 Chapter 46 Our Pet Fox Finds a Tale Frank returned home, and his immediate business was, of course, with his father, and with Mr. Gaysby, who was still at Greshamsbury. "'But who is the heir?' asked Mr. Gaysby, when Frank had explained that the death of Sir Louis rendered unnecessary any immediate legal steps. "'Upon my word, I don't know,' said Frank. "'Oh, saw Dr. Thorne?' said the squire. "'He must have known.' "'I never thought of asking him,' said Frank naively. "'Mr. Gaysby looked rather solemn.' "'I wonder at that,' said he. "'For everything now depends on the hands the property will go into. Let me see. I think Sir Roger had a married sister. Was not that so, Mr. Gresham?' And then it occurred for the first time, both to the squire and to his son, that Mary Thorne was the eldest child of this sister, but it never occurred to either of them that Mary could be the baronet's heir. Dr. Thorne came down for a couple of days before the fortnight was over to see his patients, and then returned again to London. But during this short visit he was utterly dumb on the subject of the heir. He called at Greshamsbury to see Lady Arabella, and was even questioned by the squire on the subject. But he obstinately refused to say more than that nothing certain could be known for yet a few days. Immediately after his return, Frank saw Mary and told her all that had happened. "'I cannot understand, my uncle,' said she, almost trembling as she stood close to him in her own drawing-room. He usually hates mysteries, and yet now he is so mysterious. He told me, Frank, that was after I had written that unfortunate letter. Unfortunate indeed! I wonder what you really thought of me when you were writing it? If you had heard what your mother said, you would not be surprised. But after that, uncle said, said what? He seemed to think—I don't remember what it was, he said—but he said he hoped that things might yet turn out well. And then I was almost sorry that I had written the letter. Of course you were sorry, and so you ought to have been. To say that you would never call me Frank again. I didn't exactly say that. I have told him I will wait a fortnight, and so I will. After that I shall take the matter into my own hands. It may be well supposed that Lady Arabella was not well pleased to learn that Frank and Mary had been again together, and in the agony of her spirit she did say some ill-natured things before Augusta, who had now returned from Corsi Castle, as to the gross impropriety of Mary's conduct. But to Frank she said nothing, nor was there much said between Frank and Beatrice. If everything could really be settled at the end of that fortnight, which was to witness the disclosure of the doctor's mystery, there would still be time to arrange that Mary should be at the wedding. It shall be settled then, he said to himself, and if it be settled, my mother will hardly venture to exclude my affianced bride from the house. It was now the beginning of August, and it wanted yet a month to the orial wedding. But though he said nothing to his mother, or to Beatrice, he did say much to his father. In the first place he showed him Mary's letter. If your heart be not made of stone it will be softened by that, he said. Mr. Gresham's heart was not of stone, and he did acknowledge that the letter was a very sweet letter. But we know how the drop of water hollows stone. It was not by the violence of his appeal that Frank succeeded in obtaining from his father a sort of half-consent that he would no longer oppose the match, but by the aciduity with which the appeal was repeated. Frank, as we have said, had more stubbornness of will than his father, and so before the fortnight was over the squire had been talked over, and promised to attend at the doctor's bidding. I suppose you had better take the hazelhurst farm, said he to his son with a sigh. It joins the park and the home-fields, and I will give you up them also. God know they don't care about farming any more. All about anything else, either. Don't say that, father. Well, well, but Frank, where will you live? The old house is big enough for us all, but how would Mary get on with your mother? At the end of his fortnight, true to his time, the doctor returned to the village. He was a bad correspondent, and though he had written some short notes to Mary, he had said no word to her about his business. It was late in the evening when he got home, and it was understood by Frank and the squire that they were to be with him on the following morning. Not a word had been said to Lady Arabella on the subject. It was late in the evening when he got home, and Mary waited for him with a heart almost sick with expectation. As soon as the fly had stopped at the little gate, she heard his voice, and heard at once that it was quick, joyful, and telling much of inward satisfaction. He had a good-natured word for Janet, and called Thomas an old blunderhead, in a manner that made Bridget laugh outright. He'll have his nose put out of joint some day, won't he? said the doctor. Bridget blushed and laughed again, and made a sign to Thomas that he had better look to his face. Mary was in his arms before he was yet within the door. My darling, said he tenderly kissing her, you are my own darling yet a while. Of course I am. Am I not always to be so? Well, well, let me have some tea at any rate, for I'm in a fever of thirst. They may call that tea at the junction, if they will, but if China were sunk under the sea, it would make no difference to them. Dr. Thorn always was in a fever of thirst when he got home from the railway, and always made complaint as to the tea at the junction. Mary went about her usual work with almost more than her usual alacrity, and so they were soon seated in the drawing-room together. She soon found that his manner was more than ordinarily kind to her, and there was moreover something about him which seemed to make him sparkle with contentment. But he said no word about Frank, nor did he make any allusion to the business which had taken him up to town. Have you got through all your work? she said to him once. Yes, yes, I think all. And thoroughly? Yes, thoroughly, I think. But I am very tired, and so are you too, darling, with waiting for me. Oh, no, I am not, said she, as she went on, continually filling his cup. But I am so happy to have you home again. You have been away so much lately. Ah, yes, well, I suppose I shall not go away any more now. It will be somebody else's turn now. Uncle, I think you're going to take up writing mystery romances like Mrs Radcliffe's. Yes, and I'll begin tomorrow, certainly with Overt Mary I will not say another word tonight. Give me a kiss, dearest, and I'll go. Mary did kiss him, and he did go. But as she was still lingering in the room, putting away a book or a reel of thread, and then sitting down to think what the morrow would bring forth, the doctor again came into the room in his dressing-gown, and with the slippers on. What, not gone yet, said he? No, not yet. I'm going now. You and I, Mary, have always affected a good deal of indifference as to money, and all that sort of thing. I won't acknowledge that it has been an affectation at all, she answered. Perhaps not. But we have often expressed it, have we not? I suppose, Uncle, you think that we are like the fox that lost his tail, or rather some unfortunate fox that might be born without one. I wonder how we should either of us bear it, if we found ourselves suddenly rich. It would be a great temptation, a sore temptation. I fear, Mary, that when poor people talk disdainfully of money, they often are like your fox, born without a tail. If nature suddenly should give that beast a tail, would he not be prouder of it than all the other foxes in the wood? Well, I suppose he would. That's the very meaning of the story. But how moral you've become all of a sudden, at twelve o'clock at night. Instead of being Mrs. Radcliffe, I shall think you're Mr. Esop. He took up the article which he had come to seek, and kissing her again on the forehead, went away to his bedroom without further speech. What can he mean by all this about money? said Mary to herself. It cannot be that by Sir Louis's death he will get any of all this property. And then she began to pethink herself whether, after all, she would wish him to be a rich man. If he were very rich, he might do something to assist Frank. And then there never was a fox yet without a tail who would not be delighted to find himself suddenly possessed of that appendage. Never let the untailed fox have been ever so sincere in his advice to his friends. We are all of us, the good and the bad, looking for tails, for one tail or for more than one. We do so too often by ways that are mean enough. But perhaps there is no tail-seeker more mean, more sneakingly mean, than he who looks out to adorn his bare back with a tail by marriage. The doctor was up very early the next morning, long before Mary was ready with her teacups. He was up and in his own study behind the shop arranging dingy papers, pulling about tin boxes which he had brought down with him from London, and piling on his writing table one set of documents in one place and one in another. I think I understand it all, said he, but yet I know I shall be bothered. Well, I never will be anybody's trusty again. Let me see. And then he sat down, and with bewildered look recapitulated to himself sundry heavy items. What those shares are really worth, I cannot understand, and nobody seems able to tell one. They must make it out among them as best they can. Let me see. That's Foxall Hill. And this is Greshamsbury. I'll put a newspaper over Greshamsbury, or the squire will know it. And then, having made his arrangements, he went to his breakfast. I know I am wrong, my much and truly honoured critic, about these title deeds and documents. But when we've got that barrister in hand, then, if I go wrong after that, let the blame be on my own shoulders, or on his. The doctor at his breakfast quickly, and did not talk much to his niece. But what he did say was of a nature to make her feel strangely happy. She could not analyse her own feelings, or give a reason for her own confidence. But she certainly did feel, and even trust, that something was going to happen after breakfast, which would make her more happy than she had been for many months. Janet, said he, looking at his watch, if Mr. Gresham and Mr. Frank call, show them into my study. What are you going to do with yourself, my dear? I don't know, uncle. You are so mysterious, and I am in such a Twitter that I don't know what to do. Why is Mr. Gresham coming here? That is the squire. Because I have business with him about the sketch at property. You know that he owed salooie money. But don't go out, Mary. I want you to be in the way if I should have to call for you. You can stay in the drawing-room, can't you? Oh, yes, uncle, or here. No, dearest, go into the drawing-room. Mary obediently did as she was bid, and there she sat for the next three hours, wondering, wondering, wondering. During the greater part of that time, however, she well knew that Mr. Gresham Sr. and Mr. Gresham Jr. were both with our uncle below. At eleven o'clock the doctor's visitors came. He had expected them somewhat earlier, and was beginning to become fidgety. He had so much on his hands that he could not sit still for a moment, till he had at any rate commenced it. The expected footsteps were at last heard on the gravel pass, and a moment or two afterwards Janet ushered the father and son into the room. The squire did not look very well. He was worn and sorrowful, and rather pale. The deaths of his young creditor might be supposed to have given him some relief from his more pressing cares, but the necessity of yielding to Frank's wishes had almost more than balanced this. When a man has daily to reflect that he is poorer than he was the day before, he soon becomes worn and sorrowful. But Frank was well, both in health and spirits. He also felt, as Mary did, that the day was to bring forth something which should end his present troubles, and he could not but be happy to think that he could now tell Dr. Thorn that his father's consent to his marriage had been given. The doctor shook hands with them both, and then they sat down. They were all rather constrained in their manner, and at first it seemed that nothing but little speeches of compliment were to be made. At last the squire remarked that Frank had been talking to him about Miss Thorn. About Mary, said the doctor. Yes, about Mary, said the squire correcting himself. It was quite unnecessary that he should use so cold a name as the other, now that he had agreed to the match. Well, said Dr. Thorn, I suppose it must be so, doctor. He has set his heart upon it, and God knows I have nothing to say against her. Against her personally? No one could say a word against her. She is a sweet, good girl, excellently brought up, and as for myself, I have always loved her. Frank drew near to his father, and pressed his hand against the squire's arm by way of giving him, in some sort, a filial embrace for his kindness. Thank you, squire. Thank you, said the doctor. It is very good of you to say that. She is a good girl, and if Frank chooses to take her, he will, in my estimation, have made a good choice. Chooses, said Frank, with all the enthusiasm of a lover. The squire felt himself perhaps a little ruffled at the way in which the doctor received his gracious intimation, but he did now show it, as he went on. They cannot, you know, doctor, look to be rich people. Well, well, well, interrupted the doctor. I have told Frank so, and I think that you should tell Mary. Frank means to take some land into his hand, and he must farm it as a farmer. I will endeavour to give him three, or perhaps four hundred a year, but you know better stop, squire, stop a minute. We will talk about that presently. This death of poor Sir Louis will make a difference. Not permanently, said the squire mournfully, and now, Frank, said the doctor not attending to the squire's last words. What do you say? What do I say? I say what I said to you in London the other day. I believe Mary loves me. Indeed, I won't be affected. I know she does. I have loved her. I was going to say always, and indeed I almost might say so. My father knows that this is no light fancy of mine. As to what he says about our being poor, why, the doctor was very arbitrary, and would hear neither of them on this subject. Mr. Gresham, said he, interrupting Frank. Of course I am well aware how very little suited Mary is by birth to marry your only son. It is too late to think about it now, said the squire. It is not too late for me to justify myself, replied the doctor. We have long known each other, Mr. Gresham, and you said here the other day that this is a subject as to which we have been both of one mind. Birth and blood are very valuable gifts. I certainly think so, said the squire, but one can't have everything. No, one can't have everything. If I am satisfied in that matter, began Frank. Stop a moment, my dear boy, said the doctor. As your father says, one can't have everything. My dear friend, and he gave his hand to the squire, do not be angry if I eluded for a moment to the estate. It has grieved me to see it melting away. The old family acres that have so long been the heritage of the Greshams. We need not talk about that now, Dr. Thorn, said Frank in an almost angry tone, but I must, Frank, for one moment to justify myself. I could not have excused myself in letting Mary think that she could become your wife if I had not hoped that good might come of it. Well, good will come of it, said Frank, who did not quite understand at what the doctor was driving. I hope so. I have had much doubt about this, and have been sorely perplexed. But now I do hope so. Frank missed a Gresham, and then Dr. Thorn rose from his chair, but was, for a moment, unable to go on with his tale. We will hope that it is all for the best, said the squire. I am sure it is, said Frank. Yes, I hope it is. I do think it is. I am sure it is, Frank. Mary will not come to you empty-handed. I wish for your sake. Yes, and for hers too, that her birth were equal to her fortune, as her worth is superior to both. Mr. Gresham, this marriage will at any rate put an end to your pecuniary embarrassments, unless indeed Frank should prove a hard creditor. My niece is Sir Roger Scatchard's heir. The doctor, as soon as he made the announcement, began to employ himself sedulously about the papers on the table, which in the confusion caused by his own emotion, he transferred hither and thither in such a manner as to upset all his previous arrangements. And now, he said, I might as well explain, as well as I can, of what that fortune consists. Here this is—no. But Dr. Thorn, said the squire, now perfectly pale, and almost gasping for breath. What is it you mean? There is not a shadow of doubt, said the doctor. I've had Sir Abraham Haphazard, and Sir Rickety Giggs, and old Nevesay Dye, and Mr. Snilam. And they are all of the same opinion. There is not the smallest doubt about it. Of course she must administer and all that. And I'm afraid there'll be a very heavy sum to pay for the tax, for she cannot inherit as a niece, you know. Mr. Snilam pointed that out, particularly. But after all that there'll be—I've got it down on a piece of paper somewhere—three grains of blue pill. I'm really so bothered, squire, with all these papers, and all those lawyers, that I don't know whether I'm sitting or standing. There's ready money enough to pay all the tax and all the debts. I know that, at any rate. You don't mean to say that Mary Thorn is now possessed of all Sir Roger Scatchard's wealth, at last ejaculated the squire. But that's exactly what I do mean to say, said the doctor, looking up from his papers, with a tear in his eye and a smile on his mouth. And what is more, squire, you owe her at the present moment. Exactly. I've got that down, too, somewhere. Only I am so bothered with all these papers. Come, squire, when do you mean to pay her? She is in a great hurry, as young ladies are when they want to get married. The doctor was inclined to joke, if possible, so as to carry off, as it were, some of the great weight of obligation, which it might seem that he was throwing on the father and son. But the squire was by no means in a state to understand a joke, hardly as yet, in a state to comprehend what was so very serious in this matter. Do you mean that Mary is the owner of Boxall Hill? Said he. Indeed, I do, said the doctor. And he was just going to add, and of Greshamsbury also. But he stopped himself. What, the whole property there? That's only a small portion, said the doctor. I almost wish it were all, but then I should not be so bothered. Look here, these are the Boxall Hill title deeds. That's the simplest part of the whole affair. And Frank may go and settle himself there tomorrow, if he pleases. Stop a moment, Dr. Thorn, said Frank. These were the only words which he had yet uttered, since the tidings had been conveyed to him. And these, squire, are the Greshamsbury papers. And the doctor, with considerable ceremony, withdrew the covering newspapers. Look at them! There they all are once again. When I suggested to Mr. Snilam that I suppose they might now all go back to the Greshamsbury Monument Room, I thought he would have fainted. As I cannot return them to you, you will have to wait till Frank shall give them up. But Dr. Thorn, said Frank. Well, my boy, does Mary know all about this? Not a word of it. I mean that you shall tell her. Perhaps, under such very altered circumstances, the change is so great and so sudden, so immense in its effects, that Mary may perhaps wish, wish, wish what? Wish not to be told of it at all? I shall not think of holding her to her engagement. That is, if—I mean to say she should have time at any rate for consideration. Oh, I understand, said the doctor. She shall have time for consideration. How much shall we give her, squire? Three minutes. Go up to her, Frank. She is in the drawing-room. Frank went to the door, and then hesitated and returned. I could not do it, said he. I don't think that I understand it all yet. I am so bewildered that I could not tell her. And he sat down at the table and began to sob with emotion. And she knows nothing of it, said the squire. Not a word. I thought that I would keep the pleasure of telling her for Frank. She should not be left in suspense, said the squire. Come, Frank, go up to her. Again urged the doctor. You've been ready enough with your visits when you knew that you ought to stay away. I cannot do it, said Frank, after a pause of some moments. Nor is it right that I should. It would be taking advantage of her. Go to her yourself, doctor. It is you that should do it, said the squire. After some further slight delay, the doctor got up and did go upstairs. He even was half-afraid of the task. It must be done. He said to himself as his heavy steps mounted the stairs. But how to tell it? When he entered, Mary was standing halfway up the room, as though she had risen to meet him. Her face was troubled, and her eyes were almost wild. The emotion, the hopes, the fears of that morning had almost been too much for her. She had heard the murmuring of the voices in the room below, and had known that one of them was that of her lover. Whether that discussion was to be for her good or ill, she did not know. But she felt that further suspense would almost kill her. I could wait for years, she said to herself. If I did but know. If I lost him, I suppose I should bear it. If I did but know. Well, she was going to know. Her uncle met her in the middle of the room. His face was serious, though not sad. Too serious to confirm her hopes at that moment of doubt. What is it, uncle? She said, taking one of his hands between both of her own. What is it? Tell me. And as she looked up into his face with her wild eyes, she almost frightened him. Mary, he said gravely, who have heard much, I know, of Sir Roger Scatchard's great fortune. Yes, yes, yes. Now that poor Sir Louis is dead. Well, uncle, well, it has been left to Frank, to Mr. Gresham, to the squire, exclaimed Mary, who felt with an agony of doubt that this sudden accession of immense wealth might separate her still further from her lover. No, Mary, not to the Greshams, but to yourself. To me, she cried, and putting both her hands to her forehead, she seemed to be holding her temples together. To me? Yes, Mary, it is all your own now. To do as you like best with it all, all, may God in his mercy enable you to bear the burden and lighten for you the temptation. She had so far moved us to find the nearest chair, and there she was now seated, staring at her uncle with fixed eyes. Uncle, she said, what does it mean? Then he came, and sitting beside her, he explained as best he could the story of her birth and her kinship with the sketchards. And where is he, uncle? she said. Why does he not come to me? I wanted him to come, but he refused. They are both there now, the father and son. Shall I fetch them? Fetch them? Whom? The squire? No, uncle. But may we go to them? Surely, Mary. But, uncle, yes, dearest, is it true? Are you sure? For his sake, you know not for my own. The squire, you know. Oh, uncle, I cannot go. They shall come to you. No, no, I have gone to him such hundreds of times. I will never allow that he shall be sent to me. But, uncle, is it true? The doctor, as he went downstairs, muttered something about Sir Abraham haphazard and Sir Rickety Giggs. But these great names were much thrown away upon poor Mary. The doctor entered the room first, and the heiress followed him with downcast eyes and timid steps. She was at first afraid to advance, but when she did look up and saw Frank standing alone by the window, her lover restored her courage, and rushing up to him, she threw herself into his arms. Oh, Frank, my own Frank, my own Frank, we shall never be separated now. Chapter 47 How the Bride Was Received And Who Were Asked to the Wedding And thus, after all, did Frank perform his great duty? He did marry money, or rather, as the wedding has not yet taken place, and is indeed as yet hardly talked of, we should more properly say that he had engaged himself to marry money. And then such a quantity of money! The sketchered wealth greatly exceeded the dunstable wealth, so that our hero may be looked on as having performed his duties in a manner deserving the very highest commendation from all classes of the Decorsi connection. And he received it, but that was nothing, that he should be fated by the Decorsi's and Gresham's, now that he was about to do his duty by his family in so exemplary a manner, that he should be patted on the back, now that he no longer meditated that vile crime, which had been so abhorrent to his mother's soul, this was only natural. This is hardly worthy of remark. But there was another to be fated, another person to be made a personage, another blessed human mortal about to do her duty by the family of Gresham in a manner that deserved and should receive Lady Arabella's warmest caresses. Dear Mary, it was indeed not singular that she should be prepared to act so well, seeing that in early youth she had had the advantage of an education in the Gresham's renursary. But not on that account was it the less fitting that her virtue should be acknowledged, eulogised, nay all but worshiped. How the party at the doctors got itself broken up, I am not prepared to say. Frank I know stayed and dined there, and his poor mother, who would not retire to rest till she had kissed him and blessed him and thanked him for all he was doing for the family, was kept waiting in her dressing-room till a very unreasonable hour of the night. It was the squire who brought the news up to the house. Arabella, you said in a low but somewhat solemn voice, you will be surprised at the news I bring you. Mary Thorn is the heiress to all the scattered property. Oh, Heavens, Mr. Gresham! Yes indeed, continued the squire, so it is. It is very, very. But Lady Arabella had fainted. She was a woman who generally had her feelings and her emotions much under her own control, but what she now heard was too much for her. When she came to her senses, the first words that escaped her lips were, Dear Mary, but the household had to sleep on the news before it could be fully realised. The squire was not by nature a mercenary man. If I have at all succeeded in putting his character before the reader, he will be recognised as one not overattached to money for money's sake. But things had gone so hard with him. The world had become so rough, so ungracious, so full of thorns. The want of means had become an evil so keenly felt in every hour, that it cannot be wondered at, that his dreams that night should be of a golden Elysium. The wealth was not coming to him, true, but his chief sorrow had been for his son. Now that son would be his only creditor, it was as though mountains of marble had been taken from off his bosom. But Lady Arabella's dreams flew away at once into the seventh heaven. Sordid, as they certainly were, they were not absolutely selfish. Frank would now certainly be the first commoner in Barsiger. Of course he would represent the county. Of course there would be the house in town. It wouldn't be her house, but she was contented that the grandeur should be that of her child. He would have heaven knows what to spend per annum, and that it should come through Mary's thorn. What a blessing she had allowed Mary to be brought into the Greshamsbury nursery. Dear Mary, she will, of course, be one now, said Beatrice to her sister. With her, at the present moment, one, of course, meant one of the bevy that was to attend her at the altar. Oh, dear, how nice! I shan't know what to say to her tomorrow. But I know one thing. What is that? asked Augusta. She will be as mild and as meek as a little dove. If she and the doctor had lost every shilling in the world, she would have been as proud as an eagle. It must be acknowledged that Beatrice had had the wit to read Mary's character a right. But Augusta was not quite pleased with the whole affair, nor that she begrudged her brother his luck, or marry her happiness. But her ideas of right and wrong, perhaps we should rather say Lady Amelia's ideas, would not be fairly carried out. After all, Beatrice, this does not alter her birth. I know it is useless saying anything to Frank. Why, you wouldn't break both their hearts now? I don't want to break their hearts, certainly. But there are those who put their dearest and warmest feelings under restraint, rather than deviate from what they know to be proper. For Augusta, she was the stern professor of the order of this philosophy, the last in the family who practiced with unflinching courage its cruel behests, the last always accepting the Lady Amelia, and how slept Frank that night. With him at least, let us hope, nay, let us say boldly, that his happiest thoughts were not of the wealth which he was to acquire. But yet it would be something to restore Boxall Hill to Greshamsbury, something to give back to his father those rumpled vellum documents, since the departure of which the squire had never had a happy day, may something to come forth again to his friends as a gay young country squire, instead of as a farmer, Claude compelling for his bread. We would not have him thought to be better than he was, nor would we wish him to make him of other stuff than nature generally uses. His heart did exalt at Mary's wealth, but it leapt higher still when he thought of purer joys. And what shall we say of Mary's dreams? With her it was altogether what she should give, not at all what she should get. Frank had loved her so truly when she was so poor such an utter cast away. Frank, who had ever been the heir of Greshamsbury, Frank, who with his beauty and spirit and his talents might have won the smiles of the richest, the grandest, the noblest, what Lady's heart would not have rejoiced to be allowed to love her, Frank. But he had been true to her through everything. Ah, how often she thought of that hour when suddenly appearing before her, he had strained her to his breast, just as she had resolved how best to bear the deathlike chill of his supposed estrangements. She was always thinking of that time. She fed her love by recurring over and over to the altered feeling of that moment. And now she could pay him for his goodness. Pay him? No, that would be a base word, a base thought. Her payment must be made, if God would so granted, in many, many years to come, but her store such as it was should be emptied into his lap. It was soothing to her pride that she would not hurt him by her love, that she would bring no injury to the old house. Dear, dear Frank, she murmured, as her waking dreams conquered at last by sleep gave way to those of the fairy world. But she thought not only of Frank, dreamt not only of him. What had he not done for her that uncle of hers, who had been more loving to her than any father? How was he too to be paid? Paid indeed. Love can only be paid in its own coin. It knows of no other legal tender. Well, if her home was to be Gresham's Brie, at any rate, she would not be separated from him. What the doctor dreamt of that neither he or any one ever knew. Why, uncle, I think you've been asleep, said Mary to him that evening, as he moved for a moment uneasily on the sofa. He had been asleep for the last three quarters of an hour, but Frank, his guest, had felt no offence. No, I've not been exactly asleep, said he, but I'm very tired. I wouldn't do it all again, Frank, to double the money. You haven't got any more tea, have you, Mary? On the following morning, Beatrice was, of course, with her friend. There was no awkwardness between them in meeting. Beatrice had loved her when she was poor, and though they had not lately thought a like on one very important subject, Mary was too gracious to impute that to Beatrice as a crime. You will be one now, Mary. Of course you will. If Lady Arabella will let me come. Oh, Mary, let you? Do you remember what you said once about coming and being near me? I have so often thought of it. And now, Mary, I must tell you about Caleb. And the young lady settled herself on the sofa, so as to have a comfortable long talk. Beatrice had been quite right. Mary was as meek with her, and as mild as a dove. And then patience Oriole came. My fine, young, darling, magnificent overgrown heiress, said patience, embracing her. My breath deserted me, and I was nearly stunned when I heard of it. How small we shall all be, my dear! I am quite prepared to toadie to you immensely. But pray, be a little gracious to me for the sake of all glang sign. Mary gave a long, long kiss. Yes, for all glang sign, patience. When you took me away under your wing to Richmond, patience also had loved her when she was in her trouble, and that love too should never be forgotten. But the great difficulty was Lady Arabella's first meeting with her. A think ill go down to her after breakfast, said her ladyship to Beatrice, as the two were talking over the matter while the mother was finishing her toilet. I am sure she will come up, if you like it, Mamar. She is entitled to every courtesy, as Franks accepted Bray do now, said Lady Arabella. A would not, for worlds, fail in any respect to her for his sake. He will be glad enough for her to come, I am sure, said Beatrice. I was talking with Caleb this morning, and he says, the matter wars of importance, and Lady Arabella gave it her most mature consideration. The manner of receiving into one's family an heiress whose wealth is to cure all one's difficulties, disperse all one's troubles, give a balm to all the wounds of misfortune, must, under any circumstances, be worthy of much care, but when that heiress has already been treated as Mary had been treated, I must see her at any rate before I go to Corsi, said Lady Arabella. Are you going to Corsi, Mamar? Oh, certainly, I must see my sister-in-law now. You don't seem to realise the importance, my dear, of Frank's marriage. He will be in a great hurry about it, and indeed I cannot blame him. They expect that they will all come here. Whom, Amar, that of Corsi's? Yes, of course. It should be very much surprised if the earl does not come now, and they must consult my sister-in-law as to asking the Duke of Omnium, poor Mary, and they think it will perhaps be better, continued Lady Arabella, that we should have a larger party than we intended, at your affair. The Countess, am sure, would come now. We couldn't put it all for ten days, could we, dear? Put it off ten days? Yes, it would be convenient. I don't think Mr. Oriole would like that at all, Mamar. You know he has made all his arrangements for his Sundays. Sure, the idea of the Parsons Sundays being allowed to have any bearing on such a matter as Frank's wedding would now become. Pue, they would have how much? Between twelve and fourteen zels and a year. Lady Arabella, who had made her calculations a dozen times during the night, had never found it to be much less than the larger sum. Mr. Oriole's Sundays, indeed. After much doubt, Lady Arabella acceded to her daughter's suggestion that Mary should be received at Greshamsbury, instead of being called on, at the doctor's house. If you think she won't main the coming up first, said her ladyship, a certainly could receive her better here. I should be more, more, more able, you know, to express what I feel. We had better go into the big drawing-room today, Beatrice. Will you remember to tell Mrs. Richards? Oh, certainly, was Mary's answer when Beatrice, with a voice a little trembling, proposed to her to walk up to the house. Certainly I will, if Lady Arabella will receive me. Only one thing, Trishy, what's that, dearest? Frank will think that I come after him. Never mind what he thinks. To tell you the truth, Mary, I often call upon patience for the sake of finding Caleb. That's all fair now, you know. Mary very quietly put on her straw-bonnet and said she was ready to go up to the house. Beatrice was a little fluttered and showed it. Mary was perhaps a good deal fluttered, but she did not show it. She had sought a good deal of her first interview with Lady Arabella, of her first return to the house, but she had resolved to carry herself as though the matter were easy to her. She would not allow it to be seen that she felt that she brought with her to Greshamsbury comfort, ease, and renewed opulence. So she put on her straw-bonnet and walked up with Beatrice. Everybody about the place had already heard the news. The old woman at the lodge curtsied low to her. The gardener, who was mowing the lawn. The butler, who opened the front door, he must have been watching Mary's approach, had manifestly put on a clean white neck-cloth for the occasion. God bless you once more, Miss Thorn, said the old man in a half-whisper. Mary was somewhat troubled, for everything seemed in a manner to bow down before her. And why should not everything bow down before her? Seeing that she was in truth the owner of Greshamsbury. And then a servant in livery would open the big drawing-room door. This rather upset both Mary and Beatrice. It became almost impossible for Mary to enter the room, just as she would have done two years ago. But she got through the difficulty with much self-control. The more, yes, Mary, said Beatrice. Nor was Lady Arabella quite mistress of herself, although she had studied minutely how to bear herself. Oh, Mary, my dear Mary, what can I say to you? And then, with a handkerchief to her eyes, she ran forward, and hid her face on Miss Thorn's shoulders. What can I say? Can you forgive me, my anxiety for my son? How do you do, Lady Arabella? said Mary. My daughter, my child, my Frank's own bride. Oh, Mary, oh, my child, if I have seemed uncanned to you, it has been through love to him. All these things are over now, said Mary. Mr. Gresham told me yesterday that I should be received as Frank's future wife. And so you see I have come. And then she slipped through Lady Arabella's arms, and sat down, meekly down, on a chair. In five minutes she had escaped with Beatrice into the school-room, and was kissing the children, and turning over the new trousseau. They were, however, soon interrupted, and there was, perhaps, some other kissing besides that of the children. You have no business in here at all, Frank, said Beatrice. Has he, Mary? None in the world, I should think. See what he has done to my poplin! I hope you won't have your things treated so cruelly. He'll be careful enough about them. Is Oriole a good hand at packing up finery, eh, Beatrice? asked Frank. He isn't, at any rate, too well behaved to spoil it. Thus Mary was again made at home in the household of Gresham'sbury. Lady Arabella did not carry out her little plan of delaying the Oriole wedding. Her idea had been to add some grandeur to it, in order to make it a more fitting precursor of that other greater wedding, which was to follow so soon in its wake. But this, with the assistance of the Countess, she found herself able to do without interfering with poor Mr. Oriole's Sunday arrangements. The Countess herself, with the ladies Alexandra and Margareta, now promised to come, even to this first affair. And for the other, the whole D'Corsi family would turn out. Count and Countess, lords and ladies, honourable Georges and honourable Johns. What honour indeed could be too great to show to a bride who had fourteen thousand a year in her own right, or to a cousin who had done his duty by securing such a bride to himself. If the Duke be in the country, I am sure he will be happy to come, said the Countess. Of course he will be talking to Frank about politics, as appears the Square won't expect Frank to belong to the old school now. Frank, of course, will judge for himself, Rizziah, with his position you knew. And so things were settled at Corsi Castle. And then Beatrice was wedded and carried off to the lakes. Mary, as she had promised, did stand near her, but not exactly in the gingham frock of which she had once spoken. She wore on that occasion, but it will be too much, perhaps, to tell the reader what she wore as Beatrice's bridesmaid, seeing that a couple of pages at least must be devoted to her marriage dress, and seeing also that we have only a few pages to finish everything, the list of visitors, the marriage settlements, the dress, and all included. It was in vain that Mary endeavoured to repress Lady Arabella's order for grand doings. After all, she was to be married from the doctor's house, and not from Greshamsbury, and it was the doctor who should have invited the guests. But in this matter he did not choose to oppose her ladyship's spirit, and she had it all her own way. What can I do? said he to Mary. I have been contradicting her in everything for the last two years. The least we can do is to let her have her own way now in a trifle like this. But there was one point on which Mary would let nobody have his or her own way, on which the way to be taken was very manifestly to be her own. This was touching the marriage settlements. It must not be supposed that if Beatrice were married on a Tuesday, Mary could be married on the Tuesday week following. Ladies with twelve thousand a year cannot be disposed of in that way, and bridegrooms who do their duty by marrying money often have to be kept waiting. It was spring, the early spring, before Frank was made altogether a happy man, but a word about the settlements. On this subject the doctor thought he would have been driven mad. Mrs. Sloan, by the way, are the lawyers of the Greshamsbury family. It will be understood that Mr. Gaysby's law business was of quite a different nature, and his work as regarded Greshamsbury was now nearly over. Mrs. Sloan, by the way, declared that it would never do for them to undertake a loan to draw out the settlements. An heiress such as Mary must have lawyers of her own, of a dozen at least. According to the apparent opinion of Mrs. Sloan by the way, and so the doctor had to go to other lawyers, and they had again to consult Sir Abraham and Mr. Snilam on a dozen different heads. If Frank became tenant in tale in right of his wife, but under his father, would he be able to grant leases for more than twenty-one years, and if so, to whom would the right of trover belong? As to flotsam and jetsam, there was a little property, Mr. Critic, on the sea shore. That was a matter that had to be left unsettled at the last. Such points as these do take a long time to consider. All this bewildered the doctor, sadly, and Frank himself began to make accusations that he was to be done out of his wife altogether. But, as we have said, there was one point on which Mary would have her own way. The lawyers might tie up as they would on her behalf all the money and shares and mortgages which had belonged to the late Sir Roger, with this exception. All that had ever appertained to Greshamsbury should belong to Greshamsbury again, not in perspective, not to her children or to her children's children, but at once. Frank should be Lord of Boxall Hill in his own right, and as to those other liens on Greshamsbury, let Frank manage that with his father as he might think fit. She would only trouble herself to see that he was empowered to do as he did think fit. But, argued the ancient respectable family attorney to the doctor, that amounts to two-thirds of the whole estate. Two-thirds, Dr. Thorn. It is preposterous. I should almost say impossible. And the scanty hairs on the poor man's head almost stood her end, as he thought of the outrageous manner in which the heiress prepared to sacrifice herself. It will all be the same in the end, said the doctor, trying to make things smooth. Of course their joint object will be to put the Greshamsbury property together again. But, my dear sir! And then for twenty minutes the lawyer went on proving that it would by no means be the same thing. But, nevertheless, Mary Thorn did have her own way. In the course of the winter Lady D'Corsi tried very hard to induce the heiress to visit Corsi Castle, and this request was so backed by Lady Arabella, that the doctor said he thought she might as well go there for three or four days. But here again Mary was obstinate. I don't see it at all, she said. If you make a point of it, or Frank, or Mr. Gresham, I will go, but I can't see any possible reason. The doctor, when so appealed to, would not absolutely say that he made a point of it, and Mary was tolerably safe as regarded Frank or the Squire. If she went, Frank would be expected to go, and Frank disliked Corsi Castle almost more than ever. His aunt was now more than civil to him, and when they were together never ceased to complement him on the desirable way in which he had done his duty by his family. And soon after Christmas a visitor came to Mary, and stayed a fortnight with her, one whom neither she nor the doctor had expected, and of whom they had not much more than heard. This was the famous Miss Dunstable. Birds of a feather flocked together, said Mrs. Rantaway, late Miss Gushing, when she heard of the visit. The railwayman's niece, if you could call her a niece, and the quacks' daughter will do very well together, no doubt. At any rate they can count their money bags, said Mrs. Umbulby, and in fact Mary and Miss Dunstable did get on very well together, and Miss Dunstable made herself quite happy at Greshamsbury, although some people, including Mrs. Rantaway, contrived to spread a report that Dr. Thorn, jealous of Mary's money, was going to marry her. "'Oh, she'll certainly come and see you turned off,' said Miss Dunstable, taking leave of her new friend. This Dunstable, it must be acknowledged, was a little too fond of slang, but then a lady with her fortune and of her age may be fond of almost whatever she pleases. And so, by degrees, the winter wore away, very slowly to Frank, as he declared often enough, and slowly perhaps to Mary also, though she did not say so. The winter wore away, and the chill, bitter, windy, early spring came round. The comic Almanacs give us dreadful pictures of January and February, but in truth the months which should be made to look gloomy in England, are March and April. Let no man boast himself that he has got through the perils of winter, till at least the seventh of May. It was early in April, however, that the great doings were to be done at Greshamsbury, not exactly on the first. It may be presumed that in spite of the practical, common-sense spirit of the age, very few people do choose to have themselves united on that day. But some day in the first week of that month was fixed for the ceremony, and from the end of February all through March Lady Arabella worked and strove in a manner that entitled her to profound admiration. It was at last settled that the breakfast should be held in the large dining-room at Greshamsbury. There was a difficulty about it which taxed Lady Arabella to the utmost, for in making the proposition she could not but seem to be throwing some slate on the house in which the heiress had lived. But when the affair was once opened to Mary, it was astonishing how easy it became. Of course, said Mary, all the rooms in our house would not hold half the people you were talking about. If they must come, Lady Arabella looked so beseechingly, nay so piteously, that Mary had not another word to say. It was evident that they must all come, the decorces to the fifth generation, the Duke of Omnium himself, and others in concatenation accordingly. But will your uncle be angry if we have the breakfast up here? He has been so very handsome to Frank that I wouldn't make him angry for all the world. If you don't tell him anything about it, Lady Arabella, he'll think that it is all done properly. He will never know, if he's not told, that he ought to give the breakfast, and not you. Weren't he, my dear? And Lady Arabella looked her admiration for this very talented suggestion, and so that matter was arranged. The doctor never knew, till Mary told him some year or so afterwards, that he had been remiss in any part of his duty. And who was asked to the wedding? In the first place we have said that the Duke of Omnium was there. This was, in fact, the one circumstance that made this wedding so superior to any other that had ever taken place in that neighbourhood. The Duke of Omnium never went anywhere, and yet he went to Mary's wedding. And Mary, when the ceremony was over, absolutely found herself kissed by a Duke. Dearest Mary, exclaimed Lady Arabella in her ecstasy of joy, when she saw the honour that was done to her daughter-in-law. I hope Bristle endures you to come to Gatherham Castle's room," said the Duke to Frank. I shall be having a few friends there as you're some. Let me see. I declare I have not seen you since you were good enough to come to my collection. It wasn't bad fun, was it? Frank was not very cordial with his answer. He had not quite reconciled himself to the difference of his position. When he was treated as one of the collection at Gatherham Castle, he had not married money. It would be vain to enumerate all the decorses that were there. There was the Earl, looking very gracious, and talking to the squire about the county, and there was Lord Pollock, looking very ungracious, and not talking to anybody about anything. And there was the Countess, who for the last week past had done nothing but pat Frank on the back whenever she could catch him. And there were the ladies, Alexandrina, Margareta, and Selena, smiling at everybody, and the Honorable George, talking in whispers to Frank about his widow. Not such a catch of George, you know, but something extremely snug, and have it all my own way, too, old fellow, or I shan't come to the scratch. And the Honorable John prepared to toady Frank about his string of hunters, and the Lady Amelia by herself, not quite contented with these democratic neptules. After all, she is so absolutely nobody. Absolutely, absolutely, she said confidentially to Augusta, shaking her head. But before Lady Amelia had left Gresham's Brie, Augusta was quite at a loss to understand how there could be need for so much conversation between her cousin and Mr. Mortimer Gaysby. And there were many more decorses, whom to enumerate would be much too long. And the Bishop of the diocese and Mrs. Proudy were there. A hint had even been given that his lordship would himself call listen to perform the ceremony, if this should be wished. But that work had already been anticipated by a very old friend of the Greshams. Archdeacon Grantley, the rector of Plumstead Episcopie, had long since undertaken this part of the business. And the knot was eventually tied by the joint efforts of himself and Mr. Oriole. Mrs. Grantley came with him, and so did Mrs. Grantley's sister, the new dean's wife. The dean himself was at the time unfortunately absent at Oxford. And all the bakers and the jacksons were there. The last time they had all met together under the squire's roof was on the occasion of Frank's coming of age. The present gala doings were carried on in a very different spirit. That had been a very poor affair. But this was worthy of the best days of Greshamsbury. Occasion also had been taken of this happy moment to make up, or rather to get rid of the last shreds of the last feud, that had so long separated Dr. Thorn from his own relatives. The Thorns of Ulethorne had made many overtures in a covert way, but our doctor had contrived to reject them. They would not receive Mary as their cousin, said he, and I will go nowhere that she cannot go. But now all this was altered. Mrs. Gresham would certainly be received in any house in the county. And thus Mr. Thorn of Ulethorne, an amiable popular old bachelor, came to the wedding. And so did his maiden sister, Miss Monica Thorn, than whose no kinder heart glowed through all vassiture. My dear, said she to Mary kissing her and offering her some little tribute. I am very glad to make your acquaintance very. It was not her fault, she added, speaking to herself. And now that she will be a Gresham, that need not be any longer thought of. Nevertheless, could Miss Thorn have spoken her inward thoughts out loud. She would have declared that Frank would have done better to have borne his poverty than Mary Welf without blood. But then there are but few so staunch as Miss Thorn. Perhaps none in that county, always accepting Lady Amelia. And Miss Dunstable also was a bridesmaid. Oh, no, said she when asked, you should have them young and pretty. But she gave way when she found that Mary did not flatter her by telling her that she was either the one or the other. The truth is, said Miss Dunstable, I have always been a little in love with your Frank, and so I shall do it for his sake. There were but four. The other two were the Gresham twins. Lady Erebella exerted herself greatly in framing hints to induce Mary to ask some of the Decorsi ladies to do her so much honour. But on this head Mary would please herself. Rank, said she to Beatrice, with a curl on her lip, has its draw bex, and must put up with them. And now I find that I have not one page, not half a page, for the wedding dress. But what matters? Will it not be all found written in the columns of the morning post? And thus Frank married money, and became a great man. Let us hope that he will be a happy man. As the time of the story has been brought down so near to the present era, it is not practicable for the novelist to tell much of his future career. When I last heard from Barciccia, it seemed to be quite settled that he is to take the place of one of the old members at the next election, and they say also that there is no chance of any opposition. I have heard, too, that there have been many very private consultations between him and various gentlemen of the county, with reference to the hunt. And the general feeling is said to be that the hounds should go to Boxall Hill. At Boxall Hill the young people established themselves on their return from the continent. And that reminds me that one word must be said of Lady Scatchard. You will always stay here with us," said Mary to her, caressing her Ladyship's rough hand, and looking kindly into that kind face. But Lady Scatchard would not consent to this. I will come and see you sometimes, and then I shall enjoy myself. Yes, I will come and see you and my own dear boy. The affair was ended by her taking Mrs. Opie Green's cottage, in order that she might be near the doctor. Mrs. Opie Green having married somebody, and of whom else must we say a word? Patience also, of course, got a husband, or will do so. Dear Patience, it would be a thousand pities that so good a wife should be lost to the world, whether Miss Dunstable will ever be married, or Augusta Gresham, or Mr. Moffat, or any of the tribe of the Decorses, except Lady Amelia, I cannot say. They have all of them still their future before them. That Bridget was married to Thomas, that I am able to assert, for I know that Janet was much put out by their joint desertion. Lady Arabella has not yet lost her admiration for Mary, and Mary, in return, behaves admirably. Another event is expected, and her ladyship is almost as anxious about that as she was about the wedding. Am I at a nail of such importance in the county? she whispered to Lady Decorsi. Nothing can be more happy than the intercourse between the squire and his son. What their exact arrangements are, we need not specially inquire, but the demon of pecuniary embarrassment has lifted his black wings from the domain of Greshamsbury. And now we have but one word left for the doctor. If you don't come and dine with me, said the squire to him when they found themselves both deserted, mind, I shall come and dine with you, and on this principle they seem to act. Dr. Thorn continues to extend his practice to the great disgust of Dr. Philgrave, and when Mary suggested to him that he should retire, he almost boxed her ears. He knows the way, however, to Boxall Hill as well as he ever did, and is willing to acknowledge that the tea there is almost as good as it ever was at Greshamsbury. End of Chapter 47 End of Dr. Thorn by Anthony Tronop Recording by Nick Whitley, Hurley, United Kingdom