 CHAPTER IV It was the first of July, young Frank Gresham's birthday, and the London season was not yet over. Nevertheless, Lady de Corsi had managed to get down into the country to grace the coming of age of the air, bringing with her all the ladies Amelia, Rosina, Margareta, and Alexandrina, together with such of the honourable Johns and Georges as could be collected for the occasion. The Lady Arabella had contrived this year to spend ten weeks in town, which by a little stretching she made to pass for the season, and had managed, moreover, at last to refurnish, not ingloriously, the Portman Square drawing-room. She had gone up to London under the pretext, imperatively urged, of Augustus' teeth. Young ladies' teeth are not infrequently of value in this way, and having received authority for a new carpet, which was really much wanted, had made such dexterous use of that sanction as to run up an upholsterous bill of six or seven hundred pounds. She had, of course, had her carriage and horses. The girls, of course, had gone out. It had been positively necessary to have a few friends in Portman Square, and altogether the ten weeks had not been unpleasant and not inexpensive. For a few confidential minutes before dinner, Lady de Corsi and her sister-in-law together in the latter's dressing-room discussing the unreasonableness of the squire who had expressed himself with more than ordinary bitterness as to the folly. He had probably used some stronger word of these London proceedings. Havens said the Countess with much eager animation what can the man expect? What does he wish you to do? He would like to sell the house in London and bury us all here forever. Mind, I was there only for ten weeks. Barely time for the girls to get their teeth properly looked at. But Arabella, what does he say? Lady de Corsi was very anxious to learn the exact truth of the matter, and ascertain if she could whether Mr. Gresham was really as poor as he pretended to be. Why, he said yesterday that he would have no more going to town at all, that he was barely able to pay the claims made on him and keep up the house here, and that he would not—would not what? asked the Countess. Why, he said that he would not utterly ruin poor Frank. Ruin Frank? That's what he said. But surely, Arabella, it is not so bad as that. What possible reason can there be for him to be in debt? He is always talking of those elections. But, my dear, Boxall Hill paid all that off. Of course, Frank will not have such an income as there was when you married into the family. We all know that. And whom will he have to thank but his father? But Boxall Hill paid all those debts, and why should there be any difficulty now? It was those nasty dogs, Rosina, said the Lady Arabella, almost in tears. Well, I for one never approved of the hounds coming to Gresham's free. When a man has once involved his property, he should not incur any expenses that are not absolutely necessary. That is a golden rule which Mr. Gresham ought to have remembered. Indeed, I put it to him nearly in those very words, but Mr. Gresham never did and never will receive with common civility anything that comes from me. I know, Rosina, he never did, and yet where would he have been but for the Decorses? So exclaimed in her gratitude the Lady Arabella to speak the truth. However, but for the Decorses Mr. Gresham might have been at this moment on the top of Boxall Hill, monarch of all he surveyed. As I was saying, continued the Countess, I never approved of the hounds coming to Gresham's free, but yet, my dear, the hounds can't have eaten up everything. A man with ten thousand a year ought to be able to keep hounds, particularly as he had a subscription. He says the subscription was little or nothing. That's nonsense, my dear. Now, Arabella, what does he do with his money? That's the question. Does he gamble? Well, said Lady Arabella, very slowly, I don't think he does. If the Squire did gamble, he must have done it very slyly, for he rarely went away from Gresham's free and certainly very few men looking like gamblers were in the habit of coming thither as guests. I don't think he does gamble, Lady Arabella put her emphasis on the word gamble, as though her husband, if he might perhaps be charitably acquitted of that vice, was certainly guilty of every other known in the civilized world. I know he used, said Lady DeCorsi, looking very wise and rather suspicious. She certainly had sufficient domestic reasons for disliking the propensity. I know he used, and when a man begins, he is hardly ever cured. Well, if he does, I don't know it, said the Lady Arabella. The money, my dear, must go somewhere. What excuse does he give when you tell him you want this and that, all the common necessaries of life that you have always been used to? He gives no excuse. Sometimes he says the family is so large. Nonsense, girls cost nothing. There's only Frank, and he can't have cost anything yet. Can he be saving money to buy back Boxall Hill? Oh, no, said the Lady Arabella quickly. He is not saving anything. He never did, and never will save, though he is so stingy to me. He is hard-pushed for money. I know that. Then where has it gone? said the Countess DeCorsi with a look of stir and decision. Heaven only knows. Now, Augusta is to be married. I must, of course, have a few hundred pounds. You should have heard how he groaned when I asked him for it. Heaven only knows where the money goes, and the injured wife wiped a piteous tear from her eye with a fine dress cambrick handkerchief. I have all the sufferings and privations of a poor man's wife, but I have none of the consolations. He has no confidence in me. He never tells me anything. He never talks to me about his affairs. If he talks to anyone, it is to that horrid doctor. What? Dr. Thorn? Now the Countess DeCorsi hated Dr. Thorn with a holy hatred. Yes, Dr. Thorn, I believe he knows everything and advises everything too. Whatever difficulties poor Gresham may have, I do believe Dr. Thorn has brought them about. I do believe it, Rosina. Well, that is surprising. Mr. Gresham, with all his faults, is a gentleman. And how can he talk about his affairs with a low apothecary like that? I, for one, cannot imagine. Lord DeCorsi has not always been to me all that he should have been, far from it. And Lady DeCorsi thought over in her mind injuries of a much graver description than any that her sister-in-law had suffered. But I have never known anything like that at Corsi Castle. Surely Umbelbee knows all about it, doesn't he? Not half so much as the doctor, said Lady Arabella. The Countess shook her head slowly. The idea of Mr. Gresham, a country gentleman of good estate like him, making a confidant of a country doctor, was too great a shock for her nerves. And for a while she was constrained to sit silent before she could recover herself. One thing at any rate is certain, Arabella, said the Countess, as soon as she had found herself sufficiently composed to offer counsel in a properly dictatorial manner. One thing at any rate is certain. If Mr. Gresham be involved so deeply as you say, Frank has but one duty before him. He must marry money. The air of fourteen thousand a year may indulge himself in looking for blood, as Mr. Gresham did, my dear. It must be understood that there was very little compliment in this, as the Lady Arabella had always conceived herself to be a beauty. Or for beauty as some men do, continued the Countess, thinking of the choice that the present Earl de Corsi had made. But Frank must marry money. I hope he will understand this early, do make him understand this before he makes a fool of himself, when a man thoroughly understands this, when he knows what his circumstances require, why the matter becomes easy to him. I hope that Frank understands that he has no alternative in his position. He must marry money. But alas, alas, Frank Gresham had already made a fool of himself. Well, my boy, I wish you joy with all my heart, said the Honorable John, slapping his cousin on the back as he walked round to the stable yard with him before dinner to inspect a setter puppy of peculiarly fine breed which had been sent to Frank as a birthday present. I wish I were an elder son, but we can't all have that luck. Who wouldn't soon be the youngest son of an Earl than the eldest son of a plain squire, said Frank, wishing to say something civil in return for his cousin's civility? I wouldn't, for one, said the Honorable John. What chance have I? There's poor luck as strong as a horse, and then George comes next, and the governor's good for these twenty years. And the young man sighed as he reflected what small hope there was that all those who were nearest and dearest to him should die out of his way and leave him to the sweet enjoyment of an Earl's coronet and fortune. Now, you're sure of your game some day, and as you've no brothers, I suppose the squire'll let you do pretty well what you like. Besides, he's not so strong as my governor, though he's younger. Frank had never looked at his fortune in this light before, and was so slow and green that he was not much delighted at the prospect now that it was offered to him. He had always, however, been taught to look to his cousins, the decorcies, as men with whom it would be very expedient that he should be intimate. He therefore showed no offence but changed the conversation. Shall you hunt with the Barsicher this season, John? I hope you will. I shall. Well, I don't know. It's very slow. It's all tillage here. Or else woodland. I rather fancy I shall go to Leicestershire when the partridge shooting is over. What sort of a lot do you mean to come out with, Frank? Frank became a little red, as he answered. Oh, I shall have two, he said. That is, the mayor I have had these two years, and the horse my father gave me this morning. What, only those two, and the mayor is nothing more than a pony? She is fifteen hands, said Frank, offended. Well, Frank, I certainly would not stand that, said the honorable John. What, go out before the county with one untrained horse and a pony, and you, the heir to Greshamsbury? I'll have him so trained before November, said Frank, that nothing in Barsicher shall stop him. Peter says, Peter was the Greshamsbury studgroom, that he tucks up his hind legs beautifully. But who the deuce would think of going to work with one horse, or two either, if you insist on calling the old pony a huntress? I'll put you up to a trick, my lad. If you stand that, you'll stand anything. And if you don't mean to go on and leading strings all your life, now is the time to show it. There's young Baker, Harry Baker, you know. He came of age last year, and he has as pretty a string of nags as anyone would wish to set eyes on four hunters in the hack. Now, if old Baker has four thousand a year, it's every shilling he's got. This was true, and Frank Gresham, who in the morning had been made so happy by his father's present of a horse, began to feel that hardly enough had been done for him. It was true that Mr. Baker had only four thousand a year, but it was also true that he had no other child than Harry Baker, that he had no great establishment to keep up, that he owed a shilling to no one, and also that he was a great fool in encouraging a mere boy to ape all the caprices of a man of wealth. Nevertheless, for a moment Frank Gresham did feel that considering his position, he was being treated rather unworthily. Take the matter into your own hands, Frank, said the Honourable John, seeing the impression that he had made. Of course, the Governor knows very well that you won't put up with such a stable as that. Lord, bless you! I have heard that when he married my aunt, and that when he was about your age, he had the best stud in the country, and then he was in Parliament before he was three and twenty. His father, you know, died when he was very young, said Frank. Yes, I know he had a stroke of luck that doesn't fall to everyone, but young Frank's face grew dark now, instead of red. When his cousin submitted to him the necessity of having more than two horses for his own use, he could listen to him. But when the same monitor talked of the chance of a father's death as a stroke of luck, Frank was too much disgusted to be able to pretend to pass it over with indifference. What? Was he thus to think of his father, whose face was always lighted up with pleasure when his boy came near to him and so rarely bright at any other time? Frank had watched his father closely enough to be aware of this. He knew how his father delighted in him. He had caused a guess that his father had many troubles and that he strove hard to banish the memory of them when his son was with him. He loved his father truly, purely, and thoroughly, like to be with him and would be proud to be as confident. Could he then listen quietly while his cousin spoke of the chance of his father's death as a stroke of luck? I shouldn't think it a stroke of luck, John. I should think it the greatest misfortune in the world. It is so difficult for a young man to enumerate sententiously a principle of morality or even an expression of ordinary good feeling without giving himself something of a ridiculous air without assuming something of a mock grandeur. Oh, of course, my dear fellow," said the honorable John, laughing. That's a matter of course. We all understand that without saying it. Porlock, of course, would feel exactly the same about the Governor, but if the Governor were to walk, I think Porlock would console himself with the thirty thousand a year. I don't know what Porlock would do. He's always quarreling with my uncle, I know. I only spoke of myself. I never quarreled with my father, and I never shall. All right, my lad of wax, all right. I dare say you won't be tried, but if you are, you'll find before six months or over that it's a very nice thing to be master of Gresham spree. I'm sure I shouldn't find anything of the kind. Very well, so be it. You wouldn't do as young Hathily did at Hathily Court in Gloucestershire when his father kicked the bucket. You know Hathily, don't you? No, I never saw him. He's Sir Frederick now and has ahead one of the finest fortunes in England for a commoner. The most of it is gone now. Well, when he heard of his Governor's death he was in Paris, but he went off to Hathily as fast as special train and post-horses would carry him and got there just in time for the funeral. As he came back to Hathily Court from the church, they were putting up the hatchment over the door, and Master Fred saw that the undertakers had put at the bottom the rest of the room. You know what that means. Oh, yes, said Frank. I'll come back again, said the Honourable John, construing the Latin for the benefit of his cousin. No, said Fred Hathily, looking up at the hatchment. I'm blessed if you do, old gentleman. That would be too much of a joke. I'll take care of that. So he got up at night and he got some fellows with him, and they climbed up and painted out the rest of the room like we eschat in paché, which means, you know, you'd a great deal better stay where you are. Now, I call that good. Fred Hathily did that as sure as as sure as as sure as anything. Frank could not help laughing at the story, especially his cousin's mode of translating the undertaker's mottos, and then they sauntered back from the stables into the house to dress for dinner. Dr. Thorn had come to the house somewhat before dinnertime and was now sitting with the squire in his own book room, so-called, while Mary was talking to some of the girls upstairs. I must have ten or twelve thousand pounds, ten at the very least, said the squire, who was sitting in his usual armchair close to his littered table with his head supported on his hand, looking very unlike the father of an heir of a noble property who would that day come of age. It was the first of July, and of course there was no fire in the great. But nevertheless the doctor was standing with his back to the fireplace with his coat tails over his arms as though he were engaged now in summer as he so often was in winter in talking and roasting his hinder-person at the same time. Twelve thousand pounds it's a very large sum of money. I said ten, said the squire. Ten thousand pounds is a very large sum of money. No doubt that he will let you have it. Scatchard will let you have it. But I know he'll expect to have the title deeds. What! For ten thousand pounds, said the squire, there is not a registered debt against the property but his own and Armstrong's. But his own is very large already. Armstrong's is nothing about four and twenty thousand pounds. Yes, but he comes first, Mr. Gresham. Well, what of that? To hear you talk one would think that there was nothing left of Gresham's free. What's four and twenty thousand pounds? Does Scatchard know what the rent roll is? Oh, yes, he knows it well enough. I wish he did not. Well, then, why does he make such a bother about a few thousand pounds? The title deeds indeed. What he means is he must have ample security to cover what he has already advanced before he goes on. I wish to goodness he would know that things were settled last year. Oh, if there's any difficulty, umblebee will get it for me. Yes, and what will you have to pay for it? I'd soon to pay double than be talked to this way, said the squire angrily, and as he spoke got up hurriedly from his chair, thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, walked quickly to the window, and immediately, walking back again, threw himself once more into the chair. There were some things a man cannot bear, and the doctor, said he, beating the devil's tattoo on the floor with one of his feet, though God knows I ought to be patient now, for I am made to bear a good many things. You had better tell Scatchard that I am obliged to him for his offer, but that I will not trouble him. The doctor, during this little outburst, had stood quite silent with his back to the fireplace, and his coattails hanging over his arms. But though his voice said nothing, his face said much, very unhappy. He was greatly grieved to find that the squire was so soon again in want of money, and greatly grieved also to find that this want had made him so bitter and unjust. Mr. Gresham had attacked him, but as he was determined not to quarrel with Mr. Gresham, he refrained from answering. The squire also remained silent for a few minutes, but he was not endowed with the gift of silence, and was soon, as it were, compelled to speak again. Poor Frank, said he. I could yet be easy about everything if it were not for the injury I have done him. Poor Frank. The doctor advanced a few paces from off the rug and taking his hand out of his pocket. He laid it gently on the squire's shoulder. Frank will do very well yet, said he. It is not absolutely necessary that a man should have 14,000 pounds a year to be happy. My father left me the property entire, and I should leave it entire to my son, but you don't understand this. The doctor did understand the feeling fully. The fact, on the other hand, was that, long as he had known him, the squire did not understand the doctor. I wish you could, Mr. Gresham said the doctor, so that your mind might be happier, but that cannot be, and therefore I say again that Frank will do very well yet, although he will not inherit 14,000 pounds a year, and I would have you say the same thing to yourself. Ah, you don't understand it, persisted the squire. You don't know what a man feels when he— ah, well, it's no use my troubling you with what cannot be mended. I wonder whether Umblby is about the place anywhere. The doctor was again standing with his back against the chimney-piece and with his hands in his pockets. You did not see Umblby as you came in, again asked the squire. No, I did not, and if you will take my advice, you will not see him now at any rate with reference to this money. I tell you, I must get it from someone. You say, scratch it, won't let me have it. No, Mr. Gresham, I did not say that. Well, you said what was as bad. Augusta is to be married in September, and the money must be had. I have agreed to give Moffat six thousand pounds, and he is to have the money down in hard cash. Six thousand pounds, said the doctor. Well, I suppose that is not more than your daughter should have. But then, five times six are thirty. Thirty thousand pounds will be a large sum to make up. The father thought to himself that his younger girls were but children and that the trouble of arranging their marriage portions might well be postponed a while. Today is the evil thereof. That Moffat is a griping hungry fellow, said the squire. I suppose Augusta likes him, and as regards money, it is a good match. If Mr. Gresham loves him, that is everything. I am not in love with him myself, but then I am not a young lady. The Decorses are very fond of him. Lady Decorses says that he is a perfect gentleman and thought very much of in London. Lady Decorses says that. Of course it is all right, said the doctor, with a quiet sarcasm that was altogether thrown away on the squire. The squire did not like any of the Decorses especially. He did not like Lady Decorses, but still he was accessible to a certain amount of gratification in the near connection which he had with the Earl and Countess. And when he wanted to support his family greatness, of course he castle. It was only when talking to his wife that he invariably snubbed the pretensions of his noble relatives. The two men after this remained silent for a while, and then the doctor, renewing the subject for which he had been summoned into the book-room, remarked that as Scatchard was now in the country, he did not say was now at Boxall Hill, as he did not wish to wound the squire's ears. Perhaps he had better go and see him entertain in what way this affair of the money might be arranged. There was no doubt, he said, that Scatchard would supply the sum required at a lower rate of interest than that at which it could be procured through umbilby's means. Very well said the squire. I'll leave it in your hands then. I think ten thousand pounds will do. And now I'll dress for dinner. And then the doctor left him. Perhaps the reader will suppose after this that the doctor had some pecuniary interest of his own in arranging the squire's loans. Or at any rate he will think that the squire must so have thought. Not at the least. Neither had he any such interest, nor did the squire think that he had any. What Dr. Thorn did in this matter the squire well knew was done for love. But the squire of Greshamsbury was a great man at Greshamsbury, and it behooved him to maintain the greatness of his squirehood when discussing his affairs with the village doctor. So much he had at any rate learnt from his contact with the Decorses. And the doctor, proud, arrogant, contradictory, headstrong as he was, why did he bear to be thus snubbed? Because he knew that the squire of Greshamsbury when struggling with debt and poverty required an indulgence for his weakness. Had Mr. Gresham been in easy circumstances the doctor would by no means have stood by so placently with his hands in his pockets and have had Mr. Umbel be thus thrown in his teeth. The doctor loved the squire, loved him as his oldest friend, but he loved him ten times better as being an adversity than he could ever have done had things gone well at Greshamsbury in his time. While this was going on downstairs, Mary was sitting upstairs with Beatrice Gresham in the school room. The old school room, so-called, devoted to the use of the grown-up young ladies of the family, whereas one of the old nurseries was now the modern school room, Mary well knew her way into the sanctum and, without asking any questions, walked up to it when her uncle went to the squire. On entering the room she found that Augusta and the lady Alexandrina were also there and she hesitated for a moment at the door. Come in, Mary, said Beatrice. You know my cousin Alexandrina. Mary came in and having shaken hands with her two friends was bowing to the lady when the lady condescended, put out her noble hand and touched Miss Thorn's fingers. Beatrice was Mary's friend and many heart-burnings and much mental solicitude did that young lady give to her mother by indulging in such a friendship. But Beatrice, with some faults, was true at heart and she persisted in loving Mary Thorn in spite of the hints which her mother so frequently gave as to the impropriety of such an affection. Nor had Augusta any objection to the society of Miss Thorn. Augusta was a strong-minded girl with much of the decorcy arrogance but quite as well inclined to show it in opposition to her mother as in any other form. To her alone in the house did Lady Arabella show much deference. She was now going to make a suitable match with the man of large fortune who had been procured for her as an eligible pafti by her aunt, the Countess. She did not pretend, had never pretended, that she loved Mr. Moffat but she knew, she said, that in the present state of her father's affairs such a match was expedient. Mr. Moffat was a young man of very large fortune in Parliament, inclined to business and in every way recommendable. He was not a man of birth, to be sure. That was to be lamented in confessing that Mr. Moffat was not a man of birth. Augusta did not go so far as to admit that he was the son of a tailor. Such, however, was of the rigid truth in this matter. He was not a man of birth. That was to be lamented. But in the present state of affairs at Gresham spree she understood well that it was her duty to postpone her own feelings in some respect. She would bring blood in connection and, as she so said, her bosom glowed with strong pride to think that she would be able to contribute so much more towards the proposed future partnership than her husband would do. It was thus that Ms. Gresham spoke of her match to her dear friends, her cousins the Decorses, for instance, to Miss Oriole, her sister Beatrice, and even to Mary Thorn. She had no enthusiasm, she admitted, but she thought she had good judgment. She thought she had shown good judgment in accepting Mr. Moffat's offer, though she did not pretend to any romance of affection. And having so said, she went to work with considerable mental satisfaction, choosing furniture, carriages, and clothes, not extravagantly as her mother would have done, not in deference to stern and dictates of the latest fashion as her aunt would have done, with none of the girlish glee to do purchases which Beatrice would have felt, but with sound judgment. She bought things that were rich, for her husband was to be rich, and she meant to avail herself of his wealth. She bought things that were fashionable, for she meant to live in the fashionable world, but she bought what was good and strong and lasting and worth its money. Augusta Gresham had perceived early in life that she could not obtain success either as an heiress or as a beauty, nor could she shine as a wit. She therefore fell back on such qualities as she had and determined to win the world as a strong-minded, useful woman. That which she had of her own was blood. Having that, she would in all ways do what in her lay to enhance its value. Had she not possessed it, it would to her mind have been the vainest of pretenses. When Mary came in, the wedding preparations were being discussed. The number and names of the bridesmaids were being settled. The dresses were on the tapis. The invitations to be given were talked over. Sensible as Augusta was, she was not above such feminine cares. She was indeed rather anxious that the wedding should go off well. She was a little ashamed of her tailor's son, and therefore anxious that things should be as brilliant as possible. The bridesmaids' names had just been written on a card as Mary entered the room. There were the ladies Emilia, Rosina, Margareta, and Alexandrina, of course, at the head of it. Then came Beatrice and the twins, then Miss Oriole, who, though only a parson's sister, was a person of note, birth, and fortune. After this there had been a great discussion whether or not there should be any more. If there were to be one more, there must be two. She had a direct wish, and Augusta, though she would much rather have done without her, hardly knew how to refuse. Alexandrina, we hope we may be allowed to drop the lady for the sake of brevity for the present scene only, was dead against such an unreasonable request. We none of us know her, you know, and it would not be comfortable. Beatrice strongly advocated the future sister-in-law's acceptance into the bevy. It was pained that Mary Thorn should not be among the number, and if Miss Moffat were accepted, perhaps Mary might be brought in as her colleague. If you have Miss Moffat, said Alexandrina, you must have dear Pussy, too, and I really think that Pussy is too young. It will be troublesome. Pussy was the youngest Miss Gresham, who was now only eight years old, and whose real name was Nina. Augusta said Beatrice, speaking with some slight hesitation, some supso of doubt before the high authority of her noble cousin. If you do have Miss Moffat, would you mind asking Mary Thorn to join her? I think Mary would like it, because you see Patience Oriole is to be one, and we have known Mary much longer than we have known Patience. Then out and spake the Lady Alexandrina. Beatrice dear, if you think of what you are asking, for you will see that it would not do, would not do at all. Miss Thorn is a very nice girl, I am sure, and indeed what little I have seen of her I highly approve. But after all, who is she? Mama, I know, thinks that Aunt Aravella has been wrong to let her be here so much, but Beatrice became rather red in the face, and in spite of the dignity of her cousin was preparing to defend her friend. Mind, I am not saying a word against Miss Thorn. If I am married before her, she shall be one of my bridesmaids, said Beatrice. That will probably depend on circumstances, said the Lady Alexandrina. I find that I cannot bring my courteous pen to drop the title. But Augusta is very peculiarly situated. Mr. Moffat is, you see, not of the very highest birth, and therefore she should take care of her side. Everyone about her is well-born. Then you cannot have Miss Moffat, said Beatrice. No, I would not, if I could help it, said the cousin. But the Thorns are as good a family as the Greshams, said Beatrice. She had not quite the courage to say as good as the Decorses. I dare say they are, and if this was Miss Thorn of Ullathorn, Augusta probably would not object to her. But can you tell me who Miss Mary Thorn is? She is Dr. Thorn's niece. You mean that she is called so, but do you know who her father was or who her mother was? I, for one, must own I do not. Mama, I believe, does, but at this moment the door opened gently and Mary Thorn entered the room. It may easily be conceived that while Mary was making her salutations the three other young ladies were a little cast aback. The Lady Alexandrina, however, quickly recovered herself and by her inimitable presence of mind and facile grace of manner soon put the matter on a proper footing. We were discussing Miss Gresham's marriage, said she. I am sure I may mention to an acquaintance of so long standing as Miss Thorn that the first of September has now been fixed for the wedding. Miss Gresham? Acquaintance of so long standing? Why, Mary and Augusta Gresham had for years, we will hardly say now for how many, passed their mornings together in the same school-room, had quarreled and squabbled and caressed and kissed, and had been all but his sisters to each other. Acquaintance indeed! Beatrice felt that her ears were tingling and even Augusta was a little ashamed. Her words had come from a decorcy and not from Gresham and did therefore not resent them. So it settled, Augusta, is it, said she, the first of September. I wish you joy with all my heart. And coming round she put her arm over Augusta's shoulder and kissed her. The lady Alexandrina could not but think that the doctor's niece uttered her congratulations very much as though she had a father and mother of her own. You will have delicious weather, continued Mary. September and the beginning of October is the nicest time of the year. If I were going honeymooning it is just the time of year I would choose. I wish you were, Mary, said Beatrice. So do not hide, dear, till I have found some decent sort of a body to honeymoon along with me. I won't stir out of Gresham's free till I have sent you off before me and where will you go, Augusta? We have not settled that, said Augusta. Mr. Moffat talks of Paris. Who ever heard of going to Paris in September, said the lady Alexandrina. Or who ever heard of the gentleman having anything to say on the matter, said the doctor's niece. Of course, Mr. Moffat will go wherever you are pleased to take him. The lady Alexandrina was not pleased to find out completely the doctor's niece took upon herself to talk and sit and act at Gresham's free as though she was on a par with the young ladies of the family that Beatrice should have allowed this would not have surprised her, but it was to be expected that Augusta would have shown better judgment. These things require some tact in their management, some delicacy when high interests are at stake, said she. In ordinary circumstances with ordinary people perhaps the lady should have her way. Rank, however, has its drawbacks misthorn as well as its privileges. I should not object to the drawbacks, said the doctor's niece, presuming them to be of some use, but I fear I might fail in getting on so well with the privileges. The lady Alexandrina looked at her as though not fully aware whether she intended to be pert. In truth the lady Alexandrina was rather in the dark on the subject. It was almost impossible. It was incredible that a fatherless, motherless doctor's niece should be pert to an earl's daughter at Gresham's free, seeing that the earl's daughter was the cousin of the Miss Greshams. And yet the lady Alexandrina hardly knew what other construction to put on the word she had just heard. It wasn't any rate clear to her that it was not becoming that she should just then stay any longer in that room. Whether she intended to be pert or not, Miss Mary Thorn was, to say the least, very free. The decorcy ladies knew what was due to them, no ladies better, and therefore the lady Alexandrina made up her mind at once to go to her own bedroom. Augusta, she said, rising slowly from her chair in much stately composure, it is nearly time to dress. Will you come with me? We have a great deal to settle, you know." So she swam out of the room and Augusta, telling Mary that she would see her again at dinner, swam. No, tried to swim after her. Miss Gresham had had great advantages, but she had not been absolutely brought up at Corsi Castle and could not as yet quite assume the Corsi style of swimming. Miss Mary is the door closed behind the rustling muslins of the ladies. There I have made an enemy for ever, perhaps too. That's satisfactory. And why have you done it, Mary? When I am fighting your battles behind your back, why do you come and upset at all by making the whole family of the decorcies dislike you? In such a matter as that they'll all go together. I'm sure they will, said Mary, but in the case of love and charity that indeed is another question. But why should you try to make my cousin angry, you that ought to have so much sense? Don't you remember what you were saying yourself the other day of the absurdity of combating pretenses which the world sanctions? I do, Trichy. I do. Don't scold me now. It is so much easier to preach than to practice. I do so wish I was a clergyman. You have done so much harm, Mary. Have I, said Mary, kneeling on the ground at her friend's feet? If I humble myself very low, if I kneel through the whole evening in a corner, if I put my neck down and let all your cousins trample on it and then your aunt, would not that make atonement? I would not object to wearing sat-cloth, either, and I'd eat a little ashes but still I think you're a fool. I do indeed. I am a fool, Trichy. I do confess it and am not a bit clever but don't scold me. You see how humble I am. Not only humble but humble, which I look upon to be the comparative or indeed superlative degree. Or perhaps there were four degrees, humble, humble, stumble, tumble, and then when one is stoop any further. Oh, Mary! And, oh, Trichy, you don't mean to say I may and speak out before you. There, perhaps you'd like to put your foot on my neck and then she put her head down to the footstool and kissed Beatrice's feet. I'd like, if I dared, to put my hand on your cheek and give you a good slap for being such a goose. Any which ever you like. I can't tell you how vexed I am, said Beatrice. I wanted to arrange something. Arrange something? What? Arrange what? I love arranging. I fancy myself qualified to be an arranger general in female matters. I mean pots and pans and such like. Of course I note a lieu to extraordinary people for arranging. Very well, Mary. But it's not very well. It's very bad if you look like that. Well, my pet, there I won't. I won't allude to the noble blood of your noble relatives, either in joke or in earnest. What is it you want to arrange, Trichy? I want you to be one of Augustus Bridesmaids. The same category of finery as the noble blood from Corsi Castle? Patience is to be one. But that is no reason why impatience should be another and I should be very impatient under such honors. No, Trichy, joking apart, do not think of it. Even if Augustus wished it I should refuse. I should be obliged to refuse. I could not stand with your four lady cousins behind your sister at the altar in such a galaxy they would be the stars and I. Why, Mary, all the world knows that you are prettier than any of them. I am all the world's very humble servant. But, Trichy, I should not object if I were as ugly as the veiled prophet and they all as beautiful as again not on its beauty but on its birth. You know how they would look at me, how they would scorn me, and there in church at the altar with all that is solemn round us I could not return there scorn as I might do elsewhere. In a room I'm not a bit afraid of them all. And Mary was again allowing herself to be absorbed by that feeling that the moment was the first to blame. You often say, Mary, that that sort of arrogance should be despised and passed over without notice. So it should, Trichy. I tell you that as a clergyman tells you to hate riches, but though the clergyman tells you so, he is not the less anxious to be rich himself. I particularly wish you the honor which honor has not been and will not be offered to me. No, Trichy, I will not be Augustus Bridesmaid, but what, dearest? But Trichy, when someone else is married, when the new wing has been built to a house that you know of, now, Mary, hold your tongue where you know you'll make me angry. I do so like to see you when that wedding does take place. Then I will be a Bridesmaid, Trichy. Yes, even though I am not invited. Yes, though all the decorcies and barcatures should tread upon me and obliterate me, though I should be as dust among the stars, though I should creep up in Calico among their satins and lace, I will nevertheless be there close, close to the Bridesmaid. And she threw her arms round her companion, kissing her over and over again. No, Trichy, I won't be Augustus Bridesmaid. I'll bide my time for Bridesmaiding. What protestation spiritualists made against the probability of such an event as foreshadowed in her friend's promise we will not repeat. The afternoon came to the young air. End of Chapter 4 Chapter 5 of Dr. Thorn This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Dr. Thorn by Anthony Trollop Chapter 5 Frank Gresham's First There came to the Gresham's free dinner on Frank's birthday the Jacksons of the Grange consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Jackson, the Batesons from Ansgrove, Viz, Mr. and Mrs. Bateson and Miss Bateson their daughter, an unmarried lady of about fifty, the bakers of Mill Hill, Father and Son, and Mr. Caleb Oriel, director with his beautiful sister Patience. Dr. Thorn assembled at Gresham's free. There was nothing very magnificent in the number of the guests thus brought together to do honour to young Frank, but he perhaps was called on to take a more prominent part in the proceedings to be made more of a hero than would have been the case had half the county been there. In that case the importance of the guests would have been so great that Frank would have had to take a little bit to everyone, and very weary work he found it. The Batesons, bakers, and Jacksons were very civil, no doubt the more so from an unconscious feeling on their part that as the squire was known to be a little out at elbows as regards money any deficiency on their part might be considered as owing to the present state of affairs at Gresham's free. And the man absolutely possessing it is not apt to be suspicious as to the treatment he may receive, but the ghost of fourteen thousand a year is not always so self-assured. Mr. Baker with his moderate income was a very much richer man than the squire and therefore he was peculiarly forward in congratulating Frank on the brilliancy of his prospects. Poor Frank had hardly knew, and before dinner was announced he was very tired of it. He had no warm of feeling for any of his grand cousins than a very ordinary cousinly love, and he had resolved, forgetful of birth and blood, and all those gigantic considerations which, now that manhood had come upon him, he was bound always to bear in mind, he had resolved to sneak out the dinner comfortably with Mary and other loved, patience orial. Great, therefore, was this consternation, that finding that after being kept continually in the foreground for half an hour before dinner he had to walk out to the dining-room with his aunt the Countess and take his place for the day at the bottom of the table. It will now depend all together upon yourself, Frank, whether you maintain or lose said the Countess, as she walked through the spacious hall, resolving to lose no time in teaching to her nephew that great lesson which it was so imperative that he should learn. Frank took this as an ordinary lecture meant to inculcate general good conduct, such as old boars of ants or apt to inflict on youthful victims in the shape of nephews and nieces. All square ant had no mistake. When I get back to Cambridge I'll read like bricks. His aunt did not care too straws about his reading. It was not by reading that the Greshams of Greshamsbury had held their heads up in the county, but by having high blood and plenty of money. The blood had come naturally to this young man, but it behoved him to look for the money to help him. She might probably be able to fit him with a wife who would bring her money into his birth. His reading was a matter in which he could in no way assist him, whether his taste might lead him to prefer books or pictures or dogs and horses or turnips and drills or old Italian plates and dishes, was a matter which did not much signify, with which it did not. You are going to Cambridge again, are you? Well, if your father wishes it, though very little is ever gained now by a university connection. I am to take my degree in October, aunt, and I am determined at any rate that I won't be plucked. Plucked? No, I won't be plucked. Baker was plucked last year, and all because he got into the market. Malthusians, we call them. Malthusians? Malt, you know, aunt, and use, meaning that they drink beer. So poor Harry Baker got plucked. I don't know that a fellow's any the worse, however I won't get plucked. By this time the party had taken their place round the long board, Mr. Gresham sitting at the top, into place usually occupied by Lady Gresham on the one side as the Countess did on the other. If, therefore, Frank now went astray, it would not be from want of proper leading. Aunt, will you have some beef, said he, as soon as the soup and the fish had been disposed of, anxious to perform the rites of hospitality, now for the first time committed to his charge? My hand is not in yet for this work hand. Well, as I was saying about Cambridge. Is Frank to go back to Cambridge, our Bella, said the Countess to her sister in law, speaking across her nephew? So his father seems to say. Is it not a waste of time, asked the Countess? You know I never interfere, said the Christchurch man, but the Greshams, it seems, were always at Cambridge. Would it not be better to send him abroad at once? Much better, I would think, said the Lady Arabella, but you know I never interfere. Perhaps you could speak to Mr. Gresham. The Countess smiled grimly and shook her head with a decidedly negative anger and fool that it is no use speaking to him. It would be wasting fragrance on the desert air. She could not have spoken more plainly. The effect on Frank was this, that he said to himself, speaking quite as plainly as Lady DeCorsi had spoken by her shake of the head. My mother and aunt are always down on the Governor, always, but the more they rickson I'll begin tomorrow. Now will you take some beef, aunt? This was said out loud. The Countess DeCorsi was very anxious to go on with her lesson without loss of time, but she could not while surrounded by guests and servants enunciate the great secret. You must marry money, Frank, that is your one great duty, that is the matter to be patient, wait, and impress of emphasis, pour this wisdom into his ears, the more especially as he was standing up to his work of carving and was deep to his elbows in horse radish, fat, and gravy. So the Countess sat silent while the banquet proceeded. Beef, Harry, shouted the young heir to his friend Baker, oh, but I see it isn't your turn yet. I don't eat, cut out with great energy in one slice about half an inch thick. And so the banquet went on. Before dinner Frank had found himself obliged to make numerous small speeches in answer to the numerous individual congratulations of his friends, but these were as nothing to the one great accumulated onus of an oration which he had long known that he should have done. Someone of course would propose his health, and then there would be a clatter of voices, ladies and gentlemen, men and girls, and when that was done he would find himself standing on his legs with the room about him going round and round and round. Having had a previous hint of this he had sought advice from his cousin, the Honourable George, whom the deuce is a fellow to say George when he stands up after the clatter is done. Oh, it's the easiest thing in life, said the cousin. Only remember this. You mustn't get astray. That is what they call presence of mind, you know. I'll tell you what I do, and I'm often called up, you know, at our agricultures I always propose the farm as daughters. Well, what I would do, I'll tell you. But one of the bottles, said Frank, wouldn't it be better if I made a mark of some old cubby's head? I don't like looking at the table. The old cubby had moved and then you'd be done. Besides there isn't the least use in the world in looking up. I've heard people say, who go to those sort of dinners every day of their lives, I'll be quite the other way. But there's no reason you shouldn't learn the manner. That's the way I succeeded. Fix your eye on one of the bottles, put your thumbs in your waistcoat pockets, stick out your elbows, bend your knees a little, and then go ahead. Oh, ah, go ahead. That's all very well, but you can't go ahead if you haven't got any steam. A very little does it. There is a question here about the farmer's daughters. Why one has to use one's brains a bit. Let's see, how will you begin? Of course you'll say you are not accustomed to this sort of thing, that the honour conferred upon you is too much for your feelings, that the bright array of beauty and talent around you quite overpowers your tongue and all that sort of thing, then declare you'll have the countess as black as old Nick. About my aunt George, what on earth can I say about her when she's there herself before me? Before you, of course, that's just the reason. Oh, say any lie you can think of. You must say something about us. You know we've come down from London on purpose. Frank, in spite of the benefit he was receiving from his husband in London, but this he kept to himself. He thanked his cousin for his hints, and though he did not feel that the trouble of his mind was completely cured, he began to hope that he might go through the ordeal without disgracing himself. Nevertheless he felt rather sick at heart when Mr. Baker got up to propose the toast as soon as the servants were gone. The old housekeeper headed the maids at one door, standing boldly inside the room, and the butler controlled the men at the other, marshalling them back with a drawn corkscrew. Mr. Baker did not say much, but what he did say he said well. They had all seen Frank Gresham grow up from a child, and were now required to welcome as a man amongst them the one who was well qualified to carry on the honour of that loved and respected family. His young friend, Frank, was every inch of Gresham. Mr. Baker omitted to make mention of the infusion of the decorcy blood, and the countess, therefore, drew herself up on her chair, and looked as though she were extremely bored. He then alluded tenderly to his own long friendship with the elder, and sat down begging them to drink health, prosperity, long life, and an excellent wife to their dear young friend, Francis Newbold Gresham the Younger. There was a great jingling of glasses, of course, made the merrier and the louder by the fact that the ladies were still there as well as the gentlemen. Ladies don't drink toasts frequently, and drink your good health, Frank, and especially a good wife, Frank, two or three of them, Frank, good health and prosperity to you, Mr. Gresham, more power to you, Frank, my boy. May God bless you and preserve you, my dear boy, and then a merry, sweet, eager voice from the far end of the table. Frank, Frank, do look at me, pray, do, Frank, I am drinking your toast, Mr. Gresham, Mr. Francis Newbold Gresham the Younger, as he essayed to rise up on his feet for the first time since he had come to man's estate. When the clatter was at an end, and he was fairly on his legs, he cast a glance before him on the table to look for a decanter. He had not much liked his cousin's theory of sticking to the bottle. Nevertheless, his eye could not catch one. Indeed, his eye first could catch nothing, for the thing swam before him, and all the guests seemed to dance in their chairs. Up he got, however, and commenced his speech. As he could not follow his preceptor's advice as touching the bottle, he adopted his own crude plan of making a mark on some old cubby's head, and all that sort of thing. Upon my word I am, especially to Mr. Baker, I don't mean you, Harry, you're not Mr. Baker. As much as you're Mr. Gresham, Master Frank, but I am not Mr. Gresham, and I don't mean to be for many a long year if I can help it, not at any rate till we have had another coming of age here. Bravo, Frank, and who's there? That will be my son, and a very fine lad he will be, and I hope he'll make a better speech than his father. Mr. Baker said I was every inch of Gresham. Well, I hope I am. Here the Countess began to look cold and angry. I hope the day will never come when my father won't own me for one. There's no fear, no angry, and muttered something to herself about a bear-garden. God a Gresham, eh? Harry, mind that when you're sticking in a gap and I'm coming after you. Well, I am sure I am very much obliged to you for the honour you have all done me, especially the ladies who don't do this sort of thing on ordinary occasions. I wish they did, and he is not worth the trouble, but all the same I am very much obliged to them, and he looked round and made a little bow at the Countess. And so I am to Mr. and Mrs. Jackson, and Mr. and Mrs. and Ms. Bateson, and Mr. Baker, I'm not at all obliged to you, Harry, and to Mr. Oriel, and Ms. Oriel, and to Mr. Umbelby, and to Dr. Thorn, and to Mary. I have a string of blessings which came from the servants behind him. After this the ladies rose and departed. As she went, Lady Arabella kissed her sons forward, and then his sisters kissed him, and one or two of his lady cousins, and then Miss Bateson shook him by the hand. Oh, Miss Bateson said he. I thought the kissing was to go all round. So Miss Bateson and the extensive draperies of the grander ladies hardly allowed her eyes to meet his. He got up to hold the door for them as they passed, and as they went he managed to take patience by the hand. He took her hand and pressed it for a moment, but dropped it quickly in order that he might go through the same ceremony with Mary. But Mary was too quick for him. The ceremony is now over, so you may have your place of dignity. Frank set himself down where he was told, and Mr. Gresham put his hand on his son's shoulder, and half caressed him while the tears stood in his eyes. I think the doctor is right, Baker. I think he'll never make us ashamed of him. I'm sure he never will, said Mr. Baker. I don't think he ever will, said Dr. Thorn. The tones of the men's voices were very different. Mr. Baker did not care a straw about it. Why should he? He had an air of his own as well as the squire, one also who was the apple of his eye. But the doctor, he did care. He had a niece to be sure whom he loved, perhaps as well as these men loved their sons, but there was room in his heart also for young Frank Gresham. After this small silent for a moment or two. But silence was not dear to the heart of the Honourable John, so he took up the running. That's a niceish nag you gave Frank this morning, he said to his uncle. I was looking at him before dinner. He's a monsoon, isn't he? Well, I can't say I know how he was bred, said the squire. He shows a good deal of breeding. He's a monsoon, I'm sure, said the Honourable John. You gave a goodish figure for him? Not so very much, said the squire. He's a trained hunter, I suppose. If not, he soon will be, said the squire. Let Frank alone for that, said Harry Baker. He jumps beautifully, sir, said Frank. I haven't tried him myself, but Peter made him go over the bar two or three times this morning. The Honourable John was determined to give his cousin a helping hand as very ill-used and being put off with so incomplete a stud and thinking also that the son had not spirit enough to attack his father himself on the subject, the Honourable John determined to do it for him. He's the making of a very nice horse, I don't doubt. I wish you had a string like him, Frank. Frank felt the blood rush to his face. He would not for worlds have his father think that he was discontented or discontented that morning. He was heartily ashamed of himself in that he had listened with a certain degree of complacency to his cousin's tempting, but he had no idea that the subject would be repeated and then repeated too before his father in a manner to vex him on such a day as this, before such people as were assembled there. He was very angry with his cousin and for a moment forgot all his hereditary words. I tell you what, John, said he, do you choose your day, some day early in the season, and come out on the best thing you have, and I'll bring not the black horse but my old mare, and then do you try and keep near me. If I don't leave you at the back of God's speed before long, I'll give you the mare and the horse too. The Honourable John was not known in Barsicher as one of the most forward of its top of the thing was concerned. He was great in boots and britches, wondrously conversant with bits and bridles, and he had quite a collection of saddles, and patronised every newest invention for carrying spare shoes, sandwiches and flasks of sherry. He was prominent at the coverside. Some people, including the master of hounds, thought him perhaps a little too loudly prominent. He was speaking acquaintance with every man's horse. But when the work was cut out, when the pace began to be sharp, when it behooved a man either to ride, or visibly to decline to ride, then, so at least said they who had not the decorcy interest quite closely at heart, then in those heart-stirring moments the Honourable John was too often found deficient. There was therefore a constant boast by a desire to save his father, challenged his cousin to a trial of prowess. The Honourable John was not perhaps as much accustomed to the ready use of his tongue, as was his Honourable Brother, seeing that it was not his annual business to depict the glories of the farmer's daughters. At any rate, on this occasion, he seemed to be at some loss for words. He shut up, as the slang phrase goes, and made young Gresham with a proper string of hunters. But the old squire had understood it all, had understood the meaning of his nephew's attack, had thoroughly understood also the meaning of his son's defence, and the feeling which actuated it. He also had thought of the stable full of horses, which had belonged to himself when he came of age, and of the much more humble position which his son would have to fill for him. He thought of this and was sad enough, though he had sufficient spirit to hide from his friends around him the fact that the Honourable John's arrow had not been discharged in vain. He shall have champion, said the father to himself, it is time for me to give it up. Now champion was one of the two fine old hunters which the squire kept for his own use. And it might have been much we are speaking, that the only really happy moments of his life were those in which he spent in the field, so much as to its being time for him to give up. End of Chapter 5 Chapter 6 of Dr. Thorn. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Frank Gresham's Early Loves It was, we have said, the first of July, and such being the time of year, the ladies, after sitting in the drawing-room for half an hour or so, began to think that they might as well go through the drawing-room windows onto the lawn. First one slipped out a little way and then another, and then they got onto the lawn, and then they talked of their wives, found themselves dressed for walking. The windows, both of the drawing-room and the dining-room, looked out onto the lawn, and it was only natural that the girl should walk from the format of the latter. It was only natural that they, being there, should tempt their swains to come to them by the sight of their broad-rimmed hats and evening dresses, and natural also that the temptation should not be found. Soon found themselves alone around the wine. Upon my word we were enchanted by your eloquence, Mr. Gresham. Were we not? said Miss Oriel, turning to one of the Dacorsi girls who was with her. Miss Oriel was a very pretty girl, a little older than Frank Gresham, perhaps a year or so. She had dark hair, large round, dark eyes, a nose a little too broad, a pretty mouth, a beautiful chin, and as we have said before, a large fortune, that is moderately large, let us say twenty thousand pounds there or thereabouts. She and her brother had been living at Greshamsbury for the last two years, the living having been purchased for him, such were Mr. Gresham's necessities during the lifetime of the last old incumbent. Miss Oriel was in every respect a nice neighbor. She was good-humored, ladylike, lively, neither too clever nor too stupid, belonging to a good family, sufficiently fond of this world's good things, as became a pretty lady so endowed, and sufficiently fond also of the other world's good things, as became the mistress of a clergyman's house. Indeed, yes, said the lady Margareta. Frank is very eloquent. When he described our rapid journey from London, he nearly moved me to tears, but I think he carves better. I wish you'd had to do it, Margareta, both the carving and the talking. Thank you, Frank, you're very civil. But there's one comfort, Miss Oriel. It's over now and done. A fellow can't be made to come of age twice. But you'll take your degree, Mr. Gresham, and then, of course, there'll be another speech, and then you'll get married. There will be two or three more. I'll speak at your wedding, Miss Oriel, long before I do it my own. I shall not have the slightest objection. It will be so kind of you to patronize my husband. But by Joe, will he patronize me? I know you'll marry some awful bigwig or some terribly clever fellow, won't she, Margareta? Miss Oriel was saying so much in praise of you before you came out, said Margareta, that I began to think that her mind was intent on remaining at Gresham's free all her life. Blushed and patience laughed. There was but a year's difference in their age. Frank, however, was still a boy, though patience was fully a woman. I am ambitious, Lady Margareta, said she. I own it, but I am moderate in my ambition. I do love Gresham's free, and if Mr. Gresham had a younger brother, perhaps you know. Another, just like myself, I suppose, said Frank. Oh yes, I could not possibly wish for any change. Just as eloquent as you are, Frank, said the Lady Margareta. And as good a carver, said patience. Miss Bateson has lost her heart to her forever because of his carving, said the Lady Margareta. But perfection never repeats itself, said patience. Well, you see, I have not got any brothers, said Frank, so all I can do is to sacrifice myself. Upon my word, Mr. Gresham, I am under more than ordinary obligations to you. I am indeed. And Miss Oriole stood still in the path and made a very graceful curtsy. Dear me, only think, Lady Margareta, that I should be honoured with an offer from the air the very moment he is legally entitled to make one. And done with so much gallantry, too, said the other, expressing himself quite willing to postpone any views of his own or your advantage. Yes, said patience, that's what I value so much. Had he loved me now, there would have been no merit on his part. But a sacrifice, you know? Yes, ladies, are so fond of sacrifices, Frank. Upon my word I had no idea you were so very excellent at making speeches. Well, said Frank, I shouldn't have said sacrifice. That was a slip. What I meant was, oh, dear me, said patience, wait a minute, now we are going to make a regular declaration. Lady Margareta, you haven't got a scent bottle, have you? And if I should faint, where's the garden chair? Oh, but I'm not going to make a declaration at all, said Frank. Are you not? Oh, now, Lady Margareta, I appeal to you. Did you not understand him to say something very particular? Certainly, I thought nothing could be plainer, said the man. Well, it means nothing, said patience, putting her handkerchief up to her eyes. It means that you are an excellent hand at quizzing a fellow like me. Quizzing, no, but you are an excellent hand at deceiving a poor girl like me. Well, remember, I have got a witness. Here is Lady Margareta who heard it all. What a pity it is that my brother is a clergyman. You know, she said so just as her brother joined them, or rather just as he had joined Lady Margareta to Corsi, for her ladyship and Mr. Aurel walked on in advance by themselves. Lady Margareta had founded rather dull work, making a third in Miss Aurel's flirtation with her cousin, the more so as she was quite accustomed to take a principal part herself in all such transactions. She therefore not unwillingly accepted her role. Mr. Aurel, it must be conceived, was not a common everyday person, but had points about him which made him quite fit to associate with an earl's daughter. And, as it was known that he was not a marrying man, having very exalted ideas on that point connected with his profession, the Lady Margareta, of course, had the less objection to trust herself alone with him. It was very well making a fool of the lad of twenty-one when others were by, but there might be danger in it when they were alone together. I don't know any position on earth more enviable than yours, Mr. Gresham, said she, quite soberly and earnestly, how happy you ought to be. What, in being laughed at by you, Miss Aurel, for pretending to be a man when you choose to make out that pretty well generally, but I can't say your laughing at me makes me feel so happy as you say I ought to be. Frank was evidently of an opinion totally different from that of Miss Aurel. Miss Aurel, when she found herself tater-tater with him, thought it was time to give over flirting. Frank, however, imagined that it was just the moment for him to begin. So he spoke and looked very carefully. Oh, Mr. Gresham, such good friends as you and I may laugh at each other, may we not? You may do what you like, Miss Aurel, beautiful women I believe always may, but you remember what the spider said to the fly, that which is sport to you may be death to me. Anyone looking at Frank's face as he said this might well have imagined that he was breaking his very head, but thus in the green leaf what will you do in the dry? While Frank Gresham was thus misbehaving himself and going on as though to him belonged the privilege of falling in love with pretty faces, as it does to plow boys and other ordinary people, his great interests were not forgotten by those guardian saints who was so anxious to shower down on his head all manner of temporal blessings. When Frank Gresham's regardens, in which nothing light had been allowed to present itself, nothing frivolous had been spoken. The Countess, the Lady Arabella, and Miss Gresham had been talking over Gresham's free affairs, and they had laterally been assisted by the Lady Amelia, than whom no decorcy ever born was more wise, more solemn, more prudent or more proud. The Countess had sometimes too much even for her mother, and her devotion to the peerage was such that she would certainly have declined a seat in heaven if offered to her without the promise that it should be in the upper house. The subject first discussed had been Augusta's prospects. Mr. Moffat had been invited to Corsi Castle, and Augusta had been taken thither to meet him with the express intention that this had been careful to make it intelligible to her sister-in-law and niece, that though Mr. Moffat would do excellently well for a daughter of Gresham's free, he could not be allowed to raise his eyes to a female scion of Corsi Castle. Not that we personally dislike him, said the Lady Amelia, but rank has its drawbacks, Augusta, as the Lady Amelia was now somewhat nearer forty than thirty, and was still allowed to walk fancy-free. It may be presumed that in her case rank had been found to have serious drawbacks. To this Augusta said nothing in objection. Whether desirable by a Corsi or not, the match was to be hers, and there was no doubt whatever as to the wealth of the man whose name she was to take, the offer had been made not to her, but to her aunt. The acceptance had been expressed not by her, but by her aunt. Had she thought of recapitulating in her memory all that had ever passed between Mr. Moffat and herself she would have found that it did not amount to more than the most ordinary conversation between chance partners in a ballroom. Nevertheless, she was to be Mrs. Moffat. All that Mr. Gresham knew of him was that when he met the young man for the first and only time in his life he found him extremely hard to deal with in the matter of money. He had insisted on having ten thousand pounds with his wife and at last refused to go on with the match unless he got six thousand pounds. This latter sum the poor squire had undertaken to pay him. Mr. Moffat had been for a year or two MP for Barchester having been assisted in his views on that ancient city by all the Corsi interest. He was a wig, of course. Not only had Barchester departing in several days returned a wig member of parliament but it was declared that at the next election, now near at hand a radical would be set up. A man pledged to the ballot to economies of all sorts one who would carry out Barchester politics in all their abrupt obnoxious pestilent virulence. This was one scattered a great railway contractor a man who was a native of Barchester and who had bought property and who had achieved a sort of popularity there and elsewhere by the violence of his democratic opposition to the aristocracy. According to this man's political tenets, the conservatives should be laughed at as fools but the wigs should be hated as naves. Mr. Moffat was now coming down to Corsi castle to look after his electioneering interests and Miss Gresham was to return with her aunt to meet him. The Countess was very anxious that Frank should also accompany them. Her great doctrine that he must marry money had been laid down with authority and received without doubt. She now pushed it further and said that no time should be lost that he should not only marry money but do so very early in life there was always danger in delay. The Greshams, of course she eluded only to the males of the family were foolishly soft hearted. No one could say what might happen. There was that Miss Thorn always at Greshamsbury. This was more than the Lady Aurebellic at stand. She protested that there was at least no ground for supposing that Frank would absolutely disgrace his family. Still the Countess persisted. Perhaps not, she said, but when young people of perfectly different ranks were allowed to associate together there was no saying what danger might arise. They all knew that old Mr. Bateson and his cousin Mr. Bateson's father had gone off with the governess and young Mr. Everberry near Taunton had only the other day married at Cookmaid. But Mr. Everberry was always drunk and said Augusta, feeling called upon to say something for her brother. Never mind, my dear, these things do happen and they are very dreadful. Horrible, said the Lady Emilia diluting the best blood of the country and paving the way for revolutions. This was very grand, but nevertheless Augusta could not be feel that she perhaps might be about to dilute the blood of her coming children in marrying the tailor's son. She consoled herself by trusting that at any rate she paved the way for no revolutions. When a thing is so necessary, said the Countess, it cannot be done too soon. Now, Arabella, I don't say that anything will come of it, but it may. Miss Dunstable next week, now we all know that when old Dunstable died last year he left over two hundred thousand to his daughter. It is a great deal of money, certainly, said Lady Arabella. It would pay off everything and a great deal more, said the Countess. It was ointment, was it not, and said Augusta. I believe so, my dear, something called the ointment of Lebanon or something of that sort, but there's no doubt about the money. Does she resign, asked the anxious mother? About thirty, I suppose, but I don't think that much signifies. Thirty, said Lady Arabella, rather dolefully, and what is she like? I think that Frank already begins to like girls that are young and pretty. But surely ant, said Lady Amelia, now that he has come to man's discretion he will not refuse to consider all that he owes to his family. A Mr. Gresham of Greshamsbury has a position to support. The Decorsi science spoke these last words in the sort of tone that a parish clergyman would use in warning some young farmer's son that he should not put himself on an equal footing with the plow-boys. It was at last decided that the Countess should herself convey to Frank a special invitation to Corsi Castle and that when she got him there she should do all that lay in her power to prevent his return to Cambridge and to further the Dunstable marriage. We did think of Miss Dunstable for poor luck once, she said naively, but when we found that it wasn't much over two hundred thousand, why that idea fell to the ground? The terms on which the Decorsi blood might be allowed to dilute itself were, it must be presumed, very high indeed. Augusta was sent off to find her brother and to send him to the Countess in the small drawing-room. Here the Countess was to have her tea apart from the outer common world, and here, without interruption, she was to teach her great lesson to her nephew. Augusta did find her brother and found him in the worst of bad society, so at least the stern Decorsis would have thought. Old Mr. Bateson of the governess, Mr. Everberry and his cook's diluted blood and ways paved for revolutions all presented themselves to Augusta's mind when she found her brother walking with no other company than Mary Thawne and walking with her two in much too close proximity. How he had contrived to be off with the old love and so soon on with the new, or rather to be off with the new love and again on with the old, we will not stop to inquire. Had Lady Arabella in truth known all her son's doings in this way, could she have guessed how very nigh he had approached the iniquity of old Mr. Bateson and to the folly of young Mr. Everberry? She would in truth have been in a hurry to send him off to Corsi Castle and Miss Dunstable. Some days before the commencement of our story young Frank had sworn in sober earnest in what he intended for his most sober earnest, his most earnest sobriety, that he loved Mary Thawne with a love for which words could find no sufficient expression, with a love that could never die, never grow dim, never become less, which no opposition on the part of others could extinguish, which no opposition on her part could repel, that he might, could, would, and should have her for his wife, and that if she told him she didn't love him he would, oh, oh, Mary, do you love me? Don't you love me? Won't you love me? Say you will. Oh, Mary, dearest Mary, will you? Won't you? Do you? Don't you? Come now, you have a right to follow an answer. With such eloquence had the air of Greshamsbury, when not yet twenty-one years of age, attempted to possess himself of the affections of the doctor's niece, and yet three days afterwards he was quite ready to flirt with Miss Oriole. If such things are done in the green wood what will be done in the dry? And what had Mary said when these fervent protestations of an undying love had been thrown and yet must be remembered was very nearly of the same age as Frank. But, as I and others have so often said before, women grow on the sunny side of the wall. Though Frank was only a boy it behooved Mary to be something more than a girl. Frank might be allowed, without laying himself open to much just reproached, to throw all of what he believed to be his heart into a protestation of what he believed to be love, but Mary was duty bound to be more thoughtful, more reticent, more aware of the facts of their position, more careful of her own feelings and more careful also of his. And yet she could not put him down as another young lady might put down another young gentleman. It is very seldom that a young man, unless he be tipsy, assumes an unwelcome familiarity in his early acquaintance with any girl. But when acquaintance has been long familiarity must follow as a matter of course. Frank and Mary had been so much together in his holidays that so constantly consorted together as boys and girls, that as regarded her he had not that innate fear of a woman which represses a young man's tongue, and she was so used to his good humor, his fun, and his high jovial spirits, and was with all so fond of them and him that it was very difficult for her to mark with accurate feeling and stop with reserved brow the shade of change from a boy's liking to a man's love. And Beatrice, too, had done harm in this matter. With the spirit painfully unequal to that of her grand relatives, she had quizzed Mary and Frank about their early flirtations. This she had done but had instinctively avoided doing so before her mother and sister, and had thus made a secret as it were between herself, Mary, and her brother, had given currency as it were to the idea that there might be something very serious between the two. Not that Beatrice had ever wished to promote a marriage between them or had even thought of such a thing. She was girlish, thoughtless, imprudent, inartistic, and very unlike a decorcy. Very unlike a decorcy she was in all that, but nevertheless she had the decorcy celebration for blood and more than that she had the Gresham feeling joined to that of the decorcies. The Lady Amelia would not for worlds have had the decorcy blood defiled, but gold she thought could not defile. Now Beatrice was ashamed of her sister's marriage and had often declared within her own heart that nothing could have made her marry a Mr. Moffat. She had said so also to Mary and Mary had told her that she was right. Mary was also proud of blood, was proud of her uncle's blood, and the two girls talked together in all the warmth of girlish confidence of the great glories of family traditions and family honors. Beatrice had talked in utter ignorance as to her friend's birth and Mary, poor Mary, she had talked being as ignorant but not without a strong suspicion that at some future dime a day of sorrow would tell her fearful truth. On one point Mary's mind was strongly made up. No wealth, no mere worldly advantage could make anyone her superior. If she were born a gentlewoman, then she was fit to match with any gentleman that the most wealthy man in Europe, poor all his wealth at her feet, she could have so inclined give him back at any rate more than that. That offered at her feet she knew would never tempt her to yield the pleasures of her heart, the guardianship of her soul, the possession of her mind, not that alone, nor that even as any possible slightest traction of a make-wait. If she were born a gentlewoman and then came to her mind those curious questions, what makes a gentleman, what makes a gentle woman, what is the inner reality, the spiritualized quintessence of that privilege in the world which men call rank, which thousands and hundreds of thousands to bow down before the few elect? What gives or can give it or should give it? And she answered the question, absolute, intrinsic, acknowledged individual merit must give it to its possessor, let him be whom and what and whence he might. So far the spirit of democracy was strong with her. Beyond this it could be had but by inheritance, received as it were second hand or twenty second hand and so far the spirit of aristocracy was strong within her. All this she had managed, as may be imagined, learned in early years from her uncle, and all this she was at great pains to teach Beatrice Gresham the chosen of her heart. When Frank declared that Mary had a right to give him an answer, he meant that he had a right to expect one. Mary acknowledged this right to give him. Mr. Gresham, she said. Oh, Mary, Mr. Gresham? Yes, Mr. Gresham, it must be Mr. Gresham after that. And moreover, it must be misthorn as well. I'll be shot if it shall, Mary. Well, I can't say that I shall be shot if it be not so. But if it be not so, if you do not agree that it shall be so, I shall be turned out of Gresham's free. The other, said Frank. Indeed I mean no such thing, said Mary, with a flash from her eye that made Frank almost start. I mean no such thing. I mean you, not your mother. I am not in the least afraid of Lady Arabella, but I am afraid of you. Afraid of me, Mary? Miss Thorn, pray, pray, remember it must be Miss Thorn. Do not turn me out of Gresham's free. Do not be Beatrice. It is you that will drive me out, no one else. I could stand my ground against your mother, I feel I could, but I cannot stand against you if you treat me otherwise than what? I want to treat you as the girl I have chosen from all the world as my wife. I am sorry you should so soon have fouted necessary to make a choice. But Mr. Gresham, we must not joke about this at present. I am sure you would willingly injure me, but if you speak to me or of me again in that way, you will injure me. Injure me so much that I shall be forced to leave Gresham's free in my own defence. I know you are too generous to drive me to that. And so the interview had ended. Frank, of course, went upstairs to see if his new pocket pistols were all ready, properly cleaned, loaded and capped. Should he find, after a few days, that prolonged existence was unendurable? However, he managed to live through the subsequent period, doubtless with the view of preventing any disappointment to his father's guests. End of Chapter 6