Frank was again very much altered. It has been said, that though he was a boy at twenty-one, he was a man at twenty-two. But now, at twenty-three, he appeared to be almost a man of the world. His manners were easy, his voice under his control, and words were at his command: he was no longer either shy or noisy; but, perhaps, was open to the charge of seeming, at least, to be too conscious of his own merits. He was, indeed, very handsome; tall, manly, and powerfully built, his form was such as women’s eyes have ever loved to look upon. ‘Ah, if he would but marry money!’ said Lady Arabella to herself, taken up by a mother’s natural admiration for her son. His sisters clung around him before dinner, all talking to him at once. How proud a family of girls are of one, big, tall, burly brother!
‘You don’t mean to tell me, Frank, that you are going to eat soup with that beard?’ said the squire, when they were seated round the table. He had not ceased to rally his son as to this patriarchal adornment; but, nevertheless, any one could have seen, with half and eye, that he was as proud of it as were the others.
‘Don’t I, sir? All I require is a relay of napkins for every course;’ and he went to work, covering it with every spoonful, as men with beards always do.
‘Well, if you like it!’ said the squire, shrugging his shoulders.
‘But I do like it,’ said Frank.
‘Oh, papa, you wouldn’t have him cut it off,’ said one of the twins. ‘It is so handsome.’
‘I should like to work it into a chair-back instead of floss-silk,’ said the other twin.
‘Thank ‘ee, Sophy; I’ll remember you for that.’
‘Doesn’t it look nice, and grand, and patriarchal?’ said Beatrice, turning to her neighbour.
‘Patriarchal, certainly,’ said Mr Oriel. ‘I should grow one myself if I had not the fear of the archbishop before my eyes.’
What was next said to him was in a whisper, audible only to himself.
‘Doctor, did you know Wildman of the Ninth. He was left as surgeon at Scutari for two years. Why, my beard to his is only a little down.’
‘A little way down, you mean,’ said Mr Gazebee.
‘Yes,’ said Frank, resolutely set against laughing at Mr Gazebee’s pun. ‘Why, his beard descends to his ankles, and he is obliged to tie it in a bag at night, because his feet get entangled in it when he is asleep!’
‘Oh, Frank!’ said one of the girls.
This was all very well for the squire, and Lady Arabella, and the girls. They were all delighted to praise Frank, and talk about him. Neither did it come amiss to Mr Oriel and the doctor, who had both a personal interest in the young hero. But Sir Louis did not like it at all. He was the only baronet in the room, and yet nobody took any notice of him. He was seated in the post of honour, next to Lady Arabella; but even Lady Arabella seemed to think more of her own son than of him. Seeing he was ill-used, he meditated revenge; but not the less did it behove him to make some effort to attract attention.
‘Was your ladyship in London, this season?’
Lady Arabella had not been in London at all this year, and it was a sore subject with her. ‘No,’ said she, very graciously; ‘circumstances have kept us at home.’
‘Ah, indeed! I am very sorry for that; that must be very distressing to a person like your ladyship. But things are mending, perhaps?’
Lady Arabella did not in the least understand him. ‘Mending!’ she said, in her peculiar tone of aristocratic indifference; and then turned to Mr Gazebee, who was on the other side of her.
Sir Louis was not going to stand this. He was the first man in the room, and he knew his own importance. It was not to be borne that Lady Arabella should turn to talk to a dirty attorney, and leave him, a baronet, to eat his dinner without notice. If nothing else would move her, he would let her know who was the real owner of the Greshamsbury title-deeds.
‘I think I saw your ladyship out today, taking a ride,’ Lady Arabella had driven through the village in her pony-chair.
‘I never ride,’ said she, turning her head for one moment from Mr Gazebee.
‘In the one-horse carriage, I mean, my lady. I was delighted with the way you whipped him up round the corner.’
Whipped him up round the corner! Lady Arabella could make no answer to this; so she went on talking to Mr Gazebee. Sir Louis, repulsed, but not vanquished-resolved not to be vanquished by any Lady Arabella — turned his attention to his plate for a minute or two, and then recommenced.
‘The honour of a glass of wine with you, Lady Arabella,’ said he.’
‘I never take wine at dinner,’ said Lady Arabella. The man was becoming intolerable to her, and she was beginning to fear that it would be necessary for her to fly the room to get rid of him.
The baronet was again silent for a moment; but he was determined not to be put down.
‘This is a nice-looking country about her,’ said he.
‘Yes; very nice,’ said Mr Gazebee, endeavouring to relieve the lady of the mansion.
‘I hardly know which I like best; this, or my own place at Boxall Hill. You have the advantage here in trees, and those sort of things. But, as to the house, why, my box there is very comfortable, very. You’d hardly know the place now, Lady Arabella, if you haven’t seen it since my governor bought it. How much do you think he spent about the house and grounds, pineries included, you know, and those sort of things.’
Lady Arabella shook her head.
‘Now guess, my lady,’ said he. But it was not to be supposed that Lady Arabella should guess on such a subject.
‘I never guess,’ said she, with a look of ineffable disgust.
‘What do you say, Mr Gazebee?’
‘Perhaps a hundred thousand pounds.’
‘What! for a house! You can’t know much about money, nor yet about building, I think, Mr Gazebee.’
‘Not much,’ said Mr Gazebee, ‘as to such magnificent places as Boxall Hill.’
‘Well, my lady, if you won’t guess, I’ll tell you. It cost twenty-two thousand four hundred and nineteen pounds four shillings and eightpence. I’ve all the accounts exact. Now, that’s a tidy lot of money for a house for a man to live in.’
Sir Louis spoke this in a loud tone, which at least commanded the attention of the table. Lady Arabella, vanquished, bowed her head, and said that it was a large sum; Mr Gazebee went on sedulously eating his dinner; the squire was struck momentarily dumb in the middle of a long chat with the doctor; even Mr Oriel ceased to whisper; and the girls opened their eyes with astonishment. Before the end of his speech, Sir Louis’s voice had become very loud.
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Frank; ‘a very tidy lot of money. I’d have generously dropped the four and eightpence if I’d been the architect.’
‘It wasn’t on one bill; but that’s the tot. I can show the bills;’ and Sir Louis, well pleased with his triumph, swallowed a glass of wine.
Almost immediately after the cloth was removed, Lady Arabella escaped, and the gentlemen clustered together. Sir Louis found himself next to Mr Oriel, and began to make himself agreeable.
‘A very nice girl, Miss Beatrice; very nice.’
Now Mr Oriel was a modest man, and, when thus addressed as to his future wife, found it difficult to make any reply.
‘You parsons always have your own luck,’ said Sir Louis. ‘You get all the beauty, and generally all the money, too. Not much of the latter in this case, though — eh?’
Mr Oriel was dumbfounded. He had never said a word any creature as to Beatrice’s dowry; and when Mr Gresham had told him, with sorrow, that his daughter’s portion must be small, he had at once passed away from the subject as one that was hardly fit for conversation, even between him and his future father-inlaw; and now he was abruptly questioned on the subject by a man he had never seen before in his life. Of course, he could make no answer.
‘The squire has muddled his matters most uncommonly,’ continued Sir Louis, filling his glass for the second time before he passed the bottle. ‘What do you suppose now he owes me alone; just at one lump, you know?’
Mr Oriel had nothing for it but to run. He could make no answer, nor would he sit there for tidings as to Mr Gresham’s embarrassments. So he fairly retreated, without having said one word to his neighbour, finding such discretion to be the only kind of valour left to him.
‘What, Oriel! off already?’ said the squire. ‘Anything the matter?’
‘Oh, no; nothing particular. I’m not just quite — I think I will go out for a few minutes.’
‘See what it is to be in love,’ said the squire, half-whispering to Dr Thorne. ‘You’re not in the same way, I hope?’
Sir Louis then shifted his seat again, and found himself next to Frank. Mr Gazebee was opposite to him, and the doctor opposite to Frank.
‘Parson seems peekish, I think,’ said the baronet.
‘Peekish!?’ said the squire, inquisitively.
‘Rather down on his luck. He’s decently well off himself, isn’t he?’
There was another pause, and nobody seemed inclined to answer the question.
‘I mean, he’s got something more than his bare living.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Frank, laughing. ‘He’s got what will buy him bread and cheese when the Rads shut up the Church:— unless, indeed, they shut up the Funds too.’
‘Ah, there’s nothing like land,‘said Sir Louis: ‘nothing like dirty acres; is there, squire?’
‘Land is a very good investment, certainly,’ said the Mr Gresham.
‘The best going,’ said the other, who was now, as people say when they mean to be good-natured, slightly under the influence of liquor. ‘The best going — eh, Gazebee?’
Mr Gazebee gathered himself up, and turned away his head, looking out of the window.
‘You lawyers never like to give an opinion without money, ha! ha! ha! Do they, Mr Gresham? You and I have had to pay for plenty of them, and will have to pay plenty more before they let us alone.’
Here Mr Gazebee got up, and followed Mr Oriel out of the room. He was not, of course, on such intimate terms in the house as was Mr Oriel; but he hoped to be forgiven by the ladies in consequence of the severity of the miseries to which he was subjected. He and Mr Oriel were soon to be seen through the dining-room window, walking about the grounds with the two eldest Miss Greshams. And Patience Oriel, who had also been of the party, was also to be seen with the twins. Frank looked at his father with almost a malicious smile, and began to think that he too might be better employed out among the walks. Did he think then of a former summer evening, when he had half broken Mary’s heart by walking there too lovingly with Patience Oriel?
Sir Louis, if he continued his brilliant career of success, would soon be left the cock of the walk. The squire, to be sure, could not bolt, nor could the doctor very well; but they might be equally vanquished, remaining there in their chairs. Dr Thorne, during all this time, was sitting with tingling ears. Indeed, it may be said that his whole body tingled. He was in a manner responsible for this horrible scene; but what could he do to stop it? He could not take Sir Louis up bodily and carry him away. One idea did occur to him. The fly had been ordered for ten o’clock. He could rush out and send for it instantly.
‘You’re not going to leave me?’ said the squire, in a voice of horror, as he saw the doctor rising from his chair.
‘Oh, no, no, no,’ said the doctor; and then he whispered the purpose of his mission. ‘I will be back in two minutes.’ The doctor would have given twenty pounds to have closed the scene at once; but he was not the man to desert his friend in such a strait as that.
‘He’s a well-meaning fellow, the doctor,’ said Sir Louis, when his guardian was out of the room, ‘very; but he’s not up to trap — not at all.’
‘Up to trap — well, I should say he was; that is, if I know what trap means,’ said Frank.
‘Ah, but that’s just the ticket. Do you know? Now I say Dr Thorne’s not a man of the world.’
‘He’s about the best man I know, or ever heard of,’ said the squire. ‘And if any man ever had a good friend, you have got one in him; and so have I:’ and the squire silently drank the doctor’s health.
‘All very true, I dare say; but yet he’s not up to trap. Now look here, squire —’
‘If you don’t mind, sir,’ said Frank, ‘I’ve got something very particular — perhaps, however —’
‘Stay till Thorne returns, thanks Frank.’
Frank did stay till Thorne returned, and then escaped.
‘Excuse me, doctor,’ said he, ‘but I’ve something very particular to say; I’ll explain tomorrow.’ And then the three were left alone.
Sir Louis was now becoming almost drunk, and was knocking his words together. The squire had already attempted to stop the bottle; but the baronet had contrived to get hold of a modicum of Madeira, and there was no preventing him from helping himself; at least, none at the moment.
‘As we were saying about lawyers,’ continued Sir Louis. ‘Let’s see, what were we saying? Why, squire, it’s just here. These fellows will fleece us both if we don’t mind what we are after.’
‘Never mind about lawyers now,’ said Dr Thorne, angrily.
‘Ah, but I do mind; most particularly. That’s all very well for you, doctor; you’ve nothing to lose. You’ve no great stake in the matter. Why, now, what sum of money of mine do you think those d —— doctors are handling?’
‘D—— doctors!’ said the squire in a tone of dismay.
‘Lawyers, I mean, of course. Why, now, Gresham, we’re all totted now, you see; you’re down in my books, I take it, for pretty near a hundred thousand pounds.’
‘Hold your tongue, sir,’ said the doctor, getting up.
‘Hold my tongue!’ said Sir Louis.
‘Sir Louis Scatcherd,’ said the squire, slowly rising from his chair, ‘we will not, if you please, talk about business at the present moment. Perhaps we had better go to the ladies.’
This latter proposition had certainly not come from the squire’s heart: going to the ladies was the very last thing for which Sir Louis was now fit. But the squire had said it as being the only recognised formal way he could think of for breaking up the symposium.
‘Oh, very well,’ hiccupped the baronet, ‘I’m always ready for the ladies,’ and he stretched out his hand to the decanter to get a last glass of Madeira.
‘No,’ said the doctor, rising stoutly, and speaking with a determined voice. ‘No; you will have no more wine.’
‘What’s all this about?’ said Sir Louis, with a drunken laugh.
‘Of course he cannot go into the drawing-room, Mr Gresham. If you will leave him here with me, I will stay with him, till the fly comes. Pray tell Lady Arabella from me how sorry I am that this has occurred.’
The squire took him by the hand affectionately. ‘I’ve seen a tipsy man before to-night,’ said he.
‘Yes,’ said the doctor, ‘and so have I, but —’ He did not express the rest of his thoughts.
Chapter 36 Will he Come Again?
Long before the doctor returned home after the little dinner-party above described, Mary had learnt that Frank was already at Greshamsbury. She had heard nothing of him, not a word, nothing in the shape of a message, for twelve months; and at her age twelve months is a long period. Would he come and see her in spite of his mother? Would he send her any tidings of is return, or notice her in any way? If he did not, what would she do? and if he did, what then would she do? It was so hard to resolve; so hard to be deserted; and so hard to dare to wish that she might not be deserted! She continued to say to herself, that it would be better that they should be strangers; and she could hardly keep herself from tears in the fear that they might be so. What chance could there be that he should care for her, after an absence spent in travelling over the world? No; she would forget that affair of his hand; and then, immediately after having so determined, she would confess to herself that it was a thing not to be forgotten, and impossible of oblivion.
On her uncle’s return, she would hear some word about him; and so she sat alone, with a book before her, of which she could not read a line. She expected them about eleven, and was, therefore, rather surprised when the fly stopped at the door before nine.
She immediately heard her uncle’s voice, loud and angry, calling for Thomas. Both Thomas and Bridget were unfortunately out, being, at this moment, forgetful of all sublunary cares, and seated in happiness under a beech-tree in the park. Janet flew to the little gate, and there found Sir Louis insisting that he would be taken at once to his own mansion at Boxall Hill, and positively swearing that he would not longer submit to the insult of the doctor’s surveillance.
In the absence of Thomas, the doctor was forced to apply for assistance to the driver of the fly. Between them the baronet was dragged out of the vehicle, the windows suffered much, and the doctor’s hat also. In this way, he was taken upstairs, and was at last put to bed, Janet assisting: nor did the doctor leave the room till his guest was asleep. Then he went into the drawing-room to Mary. It may easily be conceived that he was hardly in a humour to talk much about Frank Gresham.
‘What am I to do with him?’ said he, almost in tears: ‘what am I to do with him?’
‘Can you send him to Boxall Hill?’ asked Mary.
‘Yes; to kill himself there! But it is no matter; he will kill himself somewhere. Oh! what that family have done for me!’ And then, suddenly remembering a portion of their doings, he took Mary in his arms, and kissed and blessed her; and declared that, in spite of all this, he was a happy man.
There was no word about Frank that night. The next morning the doctor found Sir Louis very weak, and begging for stimulants. He was worse than weak; he was in such a state of wretched misery and mental prostration; so low in heart, in such collapse of energy and spirit, that Dr Thorne thought it prudent to remove his razors from his reach.
‘For God’s sake do let me have a little chasse-cafe; I’m always used to it; ask Joe if I’m not! You don’t want to kill me, do you?’ And the baronet cried piteously, like a child, and, when the doctor left him for the breakfast-table, abjectly implored Janet to get him some curacoa which he knew was in one of his portmanteaus. Janet, however, was true to her master.
The doctor did give him some wine; and then, having left strict orders as to his treatment — Bridget and Thomas being now both in the house — went forth to some of his too much neglected patients.
Then Mary was again alone, and her mind flew away to her lover. How should she be able to compose herself when she should first see him? See him she must. People cannot live in the same village without meeting. If she passed him at the church-door, as she often passed Lady Arabella, what should she do? Lady Arabella always smiled a peculiar, little, bitter smile, and this, with half a nod of recognition, carried off the meeting. Should she try the bitter smile, the half-nod with Frank? Alas! she knew it was not in her to be so much mistress of her own heart’s blood.
As she thus thought, she stood in the drawing-room window, looking out into her garden; and, as she leant against the sill, her head was surrounded by the sweet creepers. ‘At any rate, he won’t come here,’ she said: and so, with a deep sigh, she turned from the window into the room.
There he was, Frank Gresham himself standing there in her immediate presence, beautiful as Apollo. Her next thought was how she might escape from out of his arms. How it happened that she had fallen into them, she never knew.
‘Mary! my own, own love! my own one! sweetest! dearest! best! Mary! dear Mary! have you not a word to say to me?’
No; she had not a word, though her life depended on it. The exertion necessary for not crying was quite enough for her. This, then, was the bitter smile and the half-nod that was to pass between them; this was the manner in which estrangement was to grow into indifference; this was the mode of meeting by which she was to prove that she was mistress of her conduct, if not her heart! There he held her close bound to his breast, and she could only protect her face, and that all ineffectually, with her hands. ‘He loves another,’ Beatrice had said. ‘At any rate, he will not love me,’ her own heart had said also. Here now was the answer.
‘You know you cannot marry him,’ Beatrice had said, also. Ah! if that really were so, was not this embrace deplorable for them both? And yet how could she not be happy? She endeavoured to repel him; but with what a weak endeavour! Her pride had been wounded to the core, not by Lady Arabella’s scorn, but by the conviction which had grown on her, that though she had given her own heart absolutely away, had parted with it wholly and for ever, she had received nothing in return. The world, her world, would know that she had loved, and loved in vain. But here now was the loved one at her feet; the first moment that his enforced banishment was over, had brought him here. How could she not be happy?
They all said that she could not marry him. Well, perhaps it might be so; nay, when she thought of it, must not that edict too probably be true? But if so, it would not be his fault. He was true to her, and that satisfied her pride. He had taken from her, by surprise, a confession of her love. She had often regretted her weakness in allowing him to do so; but she could not regret it now. She could endure to suffer; nay, it would not be suffering while he suffered with her.
‘Not one word, Mary? Then after all my dreams, after all my patience, you do not love me at last?’
Oh, Frank! notwithstanding what has been said in thy praise, what a fool thou art! Was any word necessary for thee? Had not her heart beat against thine? Had she not borne thy caresses? Had there been one touch of anger when she warded off thy threatened kisses? Bridget, in the kitchen, when Jonah became amorous, smashed his nose with the rolling-pin. But when Thomas sinned, perhaps as deeply, she only talked of doing so. Miss Thorne, in the drawing-room, had she needed self-protection, could doubtless have found the means, though the process would probably have been less violent.
At last Mary succeeded in her efforts at enfranchisement, and she and Frank stood at some little distance from each other. She could not but marvel at him. That long, soft beard, which just now had been so close to her face, was all new; his whole look was altered; his mien, and gait, and very voice were not the same. Was this, indeed, the very Frank who had chattered of his boyish love, two years since, in the gardens at Greshamsbury?
‘Not one word of welcome, Mary?’
‘Indeed, Mr Gresham, you are welcome home.’
‘Mr Gresham! Tell me, Mary — tell me at once — has anything happened? I could not ask up there.’
‘Frank,’ she said, and then stopped; not being able at the moment to get any further.
‘Speak to me honestly, Mary; honestly and bravely. I offered you my hand once before; there it is again. Will you take it?’
She looked wistfully up in his eyes; and would fain have taken it. But though a girl may be honest in such a case, it is so hard for her to be brave.
He still held out his hand. ‘Mary,’ said he, ‘if you can value it, it shall be yours through good fortune or ill fortune. There may be difficulties; but if you can love me, we will get over them. I am a free man; free to do as I please with myself, except so far as I am bound to you. There is my hand. Will you have it?’ And then he, too, looked into her eyes, and waited composedly, as though determined to have an answer.
She slowly raised her hand, and, as she did so, her eyes fell to the ground. It then drooped again, and was again raised; and, at last, her light tapering fingers rested on his broad open palm.
They were soon clutched, and the whole hand brought absolutely within his grasp. ‘There, now you are my own!’ he said, ‘and none of them shall part us; my own Mary, my own wife.’
‘Oh, Frank, is not this imprudent? Is it not wrong?’
‘Imprudent! I am sick of prudence. I hate prudence. And as for wrong — no. I say it is not wrong; certainly not wrong if we love each other. And you do love me, Mary — eh? You do! don’t you?’
He would not excuse her, or allow her to escape from saying it in so many words; and when the words did come at last, they came freely. ‘Yes, Frank, I do love you; if that were all you would have no cause for fear.’
‘And I will have no cause for fear.’
‘Ah; but your father, Frank, and my uncle. I can never bring myself to do anything that shall bring either of them to sorrow.’
Frank, of course, ran through all his arguments. He would go into a profession, or take a farm and live in it. He would wait; that is, for a few months. ‘A few months, Frank!’ said Mary. ‘Well, perhaps six.’ ‘Oh, Frank!’ But Frank would not be stopped. He would do anything that his father might ask him. Anything but the one thing. He would not give up the wife he had chosen. It would not be reasonable, or proper, or righteous that he should be asked to do so; and here he mounted a somewhat high horse.
Mary had no arguments which she could bring from her heart to offer in opposition of all this. She could only leave her hand in his, and feel that she was happier than she had been at any time since the day of the donkey-ride at Boxall Hill.
‘But, Mary,’ continued he, becoming very grave and serious. ‘We must be true to each other, and firm in this. Nothing that any of them can say shall drive me from my purpose; will you say as much?’
Her hand was still in his, and so she stood, thinking for a moment before she answered him. But she could not do less for him than he was willing to do for her. ‘Yes,’ said she — said in a very low voice, and with a manner perfectly quiet —‘I will be firm. Nothing that they can say shall shake me. But, Frank, it cannot be soon.’
Nothing further occurred in this interview which needs recording. Frank had been three times told by Mary that he had better go before he did go; and, at last, she was obliged to take the matter into her own hands, and lead him to the door.
‘You are in a great hurry to get rid of me,’ said he.
‘You have been here two hours, and you must go now; what will they think?’
‘Who cares what they think? Let them think the truth: that’s after a year’s absence, I have much to say to you.’ However, at last, he did go, and Mary was left alone.
Frank, although he had been so slow to move, had a thousand other things to do, and went about them at once. He was very much in love, no doubt; but that did not interfere with his interest in other pursuits. In the first place, he had to see Harry Baker, and Harry Baker’s stud. Harry had been specially charged to look after the black horse during Frank’s absence, and the holiday doings of that valuable animal had to be inquired into. Then the kennel of the hounds had to be visited, and — as a matter of second-rate importance — the master. This could not be done on the same day; but a plan for doing so must be concocted with Harry — and then there were the two young pointer pups.
Frank, when he left his betrothed, went about these things quite as vehemently as though he were not in love at all; quite as vehemently as though he had said nothing as to going into some profession which must necessarily separate him from horses and dogs. But Mary sat there at her window, thinking of her love, and thinking of nothing else. It was all in all to her now. She had pledged herself not to be shaken from her troth by anything, by any person; and it would behove her to be true to this pledge. True to it, though all the Greshams but one should oppose her with all their power; true to it, even though her own uncle should oppose her.
And how could she have done any other than to pledge herself, invoked to it as she had been? How could she do less for him than he was so anxious to do for her? They would talk to her of maiden delicacy, and tell her that she had put a stain on that snow-white coat of proof, in confessing her love for one whose friends were unwilling to receive her. Let them so talk. Honour, honesty, and truth, out-spoken truth, self-denying truth, and fealty from man to man, are worth more than maiden delicacy; more, at any rate, than the talk of it. It was not for herself that this pledge had been made. She knew her position, and the difficulties of it; she knew also the value of it. He had much to offer, much to give; she had nothing but herself. He had name, and old repute, family, honour, and what eventually would at least be wealth to her. She was nameless, fameless, portionless. He had come there with all his ardour, with the impulse of his character, and asked her for her love. It was already his own. He had then demanded her troth, and she acknowledged that he had a right to demand it. She would be his if ever it should be in his power to take her.
But there let the bargain end. She would always remember, that though it was in her power to keep her pledge, it might too probably not be in his power to keep his. That doctrine, laid down so imperatively by the great authorities of Greshamsbury, that edict, which demanded that Frank should marry money, had come home also to her with a certain force. It would be sad that the fame of Greshamsbury should perish, and that the glory should depart from the old house. It might be, that Frank also should perceive that he must marry money. It would be a pity that he had not seen it sooner; but she, at any rate, would not complain.
And so she stood, leaning on the open window, with her book unnoticed lying beside her. The sun had been in the mid-sky when Frank had left her, but its rays were beginning to stream into the room from the west before she moved from her position. Her first thought in the morning had been this: Would he come to see her? Her last now was more soothing to her, less full of absolute fear: Would it be right that he should come again?
The first sounds she heard were the footsteps of her uncle, as he came up to the drawing-room, three steps at a time. His step was always heavy; but when he was disturbed in spirit, it was slow; when merely fatigued in body by ordinary work, it was quick.
‘What a broiling day!’ he said, and he threw himself into a chair. ‘For mercy’s sake, give me something to drink.’ Now the doctor was a great man for summer-drinks. In his house, lemonade, currant-juice, orange-mixtures, and raspberry-vinegar were used by the quart. He frequently disapproved of these things for his patients, as being apt to disarrange the digestion; but he consumed enough himself to throw a large family into such difficulties.
‘Ha-a!’ he ejaculated after a draught; ‘I’m better now. Well, what’s the news?’
‘You’ve been out, uncle; you ought to have the news. How’s Mrs Green?’
‘Really as bad as ennui and solitude can make her.’
‘And Mrs Oaklerath?’
‘She’s getting better, because she has ten children to look after, and twins to suckle. What has he been doing?’ And the doctor pointed towards the room occupied by Sir Louis.
Mary’s conscience struck her that she had not even asked. She had hardly remembered, during the whole day, that the baronet was in the house. ‘I do not think he has been doing much,’ she said. ‘Janet has been with him all day.’
‘Has he been drinking?’
‘Upon my word, I don’t know, uncle. I think not, for Janet has been with him. But, uncle —’
‘Well, dear — but just give me a little more of that tipple.’
Mary prepared the tumbler, and as she handed it to him, she said, ‘Frank Gresham has been here today.’
The doctor swallowed his draught, and put down the glass before he made any reply, and even then he said but little.
‘Oh! Frank Gresham.’
‘Yes, uncle.’
‘You thought him looking pretty well?’
‘Yes, uncle; he was very well, I believe.’
Dr Thorne had nothing more to say, so he got up and went to his patient in the next room.
‘If he disapproves of it, why does he not say so?’ said Mary to herself. ‘Why does he not advise me?’
But it was not so easy to give advice while Sir Louis Scatcherd was lying there in that state.
Chapter 37 Sir Louis Leaves Greshamsbury
Janet had been sedulous in her attentions to Sir Louis, and had not troubled her mistress; but she had not had an easy time of it. Her orders had been, that either she or Thomas should remain in the room the whole day, and those orders had been obeyed.
Immediately after breakfast, the baronet had inquired after his own servant. ‘His confounded nose must be right by this time, I suppose?’
‘It was very bad, Sir Louis,’ said the old woman, who imagined that it might be difficult to induce Jonah to come into the house again.
‘A man in such a place as his has no business to be laid up,’ said his master, with a whine. ‘I’ll see and get a man who won’t break his nose.’
Thomas was sent to the inn three or four times, but in vain. The man was sitting up, well enough, in the tap-room; but the middle of his face was covered with streaks of plaster, and he could not bring himself to expose his wounds before his conqueror.
Sir Louis began by ordering the woman to bring him chasse-cafe. She offered him coffee, as much as he would; but no chasse. ‘A glass of port wine,’ she said, at twelve o’clock, and another at three had been ordered for him.
‘I don’t care a — for the orders,’ said Sir Louis; ‘send me my own man.’ The man was again sent for; but would not come. ‘There’s a bottle of that stuff that I take, in that portmanteau, in the left-hand corner — just hand it to me.’
But Janet was not to be done. She would give him no stuff, except what the doctor had ordered, till the doctor came back. The doctor would then, no doubt, give him anything that was proper.
Sir Louis swore a good deal, and stormed as much as he could. He drank, however, his two glasses of wine, and he got no more. Once or twice he essayed to get out of bed and dress; but, at every effort, he found that he could not do it without Joe: and there he was, still under the clothes when the doctor returned.
‘I’ll tell you what it is,’ said he, as soon as his guardian entered the room, ‘I’m not going to be made a prisoner of here.’
‘A prisoner! no, surely not.’
‘It seems very much like it at present. Your servant here — that old woman — takes it upon her to say she’ll do nothing without your orders.’
‘Well; she’s right there.’
‘Right! I don’t know what you call right; but I won’t stand it. You are not going to make a child of me, Dr Thorne; so you need not think it.’
And then there was a long quarrel, between them, and but an indifferent reconciliation. The baronet said that he would go to Boxall Hill, and was vehement in his intention to do so because the doctor opposed it. He had not, however, as yet ferreted out the squire, or given a bit of his mind to Mr Gazebee, and it behoved him to do this before he took himself off to his own country mansion. He ended, therefore, by deciding to go on the next day but one.
‘Let it be so, if you are well enough,’ said the doctor.
‘Well enough!’ said the other, with a sneer. ‘There’s nothing to make me ill that I know of. It certainly won’t be drinking too much here.’
On the next day, Sir Louis was in a different mood, and in one more distressing for the doctor to bear. His compelled absence from intemperate drinking had, no doubt, been good for him; but his mind had so much sunk under the pain of the privation, that his state was piteous to behold. He had cried for his servant, as a child cries for its nurse, till at last the doctor, moved to pity, had himself gone out and brought the man in from the public-house. But when he did come, Joe was of but little service to his master, as he was altogether prevented from bringing him either wine or spirits; and when he searched for the liqueur-case, he found that even that had been carried away.
‘I believe you want me to die,’ he said, as the doctor, sitting by his bedside, was trying, for the hundredth time, to make him understand that he had but one chance of living.
The doctor was not in the least irritated. It would have been as wise to be irritated by the want of reason in a dog.
‘I am doing what I can to save your life,’ he said calmly; ‘but as you said just now, I have no power over you. As long as you are able to move and remain in my house, you certainly shall not have the means of destroying yourself. You will be very wise to stay here for a week or ten days: a week or ten days of healthy living might, perhaps, bring you round.’
Sir Louis again declared that the doctor wished him to die, and spoke of sending for his attorney Finnie, to come to Greshamsbury to look after him.
‘Send for him if you choose,’ said the doctor. ‘His coming will cost you three or four pounds, but can do no other harm.’
It was certainly hard upon Dr Thorne that he should be obliged to entertain such a guest in the house;— to entertain him, and foster him, and care for him, almost as though he were a son. But he had no alternative; he had accepted the charge from Sir Roger, and he must go through with it. His conscience, moreover, allowed him no rest in the matter: it harassed him day and night, driving him on sometimes to great wretchedness. He could not love this incubus that was on his shoulders; he could not do other than be very far from loving him. Of what use or value was he to any one? What could the world make of him that would be good, or he of the world? Was not an early death his certain fate? The earlier it might be, would it not be better? Were he to linger on yet for two years longer — and such a space of life was possible for him — how great would be the mischief that he might do; nay, certainly would do! Farewell then to all hopes for Greshamsbury, as far as Mary was concerned. Farewell then to that dear scheme which lay deep in the doctor’s heart, that hope that he might in his niece’s name, give back to the son the lost property of his father. And might not one year — six months be as fatal. Frank, they all said, must marry money; and even he — he the doctor himself, much as he despised the idea for money’s sake — even he could not but confess that Frank, as the heir to an old, but grievously embarrassed property, had no right to marry, at his early age, a girl without a shilling. Mary, his niece, his own child, would probably be the heiress of this immense wealth; but he could not tell this to Frank; no, nor to Frank’s father, while Sir Louis was yet alive. What, if by so doing he should achieve this marriage for his niece, and that then Sir Louis should live to dispose of his own? How then would he face the anger of Lady Arabella?
‘I will never hanker after a dead man’s shoes, neither for myself nor for another,’ he had said to himself a hundred times; and as often did he accuse himself of doing so. One path, however, was plainly open before him. He would keep his peace as to the will; and would use such efforts as he might use for a son of his own loins to preserve the life that was so valueless. His wishes, his hopes, his thoughts, he could not control; but his conduct was at his own disposal.
‘I say, doctor, you don’t really think that I’m going to die?’ Sir Louis said, when Dr Thorne again visited him.
‘I don’t think at all; I am sure you will kill yourself if you continue to live as you have lately done.’
‘But suppose I go all right for a while, and live — live just as you tell me, you know?’
‘All of us are in God’s hands, Sir Louis. By so doing you will, at any rate, give yourself the best chance.’
‘Best chance? Why, d — n, doctor! there are fellows have done ten times worse than I; and they are not going to kick. Come, now, I know you are trying to frighten me; ain’t you now?’
‘I am trying to do the best I can for you.’
‘It’s very hard on a fellow like me; I have nobody to say a kind word to me; no, not one.’ And Sir Louis, in his wretchedness, began to weep. ‘Come, doctor; if you’ll put me once more on my legs, I’ll let you draw on the estate for five hundred pounds; by G—, I will.’
The doctor went away to his dinner, and the baronet also had his in bed. He could not eat much, but he was allowed two glasses of wine, and also a little brandy in his coffee. This somewhat invigorated him, and when Dr Thorne again went to him, in the evening, he did not find him so utterly prostrated in spirit. He had, indeed, made up his mind to a great resolve; and thus unfolded his final scheme for his own reformation:-
‘Doctor,’ he began again, ‘I believe you are an honest fellow; I do indeed.’
Dr Thorne could not but thank him for his good opinion.
‘You ain’t annoyed at what I said this morning, are you?’
The doctor had forgotten the particular annoyance to which Sir Louis alluded; and informed him that his mind might be at rest on any such matter.
‘I do believe you’d be glad to see me well; wouldn’t you, now?’
The doctor assured him that such was in very truth the case.
‘Well, now, I’ll tell you what: I’ve been thinking about it a great deal today; indeed, I have, and I want to do what is right. Mightn’t I have a little drop of that stuff, just in a cup of coffee?’
The doctor poured him out a cup of coffee, and put about a teaspoonful of brandy in it. Sir Louis took it with a disconsolate face, not having been accustomed to such measures in the use of his favourite beverage.
‘I do wish to do what is right — I do, indeed; only, you see, I’m lonely. As to those fellows up in London, I don’t think that one of them cares a straw about me.’
Dr Thorne was of the same way of thinking, and he said so. He could not but feel some sympathy with the unfortunate man as he thus spoke of his own lot. It was true that he had been thrown on the world without any one to take care of him.
‘My dear friend, I will do the best I can in every way; I will, indeed. I do believe that your companions in town have been too ready to lead you astray. Drop them, and you may yet do well.’
‘May I though, doctor? Well, I will drop them. There’s Jenkins; he’s the best of them; but even he is always wanting to make money of me. Not but what I’m up to the best of them in that way.’
‘You had better leave London, Sir Louis, and change your mode of life. Go to Boxall Hill for a while; for two or three days or so; live with your mother there and take to farming.’
‘What! farming?’
‘Yes; that’s what all country gentlemen do: take the land there into your own hand, and occupy your mind upon it.’
‘Well, doctor, I will — upon one condition.’
Dr Thorne sat still and listened. He had no idea what the condition might be, but he was not prepared to promise acquiescence till he heard it.
‘You know what I told you once before,’ said the baronet.
‘I don’t remember at this moment.’
‘About my getting married, you know.’
The doctor’s brow grew black, and promised no help to the poor wretch. Bad in every way, wretched, selfish, sensual, unfeeling, purse-proud, ignorant as Sir Louis Scatcherd was still, there was left to him the power of feeling something like sincere love. It may be presumed that he did love Mary Thorne, and that he was at the time earnest in declaring that if she could be given to him, he would endeavour to live according to her uncle’s counsel. It was only a trifle he asked; but, alas! that trifle could not be vouchsafed.
‘I should much approve of your getting married, but I do not know how I can help you.’
‘Of course, I mean Miss Mary: I do love her; I really do, Dr Thorne.’
‘It is quite impossible, Sir Louis; quite. You do my niece much honour; but I am able to answer for her, positively, that such a proposition is quite out of the question.’
‘Look here now, Dr Thorne; anything in the way of settlements —’
‘I will not hear a word on the subject: you are very welcome to the use of my house as long as it may suit you to remain here; but I must insist that my niece shall not be troubled on this matter.’
‘Do you mean to say she’s in love with that young Gresham?’
This was too much for the doctor’s patience. ‘Sir Louis,’ said he, ‘I can forgive you much for your father’s sake. I can also forgive something on the score of your own ill-health. But you ought to know, you ought by this time to have learnt, that there are some things which a man cannot forgive. I will not talk to you about my niece; and remember this, also, I will not have her troubled by you:’ and, so saying, the doctor left him.
On the next day the baronet was sufficiently recovered to be able to resume his braggadocio airs. He swore at Janet; insisted on being served by his own man; demanded in a loud voice, but in vain, that his liqueur-case should be restored to him; and desired that post-horses might be ready for him on the morrow. On that day he got up and ate his dinner in his bedroom. On the next morning he countermanded the horses, informing the doctor that he did so because he had little bit of business to transact with Squire Gresham before he left the place! With some difficulty, the doctor made him understand that the squire would not see him on business; and it was at last decided, that Mr Gazebee should be invited to call on him at the doctor’s house; and this Mr Gazebee agreed to do, in order to prevent the annoyance of having the baronet up at Greshamsbury.
On this day, the evening before Mr Gazebee’s visit, Sir Louis condescended to come down to dinner. He dined, however, tete-a-tete with the doctor. Mary was not there, nor was anything said as to her absence. Sir Louis Scatcherd never set eyes upon her again.
He bore himself arrogantly on that evening, having resumed the airs and would-be dignity which he thought belonged to him as a man of rank and property. In his periods of low spirits, he was abject and humble enough; abject and fearful of the lamentable destiny which at these moments he believed to be in store for him. But it was one of the peculiar symptoms of his state, that as he partially recovered his bodily health, the tone of his mind recovered itself also, and his fears for the time were relieved.
There was very little said between him and the doctor that evening. The doctor sat, guarding the wine, and thinking when he should have his house to himself again. Sir Louis sat moody, every now and then uttering some impertinence as to the Greshams and the Greshamsbury property, and, at an early hour, allowed Joe to put him to bed.
The horses were ordered on the next day for three, and, as two, Mr Gazebee came to the house. He had never been there before, nor had he ever met Dr Thorne except at the squire’s dinner. On this occasion he asked only for the baronet.
‘Ah! ah! I’m glad you’re come, Mr Gazebee; very glad,’ said Sir Louis; acting the part of the rich, great man with all the power he had. ‘I want to ask you a few questions so as to make it all clear sailing between us.’
‘As you have asked to see me, I have come, Sir Louis,’ said the other, putting on much dignity as he spoke. ‘But would it not be better that any business there may be should be done among the lawyers?’
‘The lawyers are very well, I dare say; but when a man has so large a stake at interest as I have in this Greshamsbury property, why, you see, Mr Gazebee, he feels a little inclined to look after it himself. Now, do you know, Mr Gazebee, how much it is that Mr Gresham owes me?’
Mr Gazebee, of course, did know very well; but he was not going to discuss the subject with Sir Louis, if he could help it.
‘Whatever claim your father’s estate may have on that of Mr Gresham is, as far as I understand, vested in Dr Thorne’s hands as trustee. I am inclined to believe that you have not yourself at present any claim on Greshamsbury. The interest, as it becomes due, is paid to Dr Thorne; and if I may be allowed to make a suggestion, I would say that it will not be expedient to make any change in that arrangement till the property shall come into your own hands.’
‘I differ from you entirely, Mr Gazebee; in toto as we used to say at Eton. What you mean to say is — I can’t go to law with Mr Gresham; I’m not so sure of that; but perhaps not. But I can compel Dr Thorne to look after my interests. I can force him to foreclose. And to tell you the truth, Gazebee, unless some arrangement is proposed to me which I shall think advantageous, I shall do so at once. There is near a hundred thousand pounds owing to me; yes to me. Thorne is only a name in the matter. The money is my money; and, by —-, I mean to look after it.’
‘Haven’t you any doubt, Sir Louis, as to the money being secure?’
‘Yes, I have. It isn’t so easy to have a hundred thousand pounds secured. The squire is a poor man, and I don’t choose to allow a poor man to owe me such a sum as that. Besides, I mean to invest in land. I tell you fairly, therefore, I shall foreclose.’
Mr Gazebee, using all the perspicuity which his professional education had left to him, tried to make Sir Louis understand that he had no power to do anything of the kind.
‘No power! Mr Gresham shall see whether I have no power. When a man has a hundred thousand pounds owing to him he ought to have some power; and, as I take it, he has. But we will see. Perhaps you know Finnie, do you?’
Mr Gazebee, with a good deal of scorn in his face, said that he had not that pleasure. Mr Finnie was not in his line.
‘Well, you will know him then, and you’ll find he’s sharp enough; that is, unless, I have some offer made to me that I may choose to accept.’ Mr Gazebee declared that he was not instructed to make any offer, and so he took his leave.
On that afternoon, Sir Louis went off to Boxall Hill, transferring the miserable task of superintending his self-destruction from the shoulders of the doctor to those of his mother. Of Lady Scatcherd, the baronet took no account in his proposed sojourn in the country, nor did he take much of the doctor in leaving Greshamsbury. He again wrapped himself in his furs, and, with tottering steps, climbed up into the barouche which was to carry him away.
‘Is my man up behind?’ he said to Janet, while the doctor was standing at the little front garden-gate, making his adieux.
‘No, sir, he is not up yet,’ said Janet, respectfully.
‘Then send him out, will you? I can’t lose my time waiting here all day.’
‘I shall come over to Boxall Hill and see you,’ said the doctor, whose heart softened towards the man, in spite of his brutality, as the hour of his departure came.
‘I shall be happy to see you if you like to come, of course; that is, in the way of visiting, and that sort of thing. As for doctoring, if I want any I shall send for Fillgrave.’ Such were his last words as the carriage, with a rush, went off from the door.
The doctor, as he re-entered the house, could not avoid smiling, for he thought of Dr Fillgrave’s last patient at Boxall Hill. ‘It’s a question to me,’ said he to himself, ‘whether Fillgrave will ever be induced to make another visit to that house, even with the object of rescuing a baronet out of my hands.’
‘He’s gone; isn’t he, uncle?’ said Mary, coming out of her room.
‘Yes, my dear; he’s gone, poor fellow.’
‘He may be a poor fellow, uncle; but he’s a very disagreeable inmate in a house. I have not had any dinner these two days.’
‘And I haven’t had what can be called a cup of tea since he’s been in the house. But I’ll make up for that to-night.
Chapter 38 De Courcy Precepts and De Courcy Practice
There is a mode of novel-writing which used to be much in vogue, but which has now gone out of fashion. It is, nevertheless, one which is very expressive when in good hands, and which enables the author to tell his story, or some portion of his story, with more natural trust than any other, I mean that of familiar letters. I trust I shall be excused if I attempt it as regards this one chapter; though, it may be, that I shall break down and fall into the commonplace narrative, even before the one chapter be completed. The correspondents are the Lady Amelia De Courcy and Miss Gresham. I, of course, give precedence to the higher rank, but the first epistle originated with the latter-named young lady. Let me hope that they will explain themselves.
‘Miss Gresham to Lady Amelia de Courcy
‘Greshamsbury House, June 185-‘MY DEAREST AMELIA,
‘I wish to consult you on a subject which, as you will perceive, is of a most momentous nature. You know how much reliance I place in your judgement and knowledge of what is proper, and, therefore, I write to you before speaking to any other living person on the subject: not even to mamma; for, although her judgement is good too, she has so many cares and troubles, that it is natural that it should be a little warped when the interests of her children are involved. Now that it is all over, I feel that it may possibly have been so in the case of Mr Moffat.
‘You are aware that Mr Mortimer Gazebee is now staying here, and that he has been here for nearly two months. He is engaged in managing poor papa’s affairs, and mamma, who likes him very much, says that he is a most excellent man of business. Of course, you know that he is a junior partner in the very old firm of Gumption, Gazebee, and Gazebee, who, I understand, do not undertake any business at all, except what comes to them from peers, or commoners of the very highest class.
‘I soon perceived, dearest Amelia, that Mr Gazebee paid me more than ordinary attention, and I immediately became very guarded in my manner. I certainly liked Mr Gazebee from the first. His manners are quite excellent, his conduct to mamma is charming, and, as regards myself, I must say that there has been nothing in his behaviour of which even you could complain. He has never attempted the slightest familiarity, and I will do him the justice to say, that, though he has been very attentive, he has also been very respectful.
‘I must confess that, for the last three weeks, I have thought that he meant something. I might, perhaps, have done more to repel him; or I might have consulted you earlier as to the propriety of keeping altogether out of his way. But you know, Amelia, how often these things lead to nothing, and though I thought all along that Mr Gazebee was in earnest, I hardly liked to say anything about it even to you till I was quite certain. If you had advised me, you know, to accept his offer, and if, after that, he had never made it, I should have felt so foolish.
‘But now he has made it. He came to me yesterday just before dinner, in the little drawing-room, and told me, in the most delicate manner, in words that even you could not have but approved, that his highest ambition was to be thought worthy of my regard, and that he felt for me the warmest love, and the most profound admiration, and the deepest respect. You may say, Amelia, that he is only an attorney, and I believe that he is an attorney; but I am sure you would have esteemed him had you heard the very delicate way in which he expressed his sentiments.
‘Something had given me a presentiment of what he was going to do when I saw him come into the room, so that I was on my guard. I tried very hard to show no emotion; but I suppose I was a little flurried, as I once detected myself calling him Mr Mortimer: his name, you know, is Mortimer Gazebee. I ought not to have done so, certainly; but it was not so bad as if I had called him Mortimer without the Mr, was it? I don’t think there could possibly be a prettier Christian name than Mortimer. Well, Amelia, I allowed him to express himself without interruption. He once attempted to take my hand; but even this was done without any assumption of familiarity; and when he saw that I would not permit it, he drew back, and fixed his eyes on the ground as though he were ashamed even of that.
‘Of course, I had to give him an answer; and though I had expected that something of this sort would take place, I had not made up my mind on the subject. I would not, certainly, under any circumstances, accept him without consulting you. If I really disliked him, of course there would be no doubt; but I can’t say, dearest Amelia, that I do absolutely dislike him; and I really think that we would make each other very happy, if the marriage were suitable as regarded both our positions.
‘I collected myself as well as I could, and I really do think that you would have said that I did not behave badly, though the position was rather trying. I told him that, of course, I was flattered by his sentiments, though much surprised at hearing them; that since I knew him, I had esteemed and valued him as an acquaintance, but that, looking on him as a man of business, I had never expected anything more. I then endeavoured to explain to him, that I was not perhaps privileged as some other girls might be, to indulge my feelings altogether: perhaps that was saying too much, and might make him think that I was in love with him; but, from the way I said it, I don’t think he would, for I was very much guarded in my manner, and very collected; and then I told him, that in any proposal of marriage that might be made to me, it would be my duty to consult my family as much, if not more than myself.
‘He said, of course; and asked whether he might speak to papa. I tried to make him understand, that in talking of my family, I did not exactly mean papa, or even mamma. Of course I was thinking what was due to the name of Gresham. I know very well what papa would say. He would give his consent in half a minute; he is so broken-hearted by these debts. And, to tell you the truth, Amelia, I think mamma would too. He did not seem quite to comprehend what I meant; but he did say that he knew it was a high ambition to marry into the family of the Greshams. I am sure you would confess that he has the most proper feelings; and as for expressing them no man could do it better.
‘He owned that it was ambition to ally himself with a family above his own rank in life, and that he looked to doing so as a means of advancing himself. Now this was at any rate honest. That was one of his motives, he said; though, of course, not his first: and then he declared how truly he was attached to me. In answer to this, I remarked that he had known me only a very short time. This, perhaps, was giving him too much encouragement; but, at that moment, I hardly knew what to say, for I did not wish to hurt his feelings. He then spoke of his income. He has fifteen hundred a year from the business, and that will be greatly increased when his father leaves it; and his father is much older then Mr Gumption, though he is only a second partner. Mortimer Gazebee will be the senior partner himself before very long; and perhaps that does alter his position a little.
‘He has a very nice place down somewhere in Surrey; I have heard mamma say it is quite a gentleman’s place. It is let now; but he will live there when he is married. And he has property of his own besides which he can settle. So, you see, he is quite as well off as Mr Oriel; better, indeed; and if a man is in a profession, I believe it is considered that it does not matter much what. Of course, a clergyman can be a bishop; but then, I think I have heard that one attorney did once become Lord Chancellor. I should have my carriage, you know; I remember his saying that, especially, though I cannot recollect how he brought it in.
‘I told him, at last, that I was so much taken by surprise that I could not give him an answer then. He was going up to London, he said, on the next day, and might he be permitted to address me on the same subject when he returned? I could not refuse him, you know; and so now I have taken the opportunity of his absence to write to you for your advice. You understand the world so very well, and know exactly what one ought to do in such a strange position!
‘I hope I have made it intelligible, at least, as to what I have written about. I have said nothing as to my own feelings, because I wish you to think on the matter without consulting them. If it would be derogatory to accept Mr Gazebee, I certainly would not do so because I happen to like him. If we were to act in that way, what would the world come to, Amelia? Perhaps my ideas may be overstrained; if so, you will tell me.
‘When Mr Oriel proposed to Beatrice, nobody seemed to make any objection. It all seemed to go as a matter of course. She says that his family is excellent; but as far as I can learn, his grandfather was a general in India, and came home very rich. Mr Gazebee’s grandfather was a member of the firm, and so, I believe, was his great-grandfather. Don’t you think this ought to count for something? Besides, they have no business except with the most aristocratic persons, such as uncle De Courcy, and the Marquis of Kensington Gore, and that sort. I mention the marquis because Mr Mortimer Gazebee is there now. And I know that one of the Gumptions was once in Parliament; and I don’t think that any of the Oriels ever were. The name of attorney is certainly very bad, is it not, Amelia? but they certainly do not seem to be all the same, and I do think that this ought to make a difference. To hear Mr Mortimer Gazebee talk of some attorney at Barchester, you would say that there is quite as much difference between them as between a bishop and a curate. And so I think there is.
‘I don’t wish at all to speak of my own feelings; but if he were not an attorney, he is, I think, the sort of man I should like. He is very nice in every way, and if you were not told, I don’t think you would know he was an attorney. But, dear Amelia, I will be guided by you altogether. He is certainly much nicer than Mr Moffat, and has a great deal more to say for himself. Of course, Mr Moffat having been in Parliament, and having been taken up by uncle De Courcy, was in a different sphere; but I really felt almost relieved when he behaved in that way. With Mortimer Gazebee, I think it would be different.
‘I shall wait so impatiently for your answer, so do pray write at once. I hear some people say that these sort of things are not so much thought of now as they were once, and that all manner of marriages are considered to be comme il faut. I do not want, you know, to make myself foolish by being too particular. Perhaps all these changes are bad, and I rather think they are; but if the world changes, one must change too; one can’t go against the world.
‘So do write and tell me what you think. Do not suppose that I dislike the man, for I really cannot say that I do. But I would not for anything make an alliance for which any one bearing the name of De Courcy would have to blush.
‘Always, dearest Amelia,’ Your most affectionate cousin ‘AUGUSTA GRESHAM.
‘PS— I fear Frank is going to be very foolish with Mary Thorne. You know it is absolutely important that Frank should marry money.
‘It strikes me as quite possible that Mr Mortimer Gazebee may be in Parliament some of these days. He is just the man for it.’
Poor Augusta prayed very hard for her husband; but she prayed to a bosom that on this subject was as hard as a flint, and she prayed in vain. Augusta Gresham was twenty-two, Lady Amelia was thirty-four; was it likely that Lady Amelia would permit Augusta to marry, the issue having thus been left in her hands? Why should Augusta derogate from her position by marrying beneath herself, seeing that Lady Amelia had spent so many more years in the world without having found it necessary to do so? Augusta’s letter was written on two sheets of note-paper, crossed all over; and Lady Amelia’s answer was almost equally formidable.
‘Lady Amelia de Courcy to Miss Augusta Gresham
‘Courcy Castle, June, 185-‘MY DEAR AUGUSTA,
‘I received your letter yesterday morning, but I have put off answering it till this evening, as I have wished to give it very mature consideration. The question is one which concerns, not only your own character, but happiness for life, and nothing less than very mature consideration would justify me in giving a decided opinion on the subject.
‘In the first place, I may tell you, that I have not a word to say against Mr Mortimer Gazebee.’ (When Augusta had read as far as this, her heart sank within her; the rest was all leather and prunella; she saw at once that the fiat had gone against her, and that her wish to become Mrs Mortimer Gazebee was not to be indulged.) ‘I have known him for a long time, and I believe him to be a very respectable person, and I have no doubt a good man of business. The firm of Messrs Gumption and Gazebee stands probably quite among the first attorneys in London, and I know that papa has a very high opinion of them.
‘All of these would be excellent arguments to use in favour of Mr Gazebee as a suitor, had his proposals been made to any one in his own rank in life. But you, in considering the matter, should, I think, look on it in a very different light. The very fact that you pronounce him to be so much superior to other attorneys, shows in how very low esteem you hold the profession in general. It shows also, dear Augusta, how well aware you are that they are a class of people among whom you should not seek a partner for life.
‘My opinion is, that you should make Mr Gazebee understand-very courteously, of course — that you cannot accept his hand. You observe that he himself confesses that in marrying you he would seek a wife in a rank above his own. Is it not, therefore, clear, that in marrying him, you would descend to a rank below you own?
‘I shall be very sorry if it grieves you; but still it will be better that you should bear the grief of overcoming a temporary fancy, than take a step which may so probably make you unhappy; and which some of your friends would certainly regard as disgraceful.
‘It is not permitted to us, my dear Augusta, to think of ourselves in such matters. As you truly say, if we were to act in this way, what would the world come to? It has been God’s pleasure that we should be born with high blood in our veins. This is a great boon which we both value, but the boon has its responsibilities as well as its privileges. It is established by law, that the royal family shall not intermarry with subjects. In our case there is no law, but the necessity is not the less felt; we should not intermarry with those who are probably of a lower rank. Mr Mortimer Gazebee is, after all, only an attorney; and, although you speak of his great-grandfather, he is a man of no blood whatsoever. You must acknowledge that such an admixture should be looked on by a De Courcy, or even a Gresham, as a pollution.’ (Here Augusta got very red, and she felt almost inclined to be angry with her cousin.) ‘Beatrice’s marriage with Mr Oriel is different; though, remember, I am by no means defending that; it may be good or bad, and I have had no opportunity of inquiring respecting Mr Oriel’s family. Beatrice, moreover, has never appeared to me to feel what was due to herself in such matters; but, as I said, her marriage with Mr Oriel is very different. Clergymen — particularly the rectors and vicars of country parishes — do become privileged above other professional men. I could explain why, but it would be too long in a letter.
‘Your feelings on the subject altogether do you great credit. I have no doubt that Mr Gresham, if asked, would accede to the match; but that is just the reason why he should not be asked. It would not be right that I should say anything against your father to you; but it is impossible for any of us not to see that all through life he has thrown away every advantage, and sacrificed his family. Why is he now in debt, as you say? Why is he not holding the family seat in Parliament? Even though you are his daughter, you cannot but feel that you would not do right to consult him on such a subject.
‘As to dear aunt, I feel sure, that were she in good health, and left to exercise her own judgement, she would not wish to see you married to the agent for the family estate. For, dear Augusta, that is the real truth. Mr Gazebee often comes here in the way of business; and though papa always receives him as a gentleman — that is, he dines at table and all that — he is not on the same footing in the house as the ordinary guests and friends of the family. How would you like to be received at Courcy Castle in the same way?
‘You will say, perhaps, that you would still be papa’s niece; so you would. But you know how strict in such matters papa is, and you must remember, that the wife always follows the rank of the husband. Papa is accustomed to the strict etiquette of a court, and I am sure that no consideration would induce him to receive the estate-agent in the light of a nephew. Indeed, were you to marry Mr Gazebee, the house to which he belongs would, I imagine, have to give up the management of the property.
‘Even were Mr Gazebee in Parliament — and I do not see how it is probable that he should get there — it would not make any difference. You must remember, dearest, that I never was an advocate for the Moffat match. I acquiesced in it, because mamma did so. If I could have had my own way, I would adhere to all our old prescriptive principles. Neither money nor position can atone to me for low birth. But the world, alas! is retrograding; and, according to the new-fangled doctrines of the day, a lady of blood is not disgraced by allying herself to a man of wealth, and what may be called quasi-aristocratic position. I wish it were otherwise; but so it is. And, therefore, the match with Mr Moffat was not disgraceful, though it could not be regarded as altogether satisfactory.
‘But with Mr Gazebee the matter would be altogether different. He is a man earning his bread; honestly, I dare say, but in a humble position. You say he is very respectable: I do not doubt it; and so is Mr Scraggs, the butcher at Courcy. You see, Augusta, to what such arguments reduce you.
‘I dare say he may be nicer than Mr Moffat, in one way. That is, he may have more small-talk at his command, and be more clever in all those little pursuits and amusements which are valued by ordinary young ladies. But my opinion is, that neither I nor you would be justified in sacrificing ourselves for such amusements. We have high duties before us. It may be that the performance of those duties will prohibit us from taking a part in the ordinary arena of the feminine world. It is natural that girls should wish to marry; and, therefore, those who are weak, take the first that come. Those who have more judgement, make some sort of selection. But the strongest-minded are, perhaps, those who are able to forgo themselves and their own fancies, and to refrain from any alliance that does not tend to the maintenance of high principles. Of course, I speak of those who have blood in their veins. You and I need not dilate as to the conduct of others.
‘I hope what I have said will convince you. Indeed, I know that it only requires that you and I should have a little cousinly talk on this matter to be quite in accord. You must now remain at Greshamsbury till Mr Gazebee shall return. Immediately that he does so, seek an interview with him; do not wait till he asks for it; then tell him, that when he addressed you, the matter had taken you so much by surprise, that you were not at the moment able to answer him, with that decision that the subject demanded. Tell him, that you are flattered — in saying this, however, you must keep a collected countenance, and be very cold in your manner — but that family reasons would forbid you to avail yourself of his offer, even did no other cause prevent it.
‘And then, dear Augusta, come to us here. I know you will be a little down-hearted after going through this struggle; but I will endeavour to inspirit you. When we are both together, you will feel more sensibly the value of that high position which you will preserve by rejecting Mr Gazebee, and will regret less acutely whatever you may lose.
‘Your very affectionate cousin, ‘AMELIA DE COURCY.
‘PS.— I am greatly grieved about Frank; but I have long feared that he would do some very silly thing. I have heard lately that Miss Mary Thorne is not even the legitimate niece of your Dr Thorne, but is the daughter of some poor creature who was seduced by the doctor, in Barchester. I do not know how true this may be, but I think your brother should be put on his guard: it might do good.’
Poor Augusta! She was in truth to be pitied, for her efforts were made with the intention of doing right according to her lights. For Mr Moffat she had never cared a straw; and when, therefore, she lost the piece of gilding for which she had been instructed by her mother to sell herself, it was impossible to pity her. But Mr Gazebee she would have loved with that sort of love which it was in her power to bestow. With him she would have been happy, respectable, and contented.
She had written her letter with great care. When the offer was made to her, she could not bring herself to throw Lady Amelia to the winds and marry the man, as it were, out of her own head. Lady Amelia had been the tyrant of her life, and so she strove hard to obtain her tyrant’s permission. She used all her little cunning in showing that, after all, Mr Gazebee was not so very plebeian. All her little cunning was utterly worthless. Lady Amelia’s mind was too strong to be caught with such chaff. Augusta could not serve God and Mammon. She must either be true to the god of her cousin’s idolatry, and remain single, or serve the Mammon of her own inclinations, and marry Mr Gazebee.
When re-folding her cousin’s letter, after the first perusal, she did for a moment think of rebellion. Could she not be happy at the nice place in Surrey, having, as she would have, a carriage, even though all the De Courcys should drop her? It had been put to her that she would not like to be received at Courcy Castle with the scant civility which would be considered due to a Mrs Mortimer Gazebee; but what if she could put up without being received at Courcy Castle at all? Such ideas did float through her mind, dimly.
But her courage failed her. It is so hard to throw off a tyrant; so much easier to yield, when we have been in the habit of yielding. This third letter, therefore, was written; and it is the end of the correspondence.
‘Miss Augusta Gresham to Lady Amelia de Courcy
‘Greshamsbury House, July, 185-‘MY DEAREST AMELIA,
‘I did not answer your letter before, because I thought it better to delay doing so till Mr Gazebee had been here. He came the day before yesterday, and yesterday I did, as nearly as possible, what you advised. Perhaps, on the whole, it will be better. As you say, rank has its responsibilities as well as its privileges.
‘I don’t quite understand what you mean about clergymen, but we can talk that over when we meet. Indeed, it seems to me that if one is to be particular about family — and I am sure I think we ought — one ought to be so without exception. If Mr Oriel be a parvenu, Beatrice’s children won’t be well born merely because their father was a clergyman, even though he is a rector. Since my former letter, I have heard that Mr Gazebee’s great-great-great-grandfather established the firm; and there are many people who were nobodies then who are thought to have good blood in their veins now.
‘But I do not say this because I differ from you. I agree with you so fully, that I at once made up my mind to reject the man; and, consequently, I have done so.
‘When I told him I could not accept him from family considerations, he asked me whether I had spoken to papa. I told him, no; and that it would be no good, as I had made up my own mind. I don’t think he quite understood me; but it did not perhaps much matter. You told me to be very cold, and I think that perhaps he thought me less gracious than before. Indeed, I fear that when he first spoke, I may seem to have given him too much encouragement. However, it is all over now; quite over!’ (As Augusta wrote this, she barely managed to save the paper beneath her hand from being moistened with the tear which escaped from her eye.)
‘I do not mind confessing now,’ she continued, ‘at any rate to you, that I did like Mr Gazebee a little. I think his temper and disposition would have suited me. But I am quite satisfied that I have done right. He tried very hard to make me change my mind. That is, he said a great many things as to whether I would not put off my decision. But I was quite firm. I must say that he behaved very well, and that I really do think he liked me honestly and truly; but, of course, I could not sacrifice family considerations on that account.
‘Yes, rank has its responsibilities as well as its privileges. I will remember that. It is necessary to do so, as otherwise one would be without consolation for what one has to suffer. For I find that one has to suffer, Amelia. I know papa would have advised me to marry this man; and so, I dare say, mamma would, and Frank, and Beatrice, if they knew that I liked him. It would not be so bad if we all thought alike about it; but it is hard to have responsibilities all on one’s own shoulder; is it not?
‘But I will go over to you, and you will comfort me. I always feel stronger on this subject at Courcy than at Greshamsbury. We will have a long talk about it, and then I shall be happy again. I purpose going on next Friday, if that will suit you and dear aunt. I have told mamma that you all wanted me, and she made no objection. Do write at once, dearest Amelia, for to hear from you now will be my only comfort.
‘Yours, ever most affectionately and obliged, ‘AUGUSTA GRESHAM.
‘PS.— I told mamma what you said about Mary Thorne, and she said, “Yes; I suppose all the world knows it now; and if all the world did know it, it makes no difference to Frank.” She seemed very angry; so you see it was true.’
Though, by so doing, we shall somewhat anticipate the end of our story, it may be desirable that the full tale of Mr Gazebee’s loves should be told here. When Mary is breaking her heart on her death-bed in the last chapter, or otherwise accomplishing her destiny, we shall hardly find a fit opportunity of saying much about Mr Gazebee and his aristocratic bride.
For he did succeed at last in obtaining a bride in whose veins ran the noble De Courcy blood, in spite of the high doctrine preached so eloquently by the Lady Amelia. As Augusta had truly said, he had failed to understand her. He was led to think, by her manner of receiving his first proposal — and justly so, enough — that she liked him, and would accept him; and he was therefore rather perplexed by his second interview. He tried again and again, and begged permission to mention the matter to Mr Gresham; but Augusta was very firm, and he at last retired in disgust. Augusta went to Courcy Castle, and received from her cousin that consolation and re-strengthening which she so much required.
Four years afterwards — long after the fate of Mary Thorne had fallen, like a thunderbolt, on the inhabitants of Greshamsbury; when Beatrice was preparing for her second baby, and each of the twins had her accepted lover — Mr Mortimer Gazebee went down to Courcy Castle; of course, on a matter of business. No doubt he dined at the table, and all that. We have the word of Lady Amelia, that the earl, with his usual good-nature, allowed him such privileges. Let us hope that he never encroached on them.
But on this occasion, Mr Gazebee stayed a long time at the castle, and singular rumours as to the cause of his prolonged visit became current in the little town. No female scion of the present family of Courcy had, as yet, found a mate. We may imagine that eagles find it difficult to pair when they become scarce in their localities; and we all know how hard it has sometimes been to get comme il faut husbands when there has been any number of Protestant princesses on hand.
Some little difficulty had, doubtless, brought it about that the countess was still surrounded by her full bevy of maidens. Rank has its responsibilities as well as its privileges, and these young ladies’ responsibilities seemed to have consisted in rejecting any suitor who may have hitherto kneeled to them. But now it was told through Courcy, that one suitor had kneeled, and not in vain; from Courcy the rumour flew to Barchester, and thence came down to Greshamsbury, startling the inhabitants, and making one poor heart throb with a violence that would have been piteous had it been known. The suitor, so named, as Mr Mortimer Gazebee.
Yes; Mr Mortimer Gazebee had now awarded to him many other privileges than those of dining at the table, and all that. He rode with the young ladies in the park, and they all talked to him very familiarly before company; all except Lady Amelia. The countess even called him Mortimer, and treated him quite as one of the family.
At last came a letter from the countess to her dear sister Arabella. It should be given at length, but that I fear to introduce another epistle. It is such an easy mode of writing, and facility is always dangerous. In this letter it was announced with much preliminary ambiguity, that Mortimer Gazebee — who had been found to be a treasure in every way; quite a paragon of men — was about to be taken into the De Courcy bosom as a child of that house. On that day fortnight, he was destined to lead to the altar — the Lady Amelia.
The countess then went on to say, that dear Amelia did not write herself, being so much engaged by her coming duties — the responsibilities of which she doubtless fully realized, as well as the privileges; but she had begged her mother to request that the twins should come and act as bridesmaids on the occasion. Dear Augusta, she knew, was too much occupied in the coming event in Mr Oriel’s family to be able to attend.
Mr Mortimer Gazebee was taken into the De Courcy family, and did lead the Lady Amelia to the altar; and the Gresham twins did go there and act as bridesmaids. And, which is much more to say for human nature, Augusta did forgive her cousin, and, after a certain interval, went on a visit to that nice place in Surrey which she had hoped would be her own home. It would have been a very nice place, Augusta thought, had not Lady Amelia Gazebee been so very economical.
We must presume that there was some explanation between them. If so, Augusta yielded to it, and confessed it to be satisfactory. She had always yielded to her cousin, and loved her with that sort of love which is begotten between fear and respect. Anything was better than quarrelling with her cousin Amelia.
And Mr Mortimer Gazebee did not altogether make a bad bargain. He never received a shilling of dowry, but that he had not expected. Nor did he want it. His troubles arose from the overstrained economy of his noble wife. She would have it, that as she had married a poor man — Mr Gazebee, however, was not a poor man — it behoved her to manage her house with great care. Such a match as that she had made — this she told in confidence to Augusta — had its responsibilities as well as its privileges.
But, on the whole, Mr Gazebee did not repent his bargain; when he asked his friends to dine, he could tell them that Lady Amelia would be glad to see them; his marriage gave him some eclat at his club, and some additional weight in the firm to which he belonged; he gets his share of the Courcy shooting, and is asked about to Greshamsbury, and other Barsetshire houses, not only ‘to dine at table and all that’, but to take his part in whatever delights country society there has to offer. He lives with the great hope that his noble father-inlaw may some day be able to bring him into Parliament.
Chapter 39 What the World Says About Blood
‘Beatrice,’ said Frank, rushing suddenly into his sister’s room, ‘I want you to do me one especial favour.’ This was three or four days after he had spoken to Mary Thorne. Since that time he had spoken to none of his family on the subject; but he was only postponing from day to day the task of telling his father. He had now completed his round of visits to the kennel, master huntsman, and stables of the county hunt, and was at liberty to attend to his own affairs. So he had decided on speaking to the squire that very day; but he first made his request to his sister.
‘I want you to do me one especial favour.’ The day for Beatrice’s marriage had now been fixed, and it was not to be very distant. Mr Oriel had urged that their honeymoon trip would lose half its delights if they did not take advantage of the fine weather; and Beatrice had nothing to allege in answer. The day had just been fixed, and when Frank ran into her room with his special request, she was not in a humour to refuse him anything.
‘If you wish me to be at your wedding, you must do it.’
‘Wish you to be there! You must be there, of course. Oh, Frank! what do you mean? I’ll do anything you ask; if it is not to go to the moon, or anything of that sort.’
Frank was too much in earnest to joke. ‘You must have Mary for one of your bridesmaids,’ he said. ‘Now, mind; there may be some difficulty, but you must insist on it. I know what has been going on; but it is not to be borne that she should be excluded on such a day as that. You that have been like sisters all your lives till a year ago.’
‘But, Frank —’
‘Now, Beatrice, don’t have any buts; say that you will do it, and it will be done: I am sure Oriel will approve, and so will my father.’
‘But, Frank, you won’t hear me.’
‘Not if you make objections; I have set my heart on your doing it.’
‘But I had set my heart on the same thing.’
‘Well?’
‘And I went to Mary on purpose; and told her just as you tell me now, that she must come. I meant to make mamma understand that I could not be happy unless it were so; but Mary positively refused.’
‘Refused! What did she say?’
‘I could not tell you what she said; indeed, it would not be right if I could; but she positively declined. She seemed to feel, that after all that had happened, she never could come to Greshamsbury again.’
‘Fiddlestick!’
‘But, Frank, those are her feelings; and, to tell the truth, I could not combat them. I know she is not happy; but time will cure that. And, to tell you the truth, Frank —’
‘It was before I came back that you asked her, was it not?’
‘Yes; just the day before you came, I think.’
‘Well, it’s altered now. I have seen her since that.’
‘Have you Frank?’
‘What do you take me for? Of course, I have. The very first day I went to her. And now, Beatrice, you may believe me or not, as you like; but if I ever marry, I shall marry Mary Thorne; and if she ever marries, I think she may marry me. At any rate, I have her promise. And now, you cannot be surprised that I should wish her to be at your wedding; or that I should declare, that if she is absent, I will be absent. I don’t want any secrets, and you may tell my mother if you like it — and all the De Courcys too, for anything I care.’
Frank had ever been used to command his sisters: and they, especially Beatrice, had ever been used to obey. On this occasion, she was well inclined to do so, if she only knew how. She again remembered how Mary had once sworn to be at her wedding, to be near her, and to touch her — even though all the blood of the De Courcys should be crowded before the altar railings.
‘I should be happy that she should be there; but what am I to do, Frank, if she refuses? I have asked her, and she has refused.’
‘Go to her again; you need not have any scruples with her. Do not I tell you she will be your sister? Not come here again to Greshamsbury! Why, I tell you that she will be living here while you are living there at the parsonage, for years and years to come.’
Beatrice promised that she would go to Mary again, and that she would endeavour to talk her mother over if Mary would consent to come. But she could not yet make herself believe that Mary Thorne would ever be mistress of Greshamsbury. It was so indispensably necessary that Frank should marry money! Besides, what were these horrid rumours which were now becoming rife as to Mary’s birth; rumours more horrid than any which had yet been heard.
Augusta had said hardly more than the truth when she spoke of her father being broken-hearted by his debts. His troubles were becoming almost too many for him; and Mr Gazebee, though no doubt he was an excellent man of business, did not seem to lessen them. Mr Gazebee, indeed, was continually pointing out how much he owed, and in what a quagmire of difficulties he had entangled himself. Now, to do Mr Umbleby justice, he had never made himself disagreeable in this manner.
Mr Gazebee had been doubtless right, when he declared that Sir Louis Scatcherd had not himself the power to take any steps hostile to the squire; but Sir Louis had also been right, when he boasted that, in spite of his father’s will, he could cause others to move in the matter. Others did move, and were moving, and it began to be understood that a moiety, at least, of the remaining Greshamsbury property must be sold. Even this, however, would by no means leave the squire in undisturbed possession of the other moiety. And thus, Mr Gresham was nearly broken-hearted.
Frank had now been at home a week, and his father had not as yet spoken to him about the family troubles; nor had a word as yet been said between them as to Mary Thorne. It had been agreed that Frank should go away for twelve months, in order that he might forget her. He had been away the twelvemonth, and had now returned, not having forgotten her.
It generally happens, that in every household, one subject of importance occupies it at a time. The subject of importance now mostly thought of in the Greshamsbury household, was the marriage of Beatrice. Lady Arabella had to supply the trousseau for her daughter; the squire had to supply the money for the trousseau; Mr Gazebee had the task of obtaining the money for the squire. While this was going on, Mr Gresham was not anxious to talk to his son, either about his own debts or his son’s love. There would be time for these things when the marriage-feast was over.
So thought the father, but the matter was precipitated by Frank. He also had put off the declaration which he had to make, partly from a wish to spare the squire, but partly also with a view to spare himself. We have all some of that cowardice which induces us to postpone an inevitably evil day. At this time the discussions as to Beatrice’s wedding were frequent in the house, and at one of them Frank had heard his mother repeat the names of the proposed bridesmaids. Mary’s name was not among them, and hence had arisen the attack on his sister.
Lady Arabella had had her reason for naming the list before her son; but she overshot her mark. She wished to show him how Mary was forgotten at Greshamsbury; but she only inspired him with a resolve that she should not be forgotten. He accordingly went to his sister; and then, the subject being full on his mind, he resolved at once to discuss it with his father.
‘Sir, are you at leisure for five minutes?’ he said, entering the room in which the squire was accustomed to sit majestically, to receive his tenants, scold his dependants, and in which, in former happy days, he had always arranged the meets of the Barsetshire hunt.
Mr Gresham was quite at leisure: when was he not so? But had he been immersed in the deepest business of which he was capable, he would gladly have put it aside at his son’s instance.
‘I don’t like to have any secret from you, sir,’ said Frank; ‘nor, for the matter of that, from anybody else’— the anybody else was intended to have reference to his mother —‘and, therefore, I would rather tell you at once what I have made up my mind to do.’
Frank’s address was very abrupt, and he felt it was so. He was rather red in the face, and his manner was fluttered. He had quite made up his mind to break the whole affair to his father; but he had hardly made up his mind as to the best mode of doing so.
‘Good heavens, Frank! what do you mean? you are not going to do anything rash? What is it you mean, Frank?’
‘I don’t think it is rash,’ said Frank.
‘Sit down, my boy; sit down. What is it that you say you are going to do?’
‘Nothing immediately, sir,’ said he, rather abashed; ‘but as I have made up my mind about Mary Thorne —’
‘Oh, about Mary,’ said the squire, almost relieved.
And then Frank, in voluble language, which he hardly, however, had quite under his command, told his father all that had passed between him and Mary. ‘You see, sir,’ said he, ‘that it is fixed now, and cannot be altered. Nor must it be altered. You asked me to go away for twelve months, and I have done so. It has made no difference, you see. As to our means of living, I am quite willing to do anything that may be best and most prudent. I was thinking, sir, of taking a farm somewhere near here, and living on that.’
The squire sat quite silent for some moments after this communication had been made to him. Frank’s conduct, as a son, in this special matter of his love, how was it possible for him to find fault? He himself was almost as fond of Mary as of a daughter; and, though he too would have been desirous that his son should receive the estate from its embarrassment by a rich marriage, he did not at all share Lady Arabella’s feelings on the subject. No Countess de Courcy had ever engraved it on the tablets of his mind that the world would come to ruin if Frank did not marry money. Ruin there was, and would be, but it had been brought about by no sin of Frank’s.
‘Do you remember about her birth, Frank?’ he said, at last.
‘Yes, sir; everything. She told me all she knew; and Dr Thorne finished the story.’
‘And what do you think of it?’
‘It is a pity and a misfortune. It might, perhaps, have been a reason why you or my mother should not have had Mary in the house many years ago; but it cannot make any difference now.’
Frank had not meant to lean so heavily on his father; but he did so. The story had never been told to Lady Arabella; was not even known to her now, positively, and on good authority. But Mr Gresham had always known it. If Mary’s birth was so great a stain upon her, why had he brought her into his house among his children?
‘It is a misfortune, Frank; a very great misfortune. It will not do for you and me to ignore birth; too much of the value of one’s position depends on it.’
‘But what was Mr Moffat’s birth?’ said Frank, almost with scorn; ‘or what Miss Dunstable’s?’ he would have added, had it not been that his father had not been concerned in that sin of wedding him to the oil of Lebanon.
‘True, Frank. But yet, what you would mean to say is not true. We must take the world as we find it. Were you to marry a rich heiress, were her birth even as low as that of poor Mary —’
‘Don’t call her poor Mary, father; she is not poor. My wife will have a right to take rank in the world, however she was born.’
‘Well,— poor in that way. But were she an heiress, the world would forgive her birth on account of her wealth.’
‘The world is very complaisant, sir.’
‘You must take it as you find it, Frank. I only say that such is the fact. If Porlock were to marry the daughter of a shoeblack, without a farthing, he would make a mesalliance; but if the daughter of the shoeblack had half a million of money, nobody would dream of saying so. I am stating no opinion of my own: I am only giving you the world’s opinion.’
‘I don’t give a straw for the world.’
‘That is a mistake, my boy; you do care for it, and would be very foolish if you did not. What you mean is, that, on this particular point, you value your love more than the world’s opinion.’
‘Well, yes, that is what I mean.’
But the squire, though he had been very lucid in his definition, had not got nearer to his object; had not even yet ascertained what his own object was. This marriage would be ruinous to Greshamsbury; and yet, what was he to say against it, seeing that the ruin had been his fault, and not his son’s?
‘You could let me have a farm; could you not, sir? I was thinking of about six or seven hundred acres. I suppose it could be managed somehow?’
‘A farm?’ said the father, abstractedly.
‘Yes, sir. I must do something for my living. I should make less of a mess of that than anything else. Besides, it would take such a time to be an attorney, or a doctor, or anything of that sort.’
Do something for his living! And was the heir of Greshamsbury come to this — the heir and his only son? Whereas, he, the squire, had succeeded at an earlier age than Frank’s to an unembarrassed income of fourteen thousand pounds a year! The reflection was very hard to bear.
‘Yes: I dare say you could have a farm:’ and then he threw himself back in his chair, closing his eyes. Then, after a while, rose again, and walked hurriedly about the room. ‘Frank,’ he said, at last, standing opposite to his son, ‘I wonder what you think of me?’
‘Think of you, sir?’ ejaculated Frank.
‘Yes; what do you think of me, for having thus ruined you. I wonder whether you hate me?’
Frank, jumping up from his chair, threw his arms round his father’s neck. ‘Hate you, sir? How can you speak so cruelly? You know well that I love you. And, father, do not trouble yourself about the estate for my sake. I do not care for it; I can be just as happy without it. Let the girls have what is left, and I will make my own way in the world, somehow. I will go to Australia; yes, sir, that will be the best. I and Mary will both go. Nobody will care about her birth there. But, father, never say, never think, that I do not love you!’
The squire was too much moved to speak at once, so he sat down again and covered his face with his hands. Frank went on pacing the room, till, gradually, his first idea recovered possession of his mind, and the remembrance of his father’s grief faded away. ‘May I tell Mary,’ he said at last, ‘that you consent to our marriage?’
But the squire was not prepared to say this. He was pledged to his wife to do all that he could to oppose it; and he himself thought, that if anything could consummate the family ruin, it would be this marriage.
‘I cannot say that, Frank; I cannot say that. What would you both live on? It would be madness.’
‘We would go to Australia,’ answered he, bitterly. ‘I have just said so.’
‘Oh, no, my boy; you cannot do that. You must not throw up the old place altogether. There is no other one but you, Frank; and we have lived here now for so many, many years.’
‘But if we cannot live here any longer, father?’
‘But for this scheme of yours, we might do. I will give up everything to you, the management of the estate, the park, all the land we have in hand, if you will give up this fatal scheme. For, Frank, it is fatal. You are only twenty-three; why should you be in such a hurry to marry?’
‘You married at twenty-one, sir.’
Frank was again severe on his father, unwittingly. ‘Yes, I did,’ said Mr Gresham; ‘and see what has come of it! Had I waited ten years longer, how different would everything have been! No, Frank, I cannot consent to such a marriage; nor will your mother.’
‘It is your consent that I ask, sir; and I am asking for nothing but your consent.’
‘It would be sheer madness; madness for you both. My own Frank, my dear boy, do not drive me to distraction! Give it up for four years.’
‘Four years!’

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