourself if you continue
to live as you have lately done.'

'But suppose I go all right for a while, and live--live just as you tell
me, you know?'

'All of us are in God's hands, Sir Louis.  By so doing you will, at any
rate, give yourself the best chance.'

'Best chance?  Why, d--n, doctor!  there are fellows have done ten times
worse than I; and they are not going to kick. Come, now, I know you 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 word to
me; no, not one.' And Sir Louis, in his wretchedness, began to weep.
'Come, doctor; if you'll put me once more on my legs, I'll let you 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 in bed.
He could not eat much, but he was allowed two glasses of wine, and also
a little brandy in his coffee. This somewhat invigorated him, and when
Dr Thorne again went to him, in the evening, he did not find him so
utterly prostrated in spirit. He had, indeed, made up his mind to a
great resolve; and thus unfolded his final scheme for his own
reformation:-

'Doctor,' he began again, 'I believe you are an honest fellow; I do
indeed.'

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 Louis
alluded; and informed him that his mind might be at rest on any such
matter.

'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 great deal
to-day; indeed, I have, and I want to do what is right. Mightn't I have
a little drop of that stuff, just in a cup of coffee?'

The doctor poured him out a cup of coffee, and put about a teaspoonful
of brandy in it. Sir Louis took it with a disconsolate face, not having
been accustomed to such measures in the use of his favourite beverage.

'I do wish to do what is right--I do, indeed; only, you see, I'm lonely.
As to those fellows up in London, I don't think that one of them cares a
straw about me.'

Dr Thorne was of the same way of thinking, and he said so.  He could not
but feel some sympathy with the unfortunate man as he thus spoke of his
own lot. It was true that he had been thrown on the world without 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 ready to lead
you astray. Drop them, and you may yet do well.'

'May I though, doctor?  Well, I will drop them.  There's Jenkins; he's
the 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 mode of life.
Go to Boxall Hill for a while; for two or three days 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 into
your 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 condition
might be, but he was not prepared to promise acquiescence till he heard
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 poor wretch.
Bad in every way, wretched, selfish, sensual, unfeeling, purse-proud,
ignorant as Sir Louis Scatcherd was still, there was left to him the
power of feeling something like sincere love. It may be presumed that he
did love Mary Thorne, and that he was at the time earnest in declaring
that if she could be given to him, he would endeavour to live according
to her uncle's counsel. It was only a trifle he asked; but, alas! that
trifle could not be vouchsafed.

'I should much approve of your getting married, but I do not know how I
can help you.'

'Of course, I mean Miss Mary: I do love her; I really do, Dr Thorne.'

'It is quite impossible, Sir Louis; quite.  You do my niece much honour;
but I am able to answer for her, positively, that such a proposition 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 the use
of my house as long as it may suit you to remain here; but I must insist
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 forgive
something 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 things which
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 to
resume his braggadocio airs. He swore at Janet; insisted on being served
by his own man; demanded in a loud voice, but in vain, that his
liqueur-case should be restored to him; and desired that post-horses
might be ready for him on the morrow. On that day he got up and ate his
dinner in his bedroom. On the next morning he countermanded the horses,
informing the doctor that he did so because he had little bit of
business to transact with Squire Gresham before he left the place! With
some difficulty, the doctor made him understand that the squire would
not see him on business; and it was at last decided, that Mr Gazebee
should be invited to call on him at the doctor's house; and this Mr
Gazebee agreed to do, in order to prevent the annoyance of having the
baronet up at Greshamsbury.

On this day, the evening before Mr Gazebee's visit, Sir Louis
condescended to come down to dinner. He dined, however, tete-a-tete with
the doctor. Mary was not there, nor was anything said as to her absence.
Sir Louis Scatcherd never set eyes upon her again.

He bore himself arrogantly on that evening, having resumed the airs and
would-be dignity which he thought belonged to him as a man of rank and
property. In his periods of low spirits, he was abject and humble
enough; abject and fearful of the lamentable destiny which at these
moments he believed to be in store for him. But it was one of the
peculiar symptoms of his state, that as he partially recovered his
bodily health, the tone of his mind recovered itself also, 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 have his
house to himself again. Sir Louis sat moody, every now and then uttering
some impertinence as to the Greshams and the Greshamsbury property, 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, Mr
Gazebee came to the house. He had never been there before, nor had he
ever met Dr Thorne except at the squire's dinner. On this occasion he
asked only for the baronet.

'Ah! ah!   I'm glad you're come, Mr Gazebee; very glad,' said Sir Louis;
acting the part of the rich, great man with all the power he had. 'I
want to ask you a few questions so as to make it all clear sailing
between us.'

'As you have asked to see me, I have come, Sir Louis,' said the other,
putting on much dignity as he spoke. 'But would it not be better that
any business there may be should be done among the lawyers?'

'The lawyers are very well, I dare say; but when a man has so large a
stake at interest as I have in this Greshamsbury property, why, you see,
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 owes me?'

Mr Gazebee, of course, did know very well; but he was not going to
discuss the subject with Sir Louis, if he could help it.

'Whatever claim your father's estate may have on that of Mr Gresham is,
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 any claim on
Greshamsbury. The interest, as it becomes due, is paid to Dr Thorne; and
if I may be allowed to make a suggestion, I would say that it will not
be expedient to make any change in that arrangement till the property
shall come into your own hands.'

'I differ from you entirely, Mr Gazebee; in toto as we used to say at
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 Thorne to look
after my interests. I can force him to foreclose. And to tell you the
truth, Gazebee, unless some arrangement is proposed to me which I shall
think advantageous, I shall do so at once. There is near a hundred
thousand pounds owing to me; yes to me. Thorne is only a name in the
matter. The money is my money; and, by ---, I mean to look after it.'

'Haven't you any doubt, Sir Louis, as to the money being secure?'

'Yes, I have.  It isn't so easy to have a hundred thousand pounds
secured. The squire is a poor man, and I don't choose to allow a poor
man to owe me such a sum as that. Besides, I mean to invest in land. I
tell you fairly, therefore, I shall foreclose.'

Mr Gazebee, using all the perspicuity which his professional education
had left to him, tried to make Sir Louis understand that he had no power
to do anything of the kind.

'No power!  Mr Gresham shall see whether I have no power.  When a man
has a hundred thousand pounds owing to him he ought to have some power;
and, as I take it, he has. But we will see. Perhaps you know Finnie, do
you?'

Mr Gazebee, with a good deal of scorn in his face, said that he had not
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 to accept.'
Mr Gazebee declared that he was not instructed to make any offer, and so
he took his leave.

On that afternoon, Sir Louis went off to Boxall Hill, transferring the
miserable task of superintending his self-destruction from the shoulders
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 again wrapped himself in
his furs, and, with tottering steps, climbed up into the barouche which
was to carry him away.

'Is my man up behind?' he said to Janet, while the doctor was standing
at the little front garden-gate, making his adieux.

'No, sir, he is not up yet,' said Janet, respectfully.

'Then send him out, will you?  I can't lose my time waiting here all
day.'

'I shall come over to Boxall Hill and see you,' said the doctor, whose
heart softened towards the man, in spite of his brutality, as the 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, if I want
any I shall send for Fillgrave.' Such were his last words as the
carriage, with a rush, went off from the door.

The doctor, as he re-entered the house, could not avoid smiling, for he
thought of Dr Fillgrave's last patient at Boxall Hill. 'It's a question
to me,' said he to himself, 'whether Fillgrave will ever be induced to
make another visit to that house, even with the object of 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 inmate in
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 in
the 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, but
which has now gone out of fashion. It is, nevertheless, one which is
very expressive when in good hands, and which enables the author to tell
his story, or some portion of his story, with more natural trust than
any other, I mean that of familiar letters. I trust I shall be excused
if I attempt it as regards this one chapter; though, it may be, that I
shall break down and fall into the commonplace narrative, even before
the one chapter be completed. The correspondents are the Lady Amelia De
Courcy and Miss Gresham. I, of course, give precedence to the higher
rank, but the first epistle originated with the latter-named young lady.
Let me hope that they will explain themselves.

'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 involved. 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 a junior partner in the very old
firm of Gumption, Gazebee, and 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
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 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 he was attached 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 a
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
mamma say it 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 matter
much 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 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 to 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 would 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.

'PS--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 Mr 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 a
bosom that on this subject was as hard as a flint, and she prayed in
vain.  Augusta Gresham was twenty-two, Lady Amelia was thirty-four; was
it likely that Lady Amelia would permit Augusta to marry, the issue
having thus been left in her hands? Why should Augusta derogate from
her position by marrying beneath herself, seeing that Lady Amelia had
spent so many more years in the world without having found it necessary
to do so? Augusta's letter was written on two sheets of note-paper,
crossed all over; and Lady Amelia'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 own 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
and 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 in 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 you own?

'I shall be very sorry if it 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 this 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 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 the
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.

'PS.--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 were
made with the intention of doing right according to her lights.  For Mr
Moffat she had never cared a straw; and when, therefore, she lost the
piece of gilding for which she had been instructed by her mother to
sell herself, it was impossible to pity her.  But Mr Gazebee she would
have loved with that sort of love which it was in her power to bestow. 
With him she would have been happy, respectable, and contented.

She had her written her letter with great care.  When the offer was
made to her, she could not bring herself to throw Lady Amelia to the
winds and marry the man, as it were, out of her own head.  Lady Amelia
had been the tyrant of her life, and so she strove hard to obtain her
tyrant's permission.  She used all her little cunning in showing that, 
after all, Mr Gazebee was not so very plebeian.  All her little cunning
was utterly worthless.  Lady Amelia's mind was too strong to be caught
with such chaff.  Augusta could not serve God and Mammon.  She must
either be true to the god of her cousin's idolatry, and remain single,
or serve the Mammon of her own inclinations, and marry Mr Gazebee.

When re-folding her cousin's letter, after the first perusal, she did
for a moment think of rebellion.  Could she not be happy at the nice
place in Surrey, having, as she would have, a carriage, even though all
the De Courcys should drop her?  It had been put to her that she would
not like to be received at Courcy Castle with the scant civility which
would be considered due to a Mrs Mortimer Gazebee; but what if she 
could put up without being received at Courcy Castle at all? Such ideas
did float through her mind, dimly.

But her courage failed her.  It is so hard to throw off a tyrant; so
much easier to yield, when we have been in the habit of yielding.  This
third letter, therefore, was written; and it is the end of the
correspondence.

'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 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.

'PS.--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 our story,
it may be desirable that the full tale of Mr Gazebee's loves should be
told here. When Mary is breaking her heart on her death-bed in the last
chapter, or otherwise accomplishing her destiny, we shall hardly find a
fit opportunity of saying much about Mr Gazebee and his aristocratic
bride.

For he did succeed at last in obtaining a bride in whose veins ran the
noble De Courcy blood, in spite of the high doctrine preached so
eloquently by the Lady Amelia. As Augusta had truly said, he had failed
to understand her. He was led to think, by her manner of receiving his
first proposal--and justly so, enough--that she liked him, and would
accept him; and he was therefore rather perplexed by his second
interview. He tried again and again, and begged permission to mention
the matter to Mr Gresham; but Augusta was very firm, and he at last
retired in disgust. Augusta went to Courcy Castle, and received from her
cousin that consolation and re-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 Beatrice
was preparing for her second baby, and each of the twins had her
accepted lover--Mr Mortimer Gazebee went down to Courcy Castle; of
course, on a matter of business. No doubt he dined at the table, and all
that. We have the word of Lady Amelia, that the earl, with his usual
good-nature, allowed him such privileges. Let us hope that he never
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 became current
in the little town. No female scion of the present family of Courcy had,
as yet, found a mate. We may imagine that eagles find it difficult to
pair when they become scarce in their localities; and we all know how
hard it has sometimes been to get comme il faut husbands when there has
been any number of Protestant princesses on hand.

Some little difficulty had, doubtless, brought it about that the
countess was still surrounded by her full bevy of maidens. Rank has its
responsibilities as well as its privileges, and these young ladies'
responsibilities seemed to have consisted in rejecting any suitor who
may have hitherto kneeled to them. But now it was told through Courcy,
that one suitor had kneeled, and not in vain; from Courcy the rumour
flew to Barchester, and thence came down to Greshamsbury, startling the
inhabitants, and making one poor heart throb with a violence that would
have been piteous had it been known. The suitor, so named, as Mr
Mortimer Gazebee.

Yes; Mr Mortimer Gazebee had now awarded to him many other privileges
than those of dining at the table, and all that. He rode with the young
ladies in the park, and they all talked to him very familiarly before
company; all except Lady Amelia. The countess even called him 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 another epistle.
It is such an easy mode of writing, and facility is always dangerous. In
this letter it was announced with much preliminary ambiguity, that
Mortimer Gazebee--who had been found to be a treasure in every way;
quite a paragon of men--was about to be taken into the De Courcy bosom
as a child of that house. On that day fortnight, he was destined to lead
to the altar--the Lady Amelia.

The countess then went on to say, that dear Amelia did not write
herself, being so much engaged by her coming duties--the
responsibilities of which she doubtless fully realized, as well as the
privileges; but she had begged her mother to request that the twins
should come and act as bridesmaids on the occasion. Dear Augusta, she
knew, was too much occupied in the coming event in Mr Oriel's family to
be able to attend.

Mr Mortimer Gazebee was taken into the De Courcy family, and did lead
the Lady Amelia to the altar; and the Gresham twins did go there and act
as bridesmaids. And, which is much more to say for human nature, Augusta
did forgive her cousin, and, after a certain interval, went on a visit
to that nice place in Surrey which she had hoped would be her own home.
It would have been a very nice place, Augusta thought, 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 had
always yielded to her cousin, and loved her with that sort of love which
is begotten between fear and respect. Anything was better than
quarrelling with her cousin Amelia.

And Mr Mortimer Gazebee did not altogether make a bad bargain. He never
received a shilling of dowry, but that he had not expected. Nor did he
want it. His troubles arose from the overstrained economy of his noble
wife. She would have it, that as she had married a poor man--Mr Gazebee,
however, was not a poor man--it behoved her to manage her house with
great care. Such a match as that she had made--this she told in
confidence to Augusta--had its responsibilities as well as its
privileges.

But, on the whole, Mr Gazebee did not repent his bargain; when he asked
his friends to dine, he could tell them that Lady Amelia would be glad
to see them; his marriage gave him some eclat at his club, and some
additional weight in the firm to which he belonged; he gets his share of
the Courcy shooting, and is asked about to Greshamsbury, and other
Barsetshire houses, not only 'to dine at table and all that', but to
take his part in whatever delights country society there has to offer.
He lives with the great hope that his noble father-in-law may some day
be able to bring him into Parliament.



CHAPTER XXXIX

WHAT THE WORLD SAYS ABOUT BLOOD

'Beatrice,' said Frank, rushing suddenly into his sister's room, 'I want
you to do me one especial favour.' This was three or four days after he
had spoken to Mary Thorne. Since that time he had spoken to none of his
family on the subject; but he was only postponing from day to day the
task of telling his father. He had now completed his round of visits to
the kennel, master huntsman, and stables of the county hunt, and was at
liberty to attend to his own affairs. So he had decided on speaking to
the squire that very day; but he first made his request to his sister.

'I want you to do me one especial favour.'  The day for Beatrice's
marriage had now been fixed, and it was not to be very distant. Mr Oriel
had urged that their honeymoon trip would lose half its delights if they
did not take advantage of the fine weather; and Beatrice had nothing to
allege in answer. The day had just been fixed, 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.'

'Wish you to be there!  You must be there, of course.  Oh, Frank!  what
do you mean? I'll do anything you ask; if it is not to go to the moon,
or anything of that sort.'

Frank was too much in earnest to joke.  'You must have Mary for one of
your 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 is not
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 it
will 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 not be
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 if I
could; but she positively declined. She seemed to feel, that after all
that had happened, she never could come to Greshamsbury again.'

'Fiddlestick!'

'But, Frank, those are her feelings; and, to tell the truth, I could not
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 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 I went
to her. And now, Beatrice, you may believe me or not, as you like; but
if I ever marry, I shall marry Mary Thorne; and if she ever marries, I
think she may marry me. At any rate, I have her promise. And now, you
cannot be surprised that I should wish her to be at your wedding; or
that I should declare, that if she is absent, I will be absent. I don't
want any secrets, and you may tell my mother if you like it--and all the
De Courcys too, for anything I care.'

Frank had ever been used to command his sisters: and they, especially
Beatrice, had ever been used to obey. On this occasion, she was well
inclined to do so, if she only knew how. She again remembered how Mary
had once sworn to be at her wedding, to be near her, and to touch
her--even though all the blood of the De Courcys should be crowded
before the altar railings.

'I should be 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.  Do not I
tell you she will be your sister? Not come here again to Greshamsbury!
Why, I tell you that she will be living here while you are living there
at the parsonage, for years and years to come.'

Beatrice promised that she would go to Mary again, and that she would
endeavour to talk her mother over if Mary would consent to come. But she
could not yet make herself believe that Mary Thorne would ever be
mistress of Greshamsbury. It was so indispensably necessary that Frank
should marry money! Besides, what were these horrid rumours which were
now becoming rife as to Mary's birth; rumours more horrid than any which
had yet been heard.

Augusta had said hardly more than the truth when she spoke of her father
being broken-hearted by his debts. His troubles were becoming almost too
many for him; and Mr Gazebee, though no doubt he was an excellent man of
business, did not seem to lessen them. Mr Gazebee, indeed, was
continually pointing out how much he owed, and in what a quagmire of
difficulties he had entangled himself. Now, to do Mr Umbleby justice, he
had never made himself disagreeable in this manner.

Mr Gazebee had been doubtless right, when he declared that Sir Louis
Scatcherd had not himself the power to take any steps hostile to the
squire; but Sir Louis had also been right, when he boasted that, in
spite of his father's will, he could cause others to move in the matter.
Others did move, and were moving, and it began to be understood that a
moiety, at least, of the remaining Greshamsbury property must be sold.
Even this, however, would by no means leave the 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 yet spoken
to him about the family troubles; nor had a word as yet been said
between them as to Mary Thorne. It had been agreed that Frank should go
away for twelve months, in order that he might forget her. He had been
away the twelvemonth, and had now returned, not having forgotten her.

It generally happens, that in every household, one subject of importance
occupies it at a time. The subject of importance now mostly thought of
in the Greshamsbury household, was the marriage of Beatrice. Lady
Arabella had to supply the trousseau for her daughter; the squire had to
supply the money for the trousseau; Mr Gazebee had the task of obtaining
the money for the squire. While this was going on, Mr Gresham was not
anxious to talk to his son, either about his own debts or his son's
love. There would be time for these things when the marriage-feast was
over.

So thought the father, but the matter was precipitated by Frank.  He
also had put off the declaration which he had to make, partly from a
wish to spare the squire, but partly also with a view to spare himself.
We have all some of that cowardice which induces us to postpone an
inevitably evil day. At this time the discussions as to Beatrice's
wedding were frequent in the house, and at one of them Frank had heard
his mother repeat the names of the proposed bridesmaids. Mary's name was
not among them, and hence had arisen the attack 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 Mary was forgotten at
Greshamsbury; but she only inspired him with a resolve that she should
not be forgotten. He accordingly went to his sister; and then, the
subject being full on his mind, he resolved at once to discuss it with
his father.

'Sir, are you at leisure for five minutes?' he said, entering the room
in which the squire was accustomed to sit majestically, to receive his
tenants, scold his dependants, and in which, in former happy 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 been
immersed in the deepest business of which he was capable, he would
gladly 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 was intended to
have reference to his mother--'and, therefore, I would rather 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 rather
red in the face, and his manner was fluttered. He had quite made up his
mind to break the whole affair to his father; but he had hardly made up
his mind as to the best mode of doing so.

'Good heavens, Frank!  what do you mean?  you are not going to do
anything 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 to
do?'

'Nothing immediately, sir,' said he, rather abashed; 'but as I have made
up my mind about Mary Thorne--'

'Oh, about Mary,' said the squire, almost relieved.

And then Frank, in voluble language, which he hardly, however, had quite
under his command, told his father all that had passed between him and
Mary. 'You see, sir,' said he, 'that it is fixed now, and cannot be
altered. Nor must it be altered. You asked me to go away for twelve
months, and I have done so. It has made no difference, you see. As to
our means of living, I am quite willing to do anything that may be best
and most prudent. I was thinking, sir, of taking a farm somewhere near
here, and living on that.'

The squire sat quite silent for some moments after this communication
had been made to him. Frank's conduct, as a son, in this special matter
of his love, how was it possible for him to find fault? He himself was
almost as fond of Mary as of a daughter; and, though he too would have
been desirous that his son should receive the estate from its
embarrassment by a rich marriage, he did not at all share Lady
Arabella's feelings on the subject. No Countess de Courcy had ever
engraved it on the tablets of his mind that the world would come to ruin
if Frank did not marry money. Ruin there was, and would be, but it 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 Thorne finished
the story.'

'And what do you think of it?'

'It is a pity and a misfortune.  It might, perhaps, have been a reason
why you or my mother should not have had Mary in the house many years
ago; but it cannot make any difference now.'

Frank had not meant to lean so heavily on his father; but he did so. The
story had never been told to Lady Arabella; was not even known to her
now, positively, and on good authority. But Mr Gresham had 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 not do for
you and me to ignore birth; too much of the value of one's position
depends on it.'

'But what was Mr Moffat's birth?' said Frank, almost with scorn; 'or
what Miss Dunstable's?' he would have added, had it not been that his
father had not been concerned in that sin of wedding him to the oil of
Lebanon.

'True, Frank.  But yet, what you would mean to say is not true. We must
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 have a
right to take rank in the world, however she was born.'

'Well,--poor in that way.  But were she an heiress, the world would
forgive 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 the
fact. If Porlock were to marry the daughter of a shoeblack, without a
farthing, he would make a mesalliance; but if the daughter of the
shoeblack had half a million of money, nobody would dream of saying so.
I am stating no opinion of my own: I am only giving you the world'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 very
foolish if you did not. What you mean is, that, on this particular
point, 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, had not
got nearer to his object; had not even yet ascertained what his own
object was. This marriage would be ruinous to Greshamsbury; and yet,
what was he to say against it, seeing that the ruin had been his fault,
and not his son's?

'You could let me have a farm; could you not, sir?  I was thinking of
about six or seven hundred acres. I suppose it could be managed
somehow?'

'A farm?' said the father, abstractedly.

'Yes, sir.  I must do something for my living.  I should make less of a
mess of that than anything else. Besides, it would take such a time to
be an attorney, or a doctor, or anything of that sort.'

Do something for his living!  And was the heir of Greshamsbury come to
this--the heir and his only son? Whereas, he, the squire, had succeeded
at an earlier age than Frank's to an unembarrassed income of fourteen
thousand pounds a year! The reflection was very hard to bear.

'Yes: I dare say you could have a farm:' and then he threw himself back
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 wonder
whether you hate me?'

Frank, jumping up from his chair, threw his arms round his father's
neck. 'Hate you, sir? How can you speak so cruelly? You know well that I
love you. And, father, do not trouble yourself about the estate for my
sake. I do not care for it; I can be just as happy without it. Let the
girls have what is left, and I will make my own way in the world,
somehow. I will go to Australia; yes, sir, that will be the best. I and
Mary will both go. Nobody will care about her birth there. But, father,
never say, never think, that I do not love you!'

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, and the
remembrance of his father's grief faded away. 'May I tell Mary,' he said
at last, 'that you consent to our marriage?'

But the squire was not prepared to say this.  He was pledged to his wife
to do all that he could to oppose it; and he himself thought, that if
anything could consummate the family ruin, it would be this marriage.

'I cannot say that, Frank; I cannot say that.  What would you both live
on? It would be madness.'

'We would go to Australia,' answered he, bitterly.  'I have just said
so.'

'Oh, no, my boy; you cannot do that.  You must not throw up the old
place altogether. There is no other one but you, Frank; and we have
lived 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.  I will give up everything
to you, the management of the estate, the park, all the land 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 in such a hurry to marry?'

'You married at twenty-one, sir.'

Frank was again severe on his father, unwittingly.  'Yes, I did,' said
Mr Gresham; 'and see what has come of it! Had I waited ten years longer,
how different would everything have been! No, Frank, I cannot consent to
such a marriage; nor will your mother.'

'It is your consent that I ask, sir; and I am asking for nothing but
your consent.'

'It would be sheer madness; madness for you both.  My own Frank, my dear
boy, do not drive me to distraction! Give it up for four years.'

'Four years!'

'Yes; for four years.  I ask it as a personal favour; as an obligation
to 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 about
myself; but were such a marriage to take place, I should be driven to
despair.'

Frank found it very hard to resist his father, who now had hold of his
hand and arm, and was thus half retaining him, and half embracing him.
'Frank, say that you will forget this for four years--say for three
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 Mary altogether;
and he would not acknowledge that any one had the right to 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 always reasonable.
I am sure she will not wish to bring ruin on her old friends at
Greshamsbury.'

'Her old friends at Greshamsbury have done but little lately to deserve
her consideration. She has been treated shamefully. I know it has not
been by you, sir; but I must say so. She has already been treated
shamefully; but I will not treat her falsely.'

'Well, Frank, I can say no more to you.  I have destroyed the estate
which should have been yours, and I have no right to expect you should
regard what I say.'

Frank was greatly distressed.  He had not any feeling of animosity
against his father with reference to the property, and would have done
anything to make the squire understand this, short of giving up his
engagement to Mary. His feeling rather was, that, as each had a case
against the other, they should cry quits; that he should forgive his
father for his bad management, on condition that he himself was to be
forgiven with regard to his determined marriage. Not that he put it
exactly in that shape, even to himself; but could he have unravelled his
own thoughts, he would have found that such was the web on which they
were based.

'Father, I do regard what you say; but you would not have me be false.
Had you doubled the property instead of lessening it, I could not 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 have said
it under any other circumstances; and pray believe this, the idea never
occurs to me, that I have ground for complaint as regards the property;
never. Whatever troubles we may have, do not let that trouble you.'

Soon after this Frank left him.  What more was there that could be said
between them? They could not be of one accord; but even yet it might not
be necessary that they should quarrel. He went out, and roamed by
himself through the grounds, rather more in meditation than was his
wont.

If he did marry, how was he to live?  He talked of a profession; but had
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, have done
more than think of it. He spoke also of a farm, but even that could not
be had in a moment; nor, if it could, would it produce a living. Where
was his capital? Where was his skill? and he might have asked also,
where the industry so necessary for such a trade? He might have set his
father at defiance, and if Mary were equally headstrong with himself, he
might marry her. But, what then?

As he walked slowly about, cutting off the daisies with his stick, he
met Mr Oriel, going up to the house, as was now his custom, to dine
there and spend the evening, close to Beatrice.

'How I envy you, Oriel!' he said.  'What would I not give to have such a
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, the
Commandments, I believe, do not go for much.'

'Do they not, Frank?  That's a dangerous doctrine; and one which, if you
had my position, you would hardly admit. But what makes you so much out
of sorts? Your own position is generally considered about the 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, lying
humbug in the world, it is the theory of high birth and pure blood which
some of us endeavour to maintain. Blood, indeed! If my father had been a
baker, I should know by this time where to look for my livelihood. As it
is, I am told of nothing but my blood. Will my blood ever get me half a
crown?'

And then the young democrat walked on again in solitude, leaving Mr
Oriel in doubt as to the exact line of argument which he had meant to
inculcate.



CHAPTER XL

THE TWO DOCTORS CHANGE PATIENTS

Dr Fillgrave still continued his visits to Greshamsbury, for Lady
Arabella had not yet mustered the courage necessary for swallowing her
pride and sending once more for Dr Thorne. Nothing pleased Dr Fillgrave
more than those visits.

He habitually attended grander families, and richer people; but then, he
had attended them habitually. Greshamsbury was a prize taken from the
enemy; it was his rock of Gibraltar, of which he thought much more than
of any ordinary Hampshire or Wiltshire which had always been within his
own kingdom.

He was just starting one morning with his post-horses for Greshamsbury,
when an impudent-looking groom, with a crooked nose, trotted up to his
door. For Joe still had a crooked nose, all the doctor's care having
been inefficacious to remedy the evil effects of Bridget's little tap
with the rolling-pin. Joe had no written credentials, for his master was
hardly equal to writing, and Lady Scatcherd had declined to put herself
to further personal communication with Dr Fillgrave; but he had
effrontery enough to deliver any message.

'Be you Dr Fillgrave?' said Joe, with one finger just raised to his
cocked hat.

'Yes,' said Dr Fillgrave, with one foot on the step of the carriage, but
pausing at the sight of the well-turned-out servant. 'Yes; I am Dr
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 Louis Scatcherd,
baronet. You've heard of him, I suppose?'

Dr Fillgrave had not his mind quite ready for such an occasion. So he
withdrew his foot from the carriage step, and rubbing his hands one over
another, looked at his own hall door for inspiration. A single glance at
his face was sufficient to show that no ordinary thoughts were being
turned over within his breast.

'Well!' said Joe, thinking that his master's name had not altogether
produced the magic effect which he had expected; remembering, also, now
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 my
master is dying, very like, while you stand here?'

'What is your master's disease?' said the doctor, facing Joe, slowly,
and still rubbing his hands. 'What ails him? What is the matter with
him?'

'Oh; the matter with him?  Well, to say it out at once then, he do take
a drop too much at times, and then he has the horrors--what is it they
call it? Delicious beam-ends, or something of that sort.'

'Ah, 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 medicinally humble
had never struck the tympanum of his ear.

'Yes; Greyson.  And then, down at what's a the man of the place, there
was Thorne.'

'Greshamsbury?'

'Yes; Greshamsbury.  But he and Thorne didn't hit it off; and so since
that he has had no one but myself.'

'I will be at Boxall Hill in the course of the morning,' said Dr
Fillgrave; 'or, rather, you may say, that I will be there at once: I
will take it in my way.' And having thus resolved, he gave his orders
that the post-horses should make such a detour as would enable him to
visit Boxall Hill on his road. 'It is impossible,' said he to himself,
'that I should be twice treated in such a manner in the same house.'

He was not, however, altogether in a comfortable frame of mind as he was
driven up to the hall door. He could not but remember the smile of
triumph with which his enemy had regarded him in that hall; he could not
but think how he had returned fee-less to Barchester, and how little he
had gained in the medical world by rejecting Lady Scatcherd's bank-note.
However, he also had had his triumphs since that. He had smiled
scornfully at Dr Thorne when he had seen him in the Greshamsbury street;
and had been able to tell, at twenty houses through the county, how Lady
Arabella had at last been obliged to place herself in his hands. And he
triumphed again when he found himself really standing by Sir Louis
Scatcherd's bedside. As for Lady Scatcherd, she did not even show
herself. She kept in her own little room, sending out Hannah to ask him
up the stairs; and she only just got a peep at him through the door as
she heard the medical creak of his shoes as he again descended.

We need say but little of his visit to Sir Louis.  It mattered nothing
now, whether it was Thorne, or Greyson, or Fillgrave. And Dr Fillgrave
knew that it mattered nothing: he had skill at least for that--and heart
enough also to feel that he would fain have been relieved from this
task; would fain have left the patient in the hands even of Dr Thorne.

The name which Joe had given to his master's illness was certainly not a
false one. He did find Sir Louis 'in the horrors'. If any father have a
son whose besetting sin was a passion for alcohol, let him take his
child to the room of a drunkard when possessed by 'the horrors'. Nothing
will cure him if not that.

I will not disgust my reader by attempting to describe the poor wretch
in his misery: the sunken, but yet glaring eyes; the emaciated cheeks;
the fallen mouth; the parched, sore lips; the face, now dry and hot, and
then suddenly clammy with drops of perspiration; the shaking hand, and
all but palsied limbs; and worse than this, the fearful mental efforts,
and the struggles for drink; struggles to which it is often necessary to
give way.

Dr Fillgrave soon knew what was to be the man's fate; but he did what he
might to relieve it. There, in one big, best bedroom, looking out to the
north, lay Sir Louis Scatcherd, dying wretchedly. There, in the other
big, best bedroom, looking out to the south, had died the other baronet
about twelvemonth since, and each a victim of the same 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's
work, both for himself and the horses; but then, the triumph of being
dragged up that avenue compensated for both the expense and the labour.
He always put on his sweetest smile as he came near the hall door, and
rubbed his hands in the most complaisant manner of which he knew. 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 good humour, was
quite content to take his glass of sherry and eat his lunch by himself.

On this occasion, however, the servant at once asked him to go into the
dining-room, and there he found himself in the presence of Frank
Gresham. The fact was, that Lady Arabella, having at last decided, had
sent for Dr Thorne; and it had become necessary that some one should be
entrusted with the duty of informing Dr Fillgrave. That some one must be
the squire, or Frank. Lady Arabella would doubtless have preferred a
messenger more absolutely friendly to her own side of the house; but
such messenger there was none: she could not send Mr Gazebee to see the
doctor, and so, of the two evils, she chose the least.

'Dr Fillgrave,' said Frank, shaking hands with him very cordially as he
came up, 'my mother is so much obliged to you for all your care and
anxiety on her behalf! and, so indeed, are we all.'

The doctor shook hands with him very warmly.  This little expression of
a family feeling on his behalf was the more gratifying, as he had always
thought that the males of the Greshamsbury family were still wedded to
that pseudo-doctor, that half-apothecary who lived in the village.

'It has been awfully troublesome to you, coming over all this way, I am
sure. Indeed, money could not pay for it; my mother feels that. It must
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's
importance, you know! I should be happy to go any distance to see her.'

'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 done enough
for civility, and was now anxious to come to the point. 'The fact is,
doctor, that we are very much obliged for what you have done; but, for
the future, my mother thinks that she can trust to such assistance as
she can get here in the village.'

Frank had been particularly instructed to be very careful how he
mentioned Dr Thorne's name, and, therefore, cleverly avoided it.'

Get what assistance she wanted in the village!  What words were those
that he heard? 'Mr Gresham, eh--hem--perhaps I do not completely--' Yes,
alas! he had completely understood what Frank had meant that he should
understand. Frank desired to be civil, but he had no idea of beating
unnecessarily about the bush on such an occasion as this.

'It's by Sir Omicron's advice, Dr Fillgrave.  You see, this man
here'--and he nodded his head towards the doctor's house, being still
anxious not to pronounce the hideous name--'has known my mother's
constitution for so many years.'

'Oh, Mr Gresham; of course, if it is wished.'

'Yes, Dr Fillgrave, it is wished.  Lunch is coming directly:' and Frank
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 doctor did
return, taking with him, on this occasion, the fee that was offered to
him. His experience had at any rate taught him so much.

But though Frank could do this for Lady Arabella, he could not receive
Dr Thorne on her behalf. The bitterness of that interview had to be
borne by herself. A messenger had been sent for him, and he was upstairs
with her ladyship while his rival was receiving his conge downstairs.
She had two objects to accomplish, if it might be possible: she had
found that high words with the doctor were of no avail; but it might be
possible that Frank could be saved by humiliation on her part. If she
humbled herself before this man, would he consent to acknowledge that
his niece was not the fit bride for the heir of Greshamsbury?

The doctor entered the room where she was lying on her sofa, and walking
up to her with a gentle, but yet not constrained step, took the seat
beside her little table, just as he had always been accustomed to do,
and as though there had been no break in the intercourse.

'Well, doctor, you see that I have come back to you,' she said, with a
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 has not been tried
in vain.'

She had meant to have been so condescending; but now all that was put
quite beyond her power. It was not easy to be condescending to the
doctor: 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 good
name. I always recommend Sir Omicron myself.'

'And Sir Omicron returns the compliment,' said she, smiling gracefully,
'for he recommends you. He told Mr Gresham that I was very foolish to
quarrel with my best friend. So now we are friends again, are we not?
You see how selfish I am.' And she put out her hand to him.

The doctor took her hand cordially, and assured her that he bore her no
ill-will; that he fully understood her conduct--and that he had never
accused her of selfishness. This was all very well and very gracious;
but, nevertheless, Lady Arabella felt that the doctor kept the upper
hand in those sweet forgivenesses. Whereas, she had intended to keep the
upper hand, at least for a while, so that her humiliation might be more
effective when it did come.

And then the doctor used his surgical lore, as he well knew how to use
it. There was an assured confidence about him, an air which seemed to
declare that he really knew what he was doing. These were very
comfortable to his patients, but they were wanting in Dr Fillgrave. When
he had completed his examinations and questions, and she had completed
her little details and made her answer, she was certainly more at ease
than she had been since the doctor had last left her.

'Don't go yet, for a moment,' she said.  'I have one word to say to
you.'

He declared that he was not in the least in a hurry.  He desired nothing
better, he said, than to sit there and talk to her. 'And I owe you a
most sincere apology, Lady Arabella.'

'A sincere apology!' said she, becoming a little red.  Was he going to
say anything about Mary? Was he going to own that he, and Mary, and
Frank had all been wrong?

'Yes, indeed.  I ought not to have brought Sir Louis Scatcherd here: I
ought to have known that he would have disgraced himself.'

'Oh!  it does not signify,' said her ladyship in a tone almost of
disappointment. 'I had forgotten it. Mr Gresham and you had more
inconvenience than we had.'

'He is an unfortunate, wretched man--most unfortunate; with an immense
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 are plenty 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 leaving it
all in one hand.' If it should happen to be a girl, thought Lady
Arabella, what an excellent opportunity would that be for Frank to marry
money!

'And now, doctor, I want to say one word to you; considering the very
long time that we have known each other, it is better that I should be
open with you. This estrangement between us and dear Mary has given us
all so much pain. Cannot we do anything to put an end to it?'

'Well, what can I say, Lady Arabella?  That depends so wholly on
yourself.'

'If it depends on me, it shall be done at once.'

The doctor bowed.  And though he could hardly be said to do so stiffly,
he did it coldly. His bow seemed to say, 'Certainly; if you choose to
make a proper amende it can be done. But I think it is very unlikely
that you will do so.'

'Beatrice is just going to be married, you know that, doctor.'  The
doctor said that he did know it. 'And it will be so pleasant that Mary
should make one of us. Poor Beatrice; you don't know what she has
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, Dr Thorne;
an only son, and the heir to an estate that has been so very long in the
family:' and Lady Arabella put her handkerchief to her eyes, as though
these facts were themselves melancholy, and not to be thought of by a
mother without some soft tears. 'Now I wish you could tell me what your
views are, in a friendly manner, between ourselves. You won't find me
unreasonable.'

'My views, Lady Arabella?'

'Yes, doctor; about your niece, you know: you must have views of some
sort; that's of course. It occurs to me, that perhaps were all in the
dark together. If so, a little candid speaking between you and me may
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 no reason
why he should not respond to so very becoming an invitation on her part.
He had no objection to a little candid speaking; at least, so he
declared. As to his views with regard to Mary, they were merely these:
that he would make her as happy and comfortable as he could while she
remained with him; and that he would give her his blessing--for he had
nothing else to give her--when she left him;--if ever 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 one is
specially invited to be candid, one is naturally set upon one's guard.
Those who by disposition are most open, are apt to become crafty when so
admonished. When a man says to you, 'Let us be candid with each other,'
you feel instinctively that he desires to squeeze you without giving a
drop of water himself.

'Yes; but about Frank,' said Lady Arabella.

'About Frank!' said the doctor, with an innocent look, which her
ladyship could hardly interpret.

'What I mean is this: can you give me your word that these young people
do not intend to do anything rash? One word like that from you will set
my mind quite at rest. And then we could be so happy together again.'

'Ah!  who is to answer for what rash things a young man will do?' said
the 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 made of
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 should she turn
for advice and counsel? She had nothing more to say to the doctor; 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 the
spur of the moment; but he was by no means satisfied with himself. As he
walked away through the gardens, he bethought himself whether it would
be better for all parties if he could bring himself to be really candid.
Would it not be better for him at once to tell the squire what were the
future prospects of his niece, and let the father agree to the marriage,
or not agree to it, as he might think fit. 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 talking for the last twelvemonth, indifferent to
what agony of mind you may have occasioned to her; there she is, a
probable heiress! It may be worth your son's while to wait a little
time, and not cast her off till he shall know whether she be an heiress
or no. If it shall turn out that she is rich, let him take her; if not,
why, he can desert her then as well as now.' He could not bring himself
to put his niece into such a position as this. He was anxious enough
that she should be Frank Gresham's wife, for he loved Frank Gresham; he
was anxious enough, also, that she should give to her husband the means
of saving the 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 speaking of this
will at all. He almost hated the will for the trouble and vexation it
had given him, and the constant stress it had laid on his conscience. He
had spoken of it as yet to no one, and he thought that he was resolved
not to do so while Sir Louis should yet be in the land of the living.

On reaching home, he found a note from Lady Scatcherd, informing him
that Dr Fillgrave had once more been at Boxall Hill, and that, on this
occasion, he had left the house without anger.

'I don't know what he has said about Louis,' she added, 'for, to tell
the truth, doctor, I was afraid to see him. But he comes again
to-morrow, and then I shall be braver. But I fear that my poor boy is in
a bad way.'



CHAPTER XLI

DOCTOR THORNE WON'T INTERFERE

At this period there was, as it were, a truce to the ordinary little
skirmishes which had been so customary between Lady Arabella and the
squire. Things had so fallen out, that they neither of them had must
spirit for a contest; and, moreover, on that point which at the present
moment was most thought of by both of them, they were strangely in
unison. For each of them was anxious to prevent the threatened marriage
of their only son.

It must, moreover, be remembered, that Lady Arabella had carried a great
point in ousting Mr Yates Umbleby and putting the management of the
estate into the hands of her own partisan. But then the squire had not
done less in getting rid of Fillgrave and reinstating Dr Thorne 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 for grandeur
was on the decline. Misfortune was coming too near to her to leave her
much anxiety for the gaieties of a London season. Things were not faring
well with her. When her eldest daughter was going to marry a man of
fortune, and a member of Parliament, she had thought nothing of
demanding a thousand pounds or so for the extraordinary expenses
incident to such an occasion. But now, Beatrice was to become the wife
of a parish parson, and even that was thought to be a fortunate event;
she had, therefore, no heart for splendour.

'The quieter we can do it the better,' she wrote to her countess-sister.
'Her father wanted to give him at least a thousand pounds; but Mr
Gazebee has told me confidentially that it literally cannot be done at
the present moment! Ah, my dear Rosina! how things have been managed! If
one or two of the girls will come over, we shall all take it as a
favour. Beatrice would think it very kind of them. But I don't think of
asking you or Amelia.' Amelia was always the grandest of the De Courcy
family, being almost on an equality with--nay, in some respect superior
to--the countess herself. But this, of course, was before the days of
the place in Surrey.

Such, and so humble being the present temper of the lady of
Greshamsbury, it will not be thought surprising that she and Mr Gresham
should at last come together in their efforts to reclaim their son.

At first Lady Arabella urged upon the squire the duty of being very
peremptory and very angry. 'Do as other fathers do in such cases. Make
him understand that he will have no allowance to live on.' 'He
understands that well enough,' said Mr Gresham.

'Threaten to cut him off with a shilling,' said her ladyship, with
spirit. 'I haven't a shilling to cut him off with,' answered the squire,
bitterly.

But Lady Arabella herself soon perceived, that this line would not do.
As Mr Gresham himself confessed, his own sins against his son had been
to 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 whose
individual conduct had been so good as Frank's. This marriage, was, in
his view, a misfortune to be averted if possible,--to be averted by any
possible means; but, as far as Frank was concerned, it was to be
regarded rather as a monomania than a crime.

'I did feel so certain that he would have succeeded with Miss
Dunstable,' said the mother, almost crying.

'I thought it impossible but that at his age a twelvemonth knocking
about the world would cure him,' said the father.

'I never heard of a boy being so obstinate about a girl,' said the
mother. '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, as it
were, to some impersonation of reason. 'That's what I want him to tell
me. What are they to live upon?'

'I wonder whether De Courcy could get him into some embassy?' said the
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 noble brother.

'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 was she brought here? Oh,
dear! oh, dear! Why was she ever brought into this 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'll tell
you what I'll do,' said he. 'I'll speak to the doctor myself.'

'It's not the slightest use,' said Lady Arabella.  'He will not assist
us. 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; you have
always told me so. But yet, see how things have turned out. I knew how
it would be when she was first brought into the house.' This assertion
was rather a stretch on the part of Lady Arabella.

'Well, it is nonsense to say that Frank is in love with the girl at the
doctor's bidding.'

'I think you know, Mr Gresham, that I don't mean that.  What I say is
this, that Dr Thorne, finding what an easy fool Frank is--'

'I don't think he's at all easy, my love; and is certainly not a fool.'

'Very well, have it your own way.  I'll not say a word more. I'm
struggling to do my best, and I'm browbeaten on every side. God knows I
am not in a state of health to bear it!' And Lady Arabella bowed her
head into her pocket-handkerchief.

'I think, my dear, if you were to see Mary herself it might do some
good,' said the squire, when the violence of his wife's grief had
somewhat subsided.

'What!  go and call upon this girl?'

'Yes; you can send Beatrice to give her notice, you know.  She never was
unreasonable, and I do not think that you would find her so. You should
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 be efficacious
for good in their present misfortunes, it would be her own diplomatic
powers. It was, therefore, at last settled between them, that he should
endeavour to talk over the doctor, and that she would do the same with
Mary.

'And then I will speak to Frank,' said Lady Arabella.  'As yet he has
never 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 the house.'

'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 getting
fond of Patience, and I was quite unhappy about it then. Ah, dear! I
should be almost pleased at that now.'

And thus it was arranged that all the artillery of Greshamsbury was to
be brought to bear at once on Frank's love, so as to crush it, as it
were, by the very weight of metal.

It may be imagined that the squire would have less scruple in addressing
the doctor on this matter than his wife would feel; and that his part of
their present joint undertaking was less difficult than 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's house.

This feeling was so strong, that he walked on beyond this door to the
entrance, 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 or
consideration of Dr Thorne. At this moment the doctor was imposing the
only obstacle which was offered to the sale of a great part of his
estate. Sir Louis, through his lawyer, was loudly accusing the doctor to
sell, and the lawyer was loudly accusing the doctor of delaying to do
so. 'He has the management of your property,' said Mr Finnie; 'but he
manages it in the interest of his own friend. It is quite clear, and we
will expose it.' 'By all means,' said Sir Louis. 'It is a d--d shame,
and it shall be exposed.'

When he reached the doctor's house, he was shown into the drawing-room,
and found Mary there alone. It had always been the habit to kiss her
forehead when he chanced to meet her about the house 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 had been 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 again.'

As he looked at her he could not but acknowledge that it was natural
that Frank should love her. He had never before seen that she was
attractive;--had never had an opinion about it. She had grown up as a
child under his eye; and as she had not had the name of being especially
a pretty child, he had never thought on the subject. Now he saw before
him a woman whose every feature was full of spirit and animation; whose
eye sparkled with more than mere brilliancy; whose face was full of
intelligence; whose very smile was eloquent. Was it to be wondered at
that Frank should have learned to love her?

Miss Thorne wanted but one attribute which many consider essential to
feminine beauty. She had no brilliancy of complexion, no pearly
whiteness, no vivid carnation; nor, indeed, did she possess the dark
brilliance of a brunette. But there was a speaking earnestness in her
face; and expression of mental faculty which the squire now for the
first 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! Her pride
was her fault; but even that was not a fault in his eyes. Out of 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 a better wife.
And yet he was there with the express object of rescuing his 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 be
complimented. Uncle never pays me any compliments of that sort.'

In truth, she was looking well.  She would say to herself over and over
again, from morning to night, that Frank's love for her would be, must
be, unfortunate; could not lead to happiness. But, nevertheless, it did
make her happy. She had before his return made up her mind to be
forgotten, and it was so sweet to find that he had been so far from
forgetting her. A girl may scold a man in words for rashness in his
love, but her heart never scolds him for such an offence 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 expected by
him, he had of course not been out of the house. 'And now I suppose I
must go,' said Mary; 'for I know you are going to talk about 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 behind her;
'a dear good girl!' and the doctor could not fail to see that his eyes
were filled with tears.

'I think she is,' said he, quietly.  And then they both sat silent, as
though each was waiting to hear whether the other had anything more to
say on that subject. The doctor, at any rate, had nothing more to say.

'I have come here specially to speak to you about her.'

'About Mary?'

'Yes, doctor; about her and Frank: something must be done, some
arrangement made: if not for our sakes, at least for theirs.'

'What arrangement, squire?'

'Ah! that's the question.  I take it for granted that either Frank or
Mary has told you that they have engaged themselves to each other.'

'Frank told me some twelve months since.'

'And has not Mary told you?'

'Not exactly that.  But, never mind; she has, I believe, no secret from
me. Though I have said but little to her, I think I know it all.'

'Well, what then?'

The doctor shook his head and put up his hands.  He had nothing to say;
no proposition to make; no arrangement to suggest. The thing was so, and
he seemed to say that, as far as he was concerned, there was an end of
it.

The squire sat looking at him, hardly knowing how to proceed. It seemed
to him, that the fact of a young man and a young lady being in love with
each other was not a thing to be left to arrange itself, particularly
seeing the rank in life in which they were placed. But the doctor seemed
to be of a different opinion.

'But, Dr Thorne, there is no man on God's earth who knows my affairs as
well as you do; and in knowing mine, you know Frank's. Do you think 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 of
them on the subject; but I presume they do not think of such a thing for
the present.'

'But, doctor--' The squire was certainly taken aback by the coolness of
the doctor's manner. After all, he, the squire, was Mr Gresham of
Greshamsbury, generally acknowledged to be the first commoner in
Barsetshire; 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. But as to
Mary, she was not even the doctor's daughter. She was not only
penniless, but nameless, fatherless, worse than motherless! It was
incredible that Dr Thorne, with his generally exalted ideas as to
family, should speak in this cold way as to a projected marriage between
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 that you
mean. And you don't like to say it, because you would not wish to pain
me by alluding to Mary's birth.'

'But, independently of that, what would they live on?' said the squire,
energetically. 'Birth is a great thing, a very great thing. You and I
think exactly the 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 aside
altogether, what would they live on? If they were to marry, what would
they do? Where would they go? You know what Lady Arabella thinks of such
things; would it be possible that they should live up at the house with
her? Besides, what a life would that be for both of them! Could they
live here? Would that be well for them?'

The squire looked at the doctor for an answer; but he still went rubbing
his calf. Mr Gresham, therefore, was constrained to continue his
expostulation.

'When I am dead there will still, I hope, be something;--something left
for the poor fellow. Lady Arabella and the girls would be better off,
perhaps, than now, and I sometimes wish, for Frank's sake, that the time
had come.'

The doctor could not now go on rubbing his knees.  He was moved to
speak, and declared that, of all events, that was the one which would be
furthest from Frank's heart. 'I know no son,' said he, 'who loves his
father more dearly than he does.'

'I do believe it,' said the squire; 'I do believe it.  But yet, I cannot
but feel that I am in his way.'

'No, squire, no; you are in no one's way.  You will find yourself happy
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 shall talk of all these
things over the dining-room fire at Greshamsbury.'

The squire felt it kind in the doctor that he should thus endeavour to
comfort him; but he could not understand, and did not inquire, on what
basis these golden hopes was founded. It was necessary, however, to
return to the subject which he had come to discuss. Would the doctor
assist him in preventing this marriage? That was now the one thing
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 that either
to you or to anybody else. The truth is, squire, I have never interfered
in this matter one way or the other; and I have no wish to do so now.'

'But should you not interfere?  Is not Mary the same to you as your own
child?'

Dr Thorne hardly knew how to answer this.  He was aware that his
argument about not interfering was in fact absurd. Mary could not marry
without his interference; and had it been the case that she was in
danger of making an improper marriage, of course he would interfere. His
meaning was, that he would not at the present moment express any
opinion; he would not declare against a match which might turn out to be
in every way desirable; nor, if he spoke in favour of it, could he give
his reasons for doing so. Under these circumstances, he would have
wished to say nothing, could that only have been possible.

But as it was not possible, and as he must say something, he answered
the squire's last question by asking another. 'What is your objection,
squire?'

'Objection!  Why, what on earth would they live on?'

'Then I understand, that if that difficulty were over, you would not
refuse your consent merely because of Mary's birth?'

This was a manner in which the squire had by no means expected to have
the affair presented to him. It seemed so impossible that any
sound-minded man should take any but his view of the case, that he had
not prepared himself for argument. There was every objection to his son
marrying Miss Thorne; but the fact of their having no income between
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 much beneath his
station; that is, I mean, in family. You should not press me to say
this, for you know that I love Mary dearly.'

'But, my dear friend, it is necessary.  Wounds sometimes must be opened
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 honest answer,--were Mary
Thorne an heiress; had she, for instance, such wealth as that Miss
Dunstable that we hear of; in that case would you object to this match?'

When the doctor declared that he expected an honest answer the squire
listened with all his ears; but the question, when finished, seemed to
have no bearing on the present case.

'Come, squire, speak your mind faithfully.  There was some talk of
Frank's marrying Miss Dunstable; did you mean to object to that match?'

'Miss Dunstable was legitimate; at least, I presume so.'

'Oh, Mr Gresham!  has it come to that?  Miss Dunstable, then, would have
satisfied your ideas of high birth?'

Mr Gresham was rather posed, and regretted, at the moment, his allusion
to Miss Dunstable's presumed legitimacy. But he soon recovered himself.
'No,' said he, 'it would not. And I am willing to admit, as I have
admitted before, that the undoubted advantages arising from wealth are
taken by the world as atoning for what otherwise would be a mesalliance.
But--'

'You admit that, do you?  You acknowledge that as your conviction on the
subject?'

'Yes.  But--' The squire was going on to explain the propriety of this
opinion, but the doctor uncivilly would not hear him.

'Then squire, I will not interfere in this matter one way or the other.'

'How on earth can such an opinion--'

'Pray excuse me, Mr Gresham; but my mind is now quite made up. It was
very nearly so before. I will do nothing to encourage Frank, nor will I
say anything to discourage Mary.'

'That is the most singular resolution that a man of sense like you ever
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 not
interfere.'

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 only conclusion to
which he could come was, that Dr Thorne had thought the chance on his
niece's behalf too good to be thrown away, and had, therefore, resolved
to act in a very singular way.

'I would not have believed it of him, though all Barsetshire had told
me,' he said to himself as he entered the great gates; and he went on
repeating 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 the Lady
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 marriage have
their husbands living near them. This happiness was hers, and Mr Oriel
made the most of it. She was constantly being coaxed down to the
parsonage by Patience, in order that she might give her opinion, in
private, on some domestic arrangement, some piece of furniture, or some
new carpet; but this privacy was always invaded. What Mr Oriel's
parishioners did in these halcyon days, I will not ask. His morning
services, however, had been altogether given up, and he had provided
himself with a very excellent curate.

But one grief did weigh heavily on Beatrice.  She continually heard her
mother say things which made her feel that it would be more than ever
impossible that Mary should be at her wedding; and yet she had promised
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 who
are worth anything; she asked her lover's advice.

'Oh!  but Frank can't be in earnest,' said the lover.  'Of course he'll
be at our wedding.'

'You don't know him, Caleb.  He is so changed that no one hardly would
know him. You can't conceive how much in earnest he is, how determined
and resolute. And then, I should like to have Mary so much if mamma
would let her come.'

'Ask Lady Arabella,' said Caleb.

'Well, I suppose I must do that; but I know what she'll say, and Frank
will never believe that I have done my best.' Mr Oriel comforted her
with such little whispered consolations as he was able to afford, and
then she went away on her errand to her mother.

She was indeed surprised at the manner in which her prayer was received.
She could hardly falter forth her petition; but when she had done so,
Lady Arabella answered in this wise:-

'Well my dear, I have no objection, none the least; that is, of course,
if Mary is disposed to behave herself properly.'

'Oh, mamma! of course she will,' said Beatrice; 'she always did and
always does.'

'I hope she will, my love.  But, Beatrice, when I say that I shall be
glad to see her, of course I mean under certain conditions. I never
disliked Mary Thorne, and if she would only let Frank understand that
she will not listen to his mad proposals, I should be delighted to see
her at Greshamsbury just as she used to be.'

Beatrice could say nothing in answer to this; but she felt very sure
that Mary, let her intention be what it might, would not undertake to
make 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.'  And Lady
Arabella could not but think of her last visit thither, and the strong
feeling she had, as she came out, that she would never again enter those
doors. She was, however, prepared to do anything on behalf of her
rebellious son.

'Oh, yes!   I know that, mamma.'

'I will call upon her, and I can possibly manage it, I will ask her
myself to make one of your party. If so, you can go to her afterwards
and make your own arrangements. Just write her a note, my dear, and say
that I will call to-morrow at twelve. It might fluster her if I were to
go without notice.'

Beatrice did as she was bid, but with a presentiment that no good would
come of it. The note was certainly unnecessary for the purpose assigned
by Lady Arabella, as Mary was not given to be flustered by such
occurrences; but, perhaps, it was as well as that it was written, as it
enabled her to make up her mind steadily as to what information should
be given, and what should not be given to her coming visitor.

On the next morning, at the appointed hour, Lady Arabella walked down to
the doctor's house. She never walked about the village without making
some little disturbance among the inhabitants. With the squire, himself,
they were quite familiar, and he could appear and reappear without
creating any sensation; but her ladyship had not made herself equally
common in men's sight. Therefore, when she went through all the
Greshamsbury in ten minutes, and before she had left the house, Mrs
Umbleby and Miss Gushing had quite settled between them what was the
exact cause of the very singular event.

The doctor, when he had heard what was going to happen, carefully kept
out of the way: Mary, therefore, had the pleasure of receiving Lady
Arabella alone. Nothing could exceed her ladyship's affability. Mary
thought that it perhaps might have savoured less of condescension; but
then on this subject, Mary was probably prejudiced. Lady Arabella smiled
and simpered, and asked after the doctor, and the cat, and Janet, and
said everything that could be desired by any one less unreasonable than
Mary Thorne.

'And now, Mary, I'll tell you why I have called.' Mary bowed her head
slightly, as much to say, that she would be glad to receive any
information that Lady Arabella could give her on that subject. 'Of
course 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 that is
coming very soon now. The poor girl is anxious that you should be at her
wedding.' Mary turned slightly red; but she merely said, and that
somewhat too coldly, that she was much indebted to Beatrice for her
kindness.

'I can assure you, Mary, that she is very fond of you, as much as ever;
and so, indeed, am I, and all of us are so. You know that Mr Gresham 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 little chance
left for reconciliation between her and Mary.

'Yes, indeed he was; and I think we all did what little we could to make
you welcome at Greshamsbury, Mary, till those unpleasant occurrences
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 much
together, that she feels she cannot be quite happy if you are not near
her when she is being married.'

'Dear Beatrice!' said Mary, warmed for the moment to an expression of
genuine feeling.

'She came to me yesterday, begging that I would waive any objection I
might have to your being there. I have made her no answer yet. What
answer do you think I ought to make her?'

Mary was astounded at this question, and hesitated in her reply.  'What
answer do you think I ought to make her?' she said.

'Yes, Mary.  What answer to you think I ought to give?  I wish to ask
you the question, as you are the person the most concerned.'

Mary considered for a while, then did give her opinion on the matter in
a firm voice. 'I think you should tell Beatrice, that as you cannot at
present receive me cordially in your house, it will be better that you
should not be called upon to receive me at all.'

This was certainly not the sort of answer that Lady Arabella expected,
and she was now somewhat astounded in her turn. 'But, Mary,' she said,
'I should be delighted to receive you cordially if I could do so.'

'But it seems you cannot, Lady Arabella; and so there must be an end of
it.'

'On, but I do not know that:' and she smiled her sweetest smile.  'I do
not know that. I want to put an end to all this ill-feeling, if I can.
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 another
question--eh, Mary?'

'No; at least I don't think I will.'

'Is there any truth in what we hear about your being engaged to Frank?'

Mary made no immediate answer to this; but sat quite silent, looking at
Lady Arabella in the face; not but that she had made up her mind as to
what answer she would give, but the exact words failed her at the
moment.

'Of course you must have heard of such a rumour.'

'Oh, yes, I have heard of it.'

'Yes, and you have noticed it, and I must say very properly. When you
went to Boxall Hill, and before that with Miss Oriel's to her aunt's, I
thought you behaved extremely well.' Mary felt herself glow with
indignation, and began to prepare the words that should be sharp and
decisive. 'But, nevertheless, people talk; and Frank, who is still quite
a boy' (Mary's indignation was not softened by this allusion to Frank's
folly), 'seems to have got some nonsense in his head. I grieve to say
it, but I feel myself in justice bound to do so, that in 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 him.'

'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 she made
it she looked her visitor full in the face, blushing indeed, for her
cheeks were now suffused as well as her forehead; but boldly, and, as it
were, with defiance.

'And you tell me that to my face, Miss Thorne?'

'And why not?  Did you not ask me the question; and would you have my
answer you with a falsehood? I am engaged to him. As you would put the
question to me, what other could I make? The truth is, I am engaged to
him.'

The decisive abruptness with which Mary declared her own iniquity almost
took away her ladyship's breath. She had certainly believed that they
were engaged, and had hardly hoped that Mary would deny it; but she had
not expected that the crime would be acknowledged, or, at any rate, if
acknowledged, that the confession would be made without some show of
shame. On this Lady Arabella could have worked; but there was no such
expression, nor was there the slightest hesitation. 'I am engaged to
Frank Gresham,' and having so said, Mary looked at her visitor full in
the face.

'Then it is indeed impossible that you should be received at
Greshamsbury.'

'At present, quite so, no doubt: in saying so, Lady Arabella, you only
repeat the answer I made to your first question. I can now go to
Greshamsbury only in one light: that of Mr Gresham's accepted
daughter-in-law.'

'And that is perfectly out of the question; altogether out of the
question, now and for ever.'

'I will not dispute with you about that; but, as I said before, my being
at Beatrice's wedding is not to be thought of.'

Lady Arabella sat for a while silent, that she might meditate, if
possible, calmly as to what line of argument she had now better take. It
would be foolish in her, she thought, to return home, having merely
expressed her anger. She had now an opportunity of talking to Mary which
might not again occur: the difficulty was in deciding in what special
way she should use the opportunity. Should she threaten, or should she
entreat? To do her justice, it should be stated, that she did actually
believe that the marriage was all but impossible; she did not think that
it would take place. But the engagement might be the ruin of her son's
prospects, seeing how he had before him an imperative, 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, if necessary,
to threaten.

'I am astonished!  you cannot be surprised at that, Miss Thorne: I am
astonished at hearing so singular confession made.'

'Do you think my confession singular, or is it the fact of my being
engaged to your son?'

'We will pass over that for the present.  But do let me ask you, do you
think it possible, I say possible, that you and Frank should be
married?'

'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 his
father's wishes. The property, as you are aware, is altogether at Mr
Gresham's disposal.'

'I am aware of nothing about the property, and can say nothing about it
except this, that it has not been, and will not be inquired after by me
in this matter. If I marry Frank Gresham, it will not be for the
property. I am sorry to make such an apparent boast, but you force 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 were the
epithets which rose to Lady Arabella's mind; but she politely suppressed
them.

'Miss Thorne, this subject is of course to me very serious; very
ill-adapted for jesting. I look upon such a marriage as absolutely
impossible.'

'I do not know what you mean by impossible, Lady Arabella.'

'I mean, in the first place, that you two could not get yourselves
married.'

'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 it would
be illegal.'

Mary smiled; but she said nothing.  'You may laugh, Miss Thorne, but I
think you will find that I am right. There are still laws to prevent
such 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, Miss
Thorne. Think of Frank's state, and of his father's state. You know
enough of that, I am sure, to be well aware that Frank is not in a
condition to marry without money. Think of the position which Mr
Gresham'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 to understand
all this; think of these things, and then say whether it is possible
that such a marriage should take place without family distress of 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, and nothing
any human being could say should take her from it. If he, indeed, chose
to repent, that would be another thing.

'Lady Arabella,' she said, 'I have nothing to say in favour of this
engagement, except that he wishes it.'

'And is this a reason, Mary?'

'To me it is; not only a reason, but a law.  I have given him my
promise.'

'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 this mad
engagement?'

'No, Lady Arabella; I will not hold him to anything to which he does not
wish to be held. Nothing that you can say shall move me: nothing that
anybody can say shall induce me to break my promise to him. But a word
from himself will do it. One look will be sufficient. Let him give me to
understand, in any way, that his love for me is injurious to him--that
he has learnt to think so--and then I will renounce my part in this
engagement as quickly as you could wish it.'

There was much in this promise, but still not so much as Lady Arabella
wished to get. Mary, she knew, was obstinate, yet reasonable; Frank, she
thought, was both obstinate and unreasonable. It might be possible to
work on Mary's reason, but quite impossible to touch Frank's
irrationality. So she persevered--foolishly.

'Miss Thorne--that, is, Mary, for I still wish to be thought your
friend--'

'I will tell you the truth, Lady Arabella: for some considerable time
past 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 to say 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 Frank
wishes 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 will it
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 to
speak, the first to suggest that this affair between you is a foolish
one, what would people say?'

'They would say the truth.'

'And what would you yourself say?'

'Nothing.'

'What would he think himself?'

'Ah, that I do not know.  It is according as that may be, that he will
or will not act at your bidding.'

'Exactly; and because you know him to be high-minded, because you think
that he, having so much to give, will not break his word to you--to you
who have nothing to give in return--it is, therefore, that you say that
the first step must be taken by him. It that noble?'

Then Mary rose from her seat, for it was no longer possible for her to
speak what it was in her to say, sitting there leisurely on her sofa.
Lady Arabella's worship of money had not hitherto been so brought
forward in the conversation as to give her unpardonable offence; but now
she felt that she could no longer restrain her indignation. 'To you who
have nothing to give in return!' Had she not given all that she
possessed? Had she not emptied his store into her lap? that heart of
hers, beating with such genuine life, capable of such perfect love,
throbbing with so grand a pride; had she not given that? And was it not
that, between him and her, more than twenty Greshamsburys, nobler than
any pedigree? 'To you who have nothing to give,' 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 talking will
be worse than useless. I have taken no account of what will be given
between your son and me in your sense of the word giving. But he has
professed to--to love me'--as she spoke, she still looked on the lady's
face, but her eyelashes screened her eyes, and her colour was a little
heightened--'and I have acknowledged that I also love him, and so we are
engaged. To me my promise is sacred. I will not be threatened into
breaking it. If, however, he shall wish to 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 if it suits you; but I will not listen to
your calculations as to how much or how little each of us may have to
give to the other.'

She was still standing when she finished speaking, and so she continued
to stand. Her eyes were fixed on Lady Arabella, and her position seemed
to say that sufficient words had been spoken, and that it was time that
her ladyship should go; and so Lady Arabella felt it. Gradually she also
rose; slowly, but tacitly, she acknowledged that she was in the presence
of a spirit superior to her own; and so she took her leave.

'Very well,' she said, in a tone that was intended to be grandiloquent,
but which failed grievously; 'I will tell him that he has your
permission to think a second time on this matter. I do not doubt that he
will do so.' Mary would not condescend to answer, but curtsied low as
her visitor left the room. And so the interview was over.

The interview was over, and Mary was alone.  She remained standing as
long as she heard the footsteps of Frank's mother on the stairs; not
immediately thinking of what had passed, but still buoying herself up
with her hot indignation, as though her work with Lady Arabella was not
yet finished; but when the footfall was no longer heard, and the sound
of the closing door told her that she was in truth alone, she sank back
in her seat, and, covering her face with her hands, burst into bitter
tears.

All that doctrine about money was horrible to her; that insolent
pretence, that she had caught at Frank because of his worldly position,
made her all but ferocious; but Lady Arabella had not the less spoken
much that was true. She did think of the position which the heir of
Greshamsbury should hold in the county, and of the fact that such a
marriage would mar that position so vitally; she did think of the old
name, and the old Gresham pride; she did think of the squire and his
deep distress: it was true that she had lived among them long enough to
understand these things, and to know that it was not possible that this
marriage should take place without deep family sorrow.

And then she asked herself whether, in consenting to accept Frank's
hand, she had adequately considered this; and she was forced to
acknowledge that she had not considered it. She had ridiculed Lady
Arabella for saying that Frank was still a boy; but was it not true that
his offer had been made with a boy's energy, rather than a man's
forethought? If so, if she had been wrong to accede to that offer when
made, would she not be doubly wrong to hold him to it now that she saw
his error?

It was doubtless true that Frank himself could not be the first to draw
back. What would people say of him? She could now calmly ask herself the
question that had so angered her, when asked by Lady Arabella. If he
could not do it, and if, nevertheless, it behoved them to break off this
match, by whom was it to be done if not by her? Was not Lady Arabella
right throughout, right in her conclusions, though so foully wrong in
her manner of drawing them?

And then she did think for one moment of herself.  'You who have nothing
to give in return!' Such had been Lady Arabella's main accusation
against her. Was it in fact true that she had nothing to give? Her
maiden love, her feminine pride, her very life, and spirit, and
being--were these things nothing? Were they to be weighed against pounds
sterling per annum? and, when so weighed, were they ever to kick the
beam like feathers? All these things had been nothing to her when,
without reflection, governed wholly by the impulse of the moment, she
had first allowed his daring hand to lie for an instant in her own. She
had thought nothing of these things when that other suitor came, richer
far than Frank, to love whom it was impossible to her as it was not to
love him.

Her love had been pure from all such thoughts; she was conscious that it
ever would be pure from them. Lady Arabella was unable to comprehend
this, and, therefore, was Lady Arabella so utterly distasteful to her.

Frank had once held her close to his warm breast; and her very soul had
thrilled with joy to feel that he so loved her,--with a joy which she
hardly dared to acknowledge. At that moment, her maidenly efforts had
been made to push him off, but her heart had grown to his. She had
acknowledged him to be master of her spirit; her bosom's lord; the man
whom she had been born to worship; the human being to whom it was for
her to link her destiny. Frank's acres had been of no account; nor had
his want of acres. God had brought them two together that they should
love each other; that conviction had satisfied her, and she had made it
a duty to herself that she would love him with her very soul. And now
she was called upon to wrench herself asunder from him because she had
nothing to give in return!

Well, she would wrench herself asunder, as far as such wrenching might
be done compatibly with her solemn promise. It might be right that Frank
should have an opportunity offered him, so that he might escape from his
position without disgrace. She would endeavour to give him this
opportunity. So, with one deep sigh, she arose, took herself pen, ink,
and paper, and sat herself down again so that the wrenching might begin.

And then, for a moment, she thought of her uncle.  Why had he not spoken
to her of all this? Why had he not warned her? He who had ever been so
good to her, why had he now failed her so grievously? She had told him
everything, had had no secret from him; but he had never answered her a
word. 'He also must have known' she said to herself, piteously, 'he also
must have known that I could give nothing in return.' Such accusation,
however, availed her not at all, so she sat down and slowly wrote her
letter.

'Dearest Frank,' she began.  She had first written 'dear Mr Gresham';
but her heart revolted against such useless coldness. She was 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 your first feelings will be on reading this letter;
but do not answer it in obedience to such feelings. Think over
it, think of your father, and all you owe him, of your old
name, your old family, and what the world expects of you.'
(Mary was forced to put her hand to her eyes, to save the
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.

'Go 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'

'PS.--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 finished the letter, she addressed it plainly, in her own
somewhat bold handwriting, to Francis N. Gresham, Jun., Esq., and then
took it herself to the little village post-office. There should be
nothing underhand about her correspondence: all the Greshamsbury world
should know of it--that world of which she had spoken in her letter--if
that world so pleased. Having put her penny label on it, she handed it,
with an open brow and an unembarrassed face, to the baker's wife, who
was Her Majesty's postmistress at Greshamsbury; and, having so finished
her work, she returned to see the table prepared for her uncle's dinner.
'I will say nothing to him,' she said to herself, 'till I get the
answer. He will not talk to me about it, 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's
letter was written off at once, without alterations and changes, or the
necessity for a fair copy. Letters from one young lady to another are
doubtless written in this manner, and even with them it might sometimes
be better if more patience had been taken; but with Mary's first letter
to her lover--her first love-letter, if love-letter it can 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 no heart,
that I have never loved him!' And then she all but resolved to run down
to the baker's wife, and get back her letter, that she might alter it.
'But it will be better so,' she said again. 'If I touched his feelings
now, he would never bring himself to leave me. It is right that I should
be cold with him. I should be false to myself if I tried to move his
love--I, who have nothing to give him in return for it.' And so she made
no further visit to the post-office, and the letter went on its way.

We will now follow its fortunes for a short while, and explain how it
was that Mary received no answer for a week; a week, it may well be
imagined, of terrible suspense to her. When she took it to the
post-office, she doubtless thought that the baker's wife had nothing to
do but to send it up to the house at Greshamsbury, and that Frank would
receive it that evening, or, at latest, early on the following morning.
But this was by no means so. The epistle was posted on a Friday
afternoon, and it behoved the baker's wife to send it into
Silverbridge--Silverbridge being the post-town--so that all due
formalities, as ordered by the Queen's Government, might there be
perfected. Now, unfortunately the post-boy had taken his departure
before Mary reached the shop, and it was not, therefore, dispatched till
Saturday. Sunday was always a dies non with the Greshamsbury Mercury,
and, consequently, Frank's letter was not delivered at the house till
Monday morning; at which time Mary had for two long days been 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 accomplish this, they
had left Greshamsbury for Barchester exactly as the postboy was leaving
Silverbridge for Greshamsbury.

'I should like to wait for my letters,' Mr Oriel had said, when the
journey was being discussed.

'Nonsense,' Frank had answered.  'Who ever got a letter that was worth
waiting for?' and so Mary was doomed to a week of misery.

When the post-bag arrived at the house on Monday morning it was opened
as usual by the squire himself at the breakfast-table. 'Here is a letter
for Frank,' said he, 'posted in the village. You had better send it to
him:' and he threw the letter across to Beatrice.

'It's from Mary,' said Beatrice, out loud, taking the letter up and
examining the address. And having said so, she repented what she had
done, 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 on turning
over the letters and newspapers. 'Oh, from Mary Thorne, is it?' he said.
'Well, you had better send it to him.'

'Frank said that if any letters came they were to be kept,' said his
sister Sophy. 'He told me so particularly. I don't think he likes having
letters sent to him.'

'You had better send that one,' said the squire.

'Mr Oriel is to have all his letters addressed to Long's Hotel, Bond
Street, and this one can very well be sent with them,' said Beatrice,
who knew all about it, and intended herself to make free use of the
address.

'Yes, you had better send it,' said the squire; and then nothing further
was said at the table. But Lady Arabella, though she said nothing, had
not failed to mark what had passed. Had she asked for the letter before
the squire, he would probably have taken possession of it himself; but
as soon as she was alone with Beatrice, she did demand it, 'I shall be
writing to Frank himself,' she said, 'and will send 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 a
wistful glance was cast at it. She turned it over and over, and much
desired to know its contents; but she did not dare to break the seal of
her son's letter. All that day it lay upon her desk, and all the next,
for she could hardly bring herself to part with it; but on the Wednesday
it was sent--sent with these lines from herself:-

'Dearest, dearest Frank, I send you a letter which has come by the post
from Mary Thorne. I do not know what it may contain; but before you
correspond with her, pray, pray think of what I said to you. For my
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 must reserve
for the next chapter what had taken place between Frank and his mother;
but, for the present, we will return to the doctor's house.

Mary said not a word to him about the letter; but, keeping silent on the
subject, she felt wretchedly estranged from him. 'Is anything the
matter, Mary?' he said to her on the Sunday afternoon.

'No, uncle,' she answered, turning away her head to hide her tears.

'Ah, but there is something; what is it, dearest?'

'Nothing--that is, nothing that one can talk about.'

'What Mary!  Be unhappy and not to talk about it to me?  That's
something new, is it not?'

'One has presentiments sometimes, and is unhappy without knowing why.
Besides, you know--'

'I know!  What do I know?  Do I know anything that will make my pet
happier?' and he took her into his arms and they sat together on the
sofa. Her tears were now falling fast, and she no longer made an effort
to hide them. 'Speak to me, Mary; this is something more than a
presentiment. What is it?'

'Oh, uncle--'

'Come, love, speak to me; tell me why you are grieving.'

'Oh, uncle, why have you not spoken to me?  Why have you not told me
what to do? Why have you not advised me? Why are you always so silent?'

'Silent about what?'

'You know, uncle; silent about him; silent about Frank.'

Why, indeed?  What was he to say to this?  It was true that he had never
counselled her; never shown her what course she should take; had never
even spoke to her about her lover. And it was equally true that he was
not now prepared to do so, even in answer to such an appeal as this. He
had a hope, a strong hope, more than a hope, that Mary's love would yet
be happy; but he could not express or explain his hope; nor could he
even acknowledge to himself a wish that would seem to be based on the
death of him to whose life he was bound, if possible, to preserve.

'My love,' he said, 'it is a matter in which you must judge for
yourself. Did I doubt your conduct, I should interfere; but I do not.'

'Conduct!  Is conduct everything?  One may conduct oneself excellently,
and yet break one's heart.'

This was too much for the doctor; his sternness and firmness instantly
deserted him. 'Mary,' he said, 'I will do anything that you would have
me. If you wish it, I will make arrangements for leaving this place at
once.'

'Oh, no,' she said, plaintively.

'When you tell me of a broken heart, you almost break my own. Come to
me, darling; do not leave me so. I will say all that I can say. I have
thought, do still think, that circumstances will admit of your marriage
with Frank if you both love each other, and can both be patient.'

'You think so,' said she, unconsciously sliding her hand into his, as
though to thank him by its pressure for the comfort he was giving her.

'I do think so now more than ever.  But I only think so; I have been
unable to assure you. There, darling, I must not say more; only that I
cannot bear to see you grieving, I would not have said this:' and then
he left her, and nothing more was spoken on the subject.

If you can be patient!  Why, a patience of ten years would be as nothing
to her. Could she but live with the knowledge that she was first in his
estimation, dearest in his heart; could it be also granted to her to
feel that she was regarded as his equal, she could be patient for ever.
What more did she want than to know and feel this? Patient, indeed!

But what could these circumstances be to which her uncle had alluded? 'I
do think that circumstances will admit of your marriage.' Such was his
opinion, and she had never known him to be wrong. Circumstances! What
circumstances? Did he perhaps mean that Mr Gresham's affairs were not so
bad as they had been thought to be? If so, that alone would hardly alter
the matter, for what could she give in return? 'I would give him the
world for one word of love,' she said to herself, 'and never think that
he was my debtor. Ah! how beggarly the heart must be that speculates on
such gifts as those!'

But there was her uncle's opinion: he still thought that they might be
married. Oh, why had she sent her letter? and why had she made it so
cold? With such a letter as that before him, Frank could not do other
than consent to her proposal. And then, why did he not at least answer
it?

On the Sunday afternoon there arrived at Greshamsbury a man and a horse
from Boxall Hill, bearing a letter from Lady Scatcherd to Dr Thorne,
earnestly requesting the doctor's immediate attendance. 'I fear
everything is over with poor Louis,' wrote the unhappy mother. 'It has
been dreadful. Do come to me; I have no other friend, and I am nearly
worn through with it. The man from the city'--she meant Dr
Fillgrave--'comes every day, and I dare say he is all very well, but he
has never done much good. He has not had spirit enough to keep the
bottle from him; and it was that, and that only, that most behoved to be
done. I doubt you won't find him in this world when you get here.'

Dr Thorne started immediately.  Even though he might have to meet Dr
Fillgrave, he could not hesitate, for he went not as a doctor to the
dying man, but as the trustee under Sir Roger's will. Moreover, as Lady
Scatcherd had said, he was only her friend, and he could not desert her
at such a moment for an army of Fillgraves. He told Mary he should not
return that night; and taking with him a small saddle-bag, he started at
once for Boxall Hill.

As he rode to the hall door, Dr Fillgrave was getting into his carriage.
They had never met so as to speak to each other since that memorable
day, when they had their famous passage of arms in the hall of that very
house before which they both now stood. But, at the present moment,
neither of them was disposed to renew the fight.

'What news of your patient, Fillgrave?' said our doctor, still seated on
his sweating horse, and putting his hand lightly to his hat.

Dr Fillgrave could not refrain from one moment of supercilious disdain:
he gave one little chuck to his head, one little twist to his neck, one
little squeeze to his lips, and then the man within him overcame 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.' And then
Dr Fillgrave, thinking that even the present circumstances required no
further condescension, ensconced himself in the carriage.

'His last days have been very dreadful!  Ah, me, poor fellow! Dr
Fillgrave, before you go, allow me to say this: I am quite aware that
when he fell into your hands, no medical skill in the world could save
him.'

Dr Fillgrave bowed low from the carriage, and after this unwonted
exchange of courtesies, the two doctors parted, not to meet again--at
any rate, in the pages of this novel. Of Dr Fillgrave, let it now be
said, that he is now regarded as one of the celebrities of Barchester.

Lady Scatcherd was found sitting alone in her little room on the
ground-floor. Even Hannah was not with her, for Hannah was now occupied
upstairs. When the doctor entered the room, which he did unannounced, he
found her seated on a chair, with her back against one of the presses,
her hands clasped together over her knees, gazing into vacancy. She did
not ever hear him or see him as he approached, and his hand had lightly
touched her shoulder before she knew that she was not alone. Then, she
looked up at him with a face so full of sorrow, so worn with suffering,
that his own heart was racked to see her.

'It's all over, my friend,' said he.  'It is better so; much better so.'

She seemed at first hardly to understand him, but still regarding him
with that wan face, shook her head slowly and sadly. One might have
thought that she was twenty years older than when Dr Thorne last saw
her.

He drew a chair to her side, and sitting by her, took her hand in his.
'It is better so, Lady Scatcherd; better so,' he repeated. 'The poor
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 gone now.
Oh, doctor! To be left alone here, all alone!'

He said some few words trying to comfort her; but who can comfort a
widow bereaved of her child? Who can console a heart that has lost all
it possessed? Sir Roger had not been to her a tender husband; but still
he had been the husband of her love. Sir Louis had not 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 the world 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 his
kindness at such desolate moments are, to such minds as hers, some
alleviation of grief. She hardly answered him, but sat there staring out
before her, leaving her hand passively to him, and swaying her head
backwards and forwards as though her grief were too heavy to be borne.

At last, her eye rested upon an article which stood upon the table, and
she started up impetuously from her chair. She did this so suddenly,
that the doctor's hand fell beside him before he knew that she had
risen. The table was covered with all those implements which become so
frequent about a house when severe illness is an inhabitant there. There
were little boxes and apothecaries' bottles, cups and saucers standing
separate, and bowls, in which messes have been prepared with the hope of
suiting a sick man's failing appetite. There was a small saucepan
standing on a plate, a curiously shaped glass utensil left by the
doctor, and sundry pieces of flannel, which had been used in rubbing the
sufferer's limbs. But in the middle of the debris stood one blank
bottle, with head erect, unsuited to the companionship in which it was
found.

'There,' she said, rising up, and seizing it in a manner that would have
been ridiculous had it not been so truly tragic. 'There, that has robbed
me of everything--of father and son; that has swallowed them
both--murdered them both! Oh, doctor! that such a thing as that should
ever 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 hand as
though it were too heavy for her.

'This comes of barro-niting,' she continued.  'If they had let him
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 us should
never meddle with them above us. See what has come of it; see what has
come of it!'

The doctor could not remain with her long, as it was necessary that he
should take upon himself the direction of the household, and give orders
for the funeral. First of all, he had to undergo the sad duty of seeing
the corpse of the deceased baronet. This, at any rate, may be spared to
my readers. It was found to be necessary that the internment should be
made very quickly, as the body was nearly destroyed by alcohol. Having
done all this, and sent back his horse to Greshamsbury, with directions
that clothes for a journey might be sent 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 property which was
now, for a short time, altogether in his own hands. His resolution was
soon made to go at once to London and consult the best lawyer he could
find--or the best dozen lawyers should such be necessary--as to the
validity of Mary's claims. This must be done before he said a word to
her or to any of the Gresham family; but it must be done instantly, so
that all suspense might be at an end as soon as possible. He must, of
course, remain with Lady Scatcherd till the 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 had
fortified himself with legal warranty, he made one exception. He thought
it rational that he should explain to Lady Scatcherd who was now the
heir under her husband's will; and he was more inclined to do so, from
feeling that the news would probably be gratifying to her. With this
view, he had once or twice endeavoured to induce her to talk about the
property, but she had been unwilling to do so. She seemed to dislike all
allusions to it, and it was not until she had incidentally mentioned the
fact that she would have to look for a home, that he was able to fix her
to the subject. This was on the evening before the funeral; on the
afternoon of which day he intended to 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 to
have any arrangements made. I would not be indebted to any of them for
anything. Oh, dear! if money could make it all right, I should have
enough of that.'

'Indebted to whom, Lady Scatcherd?  Who do you think will be the owner
of 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 a friend
of. It isn't so easy for an old woman like me to make new friends.'

'Well, it certainly won't belong to me.'

'I wish it did, with all my heart.  But even then, I would not live
here. I have had too many troubles here to wish to see more.'

'That shall be as you like, Lady Scatcherd; but you will be surprised to
hear that the place will--at least I think it will--belong to a friend
of yours: to one to whom you have been very kind.'

'And who is he, doctor?  Won't it go to some of those Americans?  I am
sure I never did anything kind to them; though, indeed, I did love poor
Mary Scatcherd. But that's years upon years ago, and she is dead, and
gone now. Well, I begrudge nothing to Mary's children. As I have none of
my own, it is right that they should have the money. It has not made me
happy; I hope it may do them.'

'The property will, I think, go to Mary Scatcherd's eldest child.  It is
she whom you have known as Mary Thorne.'

'Doctor!'  And then Lady Scatcherd, as she made the exclamation, put
both her hands down to hold her chair, as though she feared the weight
of her surprise would topple her off her seat.

'Yes; Mary Thorne--my Mary--to whom you have been so good, who loves you
so well; she, I believe, will be Sir Roger's heiress. And it was so that
Sir Roger intended on his deathbed, in the event of poor Louis's life
being cut short. If this be so, will you be ashamed to stay here as the
guest of Mary Thorne? She has not been ashamed to be your guest.'

But Lady Scatcherd was now too much interested in the general tenor of
the news which she had heard to care much about the house which she was
to inhabit in future. Mary Thorne, the heiress of Boxall Hill! Mary
Thorne, the still living child of that poor creature who had so nearly
died when they were all afflicted with their early grief! Well; there
was consolation, there was comfort in this. There were but three people
left in the world that she could love: her foster-child, Frank
Gresham--Mary Thorne, and the doctor. If the money went to Mary, it
would of course go to Frank, for she now knew that they loved each
other; and if it went to them, would not the doctor have his share also;
such share as he might want? Could she have governed the matter, she
would have given all to Frank; and now it would be as well bestowed.

Yes; there was consolation in this.  They both sat up more than half the
night talking over it, and giving and receiving explanations. If only
the council of lawyers would not be adverse! That was now the point of
suspense.

The doctor, before he left her, bade her hold her peace, and say nothing
of Mary's fortune to any one till her rights have been absolutely
acknowledged. 'It will be nothing not to have it,' said the doctor; 'but
it would be very bad to hear it was hers, and then to lose it.'

On the next morning, Dr Thorne deposited the remains of Sir Louis in the
vault prepared for the family in the parish church. He laid the son
where a few months ago he had laid the father,--and so the title of
Scatcherd became extinct. Their race of honour had not been long.

After the funeral, the doctor hurried up to London, and there we will
leave him.



CHAPTER XLIV

SATURDAY EVENING AND SUNDAY MORNING

We must now go back a little and describe how Frank had been sent off on
special business to London. The household at Greshamsbury was at this
time in but a doleful state. It seemed to be pervaded, from the squire
down to the scullery-maid, with a feeling that things were not going
well; and men and women, in spite of Beatrice's coming marriage, were
grim-visaged, and dolorous. Mr Mortimer Gazebee, rejected though he had
been, still, went and came, talking much to the squire, much also to her
ladyship, as to the ill-doings which were in the course of projection by
Sir Louis; and Frank went about the house with clouded brow, as though
finally resolved to neglect his one great duty.

Poor Beatrice was robbed of half her joy; over and over again her
brother asked her whether she had yet seen Mary, and she was obliged as
often to answer that she had not. Indeed, she did not dare to visit her
friend, for it was hardly possible that they should sympathize with each
other. Mary was, to say the least, stubborn in her pride; and Beatrice,
though she could forgive her friend for loving her brother, could not
forgive the obstinacy with which Mary persisted in a course which, as
Beatrice thought, she herself knew to be wrong.

And then Mr Gazebee came down from town, with an intimation that it
behoved the squire himself to go up that he might see certain learned
pundits, and be badgered in his own person at various dingy, dismal
chambers in Lincoln's Inn Fields, the Temple, and Gray's Inn Lane. It
was an invitation exactly of that sort which a good many years ago was
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 squire remained
steady to his objection, and swam obstinately about his Greshamsbury
pond in any direction save that which seemed to lead towards London.

This occurred on the very evening of that Friday which had witnessed the
Lady Arabella's last visit to Dr Thorne's house. The question of the
squire's necessary journey to the great fountains of justice was, of
course, discussed between Lady Arabella and Mr Gazebee; and it occurred
to the former, full as she was of Frank's iniquity and of Mary'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 get Frank 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 not break off, this
hateful match. It was inconceivable that a youth of twenty-three, and
such a youth as Frank, should be obstinately constant to a girl
possessed of no great beauty--so argued Lady Arabella to herself--and
who had neither wealth, birth, nor fashion to recommend her.

And this it was at last settled--the squire being a willing partner to
the agreement--that Frank should go up and be badgered in lieu of his
father. At his age it was possible to make a thing desirable, if not
necessary--on account of the importance conveyed--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 he knew better. Frank had not hitherto
been there on his own bottom, and thus he fell easily into the trap.

Mr Oriel was also going to London, and this was another reason for
sending Frank. Mr Oriel had business of great importance, which it was
quite necessary that he should execute before his marriage. How much of
this business consisted in going to his tailor, buying a wedding-ring,
and purchasing some other more costly present for Beatrice, we need not
here inquire. But Mr Oriel was quite on Lady Arabella's side with
reference to this mad engagement, and as Frank and 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 settled
between them all on the same night. Nothing, of course, was at that
moment said about Mary; but Lady Arabella was too full of the subject to
let him go to London without telling him that Mary was ready to recede
if only he would allow her to do so. About eleven o'clock, Frank was
sitting in his own room, coming over the difficulties of the
situation--thinking of his father's troubles, his own position--when he
was roused from his reverie by a slight tap at the door.

'Come in,' he said somewhat loudly.  He thought it was one of his
sisters, who were apt to visit him at all hours and for all manner of
reasons; and he, though he was usually gentle to them, was not at
present exactly in a humour to be disturbed.

The door gently opened, and he saw his mother standing hesitating in the
passage.

'Can I come in, Frank?' said she.

'Oh, yes, mother; by all means:' and then, with some surprise marked in
his countenance, he prepared a seat for her. Such a visit as this from
Lady Arabella was very unusual; so much so, that he had probably not
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 unless it were an
open letter from Miss Dunstable which he had in his hand when she
entered, and which he somewhat hurriedly thrust into his pocket.

'I wanted to say a few words to you, Frank, before you start for London
about this business.' Frank signified by a gesture, that he was 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 somehow your
father has never been a good man of business--everything has gone wrong
with him.'

'Oh, mother!  do not say anything against him.'

'No, Frank, I will not; I do not wish it.  Things have been unfortunate,
certainly. Ah me! I little thought when I married--but I don't mean to
complain--I have excellent children, and I ought to be thankful for
that.'

Frank began to fear that no good would be coming when his mother spoke
in that strain. 'I will do the best I can,' said he, 'up in town. I
can't help thinking myself that Mr Gazebee might have done as well,
but--'

'Oh, dear no; by no means.  In such cases the principal must show
himself. Besides, it is right you should know how matters stand. Who is
so much interested in it as you are? Poor Frank! I do so often feel for
you when I think how the property has dwindled.'

'Pray do not mind me, mother.  Why should you talk of it as my matter
while my father is not yet forty-five? His life, so to speak, is as good
as mine. I can do very well without it; all I want is to be allowed to
settle to something.'

'You mean a profession.'

'Yes; something of that sort.'

'They are all so slow, dear Frank.  You, who speak French so well--I
should think my brother might get you in as an attache to some embassy.'

'That wouldn't suit me at all,' said Frank.

'Well, we'll talk about that some other time.  But I came about
something else, and I do hope you will hear me.'

Frank's brow again grew black, for he knew that his mother was about to
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 fate of an
only son must be a subject of anxiety to a mother.' Ah! how singularly
altered was Lady Arabella's tone since first she had taken upon herself
to discuss the marriage prospects of her son! Then how autocratic had
she been as she went him away, bidding him, with full command, to throw
himself into the golden embraces of Miss Dunstable! But now, how humble,
as she came suppliantly to his room, craving that she might have leave
to whisper into his ear a mother's anxious fears! Frank had laughed at
her stern behests, though he had half obeyed 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 kissed his
brow. 'Oh, Frank,' she said, 'I have been so proud of you, am still so
proud of you. It will send me to my grave if I see you sink below your
proper position. Not that it will be your fault. I am sure it will not
be your fault. Only circumstanced as you are, you should be 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's
character. It will probably be said that she was a consummate hypocrite;
but at the present moment she was not hypocritical. She did love her
son; was anxious--very, very anxious for him; was proud of him, and
almost admired the obstinacy which so vexed her inmost soul. No grief
would be to her so great as that of seeing him sink below what she
conceived to be his position. She was as genuinely motherly, in wishing
that he should marry money, as another woman might be in wishing to see
her son a bishop; or as the Spartan matron, 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 Lord de Courcy might do for him. If he
would not marry money, he might, at any rate, be attache at an embassy.
A profession--hard work, as a doctor, or as an engineer--would,
according to her ideas, degrade him; cause him to sink below his proper
position; but to dangle at a foreign court, to make small talk at
evening parties of a lady ambassadress, and occasionally, perhaps, to
write demi-official notes containing demi-official tittle-tattle; this
would be in proper accordance with the high honour of a Gresham of
Greshamsbury.

We may not admire the direction taken by Lady Arabella's energy on
behalf of her son, but that energy was not hypocritical.

'And now, Frank--' She looked wistfully into his face as she addressed
him, as though half afraid to go on, and begging that he would receive
with complaisance whatever she found herself forced to say.

'Well, mother?'

'I was with Mary yesterday.'

'Yes, yes; what then?  I know what your feelings are with regard to
her.'

'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 means
you have of keeping her. Think of what you are. Your father's only son;
the heir to Greshamsbury. If Greshamsbury be ever again more than a
name, it is you that must redeem it. Of all men living you are the least
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 you to
marry any one. I did think once--but let that pass. You are now
twenty-three. In ten years' time you will still be a young man. I only
ask you to wait. If you marry now, that is, marry such a girl as Mary
Thorne--'

'Such a girl!  Where shall I find another?'

'I mean as regards money, Frank; you know I mean that; how are you to
live? 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 be
induced 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.'

Frank promised that he would listen patiently; but he looked anything
but patient as he said so.

'I have seen Mary, as it was certainly my duty to do.  You cannot be
angry with me for that.'

'Who said that I was angry, mother?'

'Well, I have seen her, and I must own, that though she was not disposed
to be courteous to me, personally, she said much that marked her
excellent good sense. But the gist of it was this; that as she had made
you a promise, nothing should turn her from that promise but your
permission.'

'And do you think--'

'Wait a moment, Frank, and listen to me.  She confessed that this
marriage was one which would necessarily bring distress on all your
family; 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 her own
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 be
doing that which she herself approves of. She feels the impropriety of
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 of all
that your friends say. Oh, Frank, I will go on my knees to you if you
will listen to me.'

'Oh, mother! mother! mother!'

'You should think twice, Frank, before you refuse the only request your
mother ever made you. And why do I ask you? why do I come to you thus?
Is it for my own sake? Oh, my boy! my darling boy! will you lose
everything in life, because you love the child with whom you played with
as a child?'

'Whose fault is it that we were together as children?  She is now more
than a child. I look on her already as my wife.'

'But she is not your wife, Frank; and she knows that she ought not to
be. It is only because you hold her to it that she consents to it.'

'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 was useless
for her to say anything that would be utterly contradicted by an appeal
to Mary herself.

'No, Frank; I do not mean to say that you do not love her.  What I do
mean is this: that it is not becoming in you to give up everything--not
only yourself, but all your family--for such a love as this; and that
she, Mary herself acknowledges this. Every one is of the same opinion.
Ask your father: I need not say that he would agree with you about
everything he could. I will not say the De Courcys.'

'Oh, the De Courcys!'

'Yes, they are my relations, I know that.' Lady Arabella could not quite
drop the tone of bitterness which was natural to her in saying this.
'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 look
almost of agony, gazed into his face. 'I will ask no one,' at last he
said.

'Oh, my boy! my boy!'

'No one but myself can know my 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 as your wife?
Oh, Frank! is that the only answer you will make to your mother on her
knees?

'Oh, mother! mother!'

'No, Frank, I will not let you ruin yourself; I will not let you destroy
yourself. Promise this, at least, that you will think of what I 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 have heavy
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 this
without seeing her. Do not proclaim yourself so weak that you cannot
trust yourself to think over what your mother says to you without asking
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 it were not,
you would soon learn so. Think now of what I have said, and of what she
says, and when you come back from London, then you can decide.'

To so much Frank consented after some further parley; namely, that he
would proceed to London on the following Monday morning without again
seeing Mary. And in the meantime, she was waiting with sore heart for
his answer to that letter that was lying, and was still to lie for so
many hours, in the safe protection of Silverbridge postmistress.

It may seem strange; but, in truth, his mother's eloquence had more
effect on Frank than that of his father: and yet, with his father he had
always sympathized. But his mother had been energetic; whereas, his
father, if not lukewarm, had, at any rate, been timid. 'I will ask no
one,' Frank had said in the strong determination of his heart; and yet
the words were hardly out of his mouth before he bethought himself 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 I hate to have all
the world against me. My mother wishes me to ask Harry Baker. Harry is a
good fellow, and I will ask him.' And with this resolve he betook
himself to bed.

The following day was Sunday.  After breakfast Frank went with the
family to church, as was usual; and there, as usual, he saw Mary in Dr
Thorne's pew. She, as she looked at him, could not but wonder why he had
not answered the letter which was still at Silverbridge; and he
endeavoured to read into her face whether it was true, as his mother
told him, that she was quite ready to give him up. The prayers of both
of them were disturbed, as is so often the case with the prayers of
other anxious people.

There was a separate door opening from the Greshamsbury pew out into the
Greshamsbury grounds, so that the family were not forced into unseemly
community with the village multitude in going to and from their prayers;
for the front door of the church led out into a road which had no
connexion with the private path. It was not unusual with Frank and his
father to go round, after the service, to the chief entrance, so that
they might speak to their neighbours, and get rid of some of the
exclusiveness which was intended for them. On this morning the squire
did so; but Frank walked home with his mother and sisters, so that Mary
saw no more of him.

I have said that he walked home with his mother and sisters; but he
rather followed in their path. He was not inclined to talk much, at
least, not to them; and he continued asking himself the
question--whether it could be possible that he was wrong in remaining
true to his promise? Could it be that he owed more to his father and his
mother, and what they chose to call his position, than he did to Mary?

After church, Mr Gazebee tried to get hold of him, for there was still
much to be said, and many hints to be given, as to how Frank should
speak, and, more especially, as to how to hold his tongue among the
learned pundits in and about Chancery Lane. 'You must be very wide awake
with Messrs Slow and Bideawhile,' said Mr Gazebee. But Frank would not
hearken to him just at that moment. He was going to ride over to Harry
Baker, so he put Mr Gazebee off till the half-hour before 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 him as he was
about to refer to it; and now, as his father's nag was being saddled--he
was still prudent in saving the black horse--he again took it out.

Miss Dunstable had written in excellent humour.  She was in great
distress about the oil of Lebanon, she said. 'I have been trying to get
a purchaser for the last two years; but my lawyer won't let me sell it,
because the would-be purchasers offer a thousand pounds or so less than
the value. I would give ten to get rid of the bore; but I am as little
able to act myself as Sancho was in his government. The oil of Lebanon!
Did you hear anything of it when you were in those parts? I thought of
changing the name to "London particular"; but my lawyers 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 that I must
take him to Malvern. It is a great bore; but I have the satisfaction
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 being prudent
and fairly well to do in the world. She has got over the caprices of her
youth. Dear Aunt De Courcy will be so delighted. I might perhaps have
met her at Gatherum Castle. I do so regret it.

'Mr Moffat has turned up again.  We all thought you had finally
extinguished him. He left a card the other day, and I have told the
servant always to say that I am at home, and that you are with me. He is
going to stand for some borough in the west of Ireland. He's used to
shillelaghs by this time.

'By the by, I have a cadeau for a friend of yours.  I won't tell you
what it is, nor permit you to communicate the fact. But when you tell me
that in sending it I may fairly congratulate her on having so devoted a
slave as you, it shall be sent.

'If you have nothing better to do at present, do come and see my invalid
at Malvern. Perhaps you might have a mind to treat for the oil of
Lebanon. I'll give you all the assistance I can in cheating my lawyers.'

There was not much about Mary in this; but still, the little that was
said made him again declare that neither father nor mother should move
him from his resolution. 'I will write to her and say that she may send
her present when she pleases. Or I will run down to Malvern for a day.
It will do me good to see her.' And so he resolved, he rode away to Mill
Hill, thinking, as he went, how he would put the matter to Harry Baker.

Harry was at home; but we need not describe the whole interview.  Had
Frank been asked beforehand, he would have declared, that on no possible
subject could he have had the slightest hesitation in asking Harry any
question, or communicating to him any tidings. But when the time came,
he found that he did hesitate much. He did not want to ask his friend if
he should be wise to marry Mary Thorne. Wise or not, he was determined
to do that. But he wished to be quite sure that his mother was wrong in
saying that all the world would dissuade him from it. 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 his pockets, he did
get his story told. It was by no means the first time that Harry Baker
had heard about Mary Thorne, and he was not, therefore, so surprised as
he might have been, had the affair been new to him. And thus, standing
there in the position we have described, did Mr Baker, junior, give
utterance to such wisdom as was in him on this subject.

'You see, Frank, there are two sides to every question; and, as I take
it, fellows are so apt to go wrong because they are so fond of one 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; and there's no doubt
about this either, that you have a very ticklish hand of cards to play.'

'I'll play it straightforward; and that's my game' said Frank.

'Well and good, my dear fellow.  That's the best game always. But what
is straightforward? Between you and me, I fear there's no doubt that
your 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 could
give you a thousand a year to live on without feeling it, and if your
eldest child would be cock-sure of Greshamsbury, it might be very well
that you should please yourself as to marrying at once. But that's not
the case; and yet Greshamsbury is too good a card to be flung away.'

'I could fling it away to-morrow,' said Frank.

'Ah! you think so,' said Harry the Wise.  'But if you were to hear
to-morrow that Sir Louis Scatcherd were master of the whole place, and
be d--d to him, you would feel very uncomfortable.' Had Harry known how
near Sir Louis was to his last struggle, he would not have spoken of him
in this manner. 'That's all very fine talk, but it won't bear wear and
tear. You do care for Greshamsbury if you are the fellow I take you to
be: care for it very much; and you care too much for your 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 Miss Thorne
to-morrow, there would at once be an end to any hope to save your
property.'

'And do you mean to say I'm to be a liar to her for such reasons as
that? Why, Harry, I should be as bad as Moffat. Only it would be ten
times more cowardly, as she has no brother.'

'I must differ from you there altogether; but mind, I don't mean to say
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 my advice, why, I
must give it. It is quite a different affair to that of Moffat's. He had
lots of tin, everything he could want, and there could be no reason why
he should not marry,--except that he was a snob, 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 you think she would say herself?'

'She would say whatever was best for me.'

'Exactly: because she is a trump.  And I say the same.  There can be no
doubt about it, Frank, my boy: such a marriage would be very foolish for
you both; very foolish. Nobody can admire Miss Thorne more than I 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 the girl I take
her to be, she'll not accuse you of being false. She'll peak for a
while; and so will you, old chap. But others have had to do 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 he was
wrong? Frank sat a while on his rustle seat, paring his nails with 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 dare say
you're right too. But, somehow, it doesn't come home to me. And what is
more, after what has passed, I could not tell her that I wish to part
from her. I could not do it. And besides, I have that sort of feeling,
that if I heard she was to marry any one else, I am sure I would blow
his brains out. Either his or my own.'

'Well, Frank, you may count on me for anything, except the last
proposition:' and so they shook hands, and Frank rode back to
Greshamsbury.



CHAPTER XLV

LAW BUSINESS IN LONDON

On the Monday morning at six o'clock, Mr Oriel and Frank started
together; but early as it was, Beatrice was up to give them a cup of
coffee, Mr Oriel having slept that night in the house. Whether Frank
would have received the coffee from his sister's fair hands had not Mr
Oriel been there, may be doubted. He, however, loudly asserted that he
should not have done so, when she laid claim to great merit for rising
on his behalf.

Mr Oriel had been specially instigated by Lady Arabella to use the
opportunity of their joint journey, for pointing out to Frank the
iniquity as well as madness of the course he was pursuing; and he had
promised to obey her ladyship's request. But Mr Oriel was perhaps not an
enterprising man, and was certainly not a presumptuous one. He did
intend to do as he was bid; but when he began, with the object of
leading up to the subject of Frank's engagement, he always softened down
into some much easier enthusiasm in the matter of his own engagement
with Beatrice. He had not that perspicuous, but not over-sensitive
strength of mind which had enabled Harry Baker to express his opinion
out at once; and boldly as he did it, yet to do so without offence.

Four times before the train arrived in London, he made some little
attempt; but four times he failed. As the subject was matrimony, it was
his easiest course to begin about himself; but never could he get any
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 silly
had it been adopted to any other person than the bride's brother. His
intention, however, was very good, for he meant to show, that in his
case marriage was prudent and wise, because his case differed so widely
from that of Frank.

'Yes,' said Frank.  'She is an excellent good girl:' he had said it
three times before, and was not very energetic.

'Yes, and so exactly suited to me; indeed, all that I could have dreamed
of. How very well she looked this morning! Some girls only look well at
night. I should not like that at all.'

'You mustn't expect her to look like that always at six o'clock a.m.,'
said Frank, laughing. 'Young ladies only take that trouble on very
particular occasions. She wouldn't have come down like that if my father
or I had been going alone. No, and she won't do that for you in a couple
of years' time.'

'Oh, but she's always nice.  I have seen her at home as much almost as
you could do; and then she's so sincerely religious.'

'Oh, yes, of course; that is, I am sure she is,' said Frank, looking
solemn as became him.

'She's made to be a clergyman's wife.'

'Well, so it seems,'said Frank.

'A married life, I'm sure, the happiest in the world--if people are only
in a position to marry,' said Mr Oriel, gradually drawing near 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, I could
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
on the opposite seat, he settled himself comfortably to his rest. And so
Mr Oriel's last attempt for lecturing Frank in the railway-carriage
faded away and was annihilated.

By twelve o'clock Frank was with Messrs Slow & Bideawhile.  Mr
Bideawhile was engaged at the moment, but he found the managing Chancery
clerk to be a very chatty gentleman. Judging from what he saw, 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; no better; and yet he will foreclose; but you see
he has no power himself. But the question is, can the trustee refuse?
Then, again, trustees are so circumscribed nowadays that they are afraid
to do anything. There has been so much said lately, Mr Gresham, that a
man doesn't know where he is, or what he is doing. Nobody trusts
anybody. There have been such terrible things that 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 lawyer again after that? But that's Mr
Bideawhile's bell. How can one expect it? He will see you now, I dare
say, Mr Gresham.'

So it turned out, and Frank was ushered into the presence of Mr
Bideawhile. He had got his lesson by heart, and was going to rush into
the middle of his subject; such a course, however, was not in accordance
with Mr Bideawhile's usual practice. Mr Bideawhile got up from his large
wooden-seated Windsor chair, and, with a soft smile, in which, however,
was mingled some slight dash of the attorney's acuteness, put out his
hand to his young client; not, indeed, as though he were going to shake
hands with him, but as though the hand were some ripe fruit all but
falling, which his visitor might take and pluck if he thought proper.
Frank took hold of the hand, which returned no pressure, and then let it
go again, not making any attempt to gather the fruit.

'I have come up to town, Mr Bideawhile, about this mortgage.'

'Mortgage--ah, sit down, Mr Gresham; sit down.  I hope your father is
quite well?'

'Quite well, thank you.'

'I have a great regard for your father.  So I had for your grandfather;
a very good man indeed. You, perhaps, don't remember him, 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: he used
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 is not worth
drinking now. Port wine, you know, won't keep beyond a certain time.
That was very good wine. I don't exactly remember what it stood me a
dozen then; but such wine can't be had now. As for the Madeira, you know
there's an end of that. Do you drink Madeira, Mr Gresham?'

'No,' said Frank, 'not very often.'

'I'm sorry for that, for it's a fine wine; but then there's none of it
left, you know. I have a few dozen, I'm told they're growing pumpkins
where the vineyards were. I wonder what they do with all the pumpkins
they grow in Switzerland! You've been to Switzerland, Mr Gresham?'

Frank said he had ben in Switzerland.

'It's a beautiful country; my girls made me go there last year. They
said it would do me good; but then you know, they wanted to see it
themselves; ha! ha! ha! However, I believe I shall go again this autumn.
That is to Aix, or some of those places; just for three weeks. I can't
spare any more time, Mr Gresham. Do you like that dining at the tables
d'hote?'

'Pretty well, sometimes.'

'One would get tired of it--eh!  But they gave us capital dinners at
Zurich. I don't think much of their soup. But they had fish, and about
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 travelling now.'

'Yes,' said Frank; 'a great many.'

'Upon my word, I think they are right; that is, if they can afford time.
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 till nine.'

'Dear me! that's very hard.'

'Well, yes it is hard work.  My boys don't like it; but I manage
somehow. I get down to my little place in the country on Saturday. I
shall be most happy to see you there next Saturday.'

Frank, thinking it would be outrageous on his part to take up much of
the time of the gentleman who was constrained to work so unreasonably
hard, began again to talk about his mortgages, and, in so doing, had to
mention the name of Mr Yates Umblelby.

'Ah, poor Umblelby!' said Mr Bideawhile; 'what is he doing now?  I am
quite sure your father was right, or he wouldn't have done it; but I
used to think that Umbleby was a decent sort of man enough. Not so
grand, you know, as your Gazebees and Gumptions--eh, Mr Gresham? They do
say young Gazebee is thinking of getting into Parliament. Let me see:
Umbleby married--who was it he married? That was the way your father got
hold of him; not your father, but your grandfather. I used to know all
about it. Well, I was sorry for Umbleby. He has got something, I
suppose--eh?'

Frank said that he believed Mr Yates Umbleby had something wherewith to
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 too much
on hand to do your father justice.'

'But about Sir Louis Scatcherd, 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; let me see; I almost
forget whether I was with him, or against him. But I know he made sixty
thousand pounds by one hour's work; sixty thousand pounds! And then he
got so mad with drinking that we all thought--'

And so Mr Bideawhile went on for two hours, and Frank found no
opportunity of saying one word about the business which had brought him
up to town. What wonder that such a man as this should be obliged to
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 such occasions,
turned to Frank, saying, 'Well, perhaps that will do for to-day. If
you'll manage to call to-morrow, say about two, I will have the whole
thing looked up; or, perhaps Wednesday or Thursday would suit you
better.' Frank, declaring that the morrow would suit him very well, took
his departure, wondering much at the manner in which business was done
at the house of Messrs Slow and Bideawhile.

When he called the next day, the office seemed to be rather disturbed,
and he was shown quickly into Mr Bideawhile's room. 'Have you heard
this?' said that gentleman, putting a telegram into his hands. It
contained tidings of the death of Sir Louis Scatcherd. Frank immediately
knew that these tidings must be of importance to his father; but he had
no idea how vitally they concerned his own more 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 he
comes,' said Mr Bideawhile. And so Frank, pondering on the mutability of
human affairs, again took his departure.

He could do nothing now but wait for Dr Thorne's arrival, and so he
amused himself in the interval by running down to Malvern, and treating
with Miss Dunstable in person for the oil of Lebanon. He went down on
the Wednesday, and thus, failed to receive, on the Thursday morning,
Mary's letter, which reached London on that day. He returned, however,
on the Friday, and then got it; and perhaps it was well for Mary's
happiness that he had seen Miss Dunstable in the interval. 'I don't care
what your mother says,' said she, with emphasis. 'I don't care for any
Harry, whether it be Harry Baker or old Harry himself. You made her a
promise, and you are bound to keep it; if not on one day, then on
another. What! because you cannot draw back yourself, get out of it by
inducing her to do so! Aunt de Courcy herself could not improve upon
that.' Fortified in this manner, he returned 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 up his temporary domicile at the
Gray's Inn Coffee-house, so as to be near the lawyers.

It has been suggested that the modern English writers of fiction should
among them keep a barrister, in order that they may be set right on such
legal points as will arise in their little narratives, and thus avoid
the exposure of their own ignorance of the laws, which, now, alas! they
too often make. The idea as worthy of consideration, and I can only say,
that if such an arrangement can be made, and if a counsellor adequately
skilful can be found to accept the office, I shall be happy to subscribe
my quota; it would be but a modest tribute towards the cost.

But as the suggestion has not yet been carried out, and as there is at
present no learned gentleman whose duty would induce him to set me
right, I can only plead for mercy if I be wrong allotting all Sir
Roger's vast possessions in perpetuity to Miss Thorne, alleging also, in
excuse, that the course of my narrative absolutely demands that she
shall be ultimately recognized as Sir Roger's undoubted heiress.

Such, after a not immoderate delay, was the opinion expressed to Dr
Thorne by his law advisers; and such, in fact, turned out to be the
case. I will leave the matter so, hoping that my very absence of defence
may serve to protect me from severe attack. If under such a will as that
described as having been made by Sir Roger, Mary would not have been the
heiress, that will must have been described wrongly.

But it was not quite at once that those tidings made themselves
absolutely certain to Dr Thorne's mind; nor was he able to express any
such opinion when he first met Frank in London. At that time Mary's
letter was in Frank's pocket; and Frank, though his real business
appertained much more to the fact of Sir Louis's death, and the effect
that would immediately have on his father's affairs, was much more full
of what so much more nearly concerned himself. 'I will show it Dr Thorne
himself,' said he, 'and ask him what he thinks.'

Dr Thorne was stretched fast asleep on the comfortless horse-hair sofa
in the dingy sitting-room at the Gray's Inn Coffee-house when Frank
found him. The funeral, and his journey to London, and the lawyers had
together conquered his energies, and he lay and snored, with nose
upright, while heavy London summer flies settled on his head and face,
and robbed his slumbers of half their charms.

'I beg your pardon,' said he, jumping up as though he had been detected
in some disgraceful act. 'Upon my word, Frank, I beg your pardon;
but--well, my dear fellow, all well at Greshamsbury--eh?' and as he
shook himself, he made a lunge at one uncommonly disagreeable fly that
had been at him for the last ten minutes. It is hardly necessary to say
that he missed his enemy.

'I should have been with you before, doctor, but I was down at Malvern.'

'At Malvern, eh?  Ah!  so Oriel told me.  The death of poor Sir Louis
was very sudden--was it not?'

'Very.'

'Poor fellow--poor fellow!  His fate has for some time been past hope.
It is a madness, Frank; the worst of madness. Only think of it--father
and son! And such a career as the father had--such a career 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 a
special Providence. That poor fellow was not able, never would have been
able, to make proper use of the means which fortune had given him. I
hope they may fall into better hands. There is no use in denying it, his
death will be an immense relief to me, and a relief also to your father.
All this law business will now, of course, be stopped. As for me, I hope
I may never be trustee again.'

Frank had put his hand four or five times into his breast-pocket, and
had as often taken out and put back again Mary's letter before he could
find himself able to bring Dr Thorne to the subject. At last there was a
lull in the purely legal discussion, caused by the doctor intimating
that he supposed Frank would now soon return to Greshamsbury.

'Yes; I shall go to-morrow morning.'

'What! so soon as that?  I counted on having you one day in London with
me.'

'No, I shall go to-morrow.  I'm not fit for company for any one.  Nor am
I fit for anything. Read that, doctor. It's no use putting it off any
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, but somehow
I have only got it to-day.' And putting the letter into the doctor's
hands, he turned away to the window, and looked out among the Holborn
omnibuses. Dr Thorne took the letter and read it. Mary, after she had
written it, had bewailed to herself that the letter was cold; but it had
not seemed cold to her lover, nor did it 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 hide the tears that were there, was obliged
to go through a rather violent process 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 am sure she
loves me.'

'I think she does,' said the doctor.

'And it is out of the question that she should be sacrificed; nor will I
consent to sacrifice my own happiness. I am quite willing to work for my
bread, and I am sure that I am able. I will not submit to--Doctor, what
answer do you think I ought to give to that letter? There can be no
person so anxious for her happiness as you are--except myself.' And as
he asked the question, he again put into the doctor's hands, almost
unconsciously, the letter which he had still 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, otherwise than
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 present moment--you
could hardly marry immediately.'

'Why not let me take a farm?  My father could, at any rate, manage a
couple of thousand pounds or so for me to stock it. That would not be
asking much. If he could not give it me, I would not scruple to borrow
so much elsewhere.' And Frank bethought him of all Miss Dunstable's
offers.

'Oh, yes; that could be managed.'

'Then why not marry immediately; say in six months or so?  I am not
unreasonable; though, Heaven knows, I have been kept in suspense long
enough. As for her, I am sure she must be suffering frightfully. You
know 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 will I let
them treat me as such.'

Frank, as he spoke, was walking rapidly about the room; and h brought
out his different positions, one after the other, with a little pause,
while waiting for the doctor's answer. The doctor was sitting, 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 to borrow two thousand
pounds for a farm, when, in all human probability, he might in a few
months be in possession of almost any sum he should choose to name. And
yet he would not tell him of Sir Roger's will. 'If it should turn out to
be all wrong?' said he to himself.

'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 will you help me?'

'What! against your father?'

'Against! no, not against anybody.  But will you tell Mary she has 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 put it
off for a fortnight.'

'Quite impossible.'

'Well, that's my advice.  But, at any rate, make up your mind to nothing
for a fortnight. Wait for one fortnight, and I then will tell you
plainly--you and her too--what I think you ought to do. At the end of a
fortnight come to me, and tell the squire that I will take it as a great
kindness if he will come with you. She has suffered terribly, terribly;
and it is necessary that something should be settled. But a fortnight
can make no great difference.'

'And the letter?'

'Oh!  there's the letter.'

'But what shall I say?  Of course I shall write to her to-night.'

'Tell her to wait a fortnight.  And, Frank, mind you bring your father
with you.'

Frank could draw nothing further from his friend save constant
repetitions of this charge to him to wait a fortnight,--just one other
fortnight.

'Well, I will come to you at any rate,' said Frank; 'and, if possible, I
will bring my father. But I shall write to Mary to-night.'

On the Saturday morning, Mary, who was then nearly broken-hearted at her
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.'

Short as it was, this sufficed Mary.  It is one thing for a young lady
to make prudent, heart-breaking suggestions, but quite another to have
them accepted.  She did call him dearest Frank, even on that one day,
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 with his
father, and with Mr Gazebee, who was still at Greshamsbury.

'But who is the heir?' asked Mr Gazebee, when Frank had explained that
the death of Sir Louis rendered unnecessary any immediate legal steps.

'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, naively.

Mr Gazebee looked rather solemn.  'I wonder at that,' said he; 'for
everything depends on the hands the property will go into. Let me see; I
think Sir Roger had a married sister. Was not that so, Mr Gresham?' And
then it occurred for the first time, both to the squire and 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 the baronet's heir.

Dr Thorne came down for a couple of days before the fortnight was over
to see his patients, and then returned again to London. But during this
short visit he was utterly dumb on the subject of the heir. He called at
Greshamsbury to see Lady Arabella, and was even questioned by the squire
on the subject. But he obstinately refused to say anything more than
nothing certain could be known for a few days.

Immediately after his return, Frank saw Mary, and told her all that had
happened. 'I cannot understand my uncle,' said she, almost trembling as
she stood close to him in her own drawing-room. 'He usually 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 you
were 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 he said,
he hoped that things might yet turn out well; and then I was almost
sorry that I had written the letter.'

'Of course you were sorry, and so you ought to have been.  To say that
you would never call me Frank again!'

'I didn't exactly say that.'

'I have told him that I will wait a fortnight, and so I will. After
that, I shall take the matter into my own hands.'

It may be supposed that Lady Arabella was not well pleased to learn that
Frank and Mary had been again together; and, in the agony of her spirit,
she did say some ill-natured things before Augusta, who had now returned
home from Courcy Castle, as to the gross impropriety of Mary's conduct.
But to Frank she said nothing.

Nor was there much said between Frank and Beatrice.  If everything could
really be settled at the end of that fortnight which was to witness the
disclosure of the doctor's mystery, there would still be time to arrange
that Mary should be at the wedding. 'It shall be settled then,' he said
to himself; 'and if it be settled, my mother will hardly venture to
exclude my affianced bride from the house.' It was now the beginning of
August, and it wanted yet a month to the Oriel wedding.

But though he said nothing to his mother or to Beatrice, he did say much
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,' he said. Mr
Gresham's heart was not of stone, and he did acknowledge that the letter
was a very sweet letter. But we know how the drop of water hollows
stone. It was not by the violence of his appeal that Frank succeeded in
obtaining from his father a sort of half-consent that he would no longer
oppose the match; but by the assiduity with which the appeal was
repeated. Frank, as we have said, had more stubbornness of will than his
father; and so, before the fortnight was over, the squire had been
talked over, and promised to attend at the doctor's bidding.

'I suppose you had better take the Hazlehurst farm,' said he to his son,
with a sigh. 'It joins the park and the home-fields, and I will give you
them up also. God knows, I don't care about farming any more--or about
anything else either.'

'Don't say that, father.'

'Well, well!  But, Frank, where will you live?  The old house is big
enough for us all. But how would Mary get on with your mother?'

At the end of this fortnight, true to his time, the doctor returned to
the village. He was a bad correspondent; and though he had written some
short notes to Mary, he had said no word to her about his business. It
was late in the evening when he got home, and it was understood by Frank
and the squire that they were to be with him on the following morning.
Not a word had been said to Lady Arabella on the subject.

It was late in the evening when he got home, and Mary waited for him
with a heart almost sick with expectation. As soon as the fly had
stopped at the little gate she heard his voice, and heard at once that
it was quick, joyful, and telling much of inward satisfaction. He had a
good-natured word for Janet, and called Thomas an old blunder-head in a
manner that made Bridget laugh outright.

'He'll have his nose put out of joint some day; won't he?' said the
doctor. Bridget blushed and laughed again, and made a sign to Thomas
that 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 of
thirst. They may call that tea at the Junction if they will; but if
China 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 the
railway, and always made complaint as to tea at the Junction. Mary went
about her usual work with almost more than her usual alacrity, 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 him sparkle
with contentment, but he said no word about Frank, nor did he make 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 tired,' said she, as she went on continually filling
his cup; 'but I am so happy to have you home again. You have been away
so much lately.'

'Ah, yes; well I suppose I shall not go away any more now.  It will be
somebody else's turn now.'

'Uncle, I think you are going to take up writing mystery romances, like
Mrs Radciffe's.'

'Yes; and I'll begin to-morrow, certainly with--But, Mary, I will not
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 in the
room, putting away a book, or a reel of thread, and then sitting down to
think what the morrow would bring forth, the doctor again came 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 as to
money, and all that sort of thing.'

'I won't acknowledge that it has been an affectation at all,' she
answered.

'Perhaps not; but we have often expressed it, have we not?'

'I suppose, uncle, you think that we are like the fox that lost his
tail, or rather some unfortunate fox that might be born without one.'

'I wonder how we should either of us bear it if we found ourselves
suddenly rich. It would be a great temptation--a sore temptation. I
fear, Mary, that when poor people talk disdainfully of money, they often
are like your fox, born without a tail. If nature suddenly should give
that beast a tail, would he not be prouder of it than all the other
foxes in the wood?'

'Well, I suppose he would.  That's the very meaning of the story.  But
how 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 Aesop.'

He took up the article which he had come to seek, and kissing her again
on the forehead, went away to his bed-room without further speech. 'What
can he mean by all this about money?' said Mary to herself. 'It cannot
be that by Sir Louis's death he will get any of all this property;' and
then she began to bethink herself whether, after all, she would wish him
to be a rich man. 'If he were very rich, he might do something to assist
Frank; and then--'

There never was a fox yet without a tail who would not be delighted to
find himself suddenly possessed of that appendage. Never; let the
untailed 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 one tail, or
for more than one; we do so too often by ways that are mean enough: but
perhaps there is no tail-seeker more mean, more sneakingly mean than he
who looks out to adorn his bare back by a tail by marriage.

The doctor was up very early the next morning, long before Mary was
ready with her teacups. He was up, and in his own study behind the shop,
arranging dingy papers, pulling about tin boxes which he had brought
down with him from London, and piling on his writing-table one set of
documents in one place, and one in another. 'I think I understand it
all,' said he; 'but yet I know I shall be bothered. Well, I never will
be anyone's trustee again. Let me see!' and then he sat down, and with
bewildered look recapitulated to himself sundry heavy items. 'What those
shares are really worth I cannot understand, and nobody seems to be able
to tell one. They must make it out among them as best they can. Let me
see; that's Boxall Hill, and this is Greshamsbury. I'll put a newspaper
over Greshamsbury, or the squire will know it!' and then, having made
his arrangements, he went to his breakfast.

I know I am wrong, my much and truly honoured critic, about these
title-deeds and documents. But when we've got a barrister in hand, then
if I go wrong after that, let the blame be on my own shoulders--or on
his.

The doctor ate his breakfast quickly; and did not talk much to his
niece. But what he did say was of a nature to make her feel strangely
happy. She could not analyse her own feelings, or give a reason for her
own confidence; but she certainly did feel, and even trust, that
something was going to happen after breakfast which would make her more
happy than she had been for many months.

'Janet,' said he, looking at his watch, 'if Mr Gresham and Mr Frank
call, show them into my study. What are you going to do with yourself,
my dear?'

'I don't know, uncle; you are so mysterious, and I am in such a twitter,
that I don't know what to do. Why is Mr Gresham coming here--that is,
the squire?'

'Because I have business with him about the Scatcherd property. You know
that he owed Sir Louis money. But don't go out, Mary. I want you to be
in the way if I should have to call for you. You can stay in the
drawing-room, can't you?'

'Oh, yes, uncle; or here.'

'No, dearest; go into the drawing-room.' Mary obediently did as she was
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, were both with her
uncle, below.

At eleven the doctor's visitors came.  he had expected them somewhat
earlier, and was beginning to become fidgety. He had so much on his
hands that he could not sit still for a moment till he had, at any rate,
commenced it. The expected footsteps were at last heard on the
gravel-path, and moment or two afterwards Janet ushered the father and
son into the room.

The squire did not look very well.  He was worn and sorrowful, and
rather pale. The death of his young creditor might be supposed to have
given him some relief from his more pressing cares, but the necessity of
yielding to Frank's wishes had almost more than balanced this. When a
man has daily to reflect that he is poorer than he was the day before,
he soon becomes worn and sorrowful.

But Frank was well; both in health and spirits.  He also felt as Mary
did, that the day was to bring forth something which should end his
present troubles; and he could not but be happy to think that he could
now tell Dr Thorne that his father's consent to his marriage had been
given.

The doctor shook hands with them both, and then they sat down. They were
all rather constrained in their manner; and at first it seemed that
nothing but little speeches of compliment were to be made. At last, the
squire remarked that Frank had been talking to him about Miss Thorne.

'About Mary?' said the doctor.

'Yes; about Mary,' said the squire, correcting himself.  It was quite
unnecessary that he should use so cold a name as the other, now that he
had agreed to the match.

'Well!' said Dr Thorne.

'I suppose it must be so, doctor.  He has set his heart upon it, and God
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 the squire's arm, by
way of giving him, in some sort, a filial embrace for his kindness.

'Thank you, squire, thank you,' said the doctor.  'It is very good of
you to say that. She is a good girl, and if Frank chooses to take her,
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 which the
doctor received his gracious intimation; but he did now show it as he
went on. 'They cannot, you know, doctor, look to be rich people--'

'Ah! well, well,' interrupted the doctor.

'I have told Frank so, and I think that you should tell Mary. Frank
means to take some land into his hand, and he must farm it as a farmer.
I will endeavour to give him three, or perhaps four hundred a year. But
you know better--'

'Stop, squire; stop a minute.  We will talk about that presently.  This
death 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 last
words, 'what do you say?'

'What do I say?  I say what I said to you in London the other day.  I
believe 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 almost might
say so. My father knows that this is no light fancy of mine. As to what
he says about our being poor, why--'

The doctor was very arbitrary, and would hear neither of them on the
subject.

'Mr Gresham,' said he, interrupting Frank, 'of course I am well aware
how very little suited Mary is by birth to marry your only son.'

'It is too late to think about that 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 the other day,
that this is a subject as to which we have been of one mind. Birth and
blood are very valuable gifts.'

'I certainly think so,' said the squire; 'but one can't have
everything.'

'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 to the
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 that have so
long been the heritage of the Greshams.'

'We need not talk about that now, Dr Thorne,' said Frank, in an almost
angry tone.

'But I must, Frank, for one moment, to justify myself.  I could not have
excused myself in letting Mary think that she could become your wife if
I had not hoped that good might come of it.'

'Well; good will come of it,' said Frank, who did not quite understand
at what the doctor was driving.

'I hope so.  I have had much doubt about this, and have been sorely
perplexed; but now I do hope so. Frank--Mr Gresham--' and then Dr Thorne
rose from his chair; but was, for a moment, unable to go on with 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. Mary will
not come to you empty-handed. I wish for your sake--yes, and for hers
too--that her birth were equal to her fortune, as her worth is superior
to both. Mr Gresham, this marriage will, at any rate, put an end to your
pecuniary embarrassments--unless, indeed, Frank should prove a hard
creditor. My niece is Sir Roger Scatcherd's heir.'

The doctor, as soon as he made the announcement, began to employ himself
sedulously about the papers on the table; which, in the confusion caused
by his own emotion, he transferred hither and thither 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, of what that fortune consists. Here,
this is--no--'

'But, Dr Thorne,' said the squire, now perfectly pale, and almost
gasping for breath, 'what is it you mean?'

'There's not a shadow of doubt,' said the doctor.  'I've had Sir Abraham
Haphazard, and Sir Rickety Giggs, and old Neversaye Dis, and Mr Snilam;
and they are all of the same opinion. There is not the smallest doubt
about it. Of course, she must administer, and all that; 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 out that particularly. But,
after all that, there'll be--I've got it down on a piece of paper,
somewhere--three grains of blue pill. I'm really so bothered, squire,
with all these papers, and all those lawyers, that I don't know whether
I'm sitting or standing. There's ready money enough to pay all the tax
and all the debts. I know that, at any rate.'

'You don't mean to say that Mary Thorne is now possessed of all Sir
Roger Scatcherd's wealth?' at last ejaculated the squire.

'But that's exactly what I do mean to say,' said the doctor, looking up
from his papers with a tear in his eye, and a smile on his mouth; 'and
what is more, squire, you owe her at the present moment exactly--I've
got that down too, somewhere, only I am so bothered with 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 get married.'

The doctor was inclined to joke if possible, so as to carry off, as it
were, some of the great weight of obligation which it might seem that he
was throwing on the father and son; but the squire was by no means in a
state to understand a joke: hardly as yet in a state to comprehend 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, 'and of
Greshamsbury also,' but he stopped himself.

'What, the whole property there?'

'That's only a small portion,' said the doctor.  'I almost wish it were
all, for then I would not be so bothered. Look here; these are the
Boxall Hill title-deeds; that's the simplest part of the whole affair;
and Frank may go and settle himself there to-morrow if he pleases.'

'Stop a moment, Dr Thorne,' said Frank.  These were the only words which
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. 'Look at them;
there they all are once again. When I suggested to Mr Snilam that I
supposed they might now all go back to the Greshamsbury muniment room, I
thought he would have fainted. As I cannot return them 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 wish perhaps--'

'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--I mean
to say, she should have time at any rate for consideration.'

'Oh, I understand,' said the doctor.  'She shall have time for
consideration. How much shall we give her, squire, three minutes? Go up
to her Frank: she is in the drawing-room.'

Frank went to the door, and then hesitated, and returned.  'I could not
do it,' said he. 'I don't think that I understand it all yet. I am so
bewildered that I could not tell her;' and he sat down at the table, 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 her
for Frank.'

'She should not be left in suspense,' said the squire.

'Come, Frank, go up to her,' again urged the doctor.  'You've been ready
enough with your visits when you knew that you ought to stay away.'

'I cannot do it,' said Frank, after a pause of some moments; 'nor is it
right that I should. It would be taking advantage of her.'

'Go to her yourself, doctor; it is you that should do it,' said the
squire.

After some further slight delay, the doctor got up, and did go upstairs.
He, even, was half afraid of the task. 'It must be done,' he said to
himself, as his heavy steps mounted the stairs. 'But how to tell it?'

When he entered, Mary was standing half-way up the room, as though she
had risen to meet him. Her face was troubled, and her eyes were almost
wild. The emotion, the hopes, the fears of the morning had almost been
too much for her. She had heard the murmuring of the voices in the room
below, and had known that one of them was that of her lover. Whether
that discussion was to be for her good or ill she did not know; but she
felt that further suspense would almost kill her. 'I could wait for
years,' she said to herself, 'if I did but know. If I lost him, I
suppose I should bear it, if I did but know.'--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 of
doubt. 'What is it, uncle?' she said, taking one of his hands between
both of her own. 'What is it? Tell me.' And as she looked up into his
face with her wild eyes, she almost frightened him.

'Mary,' he said gravely, 'you have heard much, I know of Sir Roger
Scatcherd'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, whe felt,
with an agony of doubt, that this sudden accession of immense wealth
might 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, she
seemed to be holding her temples together. 'To me!'

'Yes, Mary; it is all your own now.  To do as you like best with it
all--all. May God, in His mercy, enable you to bear the burden, and
lighten for you the temptation!'

She had so far moved as to find the nearest chair, and there she was now
seated, staring at her uncle with fixed eyes. 'Uncle,' she said, 'what
does it mean?' Then he came, and sitting beside her, he explained, as
best he could, the story of her birth, and her kinship with the
Scatcherds. 'And where is he, uncle?' she said. 'Why does he not come to
me?'

'I wanted him to come, but her refused.  They are both there now, the
father 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 never allow
that he shall be sent to me. But, uncle, is it true?'

The doctor, as he went downstairs, muttered something about Sir Abraham
Haphazard, and Sir Rickety Giggs; but these great names were much thrown
away upon poor Mary. The doctor entered the room first, and the heiress
followed him with downcast eyes and timid steps. She was at first afraid
to advance, but when she did look up, and saw Frank 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 again.'



CHAPTER XLVII

HOW THE BRIDE WAS RECEIVED, AND WHO WERE ASKED TO THE WEDDING

And thus after all did Frank perform his duty; he did marry money; or
rather, as the wedding has not yet taken place, and is, indeed, as yet
hardly talked of, we should more properly say that he had engaged
himself to marry money. And then, such a quantity of money! the
Scatcherd wealth greatly exceeded the Dunstable wealth; so that our hero
may be looked on as having performed his duties in a manner deserving
the very highest commendation from all classes of the De Courcy
connexion.

And he received it.  But that was nothing.  That he should be feted by
the De Courcys and the Greshams, now that he was about to do his duty by
his family in so exemplary a manner: that he should be patted on the
back, now that he no longer meditated that vile crime which had been so
abhorrent to his mother's soul; this was only natural; this is hardly
worthy of remark. But there was another to be feted, another person to
be made a personage, another blessed human mortal about to do her duty
by the family of Gresham in a manner that deserved, and should receive,
Lady Arabella's warmest caresses.

Dear Mary!  It was, indeed, not singular that she should be prepared to
act so well, seeing that in early youth she had had the advantage of an
education in the Greshamsbury nursery; but not on that account was it
the less fitting that her virtue should be acknowledged, eulogized, nay,
all but worshipped.

How the party at the doctor's got itself broken up, I am not prepared to
say. Frank, I know, stayed, and dined there, and his poor mother, who
would not retire to rest till she had kissed him, and blessed him, and
thanked him for all he was doing for the family, was kept waiting in her
dressing-room till a very unreasonable hour of the night.

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 surprised at the
news I bring you. Mary Thorne is the heiress to all the Scatcherd
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 her
feelings and her emotions much under her own control; but what she now
heard was too much for her. When she came to her senses, the first words
that escaped her lips were, 'Dear Mary!'

But the household had to sleep on the news before it could be fully
realized. The squire was not by nature a mercenary man. If I have at all
succeeded in putting his character before the reader, he will be
recognized as one not over attached to money for money's sake. But
things had gone so hard with him, the world had become so rough, so
ungracious, so full of thorns, the want of means had become an evil so
keenly felt in every hour, that it cannot be wondered at that his dreams
that night should be of a golden Elysium. The wealth was not coming to
him. True. But his chief sorrow had been for his son. Now that son would
be his only creditor. It was as though mountains of marble had been
taken 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; of course he
would represent the county; of course there would be the house in town;
it wouldn't be her house, but she was contented that the grandeur should
be that of her child. He would have heaven knows what to spend per
annum. And that it should come through Mary Thorne! What a blessing she
had allowed Mary to be brought into the Greshamsbury nursery! Dear Mary!

'She will of course be one now,' said Beatrice to her sister. With her,
at the present moment, 'one' of course meant one of the bevy that was to
attend her at the altar. 'Oh dear! how nice! I shan't know what to say
to her to-morrow. But I know one thing.'

'What is that?' asked Augusta.

'She will be as mild and meek as a little dove.  If she and the doctor
had lost every shilling in the world, she would have been proud as an
eagle.' It must be acknowledged that Beatrice had had the wit to read
Mary's character right.

But Augusta was not quite pleased with the whole affair.  Not that she
begrudged her brother his luck, or Mary her happiness. But her ideas of
right and wrong--perhaps we should rather say Lady Amelia's ideas--would
not be fairly carried out.

'After all, Beatrice, this does not alter her birth.  I know it is
useless 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 those who
put their dearest and warmest feelings under restraint rather than
deviate from what they know to be proper.' Poor Augusta! she was the
stern professor of the order of this philosophy; the last in the family
who practised with unflinching courage its cruel behests; the last,
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 with the wealth
which he was to acquire. But yet it would be something to restore Boxall
Hill to Greshamsbury; something to give back to his father those rumpled
vellum documents, since the departure of which the squire had never had
a happy day; nay, something to come forth again to his friends as a gay,
young country squire, instead of a farmer, clod-compelling for his
bread. We would not have him thought to be better than he was, nor would
we wish him to make him of other stuff than nature generally uses. His
heart did exult at Mary's wealth; but it leaped higher still when he
thought of purer joys.

And what shall we say of Mary's dreams?  With her, it was altogether
what she should give, not at all what she should get. Frank had loved
her so truly when she was so poor, such an utter castaway; 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 rejoiced to be allowed to love her Frank? But he had been true to
her through everything. Ah! how often she thought of that hour, when
suddenly appearing before her, he had strained her to his breast, just
as she had resolved how best to bear the death-like chill of his
supposed estrangements! She was always thinking of that time. She fed
her love by recurring over and over to the altered feeling of that
moment. Any now she could pay him for his goodness. Pay him! No, that
would be a base word, a base thought. Her payment must be made, if God
would so grant 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 she would not hurt him by her love, that she would bring no injury
to the old house. 'Dear, dear Frank' she murmured, as her waking dream,
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 had he
not done for her, that uncle of hers, who had been more loving to her
than any father! How was he, too, to be paid? Paid, indeed! Love can
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 not be
separated from him.

What the doctor dreamed of that, neither he or anyone ever knew.  'Why,
uncle, I think you've been asleep,' said Mary to him that evening as he
moved for a moment uneasily on the sofa. He had been asleep 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 the money. 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 loved her when
she was poor, and though they had not lately thought alike on one very
important subject, Mary was too gracious to impute that to 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, I must
tell you about Caleb;' and the young lady settled herself on the sofa,
so as to have a comfortable long talk. Beatrice had been quite right.
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 deserted
me, and I was nearly stunned when I heard of it. How small we shall all
be, my dear! I am quite prepared to toady to you immensely; but pray 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; when
you took me away under your wing to Richmond.' Patience also had loved
her when she was in trouble, and that love, too, should never 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 to
Beatrice, as the two were talking over the matter while the mother was
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, you
know,' said Lady Arabella. 'I would not for worlds fail in any respect
to her for his sake.'

'He will be glad enough for her to come, I am sure,' said Beatrice.  'I
was talking to Caleb this morning, and he says--'

The matter was of importance, and Lady Arabella gave it her most mature
consideration. The manner of receiving into one's family an heiress
whose wealth is cure all one's difficulties, disperse all one's
troubles, give a balm to all the wounds of misfortune, must under any
circumstances, be worthy of much care. But when that heiress had been
treated as Mary had been treated!

'I must see her, at any rate, before I go to Courcy.' said Lady
Arabella.

'Are you going to Courcy, mamma?'

'Oh, certainly; yes, I must see my sister-in-law now.  You don't seem to
realize the importance, my dear, of Frank's marriage. He will be in a
great hurry about it, and, indeed, I cannot blame him. I expect they
will all come here.'

'Who, mamma?  The De Courcys?'

'Yes, of course.  I shall be very much surprised if the earl does not
come now. And I must consult my sister-in-law as to the asking of the
Duke of Omnium.'

Poor Mary!

'And I think it will perhaps be better,' continued Lady Arabella, 'that
we should have a larger party than intended at your affair. The
countess, I'm sure, would come now. We couldn't put it off for ten 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 he has
made all his arrangements for his Sundays--'

Pshaw!  The idea of the parson's Sundays being allowed to have any
bearing on such a matter as Frank's wedding would now become! Why, they
would have--how much? Between twelve and fourteen thousand a year! Lady
Arabella, who had made her calculations a dozen times during the night,
had never found it to be much less than the larger sum. 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 called on
at the doctor's house. 'If you think she won't mind the coming up
first,' said her ladyship. 'I certainly could receive her better here. I
should be more--more--more able, you know, to express what I feel. 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 a little
trembling, proposed her to walk up to the house. 'Certainly I 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 call
on Patience for the sake of finding Caleb. That's all fair now, you
know.'

Mary very quietly got put on her straw bonnet, and said she was ready to
go up to the house. Beatrice was a little fluttered, and showed it. Mary
was, perhaps, a good deal fluttered, but she did not show it. She had
thought a good deal about her first interview with Lady Arabella, of her
first return to the house; but she had resolved to carry herself as
though the matter were easy to her. She would not allow it to be seen
that she felt that she brought with her to Greshamsbury, comfort, ease,
and renewed opulence.

So she put on her straw bonnet and walked up with Beatrice.  Everybody
about the place had already heard the news. The old woman at the lodge
curtsied low to her; the gardener, who was mowing the lawn. The butler,
who opened the front door--he must have been watching Mary's
approach--had manifestly put on a clean white neckcloth for the
occasion.

'God bless you once more, Miss Thorne!' said the old man, in a
half-whisper. Mary was somewhat troubled, for everything seemed, in a
manner, to bow down before her. And why should not everything bow down
before her, seeing that she was in truth the owner of Greshamsbury?

And then a servant in livery would open the big drawing-room door. This
rather upset both Mary and Beatrice. It became almost impossible for
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 had
studied minutely how to bear herself.

'Oh, Mary, dear Mary; what can I say to you?' and then, with a
handkerchief to her eyes, she ran forward and hid her face in Miss
Thorne's shoulders. 'What can I say--can you forgive my anxiety for 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 me
yesterday that I should be received as Frank's future wife; and so, you
see, I have come.' And then she slipped through Lady Arabella's arms,
and sat down, meekly down, on a chair. In five minutes she had escaped
with Beatrice into the school-room, and was kissing the children, and
turning over the new trousseau. They were, however, soon interrupted,
and there was, perhaps, some other kissing besides that of the children.

'You have no business 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 things
treated so cruelly. He'll be careful enough about them.'

'Is Oriel a good hand at packing up finery--eh, Beatrice,' said Frank.

'He is, at any rate, too well-behaved to spoil it.'  Thus Mary was again
made at home on the household of Greshamsbury.

Lady Arabella did not carry out her little plan of delaying the Oriel
wedding. Her idea had been to add some grandeur to it, in order to make
it a more fitting precursor of that other greater wedding which was to
follow soon in its wake. But this, with the assistance of the countess,
she found herself able to do without interfering with poor Mr Oriel's
Sunday arrangements. The countess herself, with the Ladies Alexandrina
and Margaretta, now promised to come, even to the first affair; and for
the other, the whole De Courcy family would turn out, count and
countess, lords and ladies, Honourable Georges and Honourable Johns.
What honour, indeed, could be too great to show to a bride who had
fourteen thousand a year in her own right, or to a cousin, 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 about
politics. I suppose the squire won't expect Frank to belong to the old
school now.'

'Frank, of course, will judge for himself, Rosina;--with his position,
you know!' And so things were settled at Courcy Castle.

And then Beatrice was wedded and carried off to the Lakes.  Mary, as she
had promised, did stand near her; but not exactly in the gingham frock
of which she had once spoken. She wore on that occasion--But it will be
too much, perhaps, to tell the reader what she wore as Beatrice's
bridesmaid, seeing that a couple of pages, at least, must be devoted to
her marriage-dress, and seeing, also, that we have only a few pages to
finish everything; the list of visitors, the marriage settlements, the
dress, and all included.

It was in vain that Mary endeavoured to repress Lady Arabella's ardour
for grand doings. After all, she was to be married from the doctor's
house, and not from Greshamsbury, and it was the doctor who should have
invited the guests; but, in this matter, he did not choose to oppose her
ladyship's spirit, and she had it all her own way.

'What can I do?' said he to Mary.  'I have been contradicting her in
everything for the last two years. The least we can do is to let her
have her own way now in a trifle like this.'

But there was one point on which Mary would let nobody have his or her
own way; on which the way to be taken was very manifestly to be her own.
This was touching the marriage settlements. It must not be supposed,
that if Beatrice were married on a Tuesday, Mary could be married on the
Tuesday week following. Ladies with twelve thousand a year cannot be
disposed of in that way: and bridegrooms who do their duty 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 thought he
would have been driven mad. Messrs Slow and Bideawhile, as the lawyers
of the Greshamsbury family--it will be understood that Mr Gazebee's law
business was of quite a different nature, and his work, as regarded
Greshamsbury, was now nearly over--Messrs Slow and Bideawhile declared
that it would never do for them to undertake alone to draw out the
settlements. An heiress, such as Mary, must have lawyers of her own;
half a dozen at least, according to the apparent opinion of Messrs Slow
and Bideawhile. And so the doctor had to go to other lawyers, and they
again had 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 his
father, would he be able to grant leases for more than twenty-one years?
and, if so, to whom would the right of trover belong? As to flotsam and
jetsam--there was a little property, Mr Critic, on the sea-shore--that
was a matter that had to be left unsettled at the last. Such points as
these do take a long time to consider. All this bewildered the doctor
sadly, and Frank himself began to make accusations that he was to be
done out of his wife altogether.

But, as we have said, there was one point on which Mary would have her
own way. The lawyers might tie up as they would on her behalf all the
money, and shares, and mortgages which had belonged to the late Sir
Roger, with this exception, all that had ever appertained to
Greshamsbury 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 those other
liens on Greshamsbury, let Frank manage that with his father as he might
think fit. She would only trouble herself to see that he was 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, Dr Thorne!
It is preposterous; I should almost say impossible.' And the scanty
hairs on the poor man's head almost stood on end as he thought of the
outrageous manner in which the heiress prepared to sacrifice herself.

'It will all be the same in the end,' said the doctor, trying to make
things smooth. 'Of course, their joint object will be to put the
Greshamsbury property together again.'

'But, my dear sir,'--and then, for twenty minutes, the lawyer went on
proving that it would be 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 induce
the heiress to visit Courcy Castle, and this request was so backed by
Lady Arabella, that the doctor said he thought she might as well go
there 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 possible reason.'
The doctor, when so appealed to, would not absolutely say that he made a
point of it, and Mary was tolerably safe as regarded Frank or the
squire. If she went, Frank would be expected to go, and Frank disliked
Courcy Castle almost more than ever. His aunt was now more than civil to
him, and, when they were together, never ceased to compliment him on the
desirable way in which he had done his duty by the family.

And soon after Christmas a visitor came to Mary, and stayed a fortnight
with her: one whom neither she nor the doctor had expected, and of whom
they had not much more than heard. This was the famous Miss Dunstable.
'Birds of a feather flock together,' said Mrs Rantaway--late Miss
Gushing--when she heard of the visit. 'The railway man's niece--if you
can call her a niece--and the quack's daughter 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, although some
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 be acknowledged,
was a little too fond of slang; but then, a lady with her fortune, and
of her age, may be fond of almost whatever she pleases.

And so by degrees the winter wore away--very slowly to Frank, as he
declared often enough; and slowly, perhaps, to Mary also, but she did
not say so. The spring came round. The comic almanacs give us dreadful
pictures of January and February; but, in truth, the months which should
be made to look gloomy in England are March and April. Let no man boast
himself that he has got through the perils of winter till at least the
seventh of May.

It was early in April, however, that the great doings were to be done at
Greshamsbury. Not exactly on the first. It may be presumed, that in
spite of the practical, common-sense spirit of the age, very few people
do choose to have themselves united on that day. But some day in the
first week of that month was fixed for the ceremony, and from the end of
February all through March, Lady Arabella worked and strove in a manner
that entitled her to profound admiration.

It was at last settled that the breakfast should be held in the large
dining-room at Greshamsbury. There was a difficulty about it which taxed
Lady Arabella to the utmost, for, in making the proposition, she could
not but seem to be throwing some slight on the house in which the
heiress had lived. But when the affair was once opened to Mary, it was
astonishing how easy it became.

'Of course,' said Mary, 'all the rooms in our house would not hold half
the people you are talking about--if they must come.'

Lady Arabella looked so beseechingly, nay, so piteously, that Mary had
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 there? He has
been so very handsome to Frank, that I wouldn't make him angry for all
the world.'

'If you don't tell him anything about it, Lady Arabella, he'll think
that it is all done properly. He will never know, if he's not told, that
he ought to give the breakfast, not you.'

'Won't he, my dear?'  And Lady Arabella looked her admiration for this
very talented suggestion. And so that matter was arranged. The doctor
never knew, till Mary told him some year or so afterwards, that he had
been remiss in any part of his duty.

And who was asked to the wedding?  In the first place, we have said that
the Duke of Omnium was there. This was, in fact, the one circumstance
that made this wedding so superior to any other that had ever taken
place in that neighbourhood. The Duke of Omnium never went anywhere; and
yet he went to Mary's wedding! And Mary, when the ceremony was over,
absolutely found herself kissed by a duke. 'Dearest Mary!' exclaimed
Lady Arabella, in her ecstasy of joy, when she saw the honour that was
done to her daughter-in-law.

'I hope we shall induce you to come to Gatherum Castle soon,' said the
duke to Frank. 'I shall be having a few friends there in the autumn. Let
me see; I declare, I have not seen you since you were good 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 quite reconciled himself to
the difference of his position. When he was treated as one of the
'collection' at Gatherum Castle, he had not married money.

It would be vain to enumerate all the De Courcys that were there. There
was the earl, looking very gracious, and talking to the squire about the
county. And there was Lord Porlock, looking very ungracious, and not
talking to anybody about anything. And there was the countess, who for
the last week had done nothing but pat Frank on the back whenever she
could catch him. And there were the Ladies Alexandrina, Margaretta, and
Selina, smiling at everybody. And the Honourable George, talking in
whispers to Frank about his widow--'Not such a catch as yours, you know;
but something extremely snug;--and have it all my own way, too, old
fellow, or I shan't come to the scratch.' And the Honourable John
prepared to toady Frank about his string of hunters; and the Lady
Amelia, by herself, not quite contented with these democratic
nuptials--'After all, she is so absolutely nobody; absolutely,
absolutely,' she said confidentially to Augusta, shaking her head. But
before Lady Amelia had left Greshamsbury, Augusta was quite at a loss to
understand how there could be need for so much conversation between her
cousin and Mr Mortimer Gazebee.

And there were many more De Courcys, whom to enumerate would be much too
long.

And the bishop of the diocese, and Mrs Proudie were there.  A hint had
even been given, that his lordship would himself condescend to perform
the ceremony, if this should be wished; but that work had already been
anticipated by a very old friend of the Greshams. Archdeacon Grantly,
the rector of Plumstead Episcopi, had long since undertaken this part of
the business; and the knot was eventually tied by the joint efforts of
himself and Mr Oriel. Mrs Grantly came with him, and so did Mrs
Grantly's sister, the new dean's wife. The dean himself was at the time
unfortunately absent at Oxford.

And all the Bakers and the Jacksons were there.  The last time they had
all met together under the squire's roof, was on the occasion of Frank's
coming of age. The present gala doings were carried on a very different
spirit. That had been a very poor affair, but this was worthy of the
best of Greshamsbury.

Occasion also had been taken of this happy moment to make up, or rather
to get rid of the last shreds of the last feud that had so long
separated Dr Thorne from his own relatives. The Thornes of Ullathorne
had made many overtures in a covert way. But our doctor had contrived to
reject them. 'They would not receive Mary as their cousin,' said he,
'and I will go nowhere that she cannot go.' But now all this was
altered. Mrs Gresham would certainly be received in any house in the
county. And thus, Mr Thorne of Ullathorne, an amiable, popular old
bachelor, came to the wedding; and so did his maiden sister Miss Thorne,
than whose no kinder heart glowed all through Barsetshire.

'My dear,' said she to Mary, kissing her, and offering her some little
tribute, 'I am very glad to make your acquaintance; very. It was not her
fault,' she added, speaking to herself. 'And now that she will be a
Gresham, that need not be any longer be thought of.' Nevertheless, could
Miss Thorne have spoken her inward thoughts out loud, she would have
declared, that Frank would have done better to have borne his poverty
than marry wealth without blood. But then, there are but few so stanch
as Miss Thorne; perhaps none in the county--always excepting the lady
Amelia.

And Miss Dunstable, also, was a bridesmaid.  'Oh, no' said she, when
asked; 'you should have them young and pretty.' But she gave way when
she found that Mary did not flatter her by telling her that she was
either the one or the other. 'The truth is,' said Miss Dunstable, 'I
have always been a little in love with your Frank, and so I shall do it
for his sake.' There were but four: the other two were the Gresham
twins. Lady Arabella exerted herself greatly in framing hints to induce
Mary to ask some of the De Courcy ladies to do her so much honour; but
on this head Mary would please herself. 'Rank,' she said to Beatrice,
with a curl on her lip, 'has its drawbacks--and must put up with them.'

And now I find that I have not one page--not half a page--for the
wedding-dress. But what matters? Will it not be all found written in the
columns of the Morning Post?

And thus Frank married money, and became a great man.  Let us hope that
he will be a happy man. As the time of the story has been brought down
so near to the present era, it is not practicable for the novelist to
tell much of his future career. When I last heard from Barsetshire, it
seemed to be quite settled that he is to take the place of one of the
old members at the next election; and they say, also, that there is no
chance of any opposition. I have heard, too, that there have been many
very private consultations between him and various gentlemen of the
county, with reference to the hunt; and the general feeling is said to
be that the hounds should go to Boxall Hill.

At Boxall Hill the young people established themselves on their return
from the continent. And that reminds me that one word must be said of
Lady Scatcherd.

'You will always stay here with us,' said Mary to her, caressing her
ladyship's rough hand, and looking kindly into that kind face.

But Lady Scatcherd would not consent to this.  'I will come and see you
sometimes, and then I shall enjoy myself. Yes, I will come and see you,
and my own dear boy.' The affair was ended by her taking Mrs Opie
Green's cottage, in order that she might be near the doctor; Mrs Opie
Green having married--somebody.

And of whom else must we say a word?  Patience, also, of course, got a
husband--or will do so. Dear Patience! it would be a thousand pities
that so good a wife should be lost to the world. Whether Miss Dunstable
will ever be married, or Augusta Gresham, or Mr Moffat, or any of the
tribe of the De Courcys--except Lady Amelia--I cannot say. They have all
of them still their future before them. That Bridget was married to
Thomas--that I am able to assert; for I know that Janet 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 her ladyship
is almost as anxious about that as she was about the wedding. 'A matter,
you know, of much importance in the county!' she whispered to Lady De
Courcy.

Nothing can be more happy than the intercourse between the squire and
his son. What their exact arrangements are, we need not specially
inquire; but the demon of pecuniary embarrassment has lifted his black
wings from the demesne of Greshamsbury.

And now we have but one word left for the doctor.  'If you don't come
and dine with me,' said the squire to him, when they found themselves
both deserted, 'mind I shall come and dine with you.' And on this
principle they seem to act. Dr Thorne continues to extend his practice,
to the great disgust of Dr Fillgrave; and when Mary suggested to him
that he should retire, he almost boxed her ears. He knows the way,
however, to Boxall Hill as well as he ever did, and is willing to
acknowledge, that the tea there is almost as good as it ever was at
Greshamsbury.





End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Dr Thorne, by Anthony Trollope