 Chapter 5 Frank Gresham's First Speech We have said that over and above those assembled in the house there came to the Gresham's every dinner on Frank's birthday, the Jacksons of the Grange, consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Jackson, the Batesons from Ansgrove, there's 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 Ordeal, the rector, with his beautiful sister-patience. Dr. Thorn and his niece Mary, we count among those already assembled at Gresham's Brie. 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 got off with a half-mutted speech or two. But now he had to make a separate aeration to every one, and very weary work he founded. 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 Brie. Fourteen thousand a year will receive honour. In that case there is no doubt, 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 anticipated what there would be to do, and before dinner was announced he was very tired of it. He had no warmer feeling for any of the 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 to dinner comfortably with Mary Thorn if possible, and if not with Mary, then with his other love, Patience Oriole. Great, therefore, was his consternation at 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 to take his father's place for the day at the bottom of the table. It will now depend altogether upon yourself, Frank, whether you maintain or lose, that high position in the county, which has been held by the Greshams for so many years, 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 bores of ants are apt to inflict on useful victims in the shape of nephews and nieces. Yes, said Frank, I suppose so, and I mean to go along all square, aunt, and 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 in a great measure himself. She, ladies of course, he could doubtless help him. She might probably be able to fit him with a wife who would bring her money onto his birth. His reading was a matter in which she could in no way assist him, whether his taste might lead him to prefer books or pictures or dogs and horses or turnips in drills or old Italian plates and dishes, with a matter which did not much signify, with which it was not at all necessary that his noble aunt should trouble herself. Oh, we 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 wrong set at John's. He's an excellent fellow, if you knew him. He got among a set of men who did nothing but smoke and drink beer. Maltusians, we call them. Maltusians? 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 longboard, Mr. Gresham sitting at the top, in the place usually occupied by Lady Arabella. She, on the present occasion, sat next to her son 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 fish had been disposed of, anxious to perform the rites of hospitality, now for the first time committed to his charge. Do not be in a hurry, Frank, said his mother. The servants will— Oh, I forgot! There are cutlets and those sort of things. My hand is not in yet, for this work, aren't? Well, as I was saying about Cambridge, is Frank to go back to Cambridge, Arabella? 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 Lady Arabella. I never liked the idea of Cambridge myself at all. All the decoracies were Christ-church men, 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 would speak to Mr. Gresham. The Countess smiled grimly and shook her head with the decidedly negative shake. Had she said out loud to the young man, Your father is such an obstinate, pig-headed ignorant 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 D'Corsi had spoken by her shake of the face, my mother and aunt are always down on the Governor, always. But the more they are down on him, the more I'll stick to him. I certainly will take my degree. I will read like bricks, and I'll begin to-morrow. Now, will you take some beef, aunt? This was said out loud. The Countess D'Corsi 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 borne steadfastly in your mind. She could not now, with sufficient weight 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 horseradish, 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 beg your pardon, Miss Bateson. And he sent to that lady a pound and a half of excellent meat 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 to sustain after the class was taken away. 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 he regarded as a dab at speaking, at least so he had heard the Honourable George say of himself. What the deuces of 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. But our agricultures I always propose the farmers' daughters. Well, what I do is this. I keep my eyes steadfastly fixed on one of the bottles, and never move it. On one of the bottles, said Frank, wouldn't it be better if I made a mark of some old Covey's head? I don't like looking at the table. The old Covey, it move, 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, that whenever anything witty is said, the fennel who says it is sure to be looking at the mahogany. Oh, you know I shan't say anything witty. 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, go ahead. That's all very well. But you can't go ahead if you haven't got any steam. Oh, very little, does it? There can be nothing so easy as your speech. When one has to say something new every year 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 that 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 your aggression to the backbone. Oh, they know that. Well, tell them again. Then, of course, you must say something about us, or 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 cousin's erudition, could not help wishing in his heart that they had all remained in London. With 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 servants, that is, were gone officially, but they were there in a body, men and women, nurses, cooks and ladies-maids, coachmen, grooms and footmen, standing in two doorways to hear what Master Frank would say. 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, one who was well qualified to carry on the honour of that loved and respected family. His young friend Frank was every incher Gresham. Mr. Baker omitted to make mention of the infusion of 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 present squire, Francis Newbold Gresham 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 therefore the occasion coming rarely was the more enjoyed. Good bless you, Frank. You're 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 health in real wine, ain't I, Papa? Such were the addresses which greeted Mr. Francis Newbold Gresham the Younger, as he assayed 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, in the difficulty of the moment, it was well to have any system to go by. But as misfortune would have it, though the table was covered with bottles, his eye could not catch one. Indeed, his eye first could catch nothing, for the things swam before him, and the guests all 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 Covey's head, and therefore looked dead at the doctor. Upon my word, I am very much obliged to you, gentlemen and ladies, ladies and gentlemen, I should say, for drinking my health and doing me so much honour 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 whose will that be? That will be my son, and a very fine lad he will be, and I hope you'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 fear, said the doctor, who was almost put out of countenance by the auditor's intense gaze. The Countess looked colder and more angry, and muttered something to herself about a bear-garden. God, eh, Gresham, eh! Harry, mind that when you're sticking in a gap and I'm coming after you. Well, I am sure I'm very 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, don't you, doctor? And, talking of the ladies, my aunt and cousins have come all the way from London to hear me make this speech, which certainly 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. Bateson, and Mr. Baker—I'm not at all obliged to you, Harry—and to Mr. Oriole and Miss Oriole, and to Mr. Umblebee, and to Dr. Thorn, and to Mary—I beg her pardon, I mean Miss Thorn—and then he sat down, amid the loud plaudits of the company, and 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 son's forehead, 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 laughed and went her way, and patience Oriole nodded at him, but Mary Thorn, as she quietly left the room, almost hidden among 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. Frank, said Mr. Cresham, as soon as the door was closed, bring your glass here, my boy, and the father made room for his son close beside himself. The ceremony is now over, so you may have your place of dignity. Frank sat himself down where he was told, and Mr. Cresham 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 am 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 Cresham. After this small exposure of feeling, they sat silent for a moment or two. But silence was not dear to the heart of the Honourable John, and so he took up the running. That's a niceish snag you gave Frank this morning, he said to his uncle. I was looking at him before dinner. He is 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 is a monsoon, I'm sure, said the Honourable John. They have all those ears and that peculiar dip in the back. I suppose you gave a goodish figure for him. Not so very much, said the squire. He's a drain-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 he considered it. He thought that Frank was very ill-used in being put off with so incomplete a stard, 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 is 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 otherwise than pleased with the present he had received 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 respect for a decorcy. 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 in the horse, too. The honourable John was not known in Barsature as one of the most forward of its riders. He was a man much addicted to hunting, as far as the get-up of the thing was concerned. He was great in boots and britches, wondrously conversant with bits and bridles. 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 cover side. Some people, including the master of hounds, thought him perhaps a little too loudly prominent. He affected a familiarity with the dogs, and was on speaking acquaintance with every man's horse. But when the work was cut out, when the pace began to be sharp, when it behoved 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 considerable laugh at his expense, when Frank, instigated by his innocent 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 no further allusion to the necessity of supplying 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 than that which his father had prepared 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 said of him now, at the period of which we are speaking, that the only really happy moments of his life were those which he spent in the field, so much as to its being time for him to give up. End of Chapter 5 Recording by Nick Whitley, Pearlie, United Kingdom Chapter 6 of Dr. Thorn by Anthony Trollop This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Nick Whitley, Pearlie, United Kingdom Chapter 6 Frank Gresham's Early Loves It was, we have said, the first of July, and such being the time of the 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 hats, till by degrees the younger ones of the party, and at last of the elder also, 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 girls should walk from the former to the latter. It was only natural that they, being there, should tempt their swans to come to them by the sight of their broad-brimmed hats and evening-dresses, and natural also that the temptation should not be resisted. The squire, therefore, and the elder-male guests soon found themselves alone round their wine. Upon my word, we were enchanted by your eloquence, Mr. Gresham, were we not? said Miss Oriole, turning to one of the decorcy girls who was with her. Miss Oriole 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 Gresham's Brie 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 Oriole was in every respect a nice neighbour. She was good-humoured, 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 young 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 Margaretta. Frank is very eloquent. When he described our rapid journey from London he nearly moved me to tears. But well as he talks, I think he carves better. I wish you'd had to do it, Margaretta, both the carving and talking. Thank you, Frank. You're very civil. But there's one comfort, Miss Oriole. 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, and there will be two or three more. I'll speak at your wedding, Miss Oriole, long before I do at my own. I shall not have the slightest objection. It will be so kind of you to patronise my husband. But, by Jove, will he patronise me. I know you'll marry some awful bigwig, or some terribly clever fellow. Weren't you, Margaretta? Miss Oriole was saying so much in praise of you before you came out, said Margaretta, that I began to think that her mine was intent on remaining at Gresham's Bray, all her life.' Frank blushed, and patients laughed. There was but a year's difference in their age. Frank, however, was still a boy, though patients was fully a woman. I am ambitious, Lady Margaretta, said she. I own it, but I am moderate in my ambition. I do love Gresham's Bray, 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. Yes, as eloquent as you are, Frank, said the Lady Margaretta, and as good a carver, said patients. Miss Bateson has lost her heart to him forever because of his carving, said the Lady Margaretta. But perfection never repeats itself, said patients. 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 Margaretta, 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 true gallantry, too, said the other, expressing himself quite willing to postpone any views of his own or your advantage. Yes, said patients, 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 such 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 patients, wait a minute. Now we are going to have a regular declaration. Lady Margaretta, 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 Margaretta, I appeal to you. Did you not understand him to say something very particular? Certainly, I thought nothing could be plainer, said the Lady Margaretta. And so, Mr. Gresham, I am to be told that after all it means nothing, said patients, 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 Margaretta, who heard it all. What a pity it is that my brother is a clergyman. You calculated on that, I know, or you would never have served me so. She said so just as her brother joined them, or rather just as he had joined Lady Margaretta to Corsi, for her ladyship and Mr. Aureal walked on in advance by themselves. Lady Margaretta had found it rather dull work making a third in Miss Aureal'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, walked on with Mr. Aureal. Mr. Aureal, it must be conceived, was not a common every-day 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 Margaretta of course had the less objection to trust herself alone with him. But, directly she was gone, Miss Aureal's tone of banter ceased. It was very well making a fool of a 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 Aureal, for pretending to be a man when you choose to make out that I am only a boy, I can bear to be laughed at pretty well generally, but I can't say that 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 Aureal. Miss Aureal, when she found herself tethered 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 languishing, and put on him quite the airs of an Orlando. 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 Aureal. 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 heart for love of Miss Aureal. Oh, Master Frank, Master Frank, if you act 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 ploughboys and other ordinary people, his great interests were not forgotten by those guardian saints who were so anxious to shower down on his head all manner of temporal blessings. Another conversation had taken place in the Gresham'sbury Gardens, 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'sbury affairs, and they had latterly been assisted by the Lady Amelia, than whom no D'Corsi ever born was more wise, more solemn, more prudent, or more proud. The ponderosity of her qualifications for nobility was 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 with her to meet him, with the express intention on the part of the Countess, that they should be man and wife. The Countess 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'sbury, 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 in maiden meditation 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 decorcy interest. He was a wig, of course. Not only had Barchester, departing from the light of other days, returned a wig member of Parliament, but it was declared that at the next election, now near at hand, a radical would be sent 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, who had bought property in the neighbourhood, 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 nades. 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 alluded 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 Arabella could 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, the present Mr. Bateson's father, had gone off with the governess, and young Mr. Everberry, near Taunton, had only the other day married a cook maid. But Mr. Everberry was always drunk, aunt, said Augusta, feeling called upon to say something for her brother. Never mind, my dear, these things do happen. They are very dreadful. Horrible, said the Lady Amelia, diluting the best blood of the country, and paving the way for revolutions. This was very grand, but nevertheless Augusta could not but 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 is coming down to us 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, aunt? 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. But how old is she, Rosina? 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 Frankel ready begins to like girls that are young and pretty. But surely oint, said the 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 Dacourcy scion 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 Coursy 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 Pollock 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 Dacourcy 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 Dacources would have thought. Old Mr. Bateson and the governess, Mr. Everberry and his cooks 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 Thorn, and walking with her too 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 at 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 Thorn 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 give a fellow an answer. With such eloquence had the air of Gresham'sbury, 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 Aureole, 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 at her feet? Mary, it 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 behoved Mary to be something more than a girl. Frank might be allowed, without laying himself open to much just reproach, to throw all of what he believed to be his heart into a protestation of what he believed to be love, but Mary was in 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 and intimate, familiarity must follow as a matter of course. Frank and Mary had been so much together in his holidays, had 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 humour, his fun and high jovial spirits, and was with also 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 a 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 of it, as it were, between herself, Mary, and her brother, had given currency, as it were, to the idea that there might be something 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 veneration 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 also was 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 honours. 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 time a day of sorrow would tell her some 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 was she fit to match with any gentleman. Let the most wealthy man in Europe pour all his wealth at her feet. She could, if so inclined, give him back at any rate more than that. That offered at her feet she knew would never tempt her to yield up the fortress of her heart, the guardianship of her soul, the possession of her mind, not that alone, nor that even as any possible slightest fraction of a make-weight, if she were born a gentlewoman, and then came to her mind those curious questions. What makes a gentleman? What makes a gentlewoman? What is the inner reality, the spiritualised quintessence of that privilege in the world which men call rank, which forces the 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, as may be imagined, learnt 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 and gave it to him. Mr. Gresham, she said, oh Mary, Mr. Gresham? Yes, Mr. Gresham, it must be Mr. Gresham after that, and moreover it must be Miss Thorn 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 Greshamsbury. What? You mean my mother, 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 Aravella, 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 Greshamsbury. Do not separate me from 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—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 found it necessary to make a choice, but, Mr. Gresham, we must not joke about this at present. I am sure you would not willingly injure me, but if you speak to me or off me again in that way, you will injure me. Injure me so much that I shall be forced to leave Greshamsbury 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 clean, loaded, and capped, should he find, after a few days' experience, that prolonged existence was unendurable. However, he managed to live through the subsequent period doubtless with a view of preventing any disappointment to his father's guests. Chapter 7 The Doctor's Garden Mary had contrived to quiet her lover with considerable propriety of demeanour. Then came on her the somewhat harder task of quieting herself. Young ladies on the whole are perhaps quite as susceptible of the softer feelings as young gentlemen are. Now, Frank Gresham was handsome, amiable, by no means a fool in intellect, excellent in heart, and he was, moreover, a gentleman, being the son of Mr. Gresham of Greshamsbury. Mary had been, as it were, brought up to love him. Had ought but good happened to him, she would have cried as for a brother. It must not therefore be supposed that when Frank Gresham told her that he loved her, she had heard it altogether unconcerned. He had not perhaps made his declaration with that propriety of language in which such scenes are generally described as being carried on. Ladies may perhaps think that Mary should have been deterred by the very boyishness of his manner from thinking at all seriously on the subject. His, Will you, won't you, do you, don't you, does not sound like the poetic raptures of a highly inspired lover? But nevertheless there had been warmth and a reality in it, not in itself repulsive, and Mary's anger—anger? No, not anger. Her objections to the declarations were probably not based on the absurdity of her lover's language. We are inclined to think that these matters are not always discussed by mortal lovers in the poetically passionate phraseology, which is generally thought to be appropriate for their description. A man cannot well describe that which he has never seen nor heard, but the absolute words and acts of one such scene did once come to the author's knowledge. The couple were by no means plebeian, or below the proper standard of high bearing and high breeding. They were a handsome pair living among educated people, sufficiently given to mental pursuits, and in every way what a pair of polite lovers ought to be. The all-important conversation passed in this wise. The sight of the passionate scene was the seashore on which they were walking in autumn. Gentlemen, well, miss, the long and short of it is this. Here I am, you can take me or leave me. Lady, scratching a gutter on the sand with her parasol, so as to allow a little salt water to run out of one hole into another. Of course, I know that's all nonsense. Gentlemen, nonsense! By Jove it isn't nonsense at all. Come, Jane, here I am. Come. At any rate you can say something. Lady, yes, I suppose I can say something. Gentlemen, well, which is it to be? Take me or leave me. Lady, very slowly, and with a voice perhaps hardly articulate, carrying on at the same time her engineering works on a wider scale, well, I don't exactly want to leave you. And so the matter was settled, settled with much propriety and satisfaction, and both the lady and gentleman would have thought, had they ever thought about the matter at all, that this, the sweetest moment of their lives, had been graced by all the poetry by which such moments ought to be hallowed. When Mary had, as she thought, properly subdued young Frank, the offer of whose love she, at any rate, knew was at such a period of his life an utter absurdity, then she found it necessary to subdue herself. What happiness on earth could be greater than the possession of such a love? Had the true possession been justly and honestly within her reach, what man could be more lovable than such a man as would grow from such a boy? And then did she not love him, love him already, without waiting for any change? Did she not feel that there was that about him, about him and about herself too, which might so well fit them for each other? It would be so sweet to be the sister of Beatrice, the daughter of the squire, to belong to Greshamsbury as a part and parcel of itself. But though she could not restrain these thoughts, it never for a moment occurred to her to take Frank's offer in earnest. Though she was a grown woman, he was still a boy. He would have to see the world before he settled in it, and would change his mind about woman half a score of times before he married. Then too, though she did not like the Lady Arabella, she felt that she owed something, if not to her kindness, at least to her forbearance, and she knew, felt inwardly certain, that she would be doing wrong, that the world would say she was doing wrong, that her uncle would think her wrong, if she endeavored to take advantage of what had passed. She had not for an instant doubted. Not for a moment had she contemplated it as possible that she should ever become Mrs. Gresham, because Frank had offered to make her so, but nevertheless she could not help thinking of what had occurred, of thinking of it most probably much more than Frank did himself. A day or two afterwards, on the evening before Frank's birthday, she was alone with her uncle, walking in the garden behind their house, and she then essayed to question him with the object of learning, if she were fitted by her birth, to be the wife of such a one as Frank Gresham. They were in the habit of walking there together, when he happened to be at home of a summer's evening. This was not often the case, for his hours of labour extended much beyond those usual to the upper working world, the hours namely between breakfast and dinner, but those minutes that they did thus pass together, the doctor regarded as perhaps the pleasantest of his life. Uncle, said she, after a while, what do you think of this marriage of Mrs. Gresham's? Well, Mini, such was his name of endearment for her. I can't say I have thought much about it, and I don't suppose anybody else has either. She must think about it, of course, and so must he, I suppose. I'm not so sure of that. Some folks would never get married if they had to trouble themselves with thinking about it. I suppose that's why you never got married, uncle. Either that or thinking of it too much. One is as bad as the other. Mary had not contrived to get at all near her pointers yet, so she had to draw off, and after a while begin again. Well, I have been thinking about it at any rate, uncle. That's very good of you. That will save me the trouble, and perhaps save Mrs. Gresham too, if you have thought it over thoroughly, that will do for all. I believe Mr. Moffat is a man of no family. He'll mend in that point no doubt when he has got a wife. Uncle, you're a goose, and what is worse, a very provoking goose. Nice, you're a gander, and what is worse, a very silly gander. What is Mr. Moffat's family to you and me? Mr. Moffat has that which ranks above family honours. He is a very rich man. Yes, said Mary, I know he is rich, and a rich man I suppose can buy anything, except a woman that is worth having. A rich man can buy anything, said the doctor. Not that I meant to say that Mr. Moffat has bought Miss Gresham. I have no doubt that they will suit each other very well, he added, with an air of decisive authority, as though he had finished the subject. But his niece was determined not to let him pass so. Now, Uncle, said she, you know you are pretending to a great deal of worldly wisdom, which after all is not wisdom at all in your eyes. Am I? You know you are, and as for the impropriety of discussing Miss Gresham's marriage, I did not say it was improper. Oh, yes you did. Of course such things must be discussed. How is one to have an opinion, if one does not get it by looking at the things which happen around us? Now, I am going to be blown up, said Dr. Thorn. Dear Uncle, do be serious with me. Well then, seriously, I hope Miss Gresham will be very happy as Mrs. Moffat. Of course you do, so do I. I hope it as much as I can hope, what I don't at all see ground for expecting. People constantly hope without any such ground. Well then, I'll hope in this case. But, Uncle, well, my dear, I want your opinion truly and really. If you were a girl, I am perfectly unable to give any opinion founded on so strange and hypothesis. Well, but if you were a marrying man, the hypothesis is quite as much out of my way. But, Uncle, I am a girl, and perhaps I may marry, or at any rate think of marrying some day. Lateral alternative is certainly possible enough. Therefore, in seeing a friend taking such a step, I cannot but speculate on the matter as though I were myself in her place. If I were Miss Gresham, should I be right? But, Minnie, you are not Miss Gresham. No, I am Mary Thorn. It is a very different thing, I know. I suppose I might marry anyone without degrading myself. It was almost ill-natured of her to say this, but she had not meant to say it in the sense which the sounds seemed to bear. She had failed in being able to bring her Uncle to the point she wished by the road she had planned, and in seeking another road she had abruptly fallen into unpleasant places. I should be very sorry that my niece should think so, said he, and am sorry too that she should say so. But Mary, to tell the truth, I hardly know at what you were driving. You are, I think, not so clear-minded, certainly not so clear-worded, as is usual with you. I will tell you, Uncle, and instead of looking up into his face, she turned her eyes down on the green lawn beneath her feet. Well, Minnie, what is it? And he took both her hands in his. I think that Miss Gresham should not marry Mr. Moffat. I think so because her family is high and noble, and because he is low and ignoble. When one has an opinion on such matters, one cannot but apply it to things and people around one, and having applied my opinion to her, the next step naturally is to apply it to myself. Were I Miss Gresham, I would not marry Mr. Moffat, though he rolled in gold. I know where to rank Miss Gresham. What I want to know is where I ought to rank myself. They had been standing when she commenced her last speech, but as she finished it the doctor moved on again, and she moved with him. He walked on slowly, without answering her, and she, out of her full mind, pursued aloud the tenor of her thoughts. If a woman feels that she would not lower herself by marrying in a rank beneath herself, she ought also to feel that she would not lower a man that she might love by allowing him to marry into a rank beneath his own, that is, to marry her. That does not follow, said the doctor quickly. A man raises a woman to his own standard, but a woman must take that of the man she marries. Again they were silent, and again they walked on, Mary holding her uncle's arm with both her hands. She was determined, however, to come to the point, and after considering for a while how best she might do it, she ceased to beat any longer about the bush, and asked him a plain question. The thorns are as good a family as the Greshams, are they not? In absolute genealogy they are, my dear. That is, when I choose to be an old fool and talk of such matters in a sense different from that in which they are spoken of by the world at large, I may say that the thorns are as good or perhaps better than the Greshams. But I shall be sorry to say so seriously to any one. The Greshams now stand much higher in the county than the thorns do. But they are of the same class. Yes, yes. Wiltrid Thorn of Allathorn, and our friend the Squire here, are of the same class. But, uncle, I and Augusta Gresham, are we of the same class? Well, Minnie, you would hardly have me boast that I am the same class with the Squire. I, a poor country doctor, you are not answering me fairly, dear uncle. Dearest uncle, do you not know that you are not answering me fairly? You know what I mean. Have I a right to call the thorns of Allathorn my cousins? Mary, Mary, Mary, said he after a minute's pause, still allowing his arm to hang loose, that she might hold it with both her hands? Mary, Mary, Mary, I would that you had spared me this. I could not have spared it to you for ever, uncle. I would that you could have done so. I would that you could. It is over now, uncle. It is told now. I will grieve you no more. Dear, dear, dearest, I should love you more than ever now. I would, I would. I would, if that were possible. What should I be but for you? What must I have been but for you? And she threw herself on his breast, and, clinging with her arms round his neck, kissed his forehead, cheeks, and lips. There was nothing more said then on the subject between them. Mary asked no further question, nor did the doctor volunteer further information. She would have been most anxious to ask about her mother's history had she dared to do so, but she did not dare to ask. She could not bear to be told that her mother had been, perhaps was, a worthless woman, that she was truly a daughter of a brother of the doctor that she did know. Little as she had heard of her relatives in her early youth, few as had been the words which had fallen from her uncle in her hearing as to her parentage, she did know this, that she was the daughter of Henry Thorn, a brother of the doctor, and a son of the old promendry. Trifling little things that had occurred, accidents which could not be prevented, had told her this. But not a word had ever passed on anyone's lips as to her mother. The doctor, when speaking of his youth, had spoken of her father, but no one had spoken of her mother. She had long known that she was the child of a Thorn. Now she knew also that she was no cousin of the Thorns of Unathorn, no cousin at least in the world's ordinary language, no niece indeed of her uncle, unless by his special permission that she should be so. When the interview was over she went up alone to the drawing-room, and there she sat, thinking, she had not been there long before her uncle came up to her. He did not sit down, or even take off the hat which she still wore, but coming close to her, and still standing, he spoke thus. Mary, after what has passed I should be very unjust, and very cruel to you, not to tell you one thing more than you have now learned. Your mother was unfortunate in much, not in everything, but the world which is very often stern in such matters never judged her to have disgraced herself. I tell you this, my child, in order that you may respect her memory, and so saying he again left her without giving her time to speak a word. What he then told her he had told in mercy. He felt what must be her feelings when she reflected that she had to blush for her mother, that not only could she not speak of her mother, but that she might hardly think of her with innocence, and to mitigate such sorrow as this, and also to do justice to the woman whom his brother had so wronged, he had forced himself to reveal so much as is stated above. And then he walked slowly by himself, backwards and forwards through the garden, thinking of what he had done with reference to this girl, and doubting whether he had done wisely and well. He had resolved, when first the little infant was given over to his charge, that nothing should be known of her or by her as to her mother. He was willing to devote himself to this orphan child of his brother, this last seedling of his father's house. But he was not willing so to do this, as to bring himself in any manner into familiar contact with the sketchards. He had boasted to himself that he at any rate was a gentleman, and that she, if she were to live in his house, sit at his table, and share his house, must be a lady. He would tell no lie about her. He would not do any one make her out to be ought other or ought better than she was. People would talk about her, of course, only let them not talk to him. He conceived of himself, and the conception was not without due ground, that, should any do so, he had that within him which would silence them. He would never claim for this little creature, thus brought into the world without a legitimate position in which to stand. He would never claim for her any station that would not properly be her own. He would make for her a station as best he could, as he might sink or swim, so should she. So he had resolved. But things had arranged themselves, as they often do, rather than being arranged by him. During ten or twelve years no one had heard of Mary Thorn. The memory of Henry Thorn and his tragic death had passed away. The knowledge that an infant had been born whose birth was connected with that tragedy, a knowledge never widely spread, had faded down into utter ignorance. At the end of these twelve years Dr. Thorn had announced that a young niece, a child of a brother long since dead, was coming to live with him. As he had contemplated, no one spoke to him. But some people did no doubt talk among themselves. Whether or not the exact truth was surmised by any, it matters not to say. With absolute exactness, probably not. With great approach to it, probably yes. By one person at any rate, no guess whatever was made, no thought relative to Dr. Thorn's niece ever troubled him. No idea that Mary Scatchard had left a child in England ever occurred to him. And that person was Roger Scatchard, Mary's brother. To one friend, and only one, did the doctor tell the whole truth. And that was to the old squire. I have told you, said the doctor, partly that you may know that the child has no right to mix with your children if you think much of such things. Do you, however, see to this, I would rather that no one else should be told. No one else had been told. And the squire had seen to it by accustoming himself to look at Mary Thorn running about the house with his own children, as though she were of the same brood. Indeed, the squire had always been fond of Mary, had personally noticed her, and, in the affair of Mamzell Larran, had declared that he would have her placed at once on the bench of magistrates, much to the disgust of the Lady Arabella. And so things had gone on and on, and had not been thought of with much downright thinking till now, when she was one and twenty years of age, his niece had come to him, asking as to her position, and inquiring in what rank of life she was to look for a husband. And so the doctor walked backwards and forwards through the garden, slowly, thinking now with some earnestness, what if, after all, he had been wrong about his niece? What if, by endeavouring to place her in the position of a lady, he had falsely so placed her? And robbed her of all legitimate position? What if there was no rank of life to which she could now properly attach herself? And then how had it answered that plan of his, of keeping her all to himself? He, Dr. Thorn, was still a poor man. The gift of saving money had not been his. He had ever had a comfortable house for her to live in, and in spite of Dr. Philgrave's century rear child and others, had made from his profession an income sufficient for their joint wants. But he had not done as others do. He had no three or four thousand pounds in the three per cents on which Mary might live in some comfort when he should die. Late in life he had ensured his life for eight hundred pounds, and to that, and that only, had he to trust for Mary's future maintenance. How had it answered then this plan of letting her be unknown to and undreamt of by those who were as near to her on her mother's side as he was on the father's? On that side, though there had been utter poverty, there was now absolute wealth. But when he took her to himself, had he not rescued her from the very depths of the lowest misery, from the degradation of the workhouse, from the scorn of honest-born charity-children, from the lowest of the world's low conditions? Was she not now the apple of his eye, his one great sovereign comfort, his pride, his happiness, his glory? Was he to make her over, to make any portion of her over to others? If by doing so she might be able to share the wealth, as well as the course manners and uncouth society of her had present unknown connections. He who had never worshipped wealth on his own behalf, he who had scorned the idol of gold, and had ever been teaching her to scorn it, was he now to show that his philosophy had all been false, as soon as the temptation to do so was put in his way? But yet what man would marry this bastard child, without a sixpence, and bring not only poverty but ill blood also on his own children? It might be very well for him, Dr. Thorn, for him whose career was made, whose name at any rate was his own, for him who had a fixed standing ground in the world. It might be well for him to indulge in large views of a philosophy antagonistic to the world's practice, but had he a right to do it for his niece? What man would marry a girl so placed, for those among whom she might have legitimately found a level, education had now utterly unfitted her. And then he well knew that she would never put out her hand in token of love to any one without telling all she knew and all she surmised as to her own birth. And that question of this evening, had it not been instigated by some appeal to her heart? Was there not already within her breast some cause for disquietude which had made her so pertinacious? Why else had she told him then, for the first time, that she did not know where to rank herself? If such an appeal had been made to her, it must have come from young Frank Gresham. What in such case would it behove him to do? Should he pack up his all, his lancid cases, pestle and mortar, and seek a new fresh ground in a new world, leaving behind a huge triumph to those learned enemies of his, fill-grave, century, and rear-child? Better that than remain at Gresham's bray at the cost of his child's heart and pride. And so he walked slowly backwards and forwards through his garden, meditating these things painfully enough.