 Chapter 34 of Dr. Thorn by Antony Trollop, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Nick Whitley, Pearlie, United Kingdom. Chapter 34 of Berush and Four arrives at Greshamsbury. During the last twelve months, Sir Louis Scatchard had been very efficacious in bringing trouble, turmoil, and vexation upon Greshamsbury. Now that it was too late to take steps to save himself, Dr. Thorn found that the will left by Sir Roger was so made as to entail upon him duties that he would find it almost impossible to perform. Sir Louis, though his father had wished to make him still a child in the eye of the law, was no child. He knew his own rights and was determined to exact them, and before Sir Roger had been dead three months, the doctor found himself in continual litigation with a low barchester attorney who was acting on behalf of his, the doctor's own board. And if the doctor suffered, so did the squire, and so did those who had hitherto had the management of the squire's affairs. Dr. Thorn soon perceived that he was to be driven into litigation not only with Mr. Finney, the barchester attorney, but with the squire himself. While Finney harassed him, he was compelled to harass Mr. Gresham. He was no lawyer himself, and though he had been able to manage very well between the squire and Sir Roger, and had perhaps given himself some credit for his lawyer-like ability in so doing, he was utterly unable to manage between Sir Louis and Mr. Gresham, he had therefore to employ a lawyer on his own account, and it seemed probable that the whole amount of Sir Roger's legacy to himself would by degrees be expended in this manner, and then the squire's lawyers had to take up the matter, and they did so greatly to the detriment of poor Mr. Yates Umbelby, who was found to have made a mess of the affairs entrusted to him. Mr. Umbelby's accounts were incorrect. His mind was anything but clear, and he confessed, when put to it by the very sharp gentleman that came down from London, that he was bothered, and so after a while he was suspended from his duties, and Mr. Gaysby, the sharp gentleman from London, reigned over the diminished rent-roll of the Greshamsbury estate. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury, with the one exception of Mr. Aureal and his love-suit. Miss Gushing attributed the deposition of Mr. Umbelby to the narrowness of the victory which Beatrice had won in carrying off Mr. Aureal, for Miss Gushing was a relation of the Umbelby's, and had been for many years one of their family. If she had only chosen to exert herself as Miss Gresham had done, she could have had Mr. Aureal easily, oh too easily, but she had despised such work. So she said, but though she had despised it, the Greshams had not been less irritated, and therefore Mr. Umbelby had been driven out of his house, we can hardly believe this, as victory generally makes men generous. Miss Gushing, however, stated it as a fact so often that it is probable she was induced to believe it herself. Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury, and the squire himself was especially a sufferer. Umbelby had at any rate been his own man, and he could do what he liked with him. He could see him when he liked, and where he liked, and how he liked. Could scold him, if in an ill humour, and laugh at him when in a good humour. All this Mr. Umbelby knew, and bore. But Mr. Gaysby was a very different sort of gentleman. He was the junior partner in the firm of gumption Gaysby and Gaysby of Mount Street, a house that never defiled itself with any other business than the agency business, and that, in the very highest line, they drew out leases, and managed property, both for the Duke of Omnium and Lord D'Corsi. And ever since her marriage it had been one of the object's dearest to Lady Arabella's heart, that the Greshamsbury acres should be super-intended by the polite skill and polished legal ability of their at all but elegant firm in Mount Street. The squire had long stood firm, and had delighted in having everything done under his own eye by poor Mr. Yates Umbelby. But now, alas, he could stand it no longer. He had put off the evil day as long as he could. He had deferred the odious work of investigation, till things had seemed resolved on investigating themselves. And then, when it was absolutely necessary that Mr. Umbelby should go, there was nothing for him left but to fall into the ready hands of Messers Gumption, Gaysby and Gaysby. It must not be supposed that Messers Gumption, Gaysby and Gaysby were in the least like the ordinary run of attorneys. They wrote no letters for six and eight pence each. They collected no debts, filed no bills, made no charge-perfolio for whereses, and as-a-four cents, they did no dirty work, and probably were as ignorant of the interior of a court of law as any young lady living in their mayfair vicinity. No, their business was to manage the property of great people, draw up leases, make legal assignments, get the family marriage settlements made, and look after wills. Occasionally also they had to raise money, but it was generally understood that this was done by proxy. The firm had been going on for a hundred and fifty years, and the designation had often been altered, but it always consisted of gumptions and Gaysbys, differently arranged, and no less hallowed names had ever been permitted to appear. It had been Gaysby, Gaysby, and Gumption, then Gaysby, and Gumption, then Gaysby, Gumption, and Gumption, then Gumption, Gumption, and Gaysby, and now it was Gumption, Gaysby, and Gaysby. Mr. Gaysby, the junior member of this firm, was a very elegant young man. While looking at him riding in rotten row, you would hardly have taken him for an attorney, and had he heard that you had so taken him, he would have been very much surprised indeed. He was rather bald, not being, as people say, quite so young as he was once. His exact age was thirty-eight, but he had a really remarkable pair of jet-black whiskers, which fully made up for any deficiency as to his head. He had also dark eyes, and a beaked nose, what may be called a distinguished mouse, and was always dressed in fashionable attire. The fact was that Mr. Mortimer Gaysby, junior partner in the firm Gumption, Gaysby, and Gaysby, by no means considered himself to be made of that very disagreeable material which mortals call small beer. When this great firm was applied to to get Mr. Gresham through his difficulties, and when the state of his affairs was made known to them, they at first expressed rather a disinclination for the work, but at last moved doubtless by their respect for the decorcy interest, they assented, and Mr. Gaysby, junior, went down to Gresham's brie. The poor squire passed many a sad day after that, before he again felt himself to be master even of his own domain. Nevertheless, when Mr. Mortimer Gaysby visited Gresham's brie, which he did on more than one or two occasions, he was always received en grand senior. To Lady Arabella, he was by no means an unwelcome guest, for she found herself for the first to tame in her life, to speak confidentially on her husband's pecuniary affairs with the man who had the management of her husband's property. Mr. Gaysby also was a pet with lady decorcy, and being known to be a fashionable man in London, and quite a different sort of person from poor Mr. Umbelby, he was always received with smiles. He had a hundred little ways of making himself agreeable, and Augusta declared to her cousin, the Lady Amelia, after having been acquainted with him for a few months, that he would be a perfect gentleman, only that his family had never been anything but attorneys. The Lady Amelia smelled in her own peculiarly aristocratic way, shrugged her shoulders slightly, and said that Mr. Mortimer Gaysby was a very good sort of a person. Very. Poor Augusta felt herself snubbed, thinking perhaps of the tailor's son. But as there was never any appeal against the Lady Amelia, she said nothing more at that moment in favour of Mr. Mortimer Gaysby. All these evils, Mr. Mortimer Gaysby being the worst of them, had Sir Louis Scatchard brought down on the poor squire's head. There may be those who will say that the squire had brought them on himself by running into debt, and so doubtless he had, but it was not the less true that the Baronet's interference was unnecessary, vexatious, and one might almost say malicious. His interest would have been quite safe in the doctor's hands, and he had in fact no legal right to meddle, but neither the doctor nor the squire could prevent him. Mr. Finney knew very well what he was about, if Sir Louis did not. And so the three went on, each with his own lawyer, and each of them distrustful, unhappy, and ill at ease. This was hard upon the doctor, for he was not in debt, and had borrowed no money. There was not much reason to suppose that the visit of Sir Louis to Greshamsbury would much improve matters. It must be presumed that he was not coming with any amicable views, but with the abject rather of looking after his own, a phrase which was now constantly in his mouth. He might probably find it necessary, while looking after his own at Greshamsbury, to say some very disagreeable things to the squire, and the doctor therefore hardly expected that the visit would go off pleasantly. When last we saw Sir Louis, now nearly twelve months since, he was intent on making a proposal of marriage to Miss Thorne. This intention he carried out about two days after Frank Gresham had done the same thing. He had delayed doing so till he had succeeded in purchasing his friend Jenkins's Arab Pony, imagining that such a present could not but go far in weaning Mary's heart from her other lover. Poor Mary was put to the trouble of refusing both the baronet and the pony, and a very bad time she had of it while doing so. Sir Louis was a man easily angered, and not very easily pacified, and Mary had to endure a good deal of annoyance. From any other person indeed she would have called it impertinence. Sir Louis, however, had to bear his rejection as best he could, and after perseverance of three days, returned to London in disgust, and Mary had not seen him since. Mr. Gresham's first letter was followed by a second, and the second was followed by the baronet in person. He also required to be received en grand seigneur, perhaps more imperatively than Mr. Mortimer Gaysby himself. He came with four posters from the barchester station, and had himself rattled up to the doctor's door in a way that took the breath away from all Gresham's Brie. Boy, the squire himself, for a many long year, had been contented to come home with a pair of horses, and four were never seen in the place, except when the de Courses came to Gresham's Brie, or Lady Arabella, with all her daughters, returned from her hard-fought metropolitan campaigns. Sir Louis, however, came with four, and very arrogant he looked, leaning back in the barouche belonging to the Georgian dragon, and wrapped up in fur, although it was now mid-summer, and up in the dickey behind was a servant, more arrogant, if possible, than his master, the baronet's own man, who was the object of Dr. Thorn's special detestation and disgust. He was a little fellow, chosen originally on account of his light weight on horseback, but if that may be considered a merit, it was the only one he had. His outdoor show-dress was a little tight frock-coat, round which a polished strap was always buckled tightly, a stiff white choker, leather britches, top boots, and a hat with a coccade, stuck on one side of his head. His name was Jonah, which his master and his master's friends shortened into Joe. None, however, but those who were very intimate with his master, were allowed to do so with impunity. This Joe was Dr. Thorn's special aversion, in his anxiety to take every possible step to keep Salui from poisoning himself. He had at first attempted to enlist the baronet's own man in the cause. Joe had promised fairly, but had betrayed the doctor at once, and had become the worst instrument of his master's dissipation. When, therefore, his hat and the coccade were seen as the carriage dashed up to the door, the doctor's contentment was by no means increased. Salui was now twenty-three years old, and was a great deal too knowing to allow himself to be kept under the doctor's thumb. It had indeed become his plan to rebel against his guardian in almost everything. He had at first been decently submissive, with the view of obtaining increased supplies of ready money. But he had been sharp enough to perceive that, lad his conduct be what it would, the doctor would keep him at a debt. But that the doing so took so large a sum that he could not hope for any further advances. In this respect Salui was perhaps more keen-witted than Dr. Thorn. Mary, when she saw the carriage, at once ran up to her own bedroom. The doctor, who had been with her in the drawing-room, went down to meet his ward, but as soon as he saw the coccade he darted almost involuntarily into his shop, and shut the door. This protection, however, lasted only for a moment. He felt that decency required him to meet his guest, and so he went forth and faced the enemy. I say, said Joe, speaking to Janet, who stood curtsying at the gate with Bridget the other made behind her, I say, are there any chaps about the place to take these things, eh? Damn, look sharp here. It so happened that the doctor's groom was not on the spot, and other chaps the doctor had none. Take those things, Bridget, he said, coming forward and offering his hand to the baronet. Salui, when he saw his host, roused himself slowly from the back of his carriage. How do doctor, said he, what terrible bad roads you have here, and upon my word it's as cold as winter, and so saying he slowly proceeded to descend. Salui was a year older than when we last saw him, and in his generation a year wiser. He had then been somewhat humble before the doctor, but now he was determined to let his guardian see that he knew how to act the baronet, that he had acquired the manners of a great man, and that he was not to be put upon. He had learnt some lessons from Jenkins in London, and other friends of the same sort, and he was about to profit by them. The doctor showed him to his room, and then proceeded to ask after his health. Oh, I'm right enough, said Salui. You mustn't believe all that fellow Grayson tells you. He wants me to take salts and senor, a poodle-dock, and all that sort of stuff. Looks after his bill, you know, like all the rest of you. But I won't have it, not at any price. And then he writes to you. I'm glad to see you able to travel, said Dr. Thorn, who could not force himself to tell his guest that he was glad to see him at Greshamsbury. Oh, travel! Yes, I can travel well enough. But I wish you had some better sort of trap down in these country parts. I'm shaken to bits. And, Doctor, would you tell your people to send that fellow of mine up here with hot water? So dismissed, the doctor went his way, and met Joe swaggering in one of the passages, while Janet and her colleague dragged along between them a heavy article of baggage. Janet, said he, go downstairs and get Salui some hot water. And Joe, do you take hold of your master's portmanteau? Joe, sulkily, did as he was bid. Fames to me, said he, turning to the girl and speaking before the doctor without a hearing. Fames to me, my dear. You've been rather short-handed here. Lots of work and nothing to get. That's about the ticket, ain't it? Bridget was too demurely modest to make any answer upon so short an acquaintance. So, putting her end of the burden down at the strange gentleman's door, she retreated into the kitchen. Salui, in answer to the doctor's inquiries, had declared himself to be all right. But his appearance was anything but all right. Twelve months since, a life of dissipation, or rather perhaps a life of drinking, had not had upon him so strong an effect but that some of the salt of youth was still left. Some of the freshness of young years might still be seen in his face. But this was now all gone. His eyes were sunken and watery, his cheeks were hollow and one, his mouth was drawn, and his lips dry. His back was even bent, and his legs were unsteady under him, so that he had been forced to step down from his carriage as an old man would do. Alas, alas, he had no further chance now of ever being all right again. Mary had secluded herself in her bedroom as soon as the carriage had driven up to the door, and there she remained till dinner-time. But she could not shut herself up altogether. It would be necessary that she should appear at dinner, and therefore, a few minutes before the hour, she crept out into the drawing-room. As she opened the door, she looked intimately, expecting Sir Louis to be there. But when she saw that her uncle was the only occupant of the room, her brow cleared, and she entered with a quick step. He'll come down to dinner, won't he, Uncle? Oh, I suppose so. What's he doing now? Dressing, I suppose. He's been at it this hour. But Uncle, well, will he come up after dinner, do you think? Mary spoke of him as though he were some wild beast, whom her uncle insisted on having in his house. Goodness knows what he will do. Come up? Yes. He will not stay in the dining-room all night. But, dear Uncle, do be serious. Serious? Yes, serious. Don't you think that I might go to bed instead of waiting? The doctor was saved the trouble of answering by the entrance of the baronet. He was dressed in what he considered the most fashionable style of the day. He had on a new dress-coat lined with satin, new dress trousers, a silk waistcoat covered with chains, a white cravat, polished pumps, and silk stockings, and he carried a scented handkerchief in his hand. He had rings on his fingers and carbuncle studs in his shirt, and he smelt as sweet as patchouli could make him, but he could hardly do more than shuffle into the room, and seemed almost to drag one of his legs behind him. Mary, in spite of her aversion, was shocked and distressed when she saw him. He, however, seemed to think himself perfect, and was nowhere to bash by the unfavourable reception which twelve months since had been paid to his suit. Mary came up and shook hands with him, and he received her with a compliment, which no doubt he thought must be acceptable. Upon my word, Miss Thorne, every place seems to agree with you, one better than another. You were looking charming at Boxall Hill, but upon my word charming isn't half strong enough now. Mary sat down quietly, and the doctor assumed a face of unutterable disgust. This was the creature for whom all his sympathies had been demanded, all his best energies put in requisition, on whose behalf he was to quarrel with his oldest friends, lose his peace and quietness of life, and exercise all the functions of a loving friend. This was his self-invited guest, whom he was bound to foster, and whom he could not turn from his door. Then dinner came, and Mary had to put her hand upon his arm. She certainly did not lean upon him, and once or twice felt inclined to give him some support. They reached the dining-room, however, the doctor following them, and then sat down, Janet waiting in the room as was usual. I say, Doctor, said the batter-net, hadn't my man better come in and help? He's got nothing to do, you know. We should be more cosy, shouldn't we? Janet will manage pretty well, said the doctor. Oh, you'd better have, Joe. There's nothing like a good servant at table. I say, Janet, just send that fellow in, will you? We shall do very well without him, said the doctor, becoming rather red about the cheek-bows, and with a slight gleam of determination about the eye. Janet, who saw how matters stood, made no attempt to obey the batter-net's order. Oh, Nansen's doctor! You think he's an abish sort of fellow, I know, and you don't like to trouble him, but when I'm near him, he's all right. Just send him in, will you? Sir Louis, said the doctor, I'm accustomed to none but my own old woman here in my own house, and if you will allow me, I'll keep my old ways. I shall be sorry if you are not comfortable. The batter-net said nothing more, and the dinner passed off slowly and wearily enough. When Mary had eaten her fruit and escaped, the doctor got into one arm-chair and the batter-net into another, and the latter began the only work of existence of which he knew anything. That's good port, said he. Very fair, port! The doctor loved his port wine, and thawed a little in his manner. He loved it not as a toper, but as a collector loves his pet pictures. He liked to talk about it, and think about it, to praise it, and hear it praised, to look at it turned towards the light, and to count over the years it had lain in his cellar. Yes, said he, it's pretty fair wine. It was at least when I got it twenty years ago, and I don't suppose time has hurt it. And he held the glass up to the window, and looked at the evening light through the ruby tint of the liquid. Ah, dear, there's not much of it left, moors the pity. A good thing won't last forever. I'll tell you what now. I wish I had brought down a dozen or two of Claret. I've got some prime stuff in London. Got it from Muzzle and Drug at ninety-six shillings. It was a great favour, though. I'll tell you what now. I'll send up for a couple of dozen tomorrow. I mustn't drink you out of house high and dry. Must I, doctor? The doctor froze immediately. I don't think I need trouble you, said he. I never drink, Claret, at least not here, and there's enough of the old bin left to last some little time longer yet. So Louis drank two or three glasses of wine very quickly after each other, and they immediately began to tell upon his weak stomach. But before he was tipsy he became more impudent and more disagreeable. Doctor, said he, why don't we to see any of this Greshamsbury money? That's what I want to know. Your money is quite safe, Sir Louis, and the interest is paid to the day. Interest, yes, but how do I know how long it will be paid? I should like to see the principle. A hundred thousand pounds or something like it is a precious large stake to have in one man's hands, and he preciously hard up himself. I'll tell you what, doctor. I shall look the squire up myself. Look him up. Yes, look him up. Ferret him out. Tell him a bit of my mind. I'll thank you to pass the bottle. Dash me, doctor, I mean to know how things are going on. Your money is quite safe, repeated the doctor, and to my mind could not be better invested. That's all very well. Dash well, I dare say, for you and Squire Gresham. What do you mean, Sir Louis? Mean? Why, I mean that I'll sell the squire up. That's what I mean. Hello, big pardon. I'm blessed if I haven't broken the water jug. That comes of having water on the table. Oh, dash me, it's all over me. And then, getting up to avoid the flood he himself had caused, he nearly fell into the doctor's arms. You're tired with your journey, sir Louis. Perhaps you'd better go to bed. Well, I am a bit seedy or so. Those cursed roads of yours shake a fellow so. The doctor rang the bell, and on this occasion did request that Joe might be sent for. Joe came in, and though he was much steadier than his master, looked as though he also had found some bin of which he had approved. Sir Louis wishes to go to bed, said the doctor. You had better give him your arm. Oh, yes. In course I will, said Joe, standing immovable, about halfway between the door and the table. I'll just take one more glass of the old pot, eh, doctor? said Sir Louis, putting out his hand and clutching the decanter. It is very hard for any man to deny his guest in his own house, and the doctor at the moment did not know how to do it. So Sir Louis got his wine, after pouring half of it over the table. Come in, sir, and give Sir Louis your arm, said the doctor, angrily. So I will, in course, if my master tells me. But if you please, Dr. Thorn, and Joe put his hand up to his hair in a manner that had a great deal more of impudence than reverence in it. I just want to ask one question. Where be I to sleep? Now this was a question which the doctor was not prepared to answer on the spur of the moment. However well Janet or Mary might have been able to do so. Sleep, said he. I don't know where you are to sleep, and don't care. Ask Janet. That's all very well, master. Hold your tongue, Sirra, said Sir Louis. What the devil do you want of sleep? Come here. And then, with his servant's help, he made his way up to his bedroom, and was no more heard of that night. Did she get tipsy? asked Mary, almost in a whisper, when her uncle joined her in the drawing-room. Don't talk of it, said he. Poor wretch. Poor wretch. Let's have some tea now, Molly, and pray don't talk any more about him to-night. Then Mary did make the tea, and did not talk any more about Sir Louis that night. What on earth were they to do with him? He had come there, self-invited, but his connection with the doctor was such that it was impossible he should be told to go away, either he himself or that servant of his. There was no reason to disbelieve him when he declared that he had come down to ferret out the squire. Such was doubtless his intention. He would ferret out the squire. Perhaps he might ferret out Lady Arabella also. Frank would be home in a few days, and he too might be ferreted out. But the matter took a very singular turn, and one quite unexpected on the doctor's part. On the morning following the little dinner of which we have spoken, one of the Greshamsbury grooms rode up to the doctor's door with two notes. One was addressed to the doctor in the squire's well-known large handwriting, and the other was for Sir Louis. Each contained an invitation to dinner for the following day, and that to the doctor was in this wise. Dear doctor, do come and dine here tomorrow, and bring Sir Louis scattered with you. If you're the man I take you to be who won't refuse me, Lady Arabella sends a note for Sir Louis. There will be nobody here but Oriole, and Mr. Gaysby, who is staying in the house. Yours ever, F. N. Gresham, Greshamsbury, July 1850 dash. Yes, I make a positive request that you'll come, and I think you will hardly refuse me. The doctor read it twice before he could believe it, and then ordered Janet to take the other note up to Sir Louis. As these invitations were rather in opposition to the then-existing Greshamsbury tactics, the cause of Lady Arabella's special civility must be explained. Mr. Mortimer Gaysby was now at the house, and therefore it must be presumed that things were not allowed to go on after their old fashion. Mr. Gaysby was an acute as well as a fashionable man, one who knew what he was about, and who moreover had determined to give his very best efforts on behalf of the Greshamsbury property. His energy in this respect will explain itself hereafter. It was not probable that the arrival in the village of such a person as Sir Louis scattered should escape attention. He had heard of it before dinner, and before the evening was over had discussed it with Lady Arabella. A ladyship was not at first inclined to make much of Sir Louis, and expressed herself as but little inclined to agree with Mr. Gaysby when that gentleman suggested that he should be treated with civility at Greshamsbury, but she was at last talked over. She found it pleasant enough to have more to do with the secret management of the estate than Mr. Gresham himself, and when Mr. Gaysby proved to her by sundry nods and winks and subtle allusions to her own infinite good sense, that it was necessary to catch this obscene bird which had come to pray upon the estate by throwing a little salt upon his tail, she also nodded and winked, and directed Augusta to prepare the salt according to order. But wouldn't it be odd, Mr. Gaysby, asking him out of Dr. Thorn's house? Oh, we must have the doctor, too, Lady Arabella. There all means ask the doctor also. Lady Arabella's brow grew dark. Mr. Gaysby, she said, you can hardly believe how that man has behaved to me. He is altogether beneath your anger, said Mr. Gaysby with a bow. I don't know, in one way he may be, but not in another. I really do not think I can sit down to table with Dr. Thorn. But nevertheless Mr. Gaysby gained his point. It was now about a week since Sir Omicron Pie had been at Gresham's Brie, and the squire had, almost daily, spoken to his wife as to that learned man's advice. Lady Arabella always answered in the same tone, you can hardly know, Mr. Gresham, how that man has insulted me. But nevertheless, the physician's advice had not been disbelieved. It delid too well with her own inward convictions. She was anxious enough to have Dr. Thorn back at her bed, said, if she could only get him there without damage to her pride. Her husband, she thought, may it probably send the doctor there without absolute permission from herself, in which case she would have been able to skilled, and show that she was offended, and at the same time profit by what had been done. But Mr. Gresham never thought of taking so violent a step as this, and therefore Dr. Philgrave still came, and her ladyship's finesse was wasted in vain. But Mr. Gaisby's proposition opened a door by which her point might be gained. Well, said she at last, with infinite self-denial, if you think it is for Mr. Gresham's advantage, and if he chooses to ask Dr. Thorn, he will not refuse to receive him. Mr. Gaisby's next task was to discuss the matter with the squire, nor was this easy, for Mr. Gaisby was no favourite with Mr. Gresham. But the task was at last performed successfully. Mr. Gresham was so glad at heart to find himself able once more to ask his old friend to his own house, and though it would have pleased him better that this sign of relenting on his wife's part should have reached him by other means, he did not refuse to take advantage of it, and so he wrote the above letter to Dr. Thorn. The doctor, as we have said, read it twice, and he had once resolved stoutly that he would not go. Oh, do, do, go! said Mary. She well knew how wretched this feud had made her uncle pray, pray, go. Indeed, I will not, said he. There are some things a man should bear, and some he should not. You must go, said Mary, who had taken the note from her uncle's hand and read it. You cannot refuse him when he asks you like that. It will greatly grieve me, but I must refuse him. I also am angry, uncle, very angry with Lady Arabella, but for him, for the squire, I would go to him on my knees if he asked me in that way. Yes, and had he asked you, I also would have gone. Oh, now I shall be so wretched. It is his invitation, not hers. Mr. Gresham could not ask me. As for her, do not think of her, but do, do, go when he asks you like that. You will make me so miserable if you do not, and then Salüey cannot go without you, and Mary pointed upstairs, and you may be sure that he will go. Yes, and make a beast of himself. This colloquy was cut short by a message praying the doctor to go up to Salüey's room. The young man was sitting in his dressing-gown, drinking a cup of coffee at his toilet-table, while Joe was preparing his razor and hot water. The doctor's nose immediately told him that there was more in the coffee-cup than had come out of his own kitchen, and he would not let the offence pass unnoticed. Are you taking brandy this morning, Salüey? Just a little chass-cafe, said he, not exactly understanding the word he used. It's all the goal now, and a capital thing for the stomach—it's not a capital thing for your stomach—about the least capital thing you can take. That is, if you wish to live. Never mind about that now, doctor. But look here, this is what we call the civil thing, eh?—and he showed the Gresham's pre-note. Not but what they have an object, of course. I understand all that. Lots of girls there, eh? The doctor took the note and read it. It is civil, said he. Very civil. Well, I shall go, of course. I don't bear malice because he can't pay me the money he owes me. I'll eat his dinner, and look at the girls. Have you an invite, too, doctor? Yes, I have. And you'll go? I think not. But that need not deter you. But Salüey? Well, eh, what is it? Step downstairs a moment, said the doctor, turning to the servant, and wait till you are called for. I wish to speak to your master. Joe, for a moment, looked up at the baronet's face as though he wanted but the slightest encouragement to disobey the doctor's orders. But not seeing it, he slowly retired, and placed himself, of course, at the key-hole. And then the doctor began a long and very useless lecture. The first object of it was to induce his ward not to get drunk at Gresham's pre-note. But having got so far, he went on, and did succeed in frightening his unhappy guest. Salüey did not possess the iron nerves of his father, nerves which even Brandy had not been able to subdue. The doctor spoke strongly, very strongly, spoke of quick, almost immediate death in case of further excesses, spoke to him of the certainty there would be that he could not live to dispose of his own property if he could not refrain. And thus he did frighten Salüey. The father, he had never been able to frighten. But there are men who, though they fear death hugely, fear present suffering more, who indeed will not bear a moment of pain if there be any mode of escape. Salüey was such. He had no strength of nerve, no courage, no ability to make a resolution and keep it. He promised the doctor that he would refrain. And, as he did so, he swallowed down his cup of coffee and Brandy, in which the two articles bore about equal proportions. The doctor did at last make up his mind to go. Whichever way he determined, he found that he was not contented with himself, did not like to trust Salüey by himself, and he did not like to show that he was angry. Till less did he like the idea of breaking bread in Lady Arabella's house, till some amends had been made to marry. But his heart would not allow him to refuse the petition contained in the squire's post-crypt. And the matter ended in his accepting the invitation. This visit of his wards was in every way pernicious to the doctor. He could not go about his business, fearing to leave such a man alone with Mary. On the afternoon of the second day, she escaped to the parsonage for an hour or so, and then walked away among the lanes, calling on some of her old friends among the farmer's wives. But even then, the doctor was afraid to leave, Salüey. What could such a man do, left alone in a village like Greshamsbury? So he stayed at home, and the two together went over their accounts. The baronet was particular about his accounts, and said a good deal as to having finny over to Greshamsbury. To this, however, Dr. Thorn positively refused his consent. The evening passed off better than the preceding one, at least the early part of it. Salüey did not get tipsy. He came up to tea, and Mary, who did not feel so keenly on the subject as her uncle, almost wished that he had done so. At ten o'clock he went to bed. But after that new troubles came on. The doctor had gone downstairs into his study to make up some of the time which he had lost, and had just seated himself at his desk, when Janet, without announcing herself, burst into the room, and Bridget, dissolved in hysterical tears with her apron to her eyes, appeared behind the senior domestic. "'Play, sir,' said Janet, driven by excitement much beyond her usual pace of speaking, and becoming unintentionally a little less respectful than usual. "'Play, sir, that ear young man must go out of this ear-house, or else no respectable young woman can't stop here. No indeed, sir, and we'd be sorry to trouble you, Dr. Thorn, so we be.' "'What young man?' Salüey asked the doctor. "'Oh, no, he abides mostly and bad, and don't do nothing amiss. Least we're not to us. Take him, sir, but he's man.' "'Man!' sobbed Bridget from behind. "'He ain't no man, nor nothing like a man. If Thomas had been here, he wouldn't have dared, so he wouldn't.' Thomas was the groom, and if all Greshamsbury reports were true, it was probable that on some happy future day, Thomas and Bridget would become one flesh and one bone. "'Play, sir,' continued Janet. "'That'll be bad work here if that ear young man doesn't quit this ear-house this very night. I know I'm sorry to trouble you, doctor, and so I am. But, Tom, he be given to fight almost for nothing. He's out now. But if that there young man be's here when Tom comes home, Tom will be punching his head. I know he will.' "'He wouldn't stand by and say, "'A poor girl, poor pawn, no more he won,' said Bridget through her tears. After many futile inquiries, the doctor ascertained that Mr. Jonah had expressed some admiration for Bridget's useful charms, and had, in the absence of Janet, thrown himself at the lady's feet in a manner which had not been altogether pleasing to her. She had defended herself stoutly and loudly, and in the middle of the row, Janet had come down. "'And where is he now?' said the doctor. "'Why, sir?' said Janet. The poor girl was so put about that she did give him one touch across the face with the rolling-pin, and he'd be all bloody now in the back kitchen. But hearing this achievement of hers thus spoken of, Bridget sobbed more hysterically than ever. But the doctor, looking at her arm as she held her apron to her face, thought in his heart that Joe must have had so much the worst of it, that there could be no possible need for the interference of Thomas the groom. And such turned out to be the case. The bridge of Joe's nose was broken, and the doctor had to set it for him in a little bedroom at the village public house, Bridget having positively refused to go to bed in the same house with so dreadful a character. "'Quiet now, or I'll be serving thee the same way these see! I've found the trek of it!' The doctor could not but hear so much, as he made his way into his own house by the back door, after finishing his surgical operation. Bridget was recounting to her champion the fracar that had occurred, and he, as was so natural, was expressing his admiration at her valour. The next day Joe did not make his appearance, and Salui, with many execrations, was driven to the terrible necessity of dressing himself. Then came an unexpected difficulty. How were they to get up to the house? Walking out to dinner, though it was merely through the village and up the avenue, seemed to Salui to be a thing impossible. Indeed he was not well able to walk at all, and positively declared that he should never be able to make his way over the gravel in pumps. His mother would not have thought half as much of walking from Boxall Hill to Gresham's Brie and back again. At last the one village fly was sent for, and the matter was arranged. When they reached the house it was easy to see that there was some unwonted bustle. In the drawing-room there was no one but Mr. Mortimer Gaysby, who introduced himself to them both. Salui, who knew that he was only an attorney, did not take much notice of him. But the doctor entered into conversation. Have you heard that Mr. Gresham has come home? said Mr. Gaysby. Mr. Gresham? I did not know that he had been away. Mr. Gresham, Jr., I mean. No, indeed. The doctor had not heard. Frank had returned unexpectedly just before dinner, and he was now undergoing his father's smiles, his mother's embraces, and his sister's questions. Great unexpectedly, said Mr. Gaysby, I don't know what has brought him back before his tearing. I suppose he found London too hot. Doost heart! said the baronet. I found it so, at least. I don't know what keeps men in London when it's so hot. Except those fellows who have business to do. They're paid for it. Mr. Mortimer Gaysby looked at him. He was managing an estate which owed Salui an enormous sum of money, and therefore he could not afford to dismay the baronet. But he thought to himself what a very abject fellow the man would be if he were not a baronet and had not a large fortune. And then the squire came in. His broad, honest face was covered with a smile when he saw the doctor. Thorn! he said, almost in a whisper. You're the best fellow breathing. I have hardly deserved this. The doctor, as he took his old friend's hand, could not but be glad that he had followed Mary's Council. So Frank has come home. Oh yes, quite unexpectedly. He was to have stayed a week longer in London. You would hardly know him if you met him. Salui, I beg your pardon. And the squire went up to his other guest who had remained somewhat sullenly, standing in one corner of the room. He was the man of highest rank present, or to be present, and he expected to be treated as such. I am happy to have the pleasure of making your acquaintance, Mr. Grasham, said the baronet, intending to be very courteous. Though we have not met before, I very often see your name in my accounts. And Salui laughed as though he had said something very good. The meeting between Lady Arabella and the doctor was rather distressing to the former, but she managed to get over it. She shook hands with him graciously, and said that it was a fine day. The doctor said that it was fine, only perhaps a little rainy, and then they went into different parts of the room. When Frank came in, the doctor hardly did know him. His hair was darker than it had been, and so was his complexion. But his chief disguise was in a long, silken beard, which hung down over his cravat. The doctor had hitherto not been much in favour of long beards, but he could not deny that Frank looked very well with the appendage. Oh, doctor, I am so delighted to find you here, said he, coming up to him. So very, very glad, and taking the doctor's arm he led him away into a window where they were alone. And how is Mary? said he, almost in a whisper. Oh, I wish she were here. But doctor, it shall all come in time. But tell me, doctor, there is no news about her, is there? News? What news? Oh, well, no news is good news. You will give her my love, won't you? The doctor said that he would. What else could he say? It appeared quite clear to him that some of Mary's fears were groundless. Frank was again very much altered. It has been said that though he was a boy at twenty-one, he was a man at twenty-two, but now, at twenty-three, he appeared to be almost a man of the world. His manners were easy, his voice under his control, and words were at his command. He was no longer either shy or noisy, but perhaps was open to the charge of seeming, at least, to be too conscious of his own merits. He was indeed very handsome, tall, manly, and powerfully built. His form was such as women's eyes have ever loved to look upon. Ah, if he would but marry Manny, said Lady Arabella to herself, taken up by a mother's natural admiration for her son. His sisters clung round him before dinner, all talking to him at once. How proud a family of girls are of one big, tall, burly brother! You don't mean to tell me, Frank, that you are going to eat soup with that beard, said the squire, when they were seated round the table. He had not ceased to rally his son as to the patriarchal adornment, but nevertheless any one could have seen with half an eye, that he was as proud of it as were the others. Don't I, sir? All I require is a relay of napkins for every course, and he went to work, covering it with every spoonful, as men with beards always do. Well, if you like it, said the squire, shrugging his shoulders. But I do like it, said Frank. Oh, Papa, you wouldn't have him cut it off, said one of the twins. It is so handsome. I should like to work it into a chair-back instead of floss silk, said the other twin. Thank you, Sophie. I'll remember you for that. Doesn't it look nice and grand and patriarchal, said Beatrice, turning to her neighbour. Patriarchal, certainly, said Mr. Oriole, I should grow one myself if I had not the fear of the archbishop before my eyes. What was next, said to him, was in a whisper, audible only to himself. Doctor, did you know Wildman of the Ninth? He was left as surgeon at Scutari for two years. Why, my beard to his is only a little down. A little way down, you mean, said Mr. Gaysby. Yes, said Frank, resolutely set against laughing at Mr. Gaysby's pun. Why, his beard descends to his ankles, and he is obliged to tie it in a bag at night, because his feet get entangled in it when he is asleep. Oh, Frank, said one of the girls. This was all very well for the Squire and Lady Arabella, and the girls. They were all delighted to praise Frank and talk about him. Neither did it come amiss to Mr. Oriole and the Doctor, who had both a personal interest in the young hero, but Sir Louis did not like it at all. He was the only baronet in the room, and yet nobody took any notice of him. He was seated in the post of honour, next to Lady Arabella, but even Lady Arabella seemed to think more of her own son than of him. Seeing how he was ill-used, he meditated revenge. But not the last did it behoove him to make some effort to attract attention. Was your ladyship long in London this season? said he. Lady Arabella had not been in London at all this year, and it was a sore subject with her. No, said she very graciously, circumstances have kept us at home. Sir Louis only understood one description of circumstances. Circumstances in his idea meant the want of money, and he immediately took Lady Arabella's speech as a confession of poverty. Ah, indeed, I am very sorry for that. That must be very distressing to a person like your ladyship. But things are mending, perhaps. Lady Arabella did not in the least understand him. Mending, she said in her peculiar tone of aristocratic indifference, and then turned to Mr. Gaysby, who was on the other side of her. Sir Louis was not going to stand this. He was the first man in the room, and he knew his own importance. It was not to be borne that Lady Arabella should turn to talk to a dirty attorney, and leave him a baronette, to eat his dinner without notice. If nothing else would move her, he would let her know who was the real owner of the Greshamsbury title deeds. I think I saw your ladyship out today taking a ride. Lady Arabella had driven through the village in her pony chair. I never read, said she, turning her head for one moment, from Mr. Gaysby. In the one horse carriage, I mean, my lady. I was delighted with the way you whipped him up round the corner. Whipped him up round the corner? Lady Arabella could make no answer to this. So she went on talking to Mr. Gaysby. Sir Louis repulsed, but not vanquished. Resolved not to be vanquished by any Lady Arabella. Turned his attention to his plate for a minute or two, and then recommended. The honour of a glass of wine with you, Lady Arabella, said he. I never take wane at dinner, said Lady Arabella. The man was becoming intolerable to her, and she was beginning to fear that it would be necessary for her to flay the room to get rid of him. The baronet was again silent for a moment, but he was determined not to be put down. This is a nice looking country about here, said he. Yes, very nice, said Mr. Gaysby, endeavouring to relieve the lady of the mansion. I hardly know which I like best, this or my own place at Boxall Hill. You have the advantage here in trees, and those sort of things, but as to the house, why my box there is very comfortable, very. You'd hardly know the place now, Lady Arabella, if you haven't seen it since my governor bought it. How much do you think he spent about the house and grounds? Pineries included, you know, and those sort of things. Lady Arabella shook her head. Now guess, my lady, said he, but it was not to be supposed that Lady Arabella should guess on such a subject. I never guess, said she, with a look of ineffable disgust. What do you say, Mr. Gaysby? Perhaps a hundred thousand pounds. What? For a house you can't know much about money, nor yet about building, I think, Mr. Gaysby. Not much, said Mr. Gaysby, as to such magnificent places as Boxall Hill. Well, my lady, if you won't guess, I'll tell you. It cost twenty-two thousand four hundred and nineteen pounds for shimmings and eight pence. I've all the accounts exact. Now that's a tidy lot of money for a house for a man to live in. So Louis spoke this in a loud tone, which at least commanded the attention of the table. Lady Arabella vanquished, bowed her head, and said that it was a large sum. Mr. Gaysby went on sedulously eating his dinner. The squire was struck momentarily dumb in the middle of a long chat with the doctor. Even Mr. Oriole ceased to whisper, and the girls opened their eyes with astonishment. Before the end of his speech, Sir Louis's voice had become very loud. Yes, indeed, said Frank, a very tidy lot of money. I'd have generously dropped the four and eight pence if I'd been the architect. It wasn't all one bill, but that's the tot. I can show the bills. And Sir Louis, well pleased with his triumph, swallowed a glass of wine. Almost immediately after the cloth was removed, Lady Arabella escaped, and the gentlemen clustered together. Sir Louis found himself next to Mr. Oriole and began to make himself agreeable. A very nice girl, Miss Beatrice. Very nice. Now, Mr. Oriole was a modest man, and when thus addressed as to his future wife, found it difficult to make any reply. You Parsons always have your own luck, said Sir Louis. You get all the beauty, and generally all the money, too. Not much of the latter in this case, though, eh? Mr. Oriole was dumbfounded. He had never said a word to any creature as to Beatrice's dowry, and when Mr. Gresham had told him with sorrow that his daughter's portion must be small, he had at once passed away from the subject as one that was hardly fit for conversation, even between him and his future father-in-law, and now he was abruptly questioned on the subject by a man he had never before seen in his life. Of course he could make no answer. The squire has muddled his matters most uncommonly, continued Sir Louis, filling his glass for the second time before he passed the bottle. What do you suppose now he owes me alone, just at one lump, you know? Mr. Oriole had nothing for it but to run. He could make no answer. Nor would he sit there to hear tidings as to Mr. Gresham's embarrassments. So he fairly retreated, without having said one word to his neighbour, finding such discretion to be the only kind of valour left to him. What, Oriole? Off already, said the squire. Anything the matter? Oh, no, nothing particular. I'm not just quite—I think I'll go out for a few minutes. See what it is to be in love, said the squire, half whispering to Dr. Thorn. You're not in the same way, I hope. Sir Louis then shifted his seat again, and found himself next to Frank. Mr. Gaysby was opposite to him, and the doctor opposite to Frank. Parson seems peekish, I think, said the baronet. Peekish, said the squire inquisitively, rather down on his luck. He's decently well off himself, isn't he? There was another pause, and nobody seemed inclined to answer the question, I mean, he's got something more than his bare living. Oh, yes, said Frank, laughing, he's got what will buy him bread and cheese, when the rads shut up the church. Unless indeed they shut up the funds, too. Ah, there's nothing like land, said Sir Louis. Nothing like the dirty acres is the squire. Land is a very good investment, certainly, said Mr. Gresham. The best going, said the other. There was now, as people say when they mean to be good-natured, slightly under the influence of liquor. The best going, eh, Gaysby? Mr. Gaysby gathered himself up, and turned away his head, looking out of the window. You lawyers never like to give an opinion without money! Do they, Mr. Gresham? You and I have had to pay for plenty of them, and we'll have to pay for plenty more before they let us alone. Here Mr. Gaysby got up, and followed Mr. Aureal out of the room. He was not, of course, on such intimate terms in the house as was Mr. Aureal. But he herbed to be forgiven by the ladies, in consequence of the severity of the miseries to which he was subjected. He and Mr. Aureal were soon to be seen through the dining-room window, walking about the grounds with the two eldest Miss Greshams. And Patience Aureal, who had also been of the party, was also to be seen with the twins. Frank looked at his father with almost a malicious smile, and began to think that he too might be better employed out among the walks. Did he think then of a former summer evening, when he had half broken Mary's heart, by walking there too lovingly with Patience Aureal? So Louis, if he continued his brilliant career of success, would soon be left the cock of the walk. The squire, to be sure, could not bolt, nor could the doctor very well, but they might be equally vanquished, remaining there in their chairs. Dr. Thorn, during all this time, was sitting with tingling ears. Indeed, it may be said that his whole body tingled. He was in a manner responsible for this horrid scene, but what could he do to stop it? He could not take Sir Louis up bodily and carry him away. One idea did occur to him. The fly had been ordered for ten o'clock. He could rush out and send for it instantly. You're not going to leave me, said the squire, in a voice of horror, as he saw the doctor rising from his chair. Oh, no, no, no, no, said the doctor. And then he whispered the purpose of his mission. I will be back in two minutes. The doctor would have given twenty pounds to have closed the scene at once, but he was not the man to desert his friend in such a strait as that. He is a well-meaning fellow, the doctor, said Sir Louis, when his guardian was out of the room. Very. But he's not up to trap. Not at all. Up to trap? Well, I should say he was. That is if I know what trap means, said Frank. Ah, but that's just the ticket. Do you know? Now, I say Dr. Thorne's not a man of the world. He's about the best man I know or ever heard of, said the squire. And if any man ever had a good friend, you have got one in him. And so have I. And the squire silently drank the doctor's health. All very true, I daresay. But yet he's not up to trap. Now, look here, squire. If you don't mind, sir, said Frank, I've got something very particular. Perhaps, however, stay till Thorne returns, Frank. Frank did stay till Thorne returned, and then escaped. Excuse me, doctor, said he. But I've something very particular to say. I'll explain to-morrow. And then the three were left alone. Sir Louis was now becoming almost drunk, and was knocking his words together. The squire had already attempted to stop the bottle, but the baronet had contrived to get hold of a modicum of Madeira, and there was no preventing him from helping himself. At least, none at that moment. Oh, what a saying about lawyers, continued Sir Louis. Let's see, what were we saying? Why, squire, it's just here. All fellows will fleece as small as if we don't mind what we're after. Never mind about lawyers now, said Dr. Thorne angrily. Ah, but I do mind, most particularly. What's all very well for you, doctor? You've nothing to lose. You've no great stake in the matter. Why now, what sum of money of mine do you think those dash doctors are handling? Dash doctors, said the squire, in a tone of dismay. Lawyers, I mean, of course. Why now, Gresham, we're all taught it now. You see, you're down in my books. I take it for brilliant here, a hundred thousand pounds. Hold your tongue, sir, said the doctor, getting up. Oh, my tongue! said Sir Louis. Sir Louis scatchard, said the squire, slowly rising from his chair. We will not, if you please, talk about business at the present moment. Perhaps we had better go to the ladies. This latter proposition had certainly not come from the squire's heart. Going to the ladies was the very last thing for which Sir Louis was now fit, but the squire had said it as being the only recognized formal way he could think of for breaking up the symposium. Oh, very well, hiccuped the baronet. I'm always ready for the ladies. And he stretched out his hand to the decanter to get a last glass of Madeira. No, said the doctor, rising stoutly and speaking with a determined voice. No, you will have no more wine. And he took the decanter from him. What's all this about? said Sir Louis with a drunken laugh. Of course he cannot go into the drawing-room, Mr. Gresham. If you will leave him here with me, I will stay with him till the fly comes. Pray tell Lady Arabella from me how sorry I am that this has occurred. The squire would not leave his friend, and they sat together till the fly came. It was not long, for the doctor had dispatched his messenger with much haste. I am so heartily ashamed of myself, said the doctor almost with tears. The squire took him by the hand affectionately. I've seen a tipsy man before to-night, said he. Yes, said the doctor, and so have I, but he did not express the rest of his thoughts. CHAPTER 36 Will he come again? Long before the doctor returned home, after the little dinner-party above described, Mary had learnt that Frank was already at Greshamsbury. She had heard nothing of him, or from him, not a word, nothing in the shape of a message, for twelve months, and at her age twelve months is a long period. Would he come and see her, in spite of his mother? Would he send her any tidings of his return? Or notice her in any way? If he did not, what would she do? And if he did, what then would she do? It was so hard to resolve, so hard to be deserted, and so hard to dare to wish that she might not be deserted. She continued to say to herself that it would be better that they should be strangers, and she could hardly keep herself from tears in the fear that they might be so. What chance could there be that he should care for her, after an absence spent in travelling over the world? No, she would forget that affair of his hand. And then, immediately after having so determined, she would confess to herself that it was a thing not to be forgotten, and impossible of oblivion. On her uncle's return she would hear some word about him, and so she sat alone, with a book before her, of which she could not read a line. She expected them about eleven, and was therefore rather surprised when the fly stopped at the door before nine. She immediately heard her uncle's voice, loud and angry, calling for Thomas. Both Thomas and Bridget were unfortunately out, being at this moment forgetful of all sublunary cares, and seated in happiness under a beech tree in the park. Janet flew to the little gate, and there found Sir Louis, insisting that he would be taken at once to his own mansion at Buxall Hill, and positively swearing that he would no longer submit to the insult of the doctor's surveillance. In the absence of Thomas the doctor was forced to apply for assistance to the driver of the fly. Between them the baronet was dragged out of the vehicle. The windows suffered much, and the doctor's hat also. In this way he was taken upstairs, and was at last put to bed, Janet assisting. Nor did the doctor leave the room till his guest was asleep. Then he went into the drawing-room to marry. It may easily be conceived that he was hardly in a humour to talk much about Frank Gresham. What am I to do with him? said he, almost in tears. What am I to do with him? Can you not send him to Buxall Hill? asked Mary. Yes, to kill himself there. But it is no matter. He will kill himself somewhere. Oh, what that family have done for me! And then, suddenly remembering a portion of their doings, he took Mary in his arms, and kissed, and blessed her, and declared that in spite of all this he was a happy man. There was no word about Frank that night. The next morning the doctor found Sir Louis very weak, and begging for stimulants. He was worse than weak. He was in such a state of wretched misery and mental prostration, so low in heart, in such collapse of energy and spirit, that Dr. Thorn thought it prudent to remove his razors from his reach. For God's sake, do let me have a little chas cafe. I am always used to do it. Ask Joe if I'm not. You don't want to kill me, do you? And the baronet cried piteously, like a child, and when the doctor left him for the breakfast table, abjectly implored Janet to get him some curacao which he knew was in one of his portmantles. Janet, however, was true to her master. The doctor did give him some wine, and then, having left strict orders as to his treatment, Bridget and Thomas being now both in the house, went forth to some of his too much neglected patients. Then Mary was again alone, and her mind flew away to her lover. How should she be able to compose herself when she should first see him? See him, she must. People cannot live in the same village without meeting. If she passed him at the church door, as she often passed Lady Arabella, what should she do? Lady Arabella always smiled a peculiar little bitter smile, and this, with half a nod of recognition, carried off the meeting. Should she try the bitter smile, the half-nod with Frank? Alas! she knew it was not in her to be so much mistress of her own heart's blood. As she thus thought, she stood at the drawing-room window, looking out into her garden, and as she leaned against the sill, her head was surrounded by the sweet creepers. At any rate, he won't come here, she said, and so, with a deep sigh, she turned from the window into the room. There he was! Frank Cresham himself, standing there, in her immediate presence, beautiful as Apollo! Her next thought was how she might escape from out of his arms, how it happened that she had fallen into them. She never knew. Mary, my own, own love, my own one, sweetest, dearest, best Mary, dear Mary, have you not a word to say to me? No, she had not a word, though her life had depended on it. The exertion necessary for not crying was quite enough for her. This, then, was the bitter smile and the half-nod that was to pass between them. This was the manner in which estrangement was to grow into indifference. This was the mode of meeting by which she was to prove that she was mistress of her conduct, if not her heart. There he held her close bound to his breast, and she could only protect her face, and that all ineffectually with her hands. He loves another, Beatrice had said. At any rate he will not love me, her own heart had said also. Here was now the answer. You know you cannot marry him, Beatrice had said also. Ah, if that really were so, was not this embrace deplorable for them both? And yet, how could she not be happy? She endeavoured to repel him, but with what a weak endeavour her pride had been wounded to the core, not by Lady Arabella's scorn, but by the conviction which had grown on her, that though she had given her own heart absolutely away, had parted with it wholly and forever, she had received nothing in return. The world, her world, would know that she had loved, and loved in vain. But here now was the loved one at her feet. The first moment that his enforced banishment was over had brought him there. How could she not be happy? They all said that she could not marry him. Well, perhaps it might be so. Eh, when she thought of it, must not that edict too probably be true. But if so, it would not be his fault. He was true to her, and that satisfied her pride. He had taken from her by surprise a confession of her love. She had often regretted her weakness in allowing him to do so. But she could not regret it now. She could endure to suffer. Nay, it would not be suffering while he suffered with her. Not one word, Mary. Then after all my dreams, after all my patience, you do not love me at last? Oh, Frank! Notwithstanding what has been said in thy praise, what a fool thou art! Was any word necessary for thee? Had not her heart beat against thine? Had she not borne like her esses? Had there been one touch of anger when she warded off thy threatened kisses? Bridget, in the kitchen, when Jonah became amorous, smashed his nose with the rolling pin, but when Thomas sinned, perhaps as deeply, she only talked of doing so. Miss Thorn, in the drawing-room, had she needed self-protection, could doubtless have found the means, though the process would probably have been less violent. At last Mary succeeded in her efforts at enfranchisement, and she and Frank stood at some little distance from each other. She could not, but marvel at him, that long, soft beard, which just now had been so close to her face, was all new. His whole look was altered, his mean and gait, and very voice were not the same. Was this indeed the very Frank who had chattered of his boyish love, two years since, in the gardens at Greshamsbury, not one word of welcome, Mary? Indeed, Mr. Gresham, you are welcome home. Mr. Gresham, tell me, Mary, tell me at once, has anything happened? I could not ask up there. Frank, she said, and then stopped, not being able at the moment to get any further. Speak to me honestly, Mary, honestly, and bravely. I offered you my hand once before. There it is again. Will you take it? She looked wistfully up in his eyes. She would feign have taken it, but though a girl may be honest in such a case, it is so hard for her to be brave. He still held out his hand. Mary, said he, if you can value it, it shall be yours through good fortune or ill fortune. There may be difficulties, but if you can love me, we will get over them. I am a free man, free to do as I please with myself, except so far as I am bound to you. There is my hand. Will you have it? And then he too looked into her eyes, and waited composedly, as though determined to have an answer. She slowly raised her hand, and as she did so her eyes fell to the ground. It then drooped again, and was again raised, and at last her light tapering fingers rested on his broad open palm. They were soon clutched, and the whole hand brought absolutely within his grasp. There, now you are my own, he said, and none of them shall part us. My own Mary, my own wife. Oh, Frank, is not this imprudent? Is it not wrong? Imprudent, I am sick of prudence. I hate prudence. And as for wrong, no. I say it is not wrong. Certainly not wrong if we love each other. And you do love me, Mary, eh? You do, don't you? He would not excuse her, or allow her to escape from saying it in so many words. And when the words did come at last, they came freely. Yes, Frank, I do love you. If that were all, he would have no cause for fear, and I will have no cause for fear. Ah, but you're father, Frank, and my uncle. I can never bring myself to do anything that shall bring either of them to sorrow. Frank, of course, ran through all his arguments. He would go into a profession, or take a farm and live in it. He would wait, that is, for a few months. A few months, Frank, said Mary. Well, perhaps six. Oh, Frank! But Frank would not be stopped. He would do anything that his father might ask him. Anything but the one thing. He would not give up the wife he had chosen. It would not be reasonable or proper or righteous that he should be asked to do so. And here he mounted a somewhat high horse. Mary had no arguments which she could bring from her heart to offer in opposition to all this. She could only leave her hand in his, and feel that she was happier than she had been at any time, since the day of that donkey-ride at Boxall Hill. But Mary, continued he, becoming very grave and serious, we must be true to each other, and firm in this. Nothing that any of them can say shall drive me from my purpose, will you say as much. Her hand was still in his, and so she stood, thinking for a moment, before she answered him. But she could not do less for him than he was willing to do for her. Yes, said she, said in a very low voice, and with a manner perfectly quiet, I will be firm. Nothing that they can say shall shake me. But Frank, it cannot be soon. Nothing further occurred in this interview which needs recording. Frank had been three times told by Mary that he had better go, before he did go, and at last she was obliged to take the matter into her own hands, and lead him to the door. You are in a great hurry to get rid of me, said he. You have been here two hours, and you must go now. What will they all think? Who cares what they think? Let them think the truth, that after a year's absence I have much to say to you. However, at last he did go, and Mary was left alone. Frank, although he had been so slow to move, had a thousand other things to do, and went about them at once. He was very much in love, no doubt, but that did not interfere with his interest in other pursuits. In the first place he had to see Harry Baker, and Harry Baker's stud. Harry had been specially charged to look after the black horse during Frank's absence, and the holiday doings of that valuable animal had to be inquired into. Then the kennel of the hounds had to be visited, and as a matter of second rate importance, the master. This could not be done on the same day, but a plan for doing so must be concocted with Harry, and then there were two young pointer pups. Frank, when he left his betrothed, went about these things quite as vehemently as though he were not in love at all, quite as vehemently as though he had said nothing as to going into some profession, which must necessarily separate him from horses and dogs. But Mary sat there at her window, thinking of her love, and thinking of nothing else. It was all in all to her now. She had pledged herself not to be shaken from her troth by anything, by any person, and it would behove her to be true to this pledge. True to it, though all the Greshams but one should oppose her with all their power. True to it, even though her own uncle should oppose her, and how could she have done any other than so pledge herself, invoked to it as she had been? How could she do less for him than he was so anxious to do for her? They would talk to her of maiden delicacy, and tell her that she had put a stain on that snow-white coat of proof, in confessing her love for one whose friends were unwilling to receive her, let them so talk. Honor, honesty, and truth, outspoken truth, self-denying truth, and fealty from man to man, are worth more than maiden delicacy, more at any rate than the talk of it. It was not for herself that this pledge had been made. She knew her position, and the difficulties of it. She knew also the value of it. He had much to offer, much to give. She had nothing but herself. He had name and old repute, family, honor, and what eventually would at least be wealth to her. She was nameless, fameless, portionless. He had come there with all his ardour, with the impulse of his character, and asked for her love. It was already his own. He had then demanded her truth, and she acknowledged that he had a right to demand it. She would be his, if ever it should be in his power to take her. But there let the bargain end. She would always remember that though it was in her power to keep her pledge, it might too probably not be in his power to keep his. That doctrine laid down so imperatively by the great authorities of Greshamsbury, that edict which demanded that Frank should marry money, had come home also to her with a certain force. It would be sad that the fame of Greshamsbury should perish, and that the glory should depart from the old house. It might be that Frank also should perceive that he must marry money. It would be a pity that he had not seen it sooner. But she at any rate would not complain. And so she stood, leaning on the open window, with her book unnoticed, lying beside her. The sun had been in the mid-sky when Frank had left her, but its rays were beginning to stream into the room from the west before she moved from her position. Her first thought in the morning had been this. Would he come to see her? Her last now was more soothing to her, less full of absolute fear. Would it be right that he should come again? The first sounds she heard were the footsteps of her uncle, as he came up to the drawing-room three steps at a time. His step was always heavy, but when he was disturbed in spirit, it was slow. When merely fatigued in body by ordinary work, it was quick. What a broiling day, he said, and he threw himself into a chair. For mercy's sake, give me something to drink. Now, the doctor was a great man for summer drinks. In his house, lemonade, current juice, orange mixtures, and raspberry vinegar were used by the court. He frequently disapproved of these things for his patience as being apt to disarrange the digestion, but he consumed enough himself to throw a large family into such difficulties. He ejaculated after a draft. I'm better now. Well, what's the news? You've been out, uncle. You ought to have the news. How's Mrs. Green? Really, as bad as on we and Solitude can make her. And Mrs. O'Clarus? She's getting better, because she has ten children to look after, and twins to suckle. What has he been doing? And the doctor pointed towards the room occupied by Soluie. Mary's conscience struck her that she had not even asked. She had hardly remembered, during the whole day, that the badonette was in the house. I do not think he has been doing much, she said. Janet has been with him all day. As he's been drinking. Upon my word, I don't know, uncle. I think not, for Janet has been with him. But, uncle, well, dear, but just give me a little more of that tipple. Mary prepared the tumbler, and as she handed it to him, she said, Frank Gresham has been here today. The doctor swallowed his draft, and put down the glass before he made any reply. And even then, he said but little, Frank Gresham. Yes, uncle. You thought him looking pretty well. Yes, uncle. He was very well, I believe. Dr. Thorn had nothing more to say, so he got up and went to his patient in the next room. If he disapproves of it, why does he not say so? said Mary to herself. Why does he not advise me? But it was not so easy to give advice, while Sir Louis Scatchard was lying there in that state.