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 today 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 tomorrow.’
‘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 19 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. The 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.
Opening 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 20 The Proposal
And now the departure from Courcy Castle came rapidly one after the other, and there remained but one more evening before Miss Dunstable’s carriage was to be packed. The countess, in the early moments of Frank’s courtship, had controlled his ardour and checked the rapidity of his amorous professions; but as days, and at last weeks, wore away, she found that it was necessary to stir the fire which she had before endeavoured to slacken.
‘There will be nobody here to-night but our own circle,’ said she to him, ‘and I really think you should tell Miss Dunstable what your intentions are. She will have fair ground to complain of you if you don’t.’
Frank began to feel that he was in a dilemma. He had commenced making love to Miss Dunstable partly because he liked the amusement, and partly from a satirical propensity to quiz his aunt by appearing to fall into her scheme. But he had overshot the mark, and did not know what answer to give when he was thus called upon to make a downright proposal. And then, although he did not care two rushes about Miss Dunstable in the way of love, he nevertheless experienced a sort of jealousy when he found that she appeared to be indifferent to him, and that she corresponded the meanwhile with his cousin George. Though all their flirtations had been carried on on both sides palpably by way of fun, though Frank had told himself ten times a day that his heart was true to Mary Thorne, yet he had an undefined feeling that it behoved Miss Dunstable to be a little in love with him. He was not quite at ease in that she was not a little melancholy now that his departure was so nigh; and, above all, he was anxious to know what were the real facts about that letter. He had in his own breast threatened Miss Dunstable with a heartache; and now, when the time for their separation came, he found that his own heart was the more likely to ache of the two.
‘I suppose I must say something to her, or my aunt will never be satisfied,’ said he to himself as he sauntered into the little drawing-room on that last evening. But at the very time he was ashamed of himself, for he knew he was going to ask badly.
His sister and one of his cousins were in the room, but his aunt, who was quite on the alert, soon got them out of it, and Frank and Miss Dunstable were alone.
‘So all our fun and all our laughter is come to an end,’ said she, beginning the conversation. ‘I don’t know how you feel, but for myself I really am a little melancholy at the idea of parting;’ and she looked up at him with her laughing black eyes, as though she never had, and never could have a care in the world.
‘Melancholy! oh, yes; you look so,’ said Frank, who really did feel somewhat lackadaisically sentimental.
‘But how thoroughly glad the countess must be that we are both going,’ continued she. ‘I declare we have treated her most infamously. Ever since we’ve been here we’ve had the amusement to ourselves. I’ve sometimes thought she would turn me out of the house.’
‘I wish with all my heart she had.’
‘Oh, you cruel barbarian! why on earth should you wish that?’
‘That I might have joined you in your exile. I hate Courcy Castle, and should have rejoiced to leave — and — and —’
‘And what?’
‘And I love Miss Dunstable, and should have doubly, trebly rejoiced to leave it with her.’
Frank’s voice quivered a little as he made this gallant profession; but still Miss Dunstable only laughed the louder. ‘Upon my word, of all my knights you are by far the best behaved,’ said she, ‘and say much the prettiest things.’ Frank became rather red in the face, and felt that he did so. Miss Dunstable was treating him like a boy. While she pretended to be so fond of him she was only laughing at him, and corresponding the while with his cousin George. Now Frank Gresham already entertained a sort of contempt for his cousin, which increased the bitterness of his feelings. Could it really be possible that George had succeeded while he had utterly failed; that his stupid cousin had touched the heart of the heiress while she was playing with him as with a boy?
‘Of all your knights! Is that the way you talk to me when we are going to part? When was it, Miss Dunstable, that George de Courcy became one of them?’
Miss Dunstable for a while looked serious enough. ‘What makes you ask that?’ said she. ‘What makes you inquire about Mr de Courcy?’
‘Oh, I have eyes, you know, and can’t help seeing. Not that I see, or have seen anything that I could possibly help.’
‘And what have you seen, Mr Gresham?’
‘Why, I know you have been writing to him.’
‘Did he tell you so?’
‘No; he did not tell me; but I know it.’
For a moment she sat silent, and then her face again resumed its usual happy smile. ‘Come, Mr Gresham, you are not going to quarrel with me, I hope, even if I did write a letter to your cousin. Why should I not write to him? I correspond with all manner of people. I’ll write to you some of these days if you’ll let me, and will promise to answer my letters.’
Frank threw himself back on the sofa on which he was sitting, and, in doing so, brought himself somewhat nearer to his companion than he had been; he then drew his hand slowly across his forehead, pushing back his thick hair, and as he did so he sighed somewhat plaintively.
‘I do not care,’ said he, ‘for the privilege of correspondence on such terms. If my cousin George is to be a correspondent of yours also, I will give up my claim.’
And then he sighed again, so that it was piteous to hear him. He was certainly an arrant puppy, and an egregious ass into the bargain; but then, it must be remembered in his favour that he was only twenty-one, and that much had been done to spoil him. Miss Dunstable did remember this, and therefore abstained from laughing at him.
‘Why, Mr Gresham, what on earth do you mean? In all human probability I shall never write another line to Mr de Courcy; but, if I did, what possible harm could it do you?’
‘Oh, Miss Dunstable! you do not in the least understand what my feelings are.’
‘Don’t I? Then I hope I never shall. I thought I did. I thought they were the feelings of a good, true-hearted friend; feelings that I could sometimes look back upon with pleasure as being honest when so much that one meets is false. I have become very fond of you, Mr Gresham, and I should be sorry to think that I did not understand your feelings.’
This was almost worse and worse. Young ladies like Miss Dunstable — for she was still to be numbered in the category of young ladies — do not usually tell young gentlemen that they are very fond of them. To boys and girls they may make such a declaration. Now Frank Gresham regarded himself as one who had already fought his battles, and fought them not without glory; he could not therefore endure to be thus openly told by Miss Dunstable that she was very fond of him.
‘Fond of me, Miss Dunstable! I wish you were.’
‘So I am — very.’
‘You little know how fond I am of you, Miss Dunstable,’ and he put out his hand to take hold of hers. She then lifted up her own, and slapped him lightly on the knuckles.
‘And what can you have say to Miss Dunstable that can make it necessary that you should pinch her hand? I tell you fairly, Mr Gresham, if you make a fool of yourself, I shall come to a conclusion that you are all fools, and that it is hopeless to look out for any one worth caring for.’
Such advice as this, so kindly given, so wisely meant, so clearly intelligible he should have taken and understood, young as he was. but even yet he did not do so.
‘A fool of myself! Yes; I suppose I must be a fool if I have so much regard for Miss Dunstable as to make it painful for me to know that I am to see her no more: a fool: yes, of course I am a fool — a man is always a fool when he loves.’
Miss Dunstable could not pretend to doubt his meaning any longer; and was determined to stop him, let it cost what it would. She now put out her hand, not over white, and, as Frank soon perceived, gifted with a very fair allowance of strength.
‘Now, Mr Gresham,’ said she, ‘before you go any further you shall listen to me. Will you listen to me for a moment without interrupting me?’
Frank was of course obliged to promise that he would do so.
‘You are going — or rather you were going, for I shall stop you — to make a profession of love.’
‘A profession!’ said Frank making a slight unsuccessful effort to get his hand free.
‘Yes; a profession — a false profession, Mr Gresham,— a false profession — a false profession. Look into your heart — into your heart of hearts. I know you at any rate have a heart; look into it closely. Mr Gresham, you know you do not love me; not as a man should love the woman he swears to love.’
Frank was taken aback. So appealed to he found that he could not any longer say that he did love her. He could only look into her face with all his eyes, and sit there listening to her.
‘How is it possible that you should love me? I am Heaven knows how many years your senior. I am neither young nor beautiful, nor have I been brought up as she should be whom you in time will really love and make your wife. I have nothing that should make you love me; but — but I am rich.’
‘It is not that,’ said Frank, stoutly, feeling himself imperatively called upon to utter something in his own defence.
‘Ah, Mr Gresham, I fear it is that. For what other reason can you have laid your plans to talk in this way to such a woman as I am?’
‘I have laid no plans,’ said Frank, now getting his hand to himself. ‘At any rate, you wrong me there, Miss Dunstable.’
‘I like you so well — nay, love you, if a woman may talk of love in the way of friendship — that if money, money alone would make you happy, you should have it heaped on you. If you want it, Mr Gresham, you shall have it.’
‘I have never thought of your money,’ said Frank, surlily.
‘But it grieves me,’ continued she, ‘it does grieve me, to think that you, you, you — so young and gay, so bright — that you should have looked for it in this way. From others I have taken it just as the wind that whistles;’ and now two big slow tears escaped from her eyes, and would have rolled down her rosy cheeks were it not that she brushed them off with the back of her hand.
‘You have utterly mistaken me, Miss Dunstable,’ said Frank.
‘If I have, I will humbly beg your pardon,’ said she, ‘but — but — but —’
Frank had nothing further to say in his own defence. He had not wanted Miss Dunstable’s money — that was true; but he could not deny that he had been about to talk that absolute nonsense of which she spoke with so much scorn.
‘You would almost make me think that there are none honest in this fashionable world of yours. I well know why Lady de Courcy has had me here: how could I help knowing it? She has been so foolish in her plans that ten times a day she has told me her own secret. But I have said to myself twenty times, that if she were crafty, you were honest.’
‘And am I dishonest?’
‘I have laughed in my sleeve to see how she played her game, and to hear others around playing theirs; all of them thinking that they could get the money of the poor fool who had come at their beck and call; but I was able to laugh at them as long as I thought that I had one true friend to laugh with me. But one cannot laugh with all the world against one.’
‘I am not against you, Miss Dunstable.’
‘Sell yourself for money! why, if I were a man I would not sell one jot of liberty for mountains of gold. What! tie myself in the heyday of my youth to a person I could never love, for a price! perjure myself, destroy myself — and not only myself, but her also, in order that I might live idly! Oh, heavens! Mr Gresham! can it be that the words of such a woman as your aunt have sunk so deeply in your heart; have blackened you so foully as this? Have you forgotten your soul, your spirit, your man’s energy, the treasure of your heart? And you, so young! For shame, Mr Gresham! for shame — for shame.’
Frank found the task before him by no means an easy one. He had to make Miss Dunstable understand that he had never had the slightest idea of marrying her, and that he had made love to her merely with the object of keeping his hand in for the work as it were; with that object, and the other equally laudable one of interfering with his cousin George.
And yet there was nothing for him but to get through this task as best he might. He was goaded to it by the accusations which Miss Dunstable brought against him; and he began to feel, that though her invective against him might be bitter when he had told the truth, they could not be so bitter as those she now kept hinting at under her mistaken impression as to his views. He had never had any strong propensity for money-hunting; but now that offence appeared in his eyes abominable, unmanly, and disgusting. Any imputation would be better than that.
‘Miss Dunstable, I never for a moment thought of doing what you accuse me of; on my honour, I never did. I have been very foolish — very wrong — idiotic, I believe; but I have never intended that.’
‘Then, Mr Gresham, what did you intend?’
This was rather a difficult question to answer; and Frank was not very quick in attempting it. ‘I know you will not forgive me,’ he said at last; ‘and, indeed, I do not see how you can. I don’t know how it came about; but this is certain, Miss Dunstable; I have never for a moment thought about your fortune; that is, thought about it in the way of coveting it.’
‘You never thought of making me your wife, then?’
‘Never,’ said Frank, looking boldly into her face.
‘You never intended really to propose to go with me to the altar, and then make yourself rich by one great perjury?’
‘Never for a moment,’ said he.
‘You have never gloated over me as the bird of prey gloats over the poor beast that is soon to become carrion beneath its claws? You have not counted me out as equal to so much land, and calculated on me as a balance at your banker’s? Ah, Mr Gresham,’ she continued, seeing that he stared as though struck almost with awe by her strong language; ‘you little guess what a woman situated as I am has to suffer.’
‘I have behaved badly to you, Miss Dunstable, and I beg your pardon; but I have never thought of your money.’
‘Then we will be friends again, Mr Gresham, won’t we? It is so nice to have a friend like you. There, I think I understand it now; you need not tell me.’
‘It was half by way of making a fool of my aunt,’ said Frank, in an apologetic tone.
‘There is merit in that, at any rate,’ said Miss Dunstable. ‘I understand it all now; you thought to make a fool of me in real earnest. Well, I can forgive that; at any rate it is not mean.’
It may be, that Miss Dunstable did not feel much acute anger at finding that this young man had addressed her with words of love in the course of an ordinary flirtation, although that flirtation had been unmeaning and silly. This was not the offence against which her heart and breast had found peculiar cause to arm itself; this was not the injury from which she had hitherto experienced suffering.
At any rate, she and Frank again became friends, and, before the evening was over, they perfectly understood each other. Twice during this long tete-a-tete Lady de Courcy came into the room to see how things were going on, and twice she went out almost unnoticed. It was quite clear to her that something uncommon had taken place, was taking place, or would take place; and that should this be for weal or for woe, no good could not come from her interference. On each occasion, therefore, she smiled sweetly on the pair of turtle-doves, and glided out of the room as quietly as she had glided into it.
But at last it became necessary to remove them; for the world had gone to bed. Frank, in the meantime, had told to Miss Dunstable all his love for Mary Thorne, and Miss Dunstable had enjoined him to be true to his vows. To her eyes there was something of heavenly beauty in young, true love — of beauty that was heavenly because it had been unknown to her.
‘Mind you let me hear, Mr Gresham,’ said she. ‘Mind you do; and, Mr Gresham, never, never forget her for one moment; not for one moment, Mr Gresham.’
Frank was about to swear that he never would — again, when the countess, for the third time, sailed into the room.
‘Young people,’ said she, ‘do you know what o’clock it is?’
‘Dear me, Lady de Courcy, I declare it is past twelve; I really am ashamed of myself. How glad you will be to get rid of me tomorrow!’
‘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 21 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-inlaw, 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-inlaw — 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 today; 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-inlaw 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 many 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 22 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 was 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 23 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.’

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