 CHAPTER 14 Dr. Thorn did not at once go home to his own house. When he reached the Greshamsbury gates he sent his horse to its own stable by one of the people at the lodge, and then walked on to the mansion. He had to see the squire on the subject of the forthcoming loan, and he had also to see Lady Arabella. The Lady Arabella, though she was not personally attached to the doctor with quite so much warmth as some others of her family, still had reasons of her own for not dispensing with his visits to the house. She was one of his patients, and a patient fearful of the disease with which she was threatened. Though she thought the doctor to be arrogant, deficient as to properly submissive demeanour towards herself, an instigator to marital parsimony in her lord, one altogether opposed to herself and her interest in Greshamsbury politics, nevertheless she did feel trust in him as a medical man. She had no wish to be rescued out of his hands by any Doctor Philgrave, as regarded that complaint of hers, much as she may have desired, and did desire, to sever him from all Greshamsbury councils in all matters not touching the healing heart. Now the complaint of which the Lady Arabella was afraid was cancer, and her only present confident in this matter was Dr. Thorn. The first of the Greshamsbury circle whom he saw was Beatrice, and he met her in the garden. Oh, Doctor! said she, where has Mary been this age? She has not been up here since Frank's birthday. Well, that was only three days ago. Why don't you go down and ferret her out in the village? So I have done. I was there just now, and found her out. She was out with Patience Aureal. Patience is all and all with her now. Patience is all very well, but if they throw me over— My dear Miss Gresham, patience is and always was a virtue, a poor, beggarly sneaking virtue after all, Doctor. They should have come up, seeing how deserted I am here. There's absolutely nobody left. As Lady Decorsi gone, oh, yes, all the Decorses have gone. I think between ourselves Mary stays away because she does not love them too well. They have all gone, and taken Augusta and Frank with them. As Frank gone to Corsi Castle, oh, yes, did you not hear? There was rather a fight about it. Master Frank wanted to get off, and was as hard to catch as an eel, and then the Countess was offended, and Papa said he didn't see why Frank was to go if he didn't like it. Papa is very anxious about his degree, you know. The Doctor understood it all as well as though it had been described to him at full length. The Countess had claimed her prey in order that she might carry him off to Miss Dunstable's Golden Embrace. The prey, not yet old enough and wise enough, to connect the worship of Plutus with that of Venus, had made sundry futile faints and dodges in the vain hope of escape. Then the anxious mother had enforced the Decorsi behests with all a mother's authority. But the father, whose ideas on the subject of Miss Dunstable's wealth had probably not been consulted, had as a matter of course taken exactly the other side of the question. The Doctor did not require to be told all this in order to know how the battle had raged. He had not yet heard of the great Dunstable scheme, but he was sufficiently acquainted with Greshamsbury tactics to understand that the war had been carried on somewhat after this fashion. As a rule, when the squire took a point warmly to heart, he was wont to carry his way against the Decorsi interest. He could be obstinate enough when it so pleased him, and had before now gone so far as to tell his wife that her thrice noble sister-in-law might remain at home at Corsi Castle, or at any rate not come to Greshamsbury if she could not do so without striving to rule him and everyone else when she got here. This had of course been repeated to the Countess, who had merely replied to it by a sisterly whisper in which she sorrowfully intimated that some men were born brutes, and always would remain so. I think they all are, the Lady Arabella had replied, wishing perhaps to remind her sister-in-law that the breed of brutes was as rampant in west barcature as in the eastern division of the county. The squire, however, had not fought on this occasion with all his vigour. There had of course been some passages between him and his son, and it had been agreed that Frank should go for a fortnight to Corsi Castle. We mustn't quarrel with them, you know, if we can help it, said the Father, and therefore you must go sooner or later. Well, I suppose so, but you don't know how dull it is, Governor. Don't I, said Gresham, there's a misdonstable to be there. Did you ever hear of her, sir? No, never. She's a girl whose father used to make ointment, or something of that sort. Oh, yes, to be sure, the ointment of Lebanon. He used to cover all the walls in London. I haven't heard of him this year past. No, that's because he's dead. Well, she carries on the ointment now, I believe, but any rate she has got all the money. I wonder what she's like. You'd better go and see, said the Father, who now began to have some inkling of an idea why the two ladies were so anxious to carry his son off to Corsi Castle at this exact time. And so Frank had packed up his best clothes. Given a last fond look at the new black horse, repeated his last special injunctions to Peter, and had then made one of the stately courtage which proceeded through the county from Greshamsbury to Corsi Castle. I am very glad of that very, said the squire, when he heard that the money was to be forthcoming. I shall get it on easier terms from him than elsewhere. And it kills me to have continual bother about such things. And Mr. Gresham, feeling that that difficulty was tidied over for a time, and that the immediate pressure of little debts would be abated, stretched himself on his easy-jare as though he were quite comfortable. One may say almost elated. How frequent it is that men on their road to ruin feel elation such as this. A man signs away a moiety of his substance. Nay, that were nothing, but a moiety of the substance of his children. He puts his pen to the paper that ruins him and them, but in doing so, he frees himself from a score of immediate little pestering stinging troubles, and therefore feels as though fortune has been almost kind to him. The doctor felt angry with himself for what he had done when he saw how easily the squire adapted himself to this new loan. It will make Scatchard's claim upon you very heavy, said he. Mr. Gresham at once read all that was passing through the doctor's mind. Well, what else can I do? said he. You wouldn't have me allow my daughter to lose this match for the sake of a few thousand pounds. It will be well at any rate to have one of them settled. Look at that letter from Moppert. The doctor took the letter and read it. It was a long, wordy, ill-written rigmarole in which that amorous gentleman spoke with much rapture of his love and devotion for Mr. Gresham. But at the same time declared, and most positively swore, that the adverse cruelty of his circumstances was such that it would not allow him to stand up like a man at the hymenial altar until six thousand pounds hard cash had been paid down at his bankers. It may be all right, said the squire, but in my time gentlemen were not used to write such letters as that to each other. The doctor shrugged his shoulders. He did not know how far he would be justified in saying much, even to his friend the squire, in dispraise of his future son-in-law. I told him that he should have the money, and one would have thought that that would have been enough for him. Well, I suppose Augusta likes him. I suppose she wishes the match. Otherwise I would give him such an answer to that letter as would startle him a little. What settlement is he to make? said Thorn. Oh, that satisfactory enough couldn't be more so. A thousand a year and the house at Wimbledon for her. That's all very well. But such a lie, you know, Thorn. He's rolling in money, and yet he talks of this beggarly sum as though he couldn't possibly stir without it. If I might venture to speak my mind, said Thorn. Well, said the squire, looking at him earnestly, I should be inclined to say that Mr. Moffat wants to cry off himself. Oh, impossible, quite impossible. In the first place he was so very anxious for the match. In the next place it is such a great thing for him. And then he would never dare. You see, he is dependent on the decorcies for his seat. But suppose he loses his seat. But there is not much fear of that, I think. Scattered may be a very fine fellow, but I think they'll hardly return him at Barchester. I don't understand much about it, said Thorn. But such things do happen, and you believe that this man absolutely wants to get off the match? Absolutely thinks of playing such a trick as that on my daughter, on me. I don't say he intends to do it, but it looks to me as though he were making a door for himself, or trying to make a door. If so, your having the money will stop him there. Like Thorn, don't you think he loves the girl? If I thought not— The doctor stood silent for a moment. And then he said, I am not a love-making man myself. But I think that if I were much in love with a young lady, I should not write such a letter as that to her father. By heavens, if I thought so, said the squire, but Thorn, we can't judge of those fellows as one does of gentlemen, they are so used to making money and seeing money made that they have an eye to business in everything. Perhaps so, perhaps so, muttered the doctor, showing evidently that he still doubted the warmth of Mr. Moffat's affection. The match was none of my making, and I cannot interfere now to break it off. It will give her a good position in the world, for after all, money goes a great way, and it is something to be in Parliament. I can only hope she likes him. I do truly hope that she likes him. And the squire also showed, by the turn of his voice, that though he might hope that his daughter was in love with her intended husband, he hardly conceived it to be possible that she should be so. And what was the truth of the matter? This Gresham was no more in love with Mr. Moffat than you are. O sweet young blooming beauty, not a whit more, not at least in your sense of the word, nor in mine. She had by no means resolved within her heart that of all the men whom she had ever seen, or ever could see, he was far away the nicest and best. That is what you will do when you are in love. If you be good for anything. She had no longing to sit near to him the nearer the better. She had no thought of his taste and his choice when she bought her ribbons and bonnets. She had no indescribable desire that all her female friends should be ever talking to her about him. When she wrote to him she did not copy her letters again and again, so that she might be as it were ever speaking to him. She took no special pride in herself because he had chosen her to be his life's partner. In point of fact she did not care one straw about him, and yet she thought she loved him, was indeed quite confident that she did so, told her mother that she was sure Gustavus would wish this, she knew Gustavus would like that, and so on. But as for Gustavus himself, she did not care a chip for him. She was in love with her match, just as farmers are in love with wheat at Eighty Schilling's a quarter, or shareholders, innocent gudgins, with seven-and-a-half percent interest on their paid-up capital, Eighty Schilling's a quarter and seven-and-a-half percent interest. Such were the returns which she had been taught to look for in exchange for her young heart, and having obtained them, or being thus about to obtain them, why should not her young heart be satisfied, had she not sat herself down obediently at the feet of her Lady Gamaliel, and should she not be rewarded? Yes, indeed, she shall be rewarded. And then the doctor went to the lady, on their medical secrets we will not intrude, but there were other matters bearing on the course of our narrative, as to which Lady Arabella found it necessary to say a word or so to the doctor, and it is essential that we should know what was the tenor of those few words so spoken, how the aspirations and instincts and feelings of a household become changed as the young birds begin to flutter with feathered wings, and have half-formed thoughts of leaving the parental nest. A few months back, Frank had reigned almost autocratic over the lesser subjects of the kingdom of Greshamsbury. The servants, for instance, always obeyed him, and his sisters never dreamt of telling anything which he directed should not be told. All his mischief, all his troubles, and all his loves were confided to them, with the sure conviction that they would never be made to stand in evidence against him. Trusting to this well-assetained state of things, he had not hesitated to declare his love for Miss Thorn before his sister Augusta. But his sister Augusta had now, as it were, been received into the upper house. Having duly received, and duly profited by the lessons of her great instructress, she was now admitted to sit in conclave with the higher powers. Her sympathies, of course, became changed, and her confidence was removed from the young and giddy, and given to the ancient and discreet. She was, as a schoolboy, who having finished his schooling, and being fairly forced by necessity into the stern, bread-earning world, undertakes the new duties of tutoring. Yesterday he was taught, and fought, of course, against the school master. Today he teaches and fights as keenly for him. So it was with Augusta Gresham, when with careful brow she whispered to her mother that there was something wrong between Frank and Mary Thorn. Stop it at once, Arabella, stop it at once, the Countess had said. That indeed will be ruin. If he does not marry money, he is lost. Good heavens! The doctor's niece! A girl that nobody knows where she comes from. He is going with you to-morrow, you know, said the anxious mother. Yes, and that is so far well. If he will be led by me, the evil may be remedied before he returns. But it is very, very hard to lead young men. Arabella, you must forbid that girl to come to Greshamsbury again on any pretext whatever. The evil must be stopped at once. But she is here so much as a matter, of course. Again she must be here as a matter, of course, no more. There has been folly, very great folly, in having her here. Of course she would turn out to be a designing creature with such temptation before her, with such a prize within her reach. How could she help it? I must say, aunt, she answered him very properly, said Augusta. Nonsense, said the Countess, before you, of course, she did. Arabella, the matter must not be left to the girl's propriety. I never knew the propriety of a girl of that sort to be fit to be depended upon yet. If you wish to save the whole family from ruin, you must take steps to keep her away from Greshamsbury now at once. Now is the time, now that Frank is to be away, where so much, so very much depends on a young man's marrying money, not one day ought to be lost. Instigated in this manner, Lady Arabella resolved to open her mind to the doctor, and to make it intelligible to him that under present circumstances, Mary's visits at Greshamsbury had better be discontinued. She would have given much, however, to have escaped this business. She had, in her time, tried one or two falls with the doctor, and she was conscious that she had never yet got the better of him, and then she was, in a slight degree, afraid of Mary herself. She had a presentiment that it would not be so easy to banish Mary from Greshamsbury. She was not sure that the young lady would not boldly assert her right to her place in the school-room, appeal loudly to the squire, and perhaps declare her determination of marrying the air out before them all. The squire would be sure to uphold her in that, or in anything else, and then, too, there would be the greatest difficulty in wording her request to the doctor, and Lady Arabella was sufficiently conscious of her own weakness to know that she was not always very good at words. But the doctor, when hard-pressed, was never at fault. He could say the bitterest things in the quietest tone, and Lady Arabella had a great dread of these bitter things. What also if he should desert her himself? Withdraw from her his skill and knowledge of her bodily wants and ailments, now that he was so necessary to her. She had once before taken that measure of sending to Barchester for Dr. Philgrave, but it had answered with her hardly better than with Sir Roger and Lady Scatchard. When therefore Lady Arabella found herself alone with the doctor, and called upon to say out her say in what best language she could select for the occasion, she did not feel to be very much at her ease. There was that about the man before her which cowed her, in spite of her being the wife of the squire, the sister of an earl, a person quite acknowledged to be of the great world, and the mother of the very important young man whose affections were now about to be called in question. Nevertheless there was the task to be done, and with her mother's courage she assayed it. Dr. Thorn said she, as soon as their medical conference was at an end, I am very glad you came over to-day, for I had something special which I wanted to say to you. So far she got, and then stopped. But as the doctor did not seem inclined to give her any assistance, she was forced to flounder on as best she could. Something very particular indeed. You know what a respect and esteem, and I may say affection we all have for you. Here the doctor made a low bow, and I may say for Mary also. Here the doctor bowed himself again. We have done what little we could to be pleasant neighbours, and I think you'll believe me when I say that I am a true friend to you and dear Mary. The doctor knew that something very unpleasant was coming, but he could not at all guess what might be its nature. He felt, however, that he must say something, so he expressed a hope that he was duly sensible of all the acts of kindness he had ever received from the squire and the family at large. I hope, therefore, my dear doctor, you won't take amiss what I am going to say. Well, Lady Arabella, I'll endeavour not to do so. I am sure I would not give any pain if I could help it, much less to you, but there are occasions, doctor, in which duty must be paramount, paramount to all other considerations, you know, and certainly this occasion is one of them. But what is the occasion, Lady Arabella? I'll tell you, doctor, you know what Frank's position is. Frank's position? As regards what? Why, his position in life, an only son, you know. Oh, yes, I know his position in that respect, an only son, and his father's heir, and a very fine fellow he is. You have but one son, Lady Arabella, and you may well be proud of him. Lady Arabella sighed. She did not wish at the present moment to express herself as being in any way proud of Frank. She was desirous, rather, on the other hand, of showing that she was a good deal ashamed of him, only not quite so much ashamed of him as it behoved the doctor to be of his niece. Well, perhaps so, yes, said Lady Arabella. He is, I believe, a very good young man with an excellent disposition, but doctor, his position is very precarious, and he is just at that time of life when every caution is necessary to the doctor's ears, Lady Arabella was now talking of her son as a mother-mite of her infant when whooping off with a broad, or croop imminent. There is nothing on earth the matter with him, I should say, said the doctor. He has every possible sign of perfect health. Oh, yes, his health. Yes, thank God, his health is good. That is a great blessing. Did Lady Arabella thought of her four flowerettes that had already faded? I am sure I am most thankful to see him growing up so strong, but it is not that I mean doctor. Then what is it, Lady Arabella? Why, doctor, you know the squire's position with regard to money-matters. Now, the doctor undoubtedly did know the squire's position with regard to money-matters, knew it much better than did Lady Arabella, but he was by no means inclined to talk on that subject to her ladyship. He remained quite silent, therefore, although Lady Arabella's last speech had taken the form of a question. Lady Arabella was a little offended at this want of freedom on his part, and became somewhat sterner in her tone, a thought less condescending in her manner. The squire has, unfortunately, embarrassed the property, and Frank must look forward to inherit it with very heavy encumbrances. I fear very heavy indeed, though what exact nature I am kept in ignorance. Looking at the doctor's face, she perceived that there was no probability whatever that her ignorance would be enlightened by him, and therefore it is highly necessary that Frank should be very careful. As to his private expenditure, you mean, said the doctor. No, not exactly that, though, of course, he must be careful as to that, too, that's, of course. But that is not what I mean, doctor. His only hope of retrieving his circumstances is by marrying money, with every other conjugal blessing that a man can have. I hope he may have that also. So the doctor replied with imperturbable face. But not the less did he begin to have a shade of suspicion of what might be the coming subject of the conference. It would be untrue to say that he had ever thought it probable that the young heir should fall in love with his niece, that he had ever looked forward to such a chance, either with complacency or with fear. Nevertheless the idea of late passed through his mind. Some word had fallen from Mary, some closely watched expression of her eye, or some quiver in her lip, when Frank's name was mentioned, had of late made him involuntarily think that such might not be impossible, and then, when the chance of Mary becoming the heiress to so large a fortune had been forced upon his consideration, he had been unable to prevent himself from building happy castles in the air, as he rode slowly home from Boxall Hill. But not a whit the more on that account was he prepared to be untrue to the squire's interest, or to encourage a feeling which must be distasteful to all the squire's friends. Yes, doctor, he must marry money. And worse, Lady Arabella, and a pure feminine heart, and youth, and beauty. I hope he will marry them all. Could it be possible that in speaking of a pure feminine heart, and youth, and beauty, and such like Gugor's, the doctor was thinking of his niece? Could it be that he had absolutely made up his mind to foster and encourage this odious match? The bare idea made Lady Arabella wrothful, and her wroth gave her courage. He must marry money, or he will be a ruined man. Now, doctor, I am informed that things, words, that is, have passed between him and Mary which never ought to have been allowed. And now also the doctor was wrothful. What things? What words? Said he, appearing to Lady Arabella, as though he rose in his anger nearly a foot in altitude before her eyes. What has passed between them? And who says so? Doctor, there have been love-makings. You may take my word for it. Love-makings of a very, very, very advanced description. This the doctor could not stand. No, not for Greshamsbury and its heir, not for the squire and all his misfortunes. Not for Lady Arabella and the blood of all the decorces could he stand quiet, and hear Mary thus accused. He sprang up another foot in height, and expanded equally in width as he flung back the insinuation. Who said so? Whoever said so, whoever speaks of misthorne in such language, says what is not true. I will pledge my word. My dear doctor, my dear doctor, what took place was quite clearly heard. There was no mistake about it indeed. What took place? What was heard? Well, then, I don't want you know to make more of it than can be helped. The thing must be stopped, that is all. What thing? Speak out, Lady Arabella. I will not have Mary's conduct impugned by innuendos. What is it that eavesdroppers have heard? Doctor Thorn, there have been no eavesdroppers. And no tail-bearers, either. Will your ladyship oblige me by letting me know what is the accusation which you bring against my niece? There has been most positively an offer made, Doctor Thorn. And who made it? Oh, of course, I am not going to say but what Frank must have been very imprudent. Of course he has been to blame. There has been fault on both sides, no doubt. I utterly deny it. I positively deny it. I know nothing of the circumstances. Have heard nothing about it. Then, of course, you can't say, said Lady Arabella. I know nothing of the circumstances. Have heard nothing about it, continued Doctor Thorn. But I do know my niece, and am ready to assert that there has not been fault on both sides. Whether there has been any fault on any side, that I do not yet know. I can assure you, Doctor Thorn, that an offer was made by Frank. Such an offer cannot be without its allurements to a young lady's circumstance like your niece. Allurements, almost shouted the doctor. And as he did so, Lady Arabella stepped back a pace or two, retreating from the fire which shot out of his eyes. But the truth is, Lady Arabella, you do not know my niece. If you will have the goodness to let me understand what it is that you desire, I will tell you whether I can comply with your wishes. Of course it will be very inexpedient that the young people should be thrown together again, for the present, I mean. Well, Frank has now gone to Corsi Castle, and he talks of going from thence to Cambridge. But he will doubtless be here, backwards and forwards, and perhaps it will be better for all parties. Safer, that is, Doctor, if Miss Thorn were to discontinue her visits to Greshamsbury for a while. Very well, thundered out the doctor, her visits to Greshamsbury shall be discontinued. Of course, Doctor, this won't change the intercourse between us, between you and the family. Not change it, said he. Do you think that I will break bread in a house from whence she has been ignominiously banished? Do you think that I can sit down in friendship with those who have spoken of her as you have now spoken? You have many daughters. What would you say if I accused one of them as you have accused her? Accused, Doctor? No, I don't accuse her. But prudence, you know, does sometimes requires very well. Prudence requires you to look after those who belong to you, and prudence requires me to look after my one lamb. Good morning, Lady Arabella! But, Doctor, you are not going to quarrel with us. You will come when we want you, eh, won't you? Quarrel! Quarrel with Greshamsbury! Angry as he was, the doctor felt that he could ill bear to quarrel with Greshamsbury. A man past fifty cannot easily throw over the ties that have taken twenty years to form, and wrench himself away from the various close ligatures with which in such a period he has become bound. He could not quarrel with the squire. He could ill bear to quarrel with Frank. Though he now began to conceive that Frank had used him badly, he could not do so. He could not quarrel with the children who had almost been born into his arms, nor even with the very walls and trees, and grassy knolls, with which he was so dearly intimate. He could not proclaim himself an enemy to Greshamsbury. And yet he felt that fealty to Mary required of him that for the present he should put on an enemy's guise. If you want me, Lady Arabella, and send for me, I will come to you. Otherwise I will, if you please, share the sentence which has been passed on Mary. I will now wish you good morning. And then, bowing low to her, he left the room and the house, and sauntered slowly away to his own home. What was he to say to Mary? He walked very slowly down the Greshamsbury Avenue, with his hands clasped behind his back, thinking over the whole matter, thinking of it, or rather, trying to think of it. When a man's heart is warmly concerned in any matter, it is almost useless for him to endeavour to think of it. Instead of thinking, he gives play to his feelings, and feeds his passion by indulging it, allurements, he said to himself, repeating Lady Arabella's words, a girl circumstance like my niece. How utterly incapable is such a woman as that, to understand the mind and heart and soul of such a one as Mary thorn! And then his thoughts recurred to Frank. It has been ill-done of him, ill-done of him. Young as he is, he should have had feeling enough to have spared me this. A thoughtless word has been spoken, which will now make her miserable. And then, as he walked on, he could not divest his mind of the remembrance of what had passed between him and Sir Roger. What if, after all, Mary should become the heiress to all that money? What if she should become, in fact, the owner of Greshamsbury? For indeed, it seemed too possible that Sir Roger's heir would be the owner of Greshamsbury. The idea was one which he disliked to entertain. But it would recur to him again and again. It might be that a marriage between his niece and the nominal heir to the estate might be of all the matches, the best for the young Gresham to make. How sweet would be the revenge! How glorious the retaliation on Lady Aravella, if after what had now been said, it should come to pass that all the difficulties of Greshamsbury should be made smooth by Mary's love and Mary's hand! It was a dangerous subject on which to ponder, and as he sauntered down the road, the doctor did his best to banish it from his mind. Not altogether successfully. But as he went, he again encountered Beatrice. Tell Mary I went to her to-day, said she, and that I expect her up here to-morrow. If she does not come, I shall be savage. Do not be savage, said he, putting out his hand, even though she should not come. Beatrice immediately saw that his manner with her was not playful, and that his face was serious. I was only in joke, said she, of course I was only joking. But is anything the matter? Is Mary ill? Oh, no, not ill at all. But she will not be here to-morrow, nor probably for some time. But, Miss Gresham, you must not be savage with her. Beatrice tried to interrogate him, but he would not wait to answer her questions. While she was speaking he bowed to her in his usual old fashioned, courteous way, and passed on out of hearing. She will not come up for some time, said Beatrice to herself. Then Mamar must have quarrelled with her, and at once in her heart she acquitted her friend of all blame in the matter, whatever it might be, and condemned her mother unheard. The doctor, when he arrived at his own house, had in no wise made up his mind as to the manner in which he would break the matter to Mary. But by the time that he had reached the drawing-room he had made up his mind to this, that he would put off the evil hour till the morrow. He would sleep on the matter, lie awake on it more probably, and then, at breakfast, as best he could, tell her what had been said of her. Mary that evening was more than usually inclined to be playful. She had not been quite certain till the morning whether Frank had absolutely left Greshamsbury, and had therefore preferred the company of Miss Oriole to going up to the house. There was a peculiar cheerfulness about her friend's patience, a feeling of satisfaction with the world and those in it, which Mary always shared with her. And now she had brought home to the doctor's fireside, in spite of her young troubles, a smiling face, if not her heart altogether ever happy. Uncle, she said at last, what makes you so sombre? Shall I read to you? No, not to-night, dearest. Why, Uncle, what is the matter? Nothing, nothing. Ah! But it is something, and you shall tell me. Getting up she came over to his arm-chair and lent over his shoulder. He looked at her for a minute in silence. And then, getting up from his chair, passed his arm round her waist, and pressed her closely to his heart. My darling! He said almost convulsively, my best, oh, truest, darling! And Mary, looking up into his face, saw that big tears were running down his cheeks. But still he told her nothing that night. End of Chapter 14, Recording by Nick Whitley, Perley, United Kingdom When Frank Gresham expressed to his father an opinion that Coorsie Castle was dull, the squire, as may be remembered, did not pretend to differ from him. To men such as the squire, and such as the squire's son, Coorsie Castle was dull. To what class of men it would not be dull, the author is not prepared to say, but it may be presumed that the Decorses found it to their liking, or they would have made it other than it was. The castle itself was a huge brick pile, built in the days of William III, which though they were grand for days of the construction of the Constitution, were not very grand for architecture of a more material description. It had no doubt a perfect right to be called a castle, as it was entered by a castle gate, which layered into a court, the porters lodge for which was built, as it were, into the wall. There were attached to it also two round, stumpy adjuncts, which were perhaps properly called towers, though they did not do much in the way of towering, and, moreover, along one side of the house, over what would otherwise have been the cornice, there ran a castellated parapet, through the assistance of which the imagination, no doubt, was intended to supply the muzzles of defiant artillery. But any artillery which would have so presented its muzzle must have been very small, and it may be doubted whether even a bowman could have obtained shelter there. The grounds about the castle were not very inviting, nor as grounds very extensive, though no doubt the entire domain was such as suited the importance of so poisson a nobleman as Earl de Coursy. What indeed should have been the park was divided out into various large paddocks. The surface was flat and unbroken, and though there were magnificent elm trees standing in straight lines like hedgerows, the timber had not that beautiful, wild, scattered look, which generally gives the great charm to English scenery. The town of Coursy, for the place claimed to rank as a town, was in many particulars like the castle. It was built of dingy red brick, almost more brown than red, and was solid, dull-looking, ugly, and comfortable. It consisted of four streets, which were formed by two roads crossing each other, making at the point of junction a centre for the town. Here stood the red lion. Had it been called the brown lion, the nomenclature would have been more strictly correct, and here in the old days of coaching some life had been wont to stir itself at those hours in the day and night when the free traders, tally-hose, and royal males, changed their horses. But now there was a railway station a mile and a half distant, and the moving life of the town of Coursy was confined to the red lion omnibus, which seemed to pass its entire time in going up and down between the town and the station, quite unembarrassed by any great weight of passengers. There were, so said the Coursyites when away from Coursy, excellent shops in the place, but they were not the less accustomed, when at home among themselves, to complain to each other of the vile extortion with which they were treated by their neighbours. The ironmonger, therefore, though he loudly asserted that he could beat Bristol in the quality of his wares in one direction, and undersell Gloster in another, bought his tea and sugar on the sly in one of those larger towns, and the grocer, on the other hand, equally distrusted the pots and pans of home production. Trade, therefore, at Coursy had not thriven since the railway had opened, and indeed had any patient inquirer stood at the cross through one entire day, counting customers who entered the neighbouring shops. He might well have wondered that any shops in Coursy could be kept open, and how changed has been the bustle of that once noisy inn to the present death-like silence of its green courtyard. There a lame osler crawls about with his hands thrust into the capacious pockets of his jacket, feeding on memory. That weary pair of omnibus-jades, and three sorry posters, are all that now grace those stables, where horses used to be stalled in close contiguity by the dozen, where twenty grains apiece abstracted from every feed of oats consumed during the day would have afforded a daily quart to the lucky pilferer. Come, my friend, and discourse with me. Let us know what are thy ideas of the inestimable benefits which science has conferred on us in these our latter days. How dost thou, among others, appreciate railways and the power of steam, telegraphs, telegrams, and our new expresses? But indifferently, you say. Dane was a zed fifteen pair of arses go out of this ear-yard in four and twenty hour, and now there beant fifteen, no, not ten in four and twenty days. There was the duic, not thison, he beant no good, but thison's father. Why, when he'd come down the road, the cattle did be a-going, four days un-aimed. He'd be the tooter and the young gentleman, and the governess, and the young laddies, and then the servants. They'd be always the grandest folk of all, and then the duic and the duches. Lord lovey there, the money did fly in them days. But now, and the feeling of scorn and contempt, which the lame Osler was enabled by his native talent to throw into the word now, was quite as eloquent against the power of steam as anything that has been spoken at dinners, or written in pamphlets by the keenest admirers of latter-day lights. Why, look at this ear down, continued he of the sieve, the brass be a-growing in the very streets. That can't be no good. Why, looky here, sir, I do be a-standing at this ear-gateway, just this way, hour after hour, and my heise is hopin' mostly. I see's who's a-coming and who's a-going. Nobody's a-coming and nobody's a-going. That can't be no good. Look at that there, homely boss. Why, darn me! And now, in his eloquence at this peculiar point, my friend became more loud and powerful than ever. Why, darn me! If Maester has enough with that there, boss, to put higher and on them osse's bait, I'll be blow'd. And as he uttered this hypothetical denunciation on himself, he spoke very slowly, bringing out every word as it were, separately, and luring himself at his knees at every sound, moving at the same time his right hand up and down. When he had finished, he fixed his eyes upon the ground, pointing downwards, as if there was to be the sight of his doom, if the curse that he had called down upon himself should ever come to pass. And then, waiting no further converse, he hobbled away, melancholy, to his deserted stables. Oh, my friend, my poor lame friend, it will avail nothing to tell thee of Liverpool and Manchester, of the glories of Glasgow with her flourishing banks, of London with its third millions of inhabitants, of the great things which commerce is doing for this nation of thine. What is commerce to thee, unless it be commerce in posting on that worn-out, all but useless, great western turnpike road? There is nothing left for thee but to be carted away as rubbish, for thee, and for many of us in these now prosperous days. Oh, my melancholy, care-ridden friend! Corsicastle was certainly a dull place to look at, and Frank, in his former visits, had found that the appearance did not belie the reality. He had been but little there when the earl had been at Corsi, and as he had always felt from his childhood a peculiar distaste to the governance of his aunt the Countess, this perhaps may have added to his feeling of dislike. Now, however, the castle was to be fuller than he had ever before known it. The earl was to be at home. There was some talk of the Duke of Omnium coming for a day or two, though that seemed doubtful. There was some faint doubt of Lord Paulock. Mr. Moffat, intent on the coming election, and also, let us hope, on his coming bliss, was to be one of the guests, and there was also to be the great miss Dunstable. Frank, however, found that those grandees were not expected quite immediately. I might go back to Gresham's brief for three or four days, as she is not to be here, he said naively to his aunt, expressing with tolerable perspecurity his feeling that he regarded his visit to Coorsie Castle quite as a matter of business. But the Countess would hear of no such arrangement. Now that she had got him, she was not going to let him fall back into the perils of Miss Thorn's intrigues, or even of Miss Thorn's propriety. It is quite essential, she said, that you should be here a few days before her, so that she may see that you are at home. Frank did not understand the reasoning, but he felt himself unable to rebel, and he therefore remained there, comforting himself as best he might, with the eloquence of the Honourable George, and the sporting humours of the Honourable John. Mr. Moffat's was the earliest arrival of any importance. Frank had not hitherto made the acquaintance of his future brother-in-law, and there was therefore some little interest in the first interview. Mr. Moffat was shown into the drawing-room before the ladies had gone up to dress, and it so happened that Frank was there also. As no one else was in the room but his sister and two of his cousins, he had expected to see the lovers rush into each other's arms, but Mr. Moffat restrained his order, and Miss Gresham seemed contented that he should do so. He was a nice dapper man, rather above the middle height, and good-looking enough had he had a little more expression in his face. He had dark hair, very nicely brushed, small black whiskers, and a small black moustache. His boots were excellently well made, and his hands were very white. He simpered gently as he took hold of Augusta's fingers, and expressed her hope that she had been quite well since last he had the pleasure of seeing her. Then he touched the hands of the Lady Rosina and the Lady Margaretta. Mr. Moffat, allow me to introduce you to my brother. Most happy, I'm sure, said Mr. Moffat, again putting out his hand, and allowing it to slip through Frank's grasp, as he spoke in a pretty mincing voice. Lady Arabella, quite well, and your father and sisters. Very warm, isn't it? Quite hot in town, I do assure you. I hope Augusta likes him, said Frank to himself, arguing on the subject exactly as his father had done. But for an engaged lover, he seems to me to have a very queer way with him. Frank, poor fellow, who was of a coarser mould, would under such circumstances have been all for kissing, sometimes indeed even under other circumstances. Mr. Moffat did not do much towards improving the conviviality of the castle. He was, of course, a good deal intent upon his coming election, and spent much of his time with Mr. Near the Wind, the celebrated parliamentary agent. It behoved him to be a good deal at Barchester, canvassing the electors, and undermining, by Mr. Near the Wind's aid, the mines for blowing him out of his seat, which were daily being contrived by Mr. Closer Still on behalf of Sir Roger. The battle was to be fought on the interneesine principle, no quarter being given or taken on either side, and, of course, this gave Mr. Moffat as much as he knew how to do. Mr. Closer Still was well known to be the sharpest man at his business in all England, unless the palm should be given to his great rival, Mr. Near the Wind, and in this instance he was to be assisted in the battle by a very clever young barista, Mr. Roma, who was an admirer of Sir Roger's career in life. Some people in Barchester, when they saw Sir Roger, Closer Still, and Mr. Roma, saunter down the High Street arm-in-arm, declared that it was all up with poor Moffat, but others, in whose head the bump of veneration was strongly pronounced, whispered to each other that great shibboleth, the name of the Duke of Omnium, and mildly asserted it to be impossible that the Duke's nominee should be thrown out. Our poor friend the Squire did not take much interest in the matter, except in so far that he liked his son-in-law to be in Parliament. Both the candidates were in his eye equally wrong in their opinions. He had long since recanted those errors of his early youth, which had cost him his seat for the county, and had adjured the Ducourcy politics. He was staunch enough as a Tory, now that his being so would no longer be of the slightest use to him, but the Duke of Omnium and Lord Ducourcy and Mr. Moffat were all Quicks. Quicks, however, differing altogether in politics from Sir Roger, who belonged to the Manchester School, and whose pretensions, through some of those inscrutable twists in modern politics, which are quite unintelligible to the minds of ordinary men outside the Circle, were on this occasion secretly favoured by the High Conservative Party. How Mr. Moffat, who had been brought into the political world by Lord Ducourcy, obtained all the weight of the Duke's interest, I never could exactly learn, for the Duke and the Earl did not generally act as twin brothers on such occasions. There is a great difference in Quicks. Lord Ducourcy was a court-quick, following the fortunes, and enjoying, when he could get it, the sunshine of the throne. He was a sojourner at Windsor, and a visitor at Belmoral. He delighted in gold sticks, and was never so happy as when holding some cap of maintenance, or spur of precedence, with due dignity and acknowledged grace in the presence of all the court. His means had been somewhat embarrassed by early extravagance, and therefore, as it was to his taste to shine, it suited him to shine at the cost of the court, rather than at his own. The Duke of Omnium was a wig of a very different calibre. He rarely went near the presence of Majesty, and when he did do so, he did it merely as a disagreeable duty incident to his position. He was very willing that the Queen should be Queen, so long as he was allowed to be Duke of Omnium, nor had he begrudged Prince Albert any of his honours, till he was called Prince Consult. Then, indeed, he had, to his own intimate friends, made some remark in three words, not flattering to the discretion of the Prime Minister. The Queen might be Queen, so long as he was Duke of Omnium. Their revenues were about the same, with the exception that the Dukes were his own, and he could do what he liked with them. This remembrance did not unfrequently present itself to the Duke's mind. In person he was a plain, thin man, tall, but undistinguished in appearance, except that there was a gleam of pride in his eye, which seemed every moment to be saying, I am the Duke of Omnium. He was unmarried, and if report said true a great debauchee, but if so he had always kept his debaucheries decently away from the eyes of the world, and was not, therefore, open to that loud condemnation which should fall like a hailstorm round the ears of some more open sinners. Why these two mighty nobles put their heads together in order that the tailor's son should represent Barchester in Parliament? I cannot explain. Mr. Moffat was, as has been said, Lord Dekorsi's friend, and it may be that Lord Dekorsi was able to repay the Duke for his kindness, as touching Barchester, with some little assistance in the county representation. The next arrival was that of the Bishop of Barchester, a meek, good, worthy man, much attached to his wife, and somewhat addicted to his ease. She, apparently, was made in a different mould, and by her energy and diligence atoned for any want in those qualities which might be observed in the Bishop himself. When asked his opinion, his lordship would generally reply by saying, Mrs. Proudy and I think so and so. But before that opinion was given, Mrs. Proudy would take up the tale, and she, in her more concise manner, was not wont to quote the Bishop as having it all assisted in the consideration of the subject. It was well known in Barchester that no married pair consorted more closely or more tenderly together, and the example of such conjugal affection among persons in the upper classes is worth mentioning, as it is believed by those below them, and too often with truth, that the sweet bliss of cannubial reciprocity is not so common as it should be among the magnets of the earth. But the arrival even of the Bishop and his wife did not make the place cheerful to Frank Gresham, and he began to long for Miss Dunstable in order that he might have something to do. He could not get on at all with Mr. Moffat. He had expected that the man would at once have called him Frank, and that he would have called the man Gustavus, but they did not even get beyond Mr. Moffat and Mr. Gresham. Very haughty in Barchester today, very, was the nearest approach to conversation which Frank could attain with him, and as far as he, Frank could see, Augusta never got much beyond it. There might be tete-a-tete meetings between them, but if so, Frank could not detect when they took place, and so, opening his heart at last to the honourable George, for the want of a better confident, he expressed his opinion that his future brother-in-law was a muff. A muff? I believe you too. What do you think now? I have been with him and near the wind in Barchester these three days past, looking up the electors' wives and daughters and that kind of thing. I say, if there is any fun in it, you might as well take me with you. There's not much fun. They're mostly so slobbered and dutty. A sharp fellow in near the wind, and knows what he is about well. Does he look up the wives and daughters, too? Oh, he goes on every tap, just as it's wanted. But there was Moffat yesterday in a room behind the millen and shop near Cuthbert's gate. I was with him. The woman's husband is one of the quaristers and an elector, you know, and Moffat went to look for his vote. Now, there was no one there when we got there, but the three young women, the wife, that is, and her two girls. Very pretty women they are, too. I say, George, I'll go and get the quaristers' vote for Moffat. I ought to do it, as he's to be my brother-in-law. But what do you think Moffat said to the women? Can't guess. He didn't kiss any of them, did he? Kiss any of them? Meh! He begged to give them his positive assurance as a gentleman, that if he was returned to Parliament he would vote for an extension of the franchise, and the admission of the Jew who's into Parliament. Well, he is a Moff, said Frank. End of Chapter 15, Recording by Nick Whitley, Perley, United Kingdom Chapter 16 of Dr. Thorn by Anthony Trollop This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, Recording by Nick Whitley, Perley, United Kingdom Chapter 16 Miss Dunstable At last the great Miss Dunstable came. Frank, when he heard that the heiress had arrived, felt some slight palpitation at his heart. He had not the remotest idea in the world of marrying her. Indeed, during the last week past absence had so heightened his love for Mary Thorn, that he was more than ever resolved that he would never marry anyone but her. He knew that he had made her a formal offer for her hand, and that it behoved him to keep to it, let the charms of Miss Dunstable be what they might. But nevertheless he was prepared to go through a certain amount of courtship, in obedience to his aunt's behests, and he felt a little nervous at being brought up in that way, face to face, to do battle with two hundred thousand pounds. Miss Dunstable has arrived, said his aunt to him, with great complacency, on his return from an electioneering visit to the beauties of Barchester, which he made with his cousin George on the day after the conversation which was repeated at the end of the last chapter. She has arrived, and is looking remarkably well. She has quite a disdangay air, and will grace any circle to which she may be introduced. I will introduce you before dinner, and you can take her out. I couldn't propose to her to-night, I suppose, said Frank maliciously. Don't talk nonsense, Frank, said the Countess angrily. I am doing what I can for you, and taking on an infinity of trouble to endeavour to place you in an independent position, and now you talk nonsense to me. Frank muttered some sort of apology, and then went to prepare himself for the encounter. Miss Dunstable, though she had come by train, had brought with her her own carriage, her own horses, her own coachmen and footmen, and her own maid, of course. She had also brought with her half a score of trunks full of wearing apparel, some of them nearly as rich as that wonderful box which was stolen a short time since from the top of a cab. But she brought all these things, not in the least because she wanted them herself, but because she had been instructed to do so. Frank was a little more than ordinarily careful in dressing. He spoiled a couple of white neckties before he was satisfied, and was rather fastidious as to the set of his hair. There was not much of the dandy about him in the ordinary meaning of the word, but he felt that it was incumbent on him to look his best, seeing what it was expected that he should now do. He certainly did not mean to marry Miss Dunstable, but as he was to have a flirtation with her, it was well that he should do so under the best possible auspices. When he entered the drawing-room he perceived at once that the lady was there. She was seated between the countess and Mrs. Proudy, and Mammon, in her person, was receiving worship from the temporalities and spiritualities of the land. He tried to look unconcerned, and remained in the farther part of the room, talking with some of his cousins. But he could not keep his eye off the future possible Mrs. Frank Gresham, and it seemed as though she was as much constrained to scrutinize him as he felt to scrutinize her. Lady Decorsi had declared that she was looking extremely well, and had particularly alluded to her distangue appearance. Frank at once felt that he could not altogether go along with his aunt in this opinion. Miss Dunstable might be very well, but her style of beauty was one which did not quite meet with his warmest admiration. In age she was about thirty. But Frank, who was no great judge in these matters, and who was accustomed to have very young girls round him, at once put her down as being ten years older. She had a very high color, very red cheeks, a large mouth, big white teeth, a broad nose, and bright small black eyes. Her hair also was black and bright, but very crisp and strong, and was combed close round her face in small crisp black ringlets. Since she had been brought out into the fashionable world, some one of her instructors in fashion had given her to understand that curls were not the thing. They'll always pass muster, Miss Dunstable had replied, when they are done up with bank notes, it may therefore be presumed that Miss Dunstable had a will of her own. Frank, said the Countess, in the most natural and unpremeditated way as soon as she caught her nephew's eye, come here. I want to introduce you to Miss Dunstable. The introduction was then made. Mrs. Proudy, would you excuse me? I must positively go and say a few words to Mrs. Barlow, for the poor woman will feel herself huffed, and so saying she moved off, leaving the coast clear for Master Frank. He, of course, slipped into his aunt's place, and expressed a hope that Miss Dunstable was not fatigued by her journey. Fatigued, said she, in a voice rather loud, but very good humid, and not altogether unpleasing, I am not to be fatigued by such a thing as that. Why, in May, we came through all the way from Rome to Paris without sleeping—that is, without sleeping in a bed—and we were upset three times out of the sledgies coming over the simplon. It was such fun! Why, I wasn't to say tired even then. All the way from Rome to Paris, said Mrs. Proudy, in a tone of astonishment, meant to flatter the heiress. And what made you in such a hurry? Something about money matters, said Miss Dunstable, speaking rather louder than usual. Something to do with the ointment, or with selling the business just then. Mrs. Proudy bowed, and immediately changed the conversation. I doletry is, I believe, more rampant than ever in Rome, said she, and I fear there is no such thing at all as Sabbath observance. Oh, not in the least, said Miss Dunstable, with rather a joyous air. Sundays and weekdays are all the same there. How very frightful, said Mrs. Proudy. But it's a delicious place. I do like Rome, I must say. And as for the Pope, if he wasn't quite so fat, he would be the nicest old fellow in the world. Have you been in Rome, Mrs. Proudy? Mrs. Proudy sighed as she replied in the negative, and declared her belief that danger was to be apprehended from such visits. Oh, ah, the malaria, of course. Yes, if you go at the wrong time, but nobody is such a fool as that now. I was thinking of the soul, Miss Dunstable, said the Lady Bishop in her peculiar grave-tone, a place where there are no Sabbath observances, and have you been in Rome, Mr. Gresham? said the young lady, turning almost abruptly round to Frank, and giving a somewhat uncivially cold shoulder to Mrs. Proudy's exhortation. She, poor lady, was forced to finish her speech to the honorable George, who was standing near to her. He, having an idea that bishops and all their belongings, like other things, are pertaining to religion, should, if possible, be avoided. But if that were not possible should be treated with much assumed gravity, immediately put on a long face, and remarked that, it was a dused shame, for his party always liked to see people go quiet on Sundays. The Parsons had only one day out of seven, and he thought they were fully entitled to that. Satisfied with which, or not satisfied, Mrs. Proudy had to remain silent till dinnertime. No, said Frank. I never was in Rome. I was in Paris once. And that's all. And then, feeling a not unnatural anxiety as to the present state of Miss Dunstable's worldly concerns, he took an opportunity of falling back on that part of the conversation, which Mrs. Proudy had exercised so much tact in avoiding. And was it sold? said he. Sold? What sold? You were saying about the business that you came back without going to bed because of selling the business. Oh, the ointment! No, it was not sold. After all, the affair did not come off. And I might have remained and had another role in the snow. Wasn't it a pity? So, said Frank to himself, if I should do it, I should be owner of the ointment of Lebanon. How odd! And then he gave her his arm and handed her down to dinner. He certainly found that the dinner was less dull than any other he had sat down to at Corsi Castle. He did not fancy that he should ever fall in love with Miss Dunstable, but she certainly was an agreeable companion. She told him of her tour and the fun she had in her journeys, how she took a physician with her for the benefit of her health, whom she generally was forced to nurse, of the trouble it was to her to look after and wait upon her numerous servants, of the tricks she played to bamboozle people who came to stare at her. And lastly she told him of a lover who followed her from country to country and was now in hot pursuit of her, having arrived in London the evening before she left. A lover, said Frank, somewhat startled by the suddenness of the confidence. A lover, yes, Mr. Gresham. Why should I not have a lover? Oh, no, of course not. I dare say you have a good many. Only three or four upon my word. That is only three or four that I favour, when he's not bound to reckon the others, you know. No, they'd be too numerous. And so you have three whom you favour, Miss Dunstable, and Frank's side, as though he intended to say that the number was too many for his peace of mind, is not that quite enough. But of course I changed them sometimes. And she smiled on him very good-naturedly. It would be very dull if I were always to keep the same. Very dull indeed, said Frank, who did not quite know what to say. Do you think the Countess would mind my having one or two of them here, if I were to ask her? I am quite sure she would, said Frank very briskly. She would not approve of it at all. Nor should I. You? Or what of you to do with it? A great deal. So much so that I positively forbid it. But, Miss Dunstable, well, Mr. Gresham, we will contrive to make up for the deficiency as well as possible, if you will permit us to do so. Now, for myself? Well, for yourself? At this moment the Countess gleamed her accomplished eye round the table, and Miss Dunstable rose from her chair as Frank was preparing his attack, and accompanied the other ladies into the drawing-room. His arm, as she passed him, touched his arm lightly with her fan, so lightly that the action was perceived by no one else. But Frank well understood the meaning of the touch, and appreciated the approbation which it conveyed. He merely blushed, however, at his own dissimulation, for he felt more certain than ever that he would never marry Miss Dunstable, and he felt nearly equally sure that Miss Dunstable would never marry him. Lord D'Corsi was now at home, but his presence did not add much hilarity to the Claridge Cup. The young men, however, were very keen about the election, and Mr. Near the Wind, who was one of the party, was full of the most sang-win hopes. I have done one good at any rate, said Frank. I have secured the choristers' vote. What, bag-lay! said Near the Wind. Now, Fennon kept out of my way, and I couldn't see him. I haven't exactly seen him, said Frank, but I've got his vote all the same. What, by a letter? said Mr. Moffat. No, not by letter, said Frank, speaking rather low as he looked at the bishop and the earl. I got a promise from his wife. I think he's a little in the henpecked line. Laughed the good bishop, who, in spite of Frank's modulation of voice, had overheard what had passed. Is that the way you manage electioneering matters in our cathedral city? The idea of one of his choristers being in the henpecked line was very amusing to the bishop. Oh, I got a distinct promise, said Frank in his pride, and then added, unconsciously, but I had to order bonnets for the whole family. Said Mr. Near the Wind. Absolutely flammagasted by such imprudence on the part of one of his client's friends, I am quite sure that your order had no effect, and was intended to have no effect on Mr. Bagley's vote. Is that wrong? said Frank. Upon my word I thought that it was quite legitimate. One should never admit anything in electioneering matters should one, said George, turning to Mr. Near the Wind. Very little, Mr. Decorsi, very little indeed, the less the better. It's hard to say in these days what is wrong and what is not. Now there's Reddy Palm, the publican, the man who has the brown bear. Well, I was there, of course. He's a voter, and if any man in Barchester ought to feel himself bound to vote for a friend of the dukes he ought. Now I was so thirsty when I was in that man's house that I was dying for a glass of beer. But for the knife of me I didn't dare order one. Why not? said Frank, whose mind was only just beginning to be enlightened by the great doctrine of purity of election, as practised in English provincial towns. Now Closestill had some fellow looking at me. Why, I can't walk down that town without having my very steps counted. I like sharp fighting myself. But I never go so sharp as that. Nevertheless I got Bagley's vote, said Frank, persisting in praise of his own electioneering prowess. And you may be sure of this, Mr. Near the Wind. None of Closestill's men were looking at me when I got it. Oh, pay for the bonnets, Frank, said George. Oh, I'll pay for them if Moffat won't. I think I shall keep an account there. They seem to have good gloves and those sort of things. Very good, I have no doubt, said George. I suppose your lordship will be in town soon after the meeting of parliament, said the bishop, questioning the earl. Oh, yes, I suppose I must be there. I am never allowed to remain very long in quiet. It is a great nuisance, but it is too late to think of that now. Men in high places, my lord, never were and never will be allowed to consider themselves. They burn their torches not in their own behalf, said the bishop, thinking perhaps as much of himself as he did of his noble friend. Rest and quiet are the comforts of those who have been content to remain in obscurity. Perhaps, sir, said the earl, finishing his glass of claret with an air of virtuous resignation. Perhaps so. His own martyrdom, however, had not been severe, for the rest and quiet of home had never been peculiarly satisfactory to his tastes. Soon after this they all went to the ladies. It was some little time before Frank could find an opportunity of recommencing his allotted task with Miss Dunstable. She got into conversation with the bishop and some other people, and, except that he took her teak up and nearly managed to squeeze one of her fingers as he did so, he made very little further progress till towards the close of the evening. At last he found her so nearly alone as to admit of his speaking to her in his low, confidential voice. Have you managed that matter with my aunt? What matter, said Miss Dunstable, and her voice was not low, nor particularly confidential. About those three or four gentlemen whom you wish to invite here. Oh, my attendant knights! No, indeed. You gave me such very slight hope of success. Besides, you said something about my not wanting them. Yes, I did. I really think they'd be quite unnecessary if you should want any one to defend you, but these coming elections, for instance, then, or at any other time, there are plenty here who will be ready to stand up for you. Plenty? I don't want plenty. One good lance in the olden days was always worth more than a score of ordinary menate arms. But you talked about three or four. Yes, but then you seem as digression. I have never yet found the one good lance, but least not good enough to suit my ideas of true prowess. What could Frank do but declare that he was ready to lay his own in rest now and always in her behar? His aunt had been quite angry with him, and had thought that he turned her into ridicule when he spoke of making an offer to her guest that very evening, and yet here he was so placed that he had hardly an alternative. Let his inward resolution to abjure the heiress be ever so strong. He was now in a position which allowed him no choice in the matter. Even Mary Thorn could hardly have blamed him for saying that so far as his own prowess went, it was quite at misdonstable service. Had Mary been looking on, she perhaps might have thought that he could have done so with less of that look of devotion which he threw into his eyes. Well, Mr. Gresham, that's very civil. Very civil indeed, said misdonstable. Upon my word, if a lady wanted a true knight, she might do worse than trust to you. Only I fear that your courage is of so exalted a nature that she would be ever ready to do battle for any beauty who might be in distress, or indeed who might not. You could never confine your valour to the protection of one maiden. Oh, yes, but I would, though, if I liked her, said Frank. There isn't a more constant fellow in the world than I am in that way. You'll try me, misdonstable. When young ladies make such trials as that, they sometimes find it too late to go back if the trial doesn't succeed, Mr. Gresham. Of course, there's always some risk. It's like hunting. There would be no fun if there was no danger. But if you get a tumble one day, you can retrieve your honour the next. But a poor girl, if she once trusts a man who says that he loves her, has no such chance. For myself, I would never listen to a man unless I'd known him for seven years, at least. Seven years, said Frank, who could not help thinking that in seven years' time misdonstable would be almost an old woman, seven days is enough to know any person, or perhaps seven hours, eh, Mr. Gresham? Seven hours? Well, perhaps seven hours if they happen to be a good deal together during the time. There's nothing, after all, like love at first sight, is there, Mr. Gresham? Frank knew well enough that she was quizzing him, and could not resist the temptation he felt to be revenged on her. I am sure it's very pleasant, said he. But as for myself, I have never experienced it. Laughed misdonstable. Upon my word, Mr. Gresham, I like you amazingly. I didn't expect to meet anybody down here that I should like half so much. You must come and see me in London, and I'll introduce you to my three knights. And so, saying, she moved away, and fell into conversation with some of the higher powers. Frank felt himself to be rather snubbed, in spite of the strong expression which misdonstable had made in his favour. It was not quite clear to him that she did not take him for a boy. He was, to be sure, avenged on her for that, by taking her for a middle-aged woman, but nevertheless he was hardly satisfied with himself. I might give her a heartache yet, said he to himself, and she might find afterwards that she was left in the lurch with all her money. And so he retired solitary into a far part of the room, and began to think of Mary Thorn. As he did so, and as his eyes fell upon misdonstable's stiff curls, he almost shuddered. And then the ladies retired. His aunt, with a good-natured smile on her face, came to him as she was leaving the room, the last of the bevy, and putting her hand on his arm, let him out into a small, unoccupied chamber which opened from the grand saloon. Upon my word, Master Frank, said she, you seem to be losing no time with the heiress. You have quite made an impression already. I don't know much about that aunt, said he, looking rather sheepish. Oh, I declare you have. But, Frank, my dear boy, you should not precipitate these sort of things too much. It is well to take a little more time. It is more valued, and perhaps, you know, on the whole. Perhaps Frank might know. But it was clear that Lady de Coursy did not. At any rate, she did not know how to express herself. Had she set out her mind plainly, she would probably have spoken thus. I want you to make love to misdonstable, certainly. Or at any rate to make an offer to her. But you need not make a show of yourself and of her too, by doing it so openly as all that. The Countess, however, did not want to reprimand her obedient nephew, and therefore did not speak out her thoughts. Well, said Frank, looking up into her face, take a little more time. That is all, my dear boy, slow and sure, you know. So the Countess again patted his arm, and went away to bed. Old fool! muttered Frank to himself, as he returned to the room where the men were still standing. He was right in this. She was an old fool, or she would have seen that there was no chance whatever, that her nephew and misdonstable should become man and wife. Well, Frank, said the Honourable John, so you're after the heiress already. He won't give any of us a chance, said the Honourable George. If he goes on in that way, she'll be Mrs. Gresham before a month is over. But Frank, what will she say of your manner of looking for barchester votes? Mr. Gresham is certainly an excellent hand at canvassing, said Mr. Near the Wind, only a little too open in his manner of proceeding. I got that chorister for you at any rate, said Frank, and you would never have had him without me. I don't think half so much of the choristers vote as that of misdonstable, said the Honourable George. That's the interest that is really worse looking after. But surely, said Mr. Moffat, misdonstable has no property and barchester. Poor man! His heart was so intent on his election, that he had not a moment to devote to the claims of love. End of Chapter 16 Recording by Nick Whitley, Pearlie, United Kingdom