 CHAPTER 30 POST PRANDEAL Frank rode home a happy man, cheering himself, as successful lovers do cheer themselves, with the brilliancy of his late exploit. Nor was it, till he had turned the corner into the Greshamsbury stables, that he began to reflect what he would do next. It was all very well to have induced Mary to allow his three fingers to lie half a minute in her soft hand. The having done so might certainly be sufficient evidence that he had overcome one of the lions in his path, but it could hardly be said that all his difficulties were now smoothed. How was he to make further progress? To Mary also the same ideas no doubt occurred, with many others, but then it was not for Mary to make any progress in the matter. To her, at least, belonged this passive comfort, that at present no act hostile to the decorcy interest would be expected from her. All that she could do would be to tell her uncle so much as it was fitting that he should know. The doing this would doubtless be in some degree difficult, but it was not probable that there would be much difference, much of anything but loving anxiety for each other, between her and Dr. Thorn. One other thing indeed she must do, Frank must be made to understand what her birth had been. This, she said to herself, will give him an opportunity of retracting what he has done should he choose to avail himself of it. It is well he should have such opportunity, but Frank had more than this to do. He had told Beatrice that he would make no secret of his love, and he fully resolved to be as good as his word. To his father he owed an unreserved confidence, and he was fully minded to give it. It was he knew altogether out of the question that he should at once marry a portionless girl without his father's consent, probably out of the question that he should do so even with it. But he would at any rate tell his father, and then decide as to what should be done next. So resolving he put his black horse into the stable, and went in to dinner. After dinner he and his father would be alone. Yes, after dinner he and his father would be alone. He dressed himself hurriedly, for the dinner-bell was almost on the stroke as he entered the house. He said this to himself once and again, but when the meats and puddings and then the cheese were borne away, as the decanters were placed before his father, and Lady Arabella sipped her one glass of claret, and his sisters ate their portion of strawberries, his pressing anxiety for the coming interview began to wax somewhat dull. His mother and sisters, however, rendered him no assistance by prolonging their stay. With unwanted aciduity he pressed a second glass of claret on his mother. But Lady Arabella was not only temperate in her habits, but also at the present moment very angry with her son. She thought that he had been to Boxall Hill, and was only waiting a proper moment to cross-question him sternly on the subject. Now she departed, taking her train of daughters with her. Give me one big gooseberry," said Nina, as she squeezed herself in under her brother's arm, prior to making her retreat. Frank would willingly have given her a dozen of the biggest had she wanted them. But having got the one, she squeezed herself out again, and scampered off. The squire was very cheery this evening, from what cause cannot now be said. Perhaps he had succeeded in negotiating a further loan, thus temporarily sprinkling a drop of water over the ever-rising dust of his difficulties. Well, Frank, what have you been after to-day? Peter told me you had the black horse out, said he, pushing the decanter to his son. Take my advice, my boy, and don't give him too much summer road work. Legs won't stand it, let them be ever so good. Why, sir, I was obliged to go out to-day, and therefore it had to be either the old mare or the young horse. Why didn't you take Ramble? Now Ramble was the squire's own saddle-hack, used for farm surveying, and occasionally for going to cover. I shouldn't think of doing that, sir. My dear boy, he is quite at your service. For goodness' sake, do let me have a little wine, Frank. Quite at your service. Any riding I have now is after the hay-makers, and that's all on the grass. Thank you, sir. Well, perhaps I will take a turn out of Ramble, should I want it. Do, and pray, pray take care of that black horse's legs. He is turning out more of a horse than I took him to be, and I should be sorry to see him injured. Where have you been to-day? Well, Father, I have something to tell you. Something to tell me! And then the squire's happy and gay look, which had been only rendered more happy and more gay by his assumed anxiety about the black horse, gave place to that heaviness of visage which acrimony and misfortune had made so habitual to him. Something to tell me! Any grave words like these always presaged some money difficulty to the squire's ears. He loved Frank with the tenderest love. He would have done so under almost any circumstances, but doubtless that love had been made more palpable to himself by the fact that Frank had been a good son as regards money, not exigent as was Lady Arabella, or selfishly reckless as was his nephew Lord Paulock. But now Frank must be in difficulty about money. This was his first idea. What is it, Frank? You have seldom had anything to say that has not been pleasant for me to hear, and then the heaviness of visage again gave way for a moment as his eye fell upon his son. I have been to Boxall Hill, sir. The tenor of his father's thoughts was changed in an instant, and the dread of immediate temporary annoyance gave place to true anxiety for his son. He, the squire, had been no party to Mary's exile from his own domain, and he had seen with pain that she had now a second time been driven from her home, but he had never hitherto questioned the expediency of separating his son from Mary Thorn. Alas! it became too necessary, too necessary through his own default, that Frank should marry money. At Boxall Hill, Frank, has that been prudent? Or indeed has it been generous to Miss Thorn, who has been driven there as it were by your imprudence? Father, it is well that we should understand each other about this. Fill your glass, Frank! Frank mechanically did as he was told, and passed the bottle. I should never forgive myself were I to deceive you or keep anything from you. I believe it is not in your nature to deceive me, Frank. The fact is, sir, that I have made up my mind that Mary Thorn shall be my wife. Sooner or later, that is, unless, of course, she should utterly refuse. Hitherto she has utterly refused me. I believe I may now say that she has accepted me. The squire sipped his claret, but at the moment said nothing. There was a quiet manly but yet modest determination about his son that he had hardly noticed before. Frank had become legally of age, legally a man, when he was twenty-one. Nature, it seems, had postponed the ceremony till he was twenty-two. Nature often does postpone the ceremony even to a much later age, sometimes altogether forgets to accomplish it. The squire continued to sip his claret. He had to sink over the matter a while before he could answer a statement so deliberately made by his son. I think I may say so, continued Frank, with perhaps unnecessary modesty. She is so honest that had she not intended it, she would have said so honestly. Am I right, Father, in thinking that as regards Mary personally you would not reject her as a daughter-in-law? Personally, said the squire, glad to have the subject presented to him in a view that enabled him to speak out, oh, no, personally I should not object to her, for I love her dearly. She is a good girl. I do believe she is a good girl in every respect. I have always liked her, liked to see her about the house. But I know what you would say, Father. This was rather more than the squire knew himself. Such a marriage is imprudent. It is more than that, Frank. I fear it is impossible. Impossible? No, Father. It is not impossible. It is impossible, Frank, in the usual sense. What are you to live upon? What would you do with your children? You would not wish to see your wife distressed and comfortless? No, I should not like to see that. You would not wish to begin life as an embarrassed man, and end it as a ruined man? If you were now to marry Miss Thorn, such would I fear doubtless be your lot. Frank caught at the word now. I don't expect to marry immediately. I know that would be imprudent, but I am pledged, Father, and I certainly cannot go back. And now that I have told you all this, what is your advice to me? The father again sat silent, still sipping his wine. There was nothing in his son that he could be ashamed of, nothing that he could meet with anger, nothing that he could not love. But how should he answer him? The fact was that the son had more in him than the father. This his mind and spirit would have a calibre not to be opposed successfully by the mind and spirit of the squire. Do you know Mary's history?" said Mr. Grasham at last, the history of her birth. Not a word of it, said Frank. I did not know she had a history, nor does she know it. At least I presume not. But you should know it now. And Frank, I will tell it you not to turn you from her, not with that object, though I think that to a certain extent it should have that effect. Mary's birth was not such as would become your wife and be beneficial to your children. If so, Father, I should have known that sooner. Why was she brought in here among us? True, Frank, the fault is mine. Mine and your mother's. Circumstances brought it about years ago, when it never occurred to us that all this would arise, but I will tell you her history. And Frank, remember this, though I tell it you as a secret, a secret to be kept from all the world but one, you are quite at liberty to let the doctor know that I have told you. Indeed, I shall be careful to let him know myself. Would it ever be necessary that he and I should speak together as to this engagement? The squire then told his son the whole story of Mary's birth, as it is known to the reader. Frank sat silent, looking very blank. He also had, as had every Gresham, a great love for his pure blood. He had said to his mother that he hated money, that he hated the estate, but he would have been very slow to say, even in his warmest opposition to her, that he hated the role of the family pedigree. He loved it dearly, though he seldom spoke of it, as men of good family seldom do speak of it. It is one of those possessions which to have is sufficient. A man having it, need not boast of what he has, or show it off before the world, but on that account he values it more. She had regarded Mary as a cutting, duly taken from the ullathorn tree, not indeed as a grafting branch full of flower, just separated from the parent's dork, but as being not a whit the less truly endowed with the pure sap of that venerable trunk. When therefore he heard her true history, he sat a while dismayed. It is a sad story," said the father. Yes, sad enough, said Frank, rising from his chair, and standing with it before him leaning on the back of it. Poor Mary! Poor Mary! She will have to learn it some day. I fear so, Frank! And then there was again a few moments silence. To me, Father, it is told too late. It can now have no effect on me. Indeed," said he, sighing as he spoke, but still relieving himself by the very sigh, it could have had no effect had I learnt it ever so soon. I should have told you before," said the father. Certainly I ought to have done so. It would have been no good, said Frank. Ah, sir, tell me this! Who were Miss Dunstable's parents? What was that fellow Moffat's family? This was perhaps cruel of Frank. The squire, however, made no answer to the question. I have thought it right to tell you," said he. I leave all commentary to yourself. I need not tell you what your mother will think. What did she think of Miss Dunstable's birth? Said he again, more bitterly than before. No, sir," he continued, after a further pause. All that can make no change, none at any rate now. It can't make my love less, even if it could have prevented it. Nor even could it do so, which it can't the least, not in the least. But could it do so, it could not break my engagement. I am now engaged to Mary Thorn. And then he again repeated his question, asking for his father's advice under the present circumstances. The conversation was a very long one, as long as to disarrange all Lady Arabella's plans. She had determined to take her son most stringently to Teasque that very evening, and with this object had ensconced herself in the small drawing-room, which had formerly been used for a similar purpose by the Auguste Countess herself. There she now sat, having desired Auguste and Beatrice, as well as the twins, to beg Frank to go to her as soon as he should come out of the dining-room. Poor Lady! There she waited till ten o'clock, tea-less. There was not much of the blue-beard about the squire, but he had succeeded in making it understood through the household that he was not to be interrupted by messages from his wife during the post-Prandial hour, which, though no toper, he loved so well. As a period of twelve months will now have to be passed over, the upshot of this long conversation must be told in as few words as possible. The father found it impracticable to talk his son out of his intended marriage. Indeed, he hardly attempted to do so by any direct persuasion. He explained to him that it was impossible that he should marry at once, and suggested that he, Frank, was very young. You married, sir, before you were one and twenty, said Frank. Yes, and repented before I was two and twenty. So did not say the squire. He suggested that Mary should have time to ascertain what would be her uncle's wishes, and ended by inducing Frank to promise that after taking his degree in October he would go abroad for some months, and that he would not indeed return to Greshamsbury till he was three and twenty. He may perhaps forget her, said the father to himself, as this agreement was made between them. He thinks that I shall forget her, said Frank to himself at the same time, but he does not know me. When Lady Arabella at last got hold of her son, she found that the time for her preaching was utterly gone by. He told her, almost with some foie, what his plans were, and when she came to understand them, and to understand also what had taken place at Boxall Hill, she could not blame the squire for what he had done. She also said to herself, more confidently than the squire had done, that Frank would quite forget Mary before the year was out. Lord Buckish, said she to herself rejoicingly, is now with the ambassador at Paris. Lord Buckish was her nephew, and with him Frank will meet women that are really beautiful, women of fashion. Then with Lord Buckish he will soon forget Mary Thorn, but not on this account did she change her resolve to follow up to the furthest point, her hostility to the Thorns. She was fully enabled now to do so, for Dr. Phil Grave was already reinstalled at Greshamsbury, as her medical adviser. One other short visit did Frank pay to Boxall Hill, and one interview had he with Dr. Thorn. Mary told him all she knew of her own sainte-history, and was answered only by a kiss, a kiss absolutely not in any way by her to be avoided, the first, the only one, that had ever yet reached her lips from his, and then he went away. The doctor told him all the story. Yes, said Frank, I knew it all before. Dear Mary, dearest Mary, don't you, doctor, teach yourself to believe that I shall forget her? And then also he went his way from him, went his way also from Greshamsbury, and was absent for the full period of his allotted banishment, twelve months, namely, under day. End of Chapter 30, Recording by Nick Whitley, Perley, United Kingdom, Chapter 31 of Dr. Thorn. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, Recording by Nick Whitley, Perley, United Kingdom, Chapter 31, The Small End of the Wedge. Frank Gresham was absent from Greshamsbury twelve months under day, a day is always added to the period of such absences as shown in the history of Lord Bateman and other noble heroes. We need not detail all the circumstances of his banishment, all the details of the compact that was made. One detail, of course, was this, that there should be no corresponding, a point to which the squire found some difficulty in bringing his son to ascent. It must not be supposed that Mary Thorn or the doctor were in any way parties to or privy to these agreements. By no means. The agreements were drawn out and made and signed and sealed at Greshamsbury, and were known of nowhere else. The reader must not imagine that Lady Arabella was prepared to give up her son, if only his love could remain constant for one year. Neither did Lady Arabella consent to any such arrangement, nor did the squire. It was settled rather in this wise, that Frank should be subjected to no torturing process pestered to give no promises, should in no way be bullied about Mary, that is, not at present. If he would go away for a year, then at the end of the year the matter should again be discussed. Agreeing to this Frank took his departure and was absent as per agreement. What were Mary's fortunes immediately after his departure must be shortly told, and then we will again join some of our Greshamsbury friends at a period about a month before Frank's return. When Sir Louis saw Frank Gresham standing by Mary's donkey, with his arms round Mary's knees, he began to fear that there must be something in it. He had intended that very day to throw himself at Mary's feet, and now it appeared to his inexperienced eyes as though somebody else had been at the same work before him. This not unnaturally made him cross, so after having sullenly wished the visitor good-bye, he betook himself to his room, and there drank curaso alone, instead of coming down to dinner. This he did for two or three days, and then, taking heart of grace, he remembered that after all he had very many advantages over young Gresham. In the first place he was a baronet, and could make his wife a lady. In the next place Frank's father was alive and liked to live, whereas his own was dead. He possessed Boxall Hill in his own right, but his rival had neither house nor land of his own. After all, might it not be possible for him also to put his arm round Mary's knees, her knees, or her waist, or perhaps even her neck. And art never one fair lady! At any rate he would try. And he did try, with what result, as regards Mary, need hardly be told. He certainly did not get nearly so far as putting his hand even upon her knee, before he was made to understand that it was no go, as he graphically described it to his mother. He tried once and again. On the first time Mary was very civil, though very determined. On the second she was more determined, though less civil. And then she told him that if he pressed her further he would drive her from his mother's house. There was something then about Mary's eye, a fixed composure round her mouth, and an authority in her face which went far to quell him. And he did not press her again. He immediately left Boxall Hill, and returning to London had more violent recourse to the Curacao. It was not long before the doctor heard of him and was obliged to follow him. And then again occurred those frightful scenes in which the poor wretch had to expiate either in terrible delirium or more terrible prostration of spirits, the vile sin which his father had so early taught him. Then Mary returned to her uncle's home. Frank was gone, and she therefore could resume her place at Greshamsbury. Yes, she came back to Greshamsbury, but Greshamsbury was by no means the same place that it was formerly. Almost all intercourse was now over between the doctor and the Greshamsbury people. He rarely ever saw the squire, and then only on business. Not that the squire had purposely quarrelled with him, but Dr. Thorn himself had chosen that it should be so, since Frank had openly proposed for his niece. Frank was now gone. And Lady Arabella was in arms against him. It should not be said that he kept up any intimacy for the sake of aiding the lovers in their love. No one should rightfully accuse him of invagiling the heir to marry his niece. Mary therefore found herself utterly separated from Beatrice. She was not even able to learn what Beatrice would think or did think of the engagement as it now stood. She could not even explain to her friend that love had been too strong for her, and endeavor to get some comfort from that friend's absolution from her sin. This estrangement was now carried so far that she and Beatrice did not even meet on neutral ground. Lady Arabella made it known to Miss Aureole that her daughter could not meet Mary Thorn even as strangers meet, and it was made known to others also. Mrs. Yates Umbleby and her dear friend Miss Gushing, to whose charming tea-parties none of the Greshamsbury ladies went, above once in a twelve-month, talked through the parish of this distressing difficulty, they would have been so happy to have asked dear Mary Thorn, only the Greshamsbury ladies did not approve. Mary was thus tabooed from all society, in the place in which at twelve months since she had been of all its denizens perhaps the most courted. In those days no bevy of Greshamsbury young ladies had fairly represented the Greshamsbury young ladyhood if Mary Thorn was not there. Now she was excluded from all such bevvies. Patience did not quarrel with her certainly, came to see her frequently, invited her to walk, invited her frequently to the parsonage, but Mary was shy of exceeding to such invitations, and at last frankly told her friend Patience that she would not again break bread in Greshamsbury in any house in which she was not thought fit to meet the other guests who habitually resorted there. In truth both the doctor and his niece were very sore, but they were of that temperament that keeps all its soreness to itself. Mary walked out by herself boldly, looking at least as though she were indifferent to all the world. She was indeed hardly treated. Young ladies' engagements are generally matters of profoundest secrecy, and are hardly known of by their near friends till marriage is a thing settled. But all the world knew of Mary's engagement within a month of that day on which she had neglected to expel Frank's finger from her hand. It had been told openly through the countryside that she had confessed her love for the young squire. Now it is disagreeable for a young lady to walk about under such circumstances, especially so when she has no female friend to keep her in countenance, more especially so when the gentleman is of such importance in the neighbourhood as Frank was in that locality. It was a matter of moment to every farmer and every farmer's wife which bride Frank should marry of those bespoken for him, Mary namely, or money. Every yokel about the place had been made to understand that by some feminine slight of hand the doctor's niece had managed to trap Master Frank, and that Master Frank had been sent out of the way so that he might, if yet possible, break through the trapping. All this made life rather unpleasant for her. One day walking solitary in the lanes she met that sturdy farmer to whose daughter she had in former days been so serviceable. God bless thee, Miss Mary, said he. He always did bid God bless her when he saw her, and, Miss Mary, to say my mind out freely, thee be quite good enough, Foran, quite good enough, so thee, beast, though fee were ten squires. There may perhaps have been something pleasant in the heartiness of this, but it was not pleasant to have this heart affair of hers thus publicly scanned and talked over, to have it known to everyone that she had set her heart on marrying Frank Gresham, and that all the Greshams had set their hearts on preventing it, and yet she could in no wise help it. No girl could have been more staid and demure, less demonstrative and boastful about her love. She had never yet spoken freely out of her full heart to one human being. Oh, Frank, all her spoken sin had been contained in that. But Lady Arabella had been very active. It suited her better that it should be known far and wide that a nameless pauper, Lady Arabella, only surmised that her foe was nameless, but she did not scruple to declare it, was intriguing to catch the air of Gresham's break. None of the Greshams must meet Mary Thorn. That was the edict sent about the country, and the edict was well understood, though therefore were bad days for Miss Thorn. She had never yet spoken on the matter freely out of her full heart to one human being, not to one, not to him, not to her uncle, no, not even to him, fully and freely. She had told him that that had passed between Frank and her, which amounted at any rate on his part to a proposal. Well, dearest, and what was your answer, set her uncle drawing her close to him, and speaking in his kindest voice, I hardly made any answer, uncle. You did not reject him, Mary, no, uncle, and then she paused. He had never known her tremble as she now trembled. But if you say that I ought, I will," she added, drawing every word from herself with difficulty. I say you ought, Mary, nay, but this question you must answer yourself. Must I?" said she, plaintively, and then she sat for the next half-hour with her head against his shoulder. But nothing more was said about it. They both acquiesced in the sentence that had been pronounced against them, and went on together more lovingly than before. The doctor was quite as weak as his niece. Nay, weaker! She hesitated fearfully as to what she ought to do, whether she should obey her heart or the dictates of Greshamsbury. But he had other doubts than hers, which nearly set him wild when he strove to bring his mind to a decision. He himself was now in possession, of course as a trustee only, of the title deeds of the estate. More of the estate, much more, belonged to the heirs under Sir Roger Scatchard's will than to the squire. It was now more than probable that that heir must be Mary's own. His conviction became stronger and stronger that no human efforts would keep Sir Louis in the land of the living till he was twenty-five. Could he therefore wisely or honestly, in true friendship to the squire, to Frank or to his niece, take any steps to separate two persons who loved each other, and whose marriage would in all human probability be so suitable? And yet he could not bring himself to encourage it then. The idea of looking after dead men's shoes was a porrant to his mind, especially when the man whose death he contemplated had been so trusted to him as had been Sir Louis Scatchard. He could not speak of the event, even to the squire, as being possible, so he kept his peace from day to day, and gave no counsel to Mary in the matter. And then he had his own individual annoyances, and very aggravating annoyances they were. The carriage, or rather post-chase, of Dr. Philgrave was now frequent in Greshamsbury, passing him constantly in the street, among the lanes, and on the high roads. It seemed as though Dr. Philgrave could never get to his patients at the big house, without showing himself to his beaten rival, either on his way thither or on his return. This alone would perhaps not have hurt the doctor much, but it did hurt him to know that Dr. Philgrave was attending the squire for a little incipient gout, and the dear Nina was in measles under those unloving hands. And then also the old-fashioned faton of old-fashioned old Dr. Century was seen to rumble up to the big house, and it became known that Lady Arabella was not very well. Not very well, when pronounced in a low grave voice about Lady Arabella, always meant something serious, and in this case something serious was meant. Lady Arabella was not only ill, but frightened. It appeared even to her that Dr. Philgrave himself hardly knew what he was about, that he was not so sure in his opinion, so confident in himself as Dr. Thorn used to be. How should he be, seeing that Dr. Thorn had, medically, had Lady Arabella in his hands for the last ten years, if sitting with dignity in his hired carriage, and stepping with authority up the big front steps would have done anything Dr. Philgrave might have done much? Lady Arabella was greatly taken with his looks when he first came to her, and it was only when she, by degrees, perceived that the symptoms which she knew so well did not yield to him that she began to doubt those looks. After a while Dr. Philgrave himself suggested Dr. Century, not that I fear anything, Lady Arabella, said he, lying hugely, for he did fear, fear both for himself and for her, but Dr. Century has great experience, and in such a matter, when the interests are so important, one cannot be too safe. So Dr. Century came, and toddled slowly into her Ladyship's room. He did not say much. He left the talking to his learned brother, who certainly was able to do that part of the business. But Dr. Century, though he said very little, looked very grave, and by no means quieted Lady Arabella's mind. She, as she saw the two putting their heads together, already had misgivings that she had done wrong. She knew that she could not be safe without Dr. Thorn at her bedside, and she already felt that she had exercised a most injudicious courage in driving him away. Well, Doctor, said she, as soon as Dr. Century had toddled downstairs to see the squire, eh, we shall be all right, Lady Arabella, all right very soon, but we must be careful, very careful. I am glad I've had Century here very, but there's nothing to alter, little or nothing. There were but few words spoken between Dr. Century and the squire, but few as they were, they frightened Mr. Gresham. When Dr. Philgrave came down the grand stairs, a servant waited at the bottom to ask him also to go to the squire. Now there never had been much cordiality between the squire and Dr. Philgrave, though Mr. Gresham had consented to take a preventative pill from his hands, and the little man therefore swelled himself out somewhat more than ordinarily as he followed the servant. Dr. Philgrave, said the squire, at once beginning the conversation, Lady Arabella is, I fear, in danger. Well, no, I hope not in danger, Mr. Gresham. I certainly believe I may be justified in expressing a hope that she is not in danger. Her state is, no doubt, rather serious, rather serious, as Dr. Century has probably told you, and Dr. Philgrave made a bow to the old man who sat quiet in one of the dining-room armchairs. Well, Doctor, said the squire, I have not any grounds on which to doubt your judgment. Dr. Philgrave bowed, but with the stiffest, slightest inclination which a head could possibly make. Oh, that's all, that Mr. Gresham had no ground for doubting his judgment. Nor do I. The doctor bowed, and little, very little, less stiffly. But, Doctor, I think that something ought to be done. The doctor this time did his bowing nearly with his eyes and mouth, the former he closed for a moment, the latter he pressed, and then decorously rubbed his hands one over the other. I am afraid, Dr. Philgrave, that you and my friend Thorn are not the best friends in the world. No, Mr. Gresham, no. I may go so far as to say we are not. Well, I am sorry for it, perhaps, Mr. Gresham, we need hardly discuss it. But there have been circumstances. I am not going to discuss anything, Dr. Philgrave. I say I am sorry for it, because I believe that prudence will imperatively require Lady Arabella to have Dr. Thorn back again. Now, if you would not object to meet him, Mr. Gresham, I beg pardon, I beg pardon indeed, but you must really excuse me. Dr. Thorn has, in my estimation, but Dr. Philgrave, Mr. Gresham, you really must excuse me. You really must indeed. Anything else that I could do for Lady Arabella, I should be most happy to do. But after what has passed, I cannot meet Dr. Thorn. I really cannot. You must not ask me to do so, Mr. Gresham. And Mr. Gresham, continued the doctor, I did understand from Lady Arabella that his, that his Dr. Thorn's conduct to her ladyship had been such, so very outrageous, I may say, that that that, of course, Mr. Gresham, you know best. But I did think that Lady Arabella herself was quite unwilling to see Dr. Thorn again, and Dr. Philgrave looked very big, and very dignified, and very exclusive. This wire did not ask again. He had no warrant for supposing that Lady Arabella would receive Dr. Thorn if he did come, and he saw that it was useless to attempt to overcome the ranker of a man, so pig-headed is the little Galen now before him. Other propositions were then broached, and it was at last decided that assistance should be sought for from London, in the person of the great Sir Omicron Pie. Sir Omicron came, and doctors Philgrave and Century were there to meet him. When they all assembled in Lady Arabella's room, the poor woman's heart almost sank within her, as well it might, at such a sight, if she could only reconcile it with her honour, her consistency, with her high-to-curse principles, to send once more for Dr. Thorn. Oh, Frank, Frank, to what misery your disobedience brought your mother. Sir Omicron and the lesser provincial lights had their consultation, and the lesser lights went their way to Barchester and Silverbridge, leaving Sir Omicron to enjoy the hospitality of Gresham's Brie. You should have Thorn back here, Mr. Gresham, said Sir Omicron almost in a whisper when they were quite alone. Dr. Philgrave is a very good man, and so is Dr. Century, very good, I am sure, but Thorn has known her ladyship so long. And then on the following morning Sir Omicron also went his way, and then there was a scene between the squire and her ladyship. Lady Arabella had given herself credit for great good generalship when she found that the square had been induced to take that pill. We have all heard of the little end of the wedge, and we have most of us an idea that the little end is the difficulty. That pill had been the little end of Lady Arabella's wedge. Up to that period she had been struggling in vain to make a severance between her husband and her enemy. That pill should do the business. She well knew how to make the most of it, to have it published in Gresham's Brie, that the square had put his gouty toe into Dr. Philgrave's hands. How to let it be known, especially at that humble house in the corner of the street, that Philgrave's prescriptions now ran current through the whole establishment. Dr. Thorn did hear of it, and did suffer. He had been a true friend to the squire, and he thought the squire should have stood to him more staunchly. After all, said he himself, perhaps it's as well. Perhaps it will be best that I should leave this place altogether. And then he thought of Sir Roger, and his will, and of Mary and her lover, and then of Mary's birth, and of his own theoretical doctrines as to pure blood, and so his troubles multiplied, and he saw no present daylight through them. Such had been the way in which Lady Arabella had got in the little end of the wedge. And she would have triumphed joyfully, had not her increased doubts and fears as to herself, then come in to check her triumph, and destroy her joy. She had not yet confessed to anyone her secret regret for the friend she had driven away. She hardly yet acknowledged to herself that she did regret him, but she was uneasy, frightened, and in little spirits. My dear, said the squire, sitting down by her bedside, I want to tell you what Sir Omicron said as he went away. Well, said her ladyship, sitting up and looking frightened. I don't know how you may take it, Belle, but I think it's very good news. The squire never called his wife Belle, except when he wanted her to be on particularly good terms with him. Well, said she again, she was not ever anxious to be gracious, and did not reciprocate his familiarity. Sir Omicron says that you should have thorn back again, and upon my honour I cannot but agree with him. Now thorn is a clever man, a very clever man. Nobody denies that, and then, you know, where did not Sir Omicron say that to me, said her ladyship sharply. All her disposition in Dr. Thorn's favour becoming wonderfully damped by her husband's advocacy. I suppose he thought it better to say it to me, said the squire rather curtly. He should have spoken to myself, said Lady Arabella, who, though she did not absolutely doubt her husband's word, gave him credit for having induced, and led on, Sir Omicron, to the uttering of this opinion. Dr. Thorn has behaved to me in so gris, so indecent a manner, and then, as I understand, he is absolutely encouraging that girl. Now, Belle, you are quite wrong. Of course I am. I always am quite wrong, quite wrong in mixing up two things. Dr. Thorn as an acquaintance, and Dr. Thorn as a doctor. It is dreadful to have him here, even standing in the room with me. How can one talk to one's doctor openly and confidentially when one looks upon him as one's worst enemy? And Lady Arabella softening almost melted into tears. My dear, you cannot wonder that I should be anxious for you. Lady Arabella gave a little snuffle, which might be taken as a not very eloquent expression of thanks for the squire's solicitude, or as an ironical jeer at his want of sincerity. And therefore I have not lost a moment in telling you what Sir Omicron said. You should have thorn back here. Those were his very words. You can think it over, my dear. And remember this, Belle, if he is to do any good, no time should be lost. And then the squire left the room, and Lady Arabella remained alone, perplexed by many doubts. CHAPTER 32 MR. ORIEL I must now shortly, as shortly as it is in my power to do it, introduce a new character to my reader. Mention has been made of the rectory of Greshamsbury, but hitherto no opportunity has offered itself for the reverent Caleb Oriel to come upon the boards. Mr. Oriel was a man of family and fortune, who, having gone to Oxford with the usual views of such men, had become inoculated there with very high church principles, and had gone into orders influenced by a feeling of enthusiastic love for the priesthood. He was by no means an ascetic—such men indeed seldom are—nor was he a devotee. He was a man well able, and certainly winning, to do the work of a parish clergyman, and when he became one he was efficacious in his profession. But it may perhaps be said of him, without speaking slanderously, that his original calling as a young man was rather to the outward and visible signs of religion than to its inward and spiritual graces. He delighted in lecterns and credence-tables, in services at dark hours of winter mornings when no one would attend, in high waistcoats and narrow white neckties, in chanted services, and in toned prayers, and in all the paraphernalia of Anglican formalities, which have given such a fence to those of our brethren who live in daily fear of the scarlet lady. Many of his friends declared that Mr. Oriel would sooner or later deliver himself over body and soul to that lady. But there was no need to fear for him, for those sufficiently enthusiastic to get out of bed at five a.m. on winter mornings—he did so at least all through his first winter at Cressumsbury—he was not made of that stuff which is necessary for a staunch, burning, self-denying convert. It was not in him to change his very sleek black coat for a cappuccine's filthy cassock, nor his pleasant parsonage for some dirty hole in Rome. And it was better so both for him and others. There are but few, very few, to whom it is given to be a hus, a wickly, or a looser, and a man gains but little by being a false hus, or a false looser, and his neighbours gain less. But certain lengths in self-privation Mr. Oriel did go at any rate for some time. He eschewed matrimony, imagining that it became him as a priest to do so. He fasted rigorously on Fridays, and the neighbours declared that he scourged himself. Mr. Oriel was, as it has been said, a man of fortune. That is to say, when he came of age he was master of thirty thousand pounds. When he took it into his head to go into the church, his friends bought for him the next presentation to the living at Greshamsbury, and a year after his ordination, the living falling in, Mr. Oriel brought himself and his sister to the rectory. Mr. Oriel soon became popular. He was a dark-haired, good-looking man of polished manners, agreeable in society, not given to monkish austerities, except in the matter of Fridays, nor yet to the low church severity of demeanour. He was thoroughly a gentleman, good-humoured, inoffensive, and sociable. But he had one fault. He was not a marrying man. On this ground there was a feeling against him so strong, as almost at one time to throw him into serious danger. It was not only that he should be sworn against matrimony in his individual self. He whom fate had made so able to sustain the weight of a wife and family, but what an example he was setting. If other clergymen all around should declare against wives and families, what was to become of the country? What was to be done in the rural districts? The religious observances as regards women of a Brigham young were hardly so bad as this. There were, around Greshamsbury, very many unmarried ladies. I believe they're generally also round most such villages. From the great house he did not receive much annoyance. Beatrice was then only just on the verge of being brought out, and was not perhaps inclined to think very much of a young clergyman, and Augusta certainly intended to fly at higher gain. But there were the Miss Atholens, the daughters of a neighbouring clergyman, who were ready to go all lengths with him in high church matters, except as that one tremendously papal step of celibacy, and the two Miss Hesterwells of Hesterwell Park, the younger of whom boldly declared her purpose of civilising the savage, and Mrs. Opie Green, a very pretty widow with a very pretty jointure, who lived in a very pretty house about a mile from Greshamsbury, and who declared her opinion that Mr. Aureal was quite right in his view of a clergyman's position. How could a woman situated as she was, have the comfort of a clergyman's attention, if he were to be regarded just as any other man, she could now know in what light to regard Mr. Aureal, and would be able to without scruple to avail herself of his zeal. So she did avail herself of his zeal, and that without any scruple. And then there was Miss Gushing, a young thing. Miss Gushing had a great advantage over the other competitors for the civilisation of Mr. Aureal, namely in this, that she was able to attend his morning services. If Mr. Aureal was to be reached in any way, it was probable that he might be reached in this way. If anything could civilise him, this would do it. Therefore the young thing, through all one long tedious winter, tore herself from her warm bed, and was to be seen, no, not seen, but heard, entering Mr. Aureal's church at six o'clock. With indefatigable assiduity the responses were made, uttered from under a close bonnet, but out of a dark corner, in an enthusiastically feminine voice, through the whole winter. Nor did Miss Gushing altogether fail in her object. When a clergyman's daily audience consists of but one person, and that person is a young lady, it is hardly possible that he should not become personally intimate with her. Hardly possible that he should not be in some measure. Grateful. Miss Gushing's responses came from her with such fervour, and she begged for ghostly advice with such ego-longing to have her scruples satisfied, that Mr. Aureal had nothing for it but to give way to a certain amount of civilisation. By degrees it came to pass that Miss Gushing could never get her final prayer said, her shawl and boa adjusted, and stow away her nice new prayer-book with the red letters inside, and the cross on the back, till Mr. Aureal had been into his vestry, and got rid of his surplus, and then they met at the church porch, and naturally walked together till Mr. Aureal's cruel gateway separated them. The young thing did sometimes think that as the parson's civilisation progressed he might have taken the trouble to walk with her, as far as Mr. Yates' humble beast hall door, but she had hope to sustain her, and affirm resolve to merit success, even though she might not attain it. Is it not ten thousand piters, she once said to him, that none here should avail themselves of the inestimable privilege which your coming has conferred upon us? Oh, Mr. Aureal, I do so wonder at it! To me it is so delightful, the morning service in the dark church is so beautiful, so touching! I suppose they think it is a boar getting up so early, said Mr. Aureal. Oh, a boar! said Miss Gushing, in an enthusiastic tone of depreciation. How insensate they must be! To me it gives a new charm to life. It quiets one for the day, makes one so much fitter for one's daily trials and daily troubles. Does it not, Mr. Aureal? I look upon morning prayer as an imperative duty, certainly, oh, certainly a most imperative duty, but so delicious at the same time. I spoke to Mrs. Umbleby about it, but she said she could not leave the children. No, I dare say not, said Mr. Aureal, and Mr. Umbleby said his business kept him up so late at night. Very probably. I hardly expect the attendance of men of business, but the servants may come, mightn't they, Mr. Aureal? I fear that servants seldom can have time for daily prayers in church. Oh, no, perhaps not. And then Miss Gushing began to perthink herself of whom should be composed the congregation, which it must be presumed that Mr. Aureal wished to see around him. But on this matter he did not enlighten her. Then Miss Gushing took to fasting on Fridays, and made some futile attempts to induce her priest to give her the comfort of confessional absolution. But unfortunately the zeal of the master waxed cool as that of the pupil waxed hot. And at last, when the young thing returned to Gresham's brief from an autumn excursion which she had made with Mrs. Umbleby, to Western Supermaire, she found that the delicious morning services had died a natural death. Miss Gushing did not on that account give up the game, but she was bound to fight with no particular advantage in her favour. Miss Aureal, though a good churchwoman, was by no means a convert to her brother's extremist views, and perhaps gave but scanty credit to the Gushings, Atholings and Opie Greens for the sincerity of their religion. But nevertheless she and her brother were staunch friends, and she still hoped to see the day when he might be induced to think that an English parson might get through his parish work with the assistance of a wife better than he could do without such feminine encumbrance. The girl whom she selected for his bride was not the young thing, but Beatrice Gresham. And at last it seemed probable to Mr. Aureal's nearest friends that he was in a fair way to be overcome. Not that he had begun to make love to Beatrice, or committed himself by the utterance of any opinion as to the propriety of clerical marriages, but he daily became looser about his peculiar tenets, raved less immoderately than here to four as to the atrocity of the Gresham's re-church pews, and was observed to take some opportunities of conversing alone with Beatrice. Beatrice had always denied the imputation. This had usually been made by Mary in their happy days, with vehement asseverations of anger, and misgushing had tittered, and expressed herself as supposing that great people's daughters might be as barefaced as they pleased. All this had happened previous to the great Gresham's refute. Mr. Aureal gradually got himself into a way of sauntering up to the great house, sauntering into the drawing-room for the purpose, as I am sure he thought, of talking to Lady Arabella, and then of sauntering home again, having usually found an opportunity for saying a few words to Beatrice during the visit. This went on all through the feud up to the period of Lady Arabella's illness, and then, one morning, about a month before the date fixed for Frank's return, Mr. Aureal found himself engaged to Miss Beatrice Gresham. From the day that misgushing heard of it, which was not, however, for some considerable time after this, she became an independent Methodist. She could no longer, she said at first, have any faith in any religion, and for an hour or so she was almost tempted to swear that she could no longer have any faith in any man. She had nearly completed a worked cover for a creedence table when the news reached her, as to which, in the young enthusiasm of her heart, she had not been able to remain silent. It had already been promised to Mr. Aureal that promise she swore should not be kept. He was an apostate, she said, from his principles, an utter pervert, a false designing man with whom she would never have trusted herself alone on dark mornings, had she known that he had such groveling worldly inclinations, so misgushing became an independent Methodist. The creedence table covering was cut up into slippers for the preacher's feet, and the young thing herself, more happy in this direction than she had been in the other, became the arbiter of that preacher's domestic happiness. But this little history of Miss Gushing's future life is premature. Mr. Aureal became engaged demurely, may almost silently, to Beatrice, and no one out of their own immediate families was at the time informed of the matter. It was arranged very differently from those two other matches, embryo or not embryo, those namely of Augusta with Mr. Moffat and Frank with Mary Thorn. All Barsature had heard of them, but that of Beatrice and Mr. Aureal was managed in a much more private manner. I do think you are a happy girl, said Patience to her one morning. Indeed I am. He is so good. You don't know how good he is as yet. He never thinks of himself, and thinks so much of those he loves. Beatrice took her friend's hand in her own, and kissed it. She was full of joy. When a girl is about to be married, when she may lawfully talk of her love, there is no music in her ears so sweet as the praises of her lover. I made up my mind from the first that he should marry you. Nonsense, Patience! I did indeed. I made up my mind that he should marry, and there were only two to choose from. Me and Miss Gushing, said Beatrice, laughing. No, not exactly Miss Gushing. I had not many fears for Caleb there. I declare she is very pretty, said Beatrice, who could afford to be good-natured. Now Miss Gushing certainly was pretty, and would have been very pretty had her nose not turned up so much, and could she have parted her hair in the centre. Well, I am very glad you chose me if it was you who chose, said Beatrice modestly, having, however, in her own mind, a strong opinion that Mr. Oriole had chosen for himself, and had never had any doubt in the matter. And who was the other? Can't you guess? I won't guess any more. Perhaps Mrs. Green. Oh, no, certainly not a widow. I don't like widows marrying. But, of course, you could guess, if you would. Of course, it was Mary Thorn. But I soon saw Mary would not do for two reasons. Caleb would never have liked her well enough. Nor would she ever have liked him. Not like him? Oh, I hope she will. I do so love Mary Thorn. So do I dearly, and so does Caleb. But he could never have loved her as he loves you. But patience, have you told Mary? No, I have told no one, and shall not without your leave. Oh, you must tell her. Tell it her with my best and kindest warmest love. Tell her how happy I am, and how I long to talk to her. Tell that I will have her for my bridesmaid. I do hope that before that all this horrid quarrel will be settled. Patience undertook the commission, and did tell Mary. Did give her also the message which Beatrice had sent. And Mary was rejoiced to hear it. For though, as patience had said of her, she had never herself felt any inclination to fall in love with Mr. Oriole, she believed him to be one in whose hands her friend's happiness would be secure. Then, by degrees, the conversation changed from the loves of Mr. Oriole and Beatrice to the troubles of Frank Gresham and herself. She says that, let what will happen, you shall be one of her bridesmaids. Ah, yes, dear Trishy, that was settled between us in all Glangsine. But those settlements are all unsettled now, must all be broken. No, I cannot be her bridesmaid. But I shall yet hope to see her once before her marriage. And why not be her bridesmaid? Lady Arabella will hardly object to that. Lady Arabella! said Mary, curling her lip with deep scorn. I do not care that for Lady Arabella! and she let her silver symbol fall from her fingers onto the table. If Beatrice invited me to her wedding, she might manage as to that. I should ask no question as to Lady Arabella. Then why not come to it? She remained silent for a while, and then boldly answered, Though I do not care for Lady Arabella, I do care for Mr. Gresham. And I do care for his son, for the squire always loved you. Yes, and therefore I will not be there to vex his sight. I will tell you the truth, patience. I can never be in that house again till Frank Gresham is a married man, or till I am about to be a married woman. I do not think they have treated me well, but I will not treat them ill. I am sure you will not do that, said Miss Oriole. I will endeavour not to do so, and therefore will go to none of their fates. No patience! And then she turned her head to the arm of the sofa, and silently, without audible sobs, hiding her face, she endeavoured to get rid of her tears, unseen. For one moment she had all but resolved to pour out the whole truth of her love into her friend's ears, but suddenly she changed her mind. Why should she talk of her own unhappiness? Why should she speak of her own love when she was fully determined not to speak of Frank's promises? Mary, dear Mary, anything but pity, patience, anything but that, said she convulsively, swallowing down her sobs, and rubbing away her tears. I cannot bear that. Tell Beatrice from me that I wish her every happiness, and with such a husband I am sure she will be happy. I wish her every joy. Give her my kindest love. But tell her I cannot be at her marriage. Oh, I should so like to see her. Not there, you know, but here, in my own room, where I still have liberty to speak. But why should you decide now? She is not to be married yet, you know. Now, or this day twelve months, can make no difference. I will not go into that house again unless. But never mind. I will not go into it at all. Never, never again. If I could forgive her for myself, I could not forgive her for my uncle. But tell me, patience, might not Beatrice now come here? It is so dreadful to see her every Sunday in church, and never to speak to her, never to kiss her. She seems to look away from me as though she too had chosen to quarrel with me. Miss Oriole promised to do her best. She could not imagine, she said, that such a visit could be objected to on such an occasion. She would not advise Beatrice to come without telling her mother, but she could not think that Lady Arabella would be so cruel as to make any objection, knowing as she could not but know that a daughter, when married, would be at liberty to choose her own friends. Goodbye, Mary, said patience. I wish I knew how to say more to comfort you. Oh, comfort! I don't want comfort. I want to be let alone. That's just it. You are so ferocious in your scorn, so unbending, so determined to take all the punishment that comes in your way. What I do take, I'll take without complaint, said Mary, and then they kissed each other and parted. A morning visit. It must be remembered that Mary, among her miseries, had to suffer this, that since Frank's departure, now nearly twelve months ago, she had not heard a word about him, or rather she had only heard that he was very much in love with some lady in London. This news reached her in a manner so circuitous and from such a doubtful source. It seemed to her to save a so strongly of Lady Arabella's precautions, that she attributed it at once to Malice, and blew it to the winds. It might not improbably be the case that Frank was untrue to her, but she would not take it for granted because she was now told so. It was more than probable that he should amuse himself with some one. Flirting was his prevailing sin, and if he did flirt, the most would of course be made of it. But she found it to be very desolate to be thus left alone without a word of comfort, or a word of love, without being able to speak to any one of what filled her heart. Doubting, nay more than doubting, being all but sure that her passion must terminate in misery, why had she not obeyed her conscience and her better instinct in that moment when the necessity for deciding had come upon her, why had she allowed him to understand that he was master of her heart? Did she not know that there was everything against such a marriage as that which he proposed? Had she not done wrong, very wrong, even to think of it? Had she not sinned deeply against Mr. Gresham, who had ever been so kind to her? Could she hope, was it possible that a boy like Frank should be true to his first love? And if he were true, if he were ready to go to the altar with her tomorrow, ought she to allow him to degrade himself by such a marriage? There was alas some truth about the London Lady. Frank had taken his degree as arranged, and had then gone abroad for the winter, doing the fashionable things, going up the Nile, crossing over to Mount Sinai, thence over the long desert to Jerusalem, and home by Damascus, Beirut, and Constantinople, bringing back a long beard, a red cap, and a chebuk, just as our fathers used to go through Italy and Switzerland, and our grandfathers to spend a season in Paris. He had then remained for a couple of months in London, going through all the society which the Decorses were able to open to him, and it was true that a certain bell of the season, of that season and some others, had been captivated, for the tense time, by the silken sheen of his long beard. Frank had probably been more demonstrative, perhaps even more susceptible, than he should have been, and hence the rumour, which had all too willingly been forwarded to Gresham's Brie. But young Gresham had also met another lady in London, namely Miss Dunstable. Mary would indeed have been grateful to Miss Dunstable. Could she have known all that lady did for her? Frank's love was never allowed to flag. When he spoke of the difficulties in his way, she twitted him by being overcome by straws, and told him that no one was worth having who was afraid of every lion that he met in his path. When he spoke of money, she bet him earn it, and always ended by offering to smooth for him any real difficulty which want of means might put in his way. No, Frank used to say to himself, when these offers were made, I never intended to take her and her money together, and therefore I certainly will never take the money alone. A day or two after Miss Oriol's visit, Mary received the following note from Beatrice, dearest, dearest Mary, I shall be so happy to see you, and will come tomorrow at twelve. I have asked Mamar, and she says that for once she has no objection. You know it is not my fault that I have never been with you, don't you? Frank comes home on the twelve. Mr. Oriol wants the wedding to be on the first of September, but that seems to be so very, very soon, doesn't it? However, Mamar and Papa are all on his side. I won't write about this, though, for we shall have such a delicious talk. Oh, Mary, I have been so unhappy without you ever your own affectionate Trishie Monday. Though Mary was delighted at the idea of once more having her friend in her arms, there was nevertheless something in this letter which oppressed her. She could not put up with the idea that Beatrice should have permission given to come to her just for once. She hardly wished to be seen by permission. Nevertheless, she did not refuse the proffered visit, and the first sight of Beatrice's face, the first touch of the first embrace, dissipated for the moment all her anger. And then Beatrice fully enjoyed the delicious talk which she had promised herself. Mary let her have her way, and for two hours all the delights, and all the duties, all the comforts, and all the responsibilities of a parson's wife, were discussed with almost equal ardour on both sides. The duties and responsibilities were not exactly those which too often fall to the lot of the mistress of an English vicarage. Beatrice was not doomed to make her husband comfortable, to educate her children, dress herself like a lady, and exercise open-handed charity on an income of two hundred pounds a year. Her duties and responsibilities would have to spread themselves over seven or eight times that amount of worldly burden. Living also close to Greshamsbury, and not far from Coorsie Castle, she would have the full advantages and all the privileges of county society. In fact, it was all Coulard de Rose, and so she chatted deliciously with her friend. But it was impossible that they should separate, without something having been said as to Mary's own lot. It would perhaps have been better that they should do so, but this was hardly within the compass of human nature. And Mary, you know, I should be able to see you as often as I like. You and Dr. Thornton, when I have a house of my own, Mary said nothing, but assayed to smile. It was but a ghastly attempt. You know how happy that will make me, continued Beatrice. Of course, Momar won't expect me to be led by her then. If he likes it, there can be no objection, and he will like it. You may be sure of that. You are very kind, Trishy, said Mary, but she spoke in a tone very different from that she would have used eighteen months ago. Why, what is the matter, Mary? Shouldn't you be glad to come to see us? I do not know, dearest. That must depend on circumstances. To see you, you yourself, your own dear sweet loving face, must always be pleasant to me. And shouldn't you be glad to see him? Yes, certainly, if he loves you. Of course, he loves me. All that alone would be pleasant enough, Trishy. But what if there should be circumstances which should still make us enemies, should make your friends and my friends, friend, I should say, for I have only one, should make them opposed to each other? Circumstances? What circumstances? You are going to be married, Trishy, to the man you love, are you not? Indeed, I am. And it is not pleasant. Is it not a happy feeling? Pleasant. Happy? Yes. Very pleasant. Very happy. But Mary, I am not at all in such a hurry as he is, said Beatrice, naturally thinking of her own little affairs. And suppose I should wish to be married to the man that I love. Mary said this slowly and gravely. And as she spoke, she looked her friend full in the face. Beatrice was somewhat astonished, and for the moment hardly understood. I am sure I hope you will someday. No, Trishy. No, you hope the other way. I love your brother. I love Frank Gresham. I love him quite as well, quite as warmly as you love Caleb Oriole. To you, said Beatrice, staring with all her eyes and giving one long sigh, as this new subject for sorrow was so distinctly put before her. Is that so odd, said Mary? You love Mr. Oriole, though you have been intimate with him hardly more than two years. Is it so odd that I should love your brother, whom I have known almost all my life? But, Mary, I thought it was always understood between us that—that—I mean that you were not to care about him, not in the way of loving him, you know. I thought you always said so. I have always told Mama so, as if it came from yourself. Beatrice, do not tell anything to Lady Arabella as though it came from me. I do not want anything to be told to her, either of me or from me. Say what you like to me yourself. Whatever you say will not anger me. Indeed, I know what you would say, and yet I love you. Oh, I love you, Trishy. Trishy, I do love you so much. Don't turn away from me. There was such a mixture in Mary's manner of tenderness and almost ferocity that poor Beatrice could hardly follow her. Turn away from you, Mary? No, never. But this does make me unhappy. It is better that you should know it all, and then you will not be led into fighting my battles again. You cannot fight them so that I should win. I do love your brother. Love him truly fondly, tenderly. I would wish to have him for my husband, as you wish to have Mr. Aureal. But Mary, you cannot marry him. Why not? said she in a loud voice. Why can I not marry him? If the priest says a blessing over us, shall we not be married as well as you and your husband? But you know he cannot marry, unless his wife shall have money. Money! Money! And he is to sell himself for money. Oh, Trishy, do not you talk about money. It is horrible. But, Trishy, I will grant it. I cannot marry him. But still I love him. He has a name, a place in the world, and fortune, family, high blood, position, everything. He has all this, and I have nothing. Of course I cannot marry him. But yet I do love him. Are you engaged to him, Mary? He is not engaged to me. But I am to him. Oh, Mary, that is impossible! It is not impossible. It is the case. I am pledged to him. But he is not pledged to me. But, Mary, don't look at me in that way. I do not quite understand you. What is the good of your being engaged, if you cannot marry him? Good? There is no good. But can I help it, if I love him? Can I make myself not love him, by just wishing it? Oh, I would do it, if I could. But now you will understand why I shake my head when you talk of my coming to your house. Your ways and my ways must be different. Beatrice was startled, and for a time, silenced. What Mary said of the difference of their ways was quite true. Beatrice had dearly loved her friend, and had thought of her with affection through all this long period in which they had been separated. But she had given her love and her thoughts on the understanding, as it were, that they were in unison as to the impropriety of Frank's conduct. She had always spoken with a grave face of Frank and his love as of a great misfortune, even to Mary herself, and her pity for Mary had been founded on the conviction of her innocence. Now all those ideas had to be altered. Mary owned her fault, confessed herself to be guilty of all that Lady Arabella so frequently laid to her charge, and confessed herself anxious to commit every crime as to which Beatrice had been ever so ready to defend her. Had Beatrice up to this, dreamt that Mary was in love with Frank, she would doubtless have sympathised with her, more or less, sooner or later. As it was, it was beyond all doubt that she would soon sympathise with her. But at the moment the suddenness of the declaration seemed to harden her heart, and she forgot, as it were, to speak tenderly to her friend. She was silent, therefore, and dismayed, and looked as though she thought that her ways and Mary's ways must be different. Mary saw all that was passing in the other's mind. No, not all. All the hostility, the disappointment, the disapproval, the unhappiness she did see, but not the undercurrent of love, which was strong enough to well up and drown all these, if only time could be allowed for it to do so. I am glad I have told you, said Mary, curbing herself, for deceit and hypocrisy are detestable. It was a misunderstanding, not deceit, said Beatrice. Well, now we understand each other. Now you know that I have a heart within me, which, like those of some others, has not always been under my own control. Lady Arabella believes that I am intriguing to be the mistress of Greshensbury. You, at any rate, will not think that of me. If it could be discovered to-morrow that Frank were not the heir, I might have some chance of happiness. But Mary, well, you say you love him. Yes, I do say so. But if he does not love you, will you cease to do so? If I have a fever, I will get rid of it, if I can. In such case, I must do so, or die. I fear, continued Beatrice, you hardly know. Perhaps do not think what is Frank's real character. He is not made to settle down early in life. Even now I believe he is attached to some lady in London, whom, of course, he cannot marry. Beatrice said this in perfect trueness of heart. She had heard of Frank's new love affair, and, believing what she had heard, thought it best to tell the truth. But the information was not of a kind to quiet Mary's spirit. Very well, said she, let it be so. I have nothing to say against it. But are you not preparing wretchedness and unhappiness for yourself? Very lightly. Oh, Mary, do not be so cold with me. You know how delighted I should be to have you for a sister in law, if only it were possible. Yes, Trishy. But it is impossible, is it not? Impossible that Francis Gresham of Greshamsbury should disgrace himself by marrying such a poor creature as I am. Of course I know it. Of course I am prepared for unhappiness and misery. He can amuse himself as he likes, with me or others, with anybody. It is his privilege. It is quite enough to say that he is not made for settling down. I know my own position. And yet I love him. But Mary, has he asked you to be his wife? If so, you ask home questions, Beatrice. Let me ask you one. Has he ever told you that he has done so? At this moment Beatrice was not disposed to repeat all that Frank had said. A year ago, before he went away, he had told his sister a score of times that he meant to marry Mary Thorn if she would have him. But Beatrice now looked on all that as idle boyish vaporing. The pity was that Mary should have looked on it differently. We will each keep our secret, said Mary. Only remember this. Should Frank marry tomorrow, I shall have no ground for blaming him. He is free, as far as I am concerned. He can take the London lady if he likes. You may tell him so from me. But Trishy, what else I have told you? I have told you only. Oh yes, said Beatrice, sadly, I shall say nothing of it to anybody. It is very sad, very, very. I was so happy when I came here, and now I am so wretched. This was the end of that delicious talk to which she had looked forward with so much eagerness. Don't be wretched about me, dearest. I shall get through it. I sometimes think I was born to be unhappy, and that unhappiness agrees with me best. Kiss me now, Trishy, and don't be wretched any more. You owe it to Mr. Aureal to be as happy as the day is long. And then they parted. Beatrice, as she went out, saw Doctor Thorn in his little shop on the right hand side of the passage, deeply engaged in some derogatory branch of an apothecary's mechanical trade, mixing a dose, perhaps, for a little child. She would have passed him without speaking if she could have been sure of doing so without notice, for her heart was full, and her eyes were red with tears. But it was so long since she had been in his house that she was more than ordinarily anxious not to appear uncurtious or unkind to him. Good morning, Doctor! she said, changing her countenance as best she might, and attempting a smile. Ah, my fairy, said he, leaving his villainous compounds and coming out to her. And you two are about to become a steady old lady. Indeed, I am not, Doctor. I don't mean to be either steady or old for the next ten years. But who has told you? I suppose Mary has been a traitor. Well, I will confess Mary was the traitor. But hadn't I a right to be told, seeing how often I have brought you sugar-plums in my pocket? But I wish you joy with all my heart, with all my heart. Oriole is an excellent good fellow. Is he not, Doctor? An excellent good fellow. I never heard but of one fault that he had. What was that one fault, Doctor Thorn? He thought that clergymen should not marry. But you have cured that. And now he's perfect. Thank you, Doctor. I declare that you say the prettiest things of all my friends. And none of your friends wish prettier things for you. I do congratulate you, Beatrice, and hope you may be happy with the man you have chosen and taking both her hands in his. He pressed them warmly, and bad God bless her. Oh, Doctor, I do so hope the time will come when we shall all be friends again. I hope it as well, my dear. But let it come or let it not come. My regard for you will be the same. And then she parted from him also and went her way. Nothing was spoken of that evening between Doctor Thorn and his niece, excepting Beatrice's future happiness. Nothing at least having reference to what had passed that morning. But on the following morning circumstances led to Frank Gresham's name being mentioned. At the usual breakfast-hour the Doctor entered the parlour with a harassed face. He had an open letter in his hand, and it was at once clear to Mary that he was going to speak on some subject that vexed him. That unfortunate fellow is again in trouble. Here is a letter from Gresham. Gresham was a London apothecary who had been appointed as medical attendant to Sir Louis Scatchard, and his real business consisted in keeping a watch on the baronet, and reporting to Doctor Thorn when anything was very much a miss. Here is a letter from Grayson. He has been drunk for the last three days, and is now laid up in a terribly nervous state. You won't go up to town again, will you, uncle? I hardly know what to do. No, I think not. He talks of coming down here to Gresham's brief. Who? Sir Louis? Yes, Sir Louis. Grayson says that he will be down as soon as he can get out of his room. What? To this house? What other house can he come to? Oh, uncle, I hope not. Pray, pray do not let him come here. I cannot prevent it, my dear. I cannot shut my door on him. They sat down to breakfast, and Mary gave him his tea in silence. I am going over to Boxall Hill before dinner, said he. Have you any message to send to Lady Scatchard? Message? No. I have no message. Not especially. Give her my love, of course, she said listlessly, and then, as though a thought had suddenly struck her, she spoke with more energy. But couldn't I go to Boxall Hill again? I should be so delighted. What? To run away from Sir Louis? No, dearest. We will have no more running away. He will probably also go to Boxall Hill, and he could annoy you much more there than he can here. But, uncle, Mr. Gresham will be home on the twelfth, she said, blushing. What, Frank? Yes. Beatrice said he was to be here on the twelfth. And would you run away from him too, Mary? I do not know. I do not know what to do. No. We will have no more running away. I am sorry that you ever did so. It was my fault. Altogether my fault. But it was foolish. Uncle, I am not happy here. As she said this, she put down the cup which she had held, and leaning her elbows on the table rested her forehead on her hands. And would you be happier at Boxall Hill? It is not the place makes the happiness. No, I know that. It is not the place. I do not look to be happy in any place. But I should be quieter, more tranquil elsewhere than here. I also sometimes think that it will be better for us to take up our staves, and walk away out of Gresham's Brie. Leave it all together, and settle elsewhere. Miles, miles, miles away from here. Should you like that, dearest? Miles, miles, miles away from Gresham's Brie. There was something in the sound that fell very cold on Mary's ears, unhappy as she was. Gresham's Brie had been so dear to her. In spite of all that had passed, was still so dear to her. Was she prepared to take up her staff, as her uncle said, and walk forth from the place, with the full understanding that she was to return to it no more, with a mind resolved that there should be an inseparable gulf between her and its inhabitants? Such she knew with the proposed nature of the walking away of which her uncle spoke. So she sat there, resting on her arms, and gave no answer to the question that had been asked her. No, we will stay a while yet, said her uncle. It may come to that. But this is not the time. For one season longer, let us face—I will not say our enemies. I cannot call anybody my enemy, who bears the name of Gresham, and then he went on for a moment with his breakfast. So Frank will be here on the twelfth. Yes, uncle. Well, dearest, I have no questions to ask you, no directions to give. I know how good you are, and how prudent. I am anxious only for your happiness. Not at all. Happiness, uncle, is out of the question. I hope not. It is never out of the question. Never can be out of the question. But as I was saying, I am quite satisfied your conduct will be good, and therefore I have no questions to ask. We will remain here, and whether good or evil come, we will not be ashamed to show our faces. She sat for a while again silent, collecting her courage on the subject that was nearest her heart. She would have given the world that he should ask her questions. But she could not bid him to do so, and she found it impossible to talk openly to him about Frank, unless he did so. Will he come here? At last she said in a low-toned voice. Oh, he, Louis! Yes, I think that in all probability he will. No, but Frank, she said in a still lower voice. Ah, my darling, that I cannot tell. But will it be well that he should come here? I do not know, she said. No, I suppose not. But, uncle, I don't think he will come. She was now sitting on a sofa away from the table, and he got up, sat down beside her, and took her hands in his. Mary said he, you must be strong now. Strong to endure, not to attack. I think you have that strength. But if not, perhaps it will be better that we should go away. I will be strong, said she, rising up and going towards the door. Never mind me, uncle. Don't follow me. I will be strong. It will be base, cowardly, mean to run away. Very base in me to make you do so. No, dearest, not so. It will be the same to me. No, said she, I will not run away from Lady Arabella. And as for him, if he loves this other one, he shall hear no reproach from me. Uncle, I will be strong. And running back to him, she threw her arms round him and kissed him. And still restraining her tears, she got safely to her bedroom. In what way she may there have shown her strength. It would not be well for us to inquire.