 CHAPTER XXXV The next day Joe did not make his appearance, and Sir Louis, 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 Sir Louis 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 and pumps. His mother would not have thought half as much of walking from Boxall Hill to Greshamsbury 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 unwanted bustle. In the drawing room there was no one but Mr. Mortimer Gaysby, who introduced himself to them both. Sir Louis, 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, junior, 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. Quite unexpectedly, said Mr. Gaysby, I don't know what has brought him back before his time. I suppose he found London too hot. Deuced hot, said the Baroness. 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 Sir Louis an enormous sum of money, and therefore he could not afford to despise 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 counsel. 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. Sir Louis, I beg your pardon. And the squire went up to his other guest, who would remain 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. Gresham, said the Baronet, intending to be very courteous. Though we have not met before, I very often see your name in my accounts. Ha, ha, ha! And Sir Louis laughed as though he had said something very good. The meeting between Lady Arabella and the doctor was rather distressing to the farmer, 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 money, 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 this 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 neighbor? 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 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 sat 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 to talk about him. Neither did it come amiss to Mr. Oriole and the doctor, who had both the 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 him. Seeing how he was ill-used he meditated revenge, but not the less 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 graciously, circumstances have kept us at home. Sir Louis only understood one description of circumstances. Circumstances, in his idea, meant the wad 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 at 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 born that Lady Arabella should turn to talk to a dirty attorney, and leave him a baronet to eat his dinner without notice. If nothing else would move her, he would let her know who was the real owner of the Gresham's free 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 ride, 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 around 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 reccomenced. The honour of a glass of wine with you, Lady Arabella, said he. I never take wine 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 fly 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 is my own place at Boxhall Hill. You have the advantage here in trees and those sort of things, but as to the house, while 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, pinearies 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 Boxhall Hill. Well, my lady, if you won't guess, I'll tell you. It cost twenty-two thousand four hundred and nineteen pounds, four shillings, 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. Sir 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 in 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 with thus adressed 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 of 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 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 neighbor, finding such discretion to be the only kind of valor 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 peakish,' I think,' said the baronet. "'Peakish?' 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 rad 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 there, squire.' "'Land is a very good investment, certainly,' said Mr. Gresham. "'The best-going,' said the other, who is now, as people say, when they mean to be good-natured, slightly under the influence of liquor. "'The best-going, eh, Gaspy?' Mr. Gaspy gathered himself up and turned away his head and looking out of the window. "'You lawyers never like to give an opinion without money. Ha, ha, ha! 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. Gaspy got up and followed Mr. Oriole out of the room. He was not, of course, on such intimate terms in the house, as was Mr. Oriole, but he hoped to be forgiven by the ladies in consequence of the severity of the miseries to which he was subjected. He and Mr. Oriole were soon to be seen through the dining-room window, walking about the grounds with the two eldest Miss Greshams. And patience Oriole, who had also been of the party, was also to be seen with the twins. Frank looked at his father with an almost 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 Oriole? Sir Lewis, 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. Mr. 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 Lewis 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,' 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 straight as that. "'He's a well-meaning fellow,' the doctor said Sir Lewis, 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. Thorn'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, "'Stage'll Thorn returns, Frank.' Frank did stage'll Thorn return, 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 Lewis was now becoming almost drunk, and was knocking his words together. The squire had already attempted to stop the bottle, but the baronette had contrived to get a hold of a modicum of Madeira, and there was no preventing him from helping himself, at least none at the moment. "'As we were saying about lawyers,' continued Sir Lewis, "'let's see, what were we saying? Why, squire, it's just here. Those fellows will fleece us both if we don't mind what we're after.' "'Never mind about lawyers now,' said Dr. Thorn angrily. "'Ah, but I do mind most particularly. That's all very well for you, doctor. You've nothing to lose. You've no great stake in the matter. Why, no, what sum of money of mind you think those d-doctors are handling?' "'The doctors,' said the squire, in a tone of dismay.' "'Lawyers, I mean, of course. Why, now Gresham, we're all totted now, you see. You're down in my books. I take it for pretty near a hundred thousand pounds.' "'Hold your tongue, sir,' said the doctor, getting up. "'Hold my tongue,' said Sir Lewis. "'Sir Lewis 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 Lewis 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,' hiccupped 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 Lewis, 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 for 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.' End of Chapter 35 36 Will he come again? Long before the doctor returned home after the little dinner-party above described, Mary had learned that Frank was already at Gresham's free. 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 not come this year 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 and 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 beach-tree in the park. Janet flew to the little gate, and there found Sir Lewis insisting that he would be taken at once to his own mansion at Boxall 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 concede 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 to Boxall 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 her 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 his heart and such collapse of energy and spirit, the Dr. Thorn thought it prudent to remove his razors from his reach. For God's sake, do let me have a little chasse café. I'm always used to it. Ask Joe if I'm not. You don't want to kill me, do you? And the Baron cried piteously like a child, and when the doctor left him for the breakfast table, objectively implored Janet to get him some curacao, which he knew was in one of his Portmontos. 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 he was not in her to be so much mistress of her 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 the deep sigh she turned from the window into the room. There he was, Frank Gresham 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 now was the answer. You know you cannot marry him, Beatrice had said also. Ah, if that really were so, was not this embraced deplorable for them both? And yet how could she not be happy? She endeavored 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. Nay, when she thought of it, must not that edict to 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? O Frank, not withstanding 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 thy caresses? 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 a rolling pin. But when Thomas sin, 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, so 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 gate 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 Gresham spree? Not one word of welcome, Mary? Indeed, Mr. Gresham, you are welcome home. Mr. Gresham, tell me, Mary, tell me at once as 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 fain 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 in 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 this not 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, you would have no cause for fear. And I will have no cause for fear. Ah, but your 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 he could bring from her heart to offer an 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 man of 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 behoove 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 thing than so, pledge herself, invoke to it as she had been? How could she do less for him that he was so anxious to do for her? They would talk to her of maid and 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 maid and 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 ardor, with the impulse of his character, and asked for her love. It was already his own. He had then demanded her troth, and she had 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 Greshamsvri, 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 Greshamsvri 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 sound 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 and bodied by ordinary work it was quick. What a broiling day, he said, and 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, currant 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. Ha! 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 Aundwee and Solitude can make her. And Mrs. Oaklerath? 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 Sir Louis. Mary's conscience struck her that she had not even asked. She had hardly remembered during the whole day that the baron that was in the house. I do not think he has been doing much, she said. Janet has been with him all day. Has he 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 Rescham 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, Oh, Frank Rescham? 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. End of Chapter 36 Chapter 37 of Dr. Thorn This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Dr. Thorn by Anthony Trollop Chapter 37 Sir Louis Leaves Gresham Spree Janet had been sedulous in her attentions to Sir Louis and had not troubled her mistress. But she had not had an easy time of it. Her orders had been that either she or Thomas should remain in the room the whole day, and those orders had been obeyed. Immediately after breakfast, the baronet had inquired after his own servant. His confounded nose must be right by this time, I suppose. It was very bad, Sir Louis, said the old woman, who imagined that it might be difficult to induce Jonah to come into the house again. A man in such a place as his has no business to be laid up, said the master with the wine. I'll see and get a man who won't break his nose. Thomas was sent to the inn three or four times, but in vain. The man was sitting up well enough in the tap room, but the middle of his face was covered with streaks of plaster, and he could not bring himself to expose his wounds before his conqueror. Sir Louis began by ordering the woman to bring him chasse café. She offered him coffee as much as he would, but no chasse. A glass of port wine, she said, at twelve o'clock, and another at three had been ordered for him. I don't care a blank for the orders, said Sir Louis. Send me my own man. The man was again sent for, but would not come. There's a bottle of that stuff that I take in that portmanteau in the left-hand corner. Just hand it to me. But Janet was not to be done. She would give him no stuff, except what the doctor had ordered, till the doctor came back. The doctor would then, no doubt, give him anything that was proper. Sir Louis swore a good deal and stormed as much as he could. He drank, however, his two glasses of wine, and he got no more. Once or twice he essayed to get out of bed and dress, but at every effort he found that he could not do it without Joe, and there he was, still under the clothes, when the doctor returned. I'll tell you what it is, said he, as soon as his guardian entered the room. I'm not going to be made a prisoner of here. A prisoner? No, surely not. It seems very much like it at present, your servant here, that old woman, takes it upon her to say she'll do nothing without your orders. Well, she's right there. Right! I don't know what you called right, but I won't stand it. You are not going to make a child of me, Dr. Thorn, so you need not think of it. And then there was a long quarrel between them, and but an indifferent reconciliation. The Baron had said that he would go to Boxall Hill, and was vehement in his intention to do so, because the doctor opposed it. He had not, however, as yet ferreted out the squire, or given a bit of his mind to Mr. Gaysby, and it behooved him to do this before he took himself off to his own country mansion. He ended, therefore, by deciding to go on the next day but one. Let it be so, if you are well enough, said the doctor. Well enough, said the other with a sneer. There's nothing to make me ill that I know of. It certainly won't be drinking too much here. On the next day Sir Lewis was in a different mood, and in one more distressing for the doctor to bear. His compelled abstinence from intemperate drinking had no doubt been good for him, but his mind had so much sunk under the pain of the privation that his state was piteous to behold. He had cried for his servant as the child cries for its nurse, till at last the doctor, moved to pity, had himself gone out and brought the man in from the public house. But when he did come, Joe was of but little service to his master, as he was altogether prevented from bringing him either wine or spirits, and when he searched for the liqueur case, he found that even that had been carried away. I believe you want me to die, he said, as the doctor, sitting by his bedside, was trying for the hundredth time to make him understand that he had but one chance of living. The doctor was not of the least irritated. It would have been as wise to be irritated by the want of reason in a dog. I am doing what I can to save your life, he said calmly, but as you said just now I have no power over you. As long as you are able to move and remain in my house, you certainly shall not have the means of destroying yourself. You will be very wise to stay here for a week or ten days. A week or ten days of healthy living might perhaps bring you round. Sir Lewis again declared that the doctor wished him to die and spoke of sending for his attorney, Finney, to come to Gresham's free to look after him. Send for him if you choose, said the doctor. His coming will cost you three or four pounds, but can do no other harm. And I will send for Phil Grave, threatened the baronet. I am not going to die here like a dog. It was certainly hard upon Dr. Thorn that he should be obliged to entertain such a guest in the house, to entertain him and foster him and care for him, almost as though he were a son. But he had no alternative. He had accepted the charge from Sir Roger, and he must go through with it. His conscience, moreover, allowed him no rest in this matter. It harassed him day and night, driving him on sometimes to great wretchedness. He could not love this incubus that was on his shoulders. He could not do other than be very far from loving him. Of what use or value was he to any one? What could the world make of him that would be good or he of the world? Was not an early death his certain fate? The earlier it might be, would it not be the better? Were he to linger on yet for two years longer, and such a space of life was possible for him? How great would be the mischief that he might do! Nay, certainly would do. Farewell, then, to all hope's aggression's free, as far as Mary was concerned. Farewell, then, to that dear scheme which lay deep in the doctor's heart, that hope that he might, in his niece's name, give back to the son the lost property of the father. And might not one year, six months, be as fatal? Frank, they all said, must marry money, and even he, he, the doctor himself, much as he despised the idea for money's sake, even he could not but confess that Frank is the heir to an old, but grievously embarrassed property, had no right to marry at his early age a girl without his shilling. Mary, his niece, his own child, would probably be the heiress of this immense wealth, but he could not tell this to Frank. No, nor to Frank's father, while Sir Louis was yet alive. What, if by so doing, he should achieve this marriage for his niece, and that then Sir Louis should live to dispose of his own? How then would he face the anger of Lady Arabella? I will never hanker after a dead man's shoes, neither for myself, nor for another. He had said to himself a hundred times, and as often did he accuse himself of doing so. One path, however, was plainly open before him. He would keep his peace as to the will, and he would use such efforts as he might use for a son of his own loins to preserve the life that was so valueless. His wishes, his hopes, his thoughts he could not control, but his conduct was at his own disposal. I say, doctor, you don't really think that I'm going to die, Sir Louis said, when Dr. Thorn again visited him. I don't think it at all. I am sure you will kill yourself if you continue to live as you have lately done. But suppose I go all right for a while and live. Live just as you tell me, you know? All of us are in God's hands, Sir Louis. By doing so you will, at any rate, give yourself the best chance. Best chance? Why, the—doctor, there are fellows who have done ten times worse than I, and they are not going to kick. Come now, I know you are trying to frighten me. Ain't you now? I am trying to do the best I can for you. It's very hard on a fellow like me. I have nobody to say a kind word to me. No, not one. And Sir Louis, in his wretchedness, began to weep. Come, doctor, if you'll put me once more on my legs, I'll let you draw on the estate for five hundred pounds, by gu—I will. The doctor went away to his dinner, and the baronet also had his in bed. He could not eat much, but he was allowed two glasses of wine, and also a little brandy in his coffee. This somewhat invigorated him, and when Dr. Thorne again went to him in the evening, he did not find him so utterly prostrated in spirit. He had indeed made up his mind to a great resolve, and thus unfolded his final scheme for his own reformation. Doctor, he began again. I believe you are an honest fellow. I do indeed. Dr. Thorne could not but thank him for his good opinion. You ain't annoyed at what I said this morning, are you? The doctor had forgotten the particular annoyance to which Sir Louis alluded, and informed him that his mind might be at rest on any such matter. I do believe you'd be glad to see me well, wouldn't you now? The doctor assured him that such was in very truth the case. Well, now I'll tell you what. I've been thinking about it a great deal today, indeed I have, and I want to do what's right. Might I have a little drop more of that stuff just in a cup of coffee? The doctor poured him out a cup of coffee, and put about a teaspoonful of brandy in it. Sir Louis took it with a disconsolate face, not having been accustomed to such measures in the use of his favorite beverage. I do wish to do what's right. I do indeed. Only, you see, I'm so lonely. As to those fellows up in London, I don't think that one of them cares a straw about me. Dr. Thorne was of the same way of thinking, and he said so. He could not but feel some sympathy with the unfortunate man, as he thus spoke of his own lot. It was true that he had been thrown on the world without anyone to take care of him. My dear friend, I will do the best I can in every way. I will indeed. I do believe that your companions in town have been too ready to lead you astray. Drop them, and you may yet do well. May I, though, doctor? Well, I will drop them. This Jenkins, he's the best of them, but even he is always wanting to make money of me. Not but what I am up to the best of them in that way. You had better leave London, Sir Louis, and change your old mode of life. Go to Boxall Hill for a while, for two or three years or so, live with your mother, and take to farming. What, farming? Yes, that's what all country gentlemen do. Take the land there into your own hand and occupy your mind upon it. Well, doctor, I will, upon one condition? Dr. Thorne sat still and listened. He had no idea what the condition might be, but he was not prepared to promise acquiescence till he heard it. You know what I told you once before, said the Baronet? I don't remember at this moment. About my getting married, you know. The doctor's brow grew black and promised no help to the poor wretch. Bad in every way, wretched, selfish, sensual, unfeeling, purse-proud, ignorant as Sir Louis Scatchard was. Still there was left to him the power of feeling something like sincere love. It may be presumed that he did love Mary Thorne and that he was at the time earnest in declaring that if she could be given to him he would endeavor to live according to her uncle's counsel. It was only a trifle, he asked, but alas, that trifle could not be about safe. I should much approve of your getting married, but I do not know how I can help you. Of course, I mean to Miss Mary. I do love her. I really do, Dr. Thorne. It is quite impossible, Sir Louis. Quite. You do my niece much honour, but I am able to answer for her positively that such a proposition is quite out of the question. Look here now, Dr. Thorne, anything in the way of settlements? I will not hear a word on the subject. You are very welcome to the use of my house as long as it may suit you to remain here, but I must insist that my niece shall not be troubled on this matter. Do you mean to say she's in love with that young Gresham? This was too much for the doctor's patience. Sir Louis said he, I can forgive you much for your father's sake. I can also forgive you something on the score of your own ill health. But you ought to know, you ought by this time to have learnt that there are some things which a man cannot forgive. I will not talk to you about my niece and remember this also. I will not have her troubled by you. And so, saying, the doctor left him. On the next day, the baronet was sufficiently recovered to be able to resume his braggadocio heirs. He swore at Janet, insisted on being served by his own man, demanded in the loud voice but in vain that his liqueur case should be restored to him, and desired that post-horses might be ready for him on the morrow. On that day he got up and ate his dinner in his bedroom. On the next morning he countermanded the horses, informing the doctor that he did so because he had a little bit of business to transact with Squire Gresham before he left the place. With some difficulty the doctor made him understand that the Squire would not see him on business, and it was at last decided that Mr. Gaysby should be invited to call on him at the doctor's house, and this Mr. Gaysby agreed to do in order to prevent the annoyance of having the baronet up at Gresham's Brie. On this day, the evening before Mr. Gaysby's visit, Sir Louis condescended to come down to dinner. He dined, however, tate-a-tate with the doctor. Mary was not there nor was anything said as to her absence. Sir Louis, scattered, never set eyes upon her again. He bore himself very arrogantly on that evening, having resumed the heirs and would-be dignity which he thought belonged to him as a man of rank and property. In his periods of low spirits he was abject and humble enough, abject and fearful of the lamentable destiny which at these moments he believed to be in store for him. But it was one of the peculiar symptoms of his state that as he partially recovered his bodily health the tone of his mind recovered itself also, and his fears for the time were relieved. There was very little said between him and the doctor that evening. The doctor sat guarding the wine and thinking when he should have his house to himself again. Sir Louis sat moody every now and then uttering some impertinences to the Gresham's and the Gresham's Brie property, and at an early hour allowed Joe to put him to bed. The horses were ordered on the next day for three, and at two Mr. Gaysby came to the house. He had never been there before, nor had he ever met Dr. Thorne except at the squire's dinner. On this occasion he asked only for the baronet. Ah, ah, I'm very glad you've come, Mr. Gaysby. Very glad, said Sir Louis, acting the part of the rich great man with all the power he had. I want to ask you a few questions so as to make it all clear sailing between us. As you have asked to see me, I have come, Sir Louis, said the other, putting on much dignity as he spoke. But would it not be better that any business there may be should be done among the lawyers? The lawyers are all very well, I daresay, but when a man has so large a stake at interest as I have in this Gresham's Brie property, why, you see, Mr. Gaysby, he feels a little inclined to look after it himself. Now, do you know, Mr. Gaysby, how much it is that Mr. Gresham owes me? Mr. Gaysby, of course, did know very well, but he was not going to discuss the subject with Sir Louis if he could help it. Whatever claim your father's estate may have on that of Mr. Gresham is, as far as I understand, vested in Dr. Thorn's hands as trustee. I am inclined to believe that you have not yourself at present any claim on Gresham's Brie. The interest, as it becomes due, is paid to Dr. Thorn. And if I may be allowed to make a suggestion, I would say that it will not be expedient to make any change in that arrangement till the property shall come into your own hands. I differ from you entirely, Mr. Gaysby, in Toto, as we used to say at Eaton. What you mean to say is, I can't go to law with Mr. Gresham. I'm not so sure of that, but perhaps not. But I can compel Dr. Thorn to look after my interests. I can force him to foreclose. And to tell you the truth, Gaysby, unless some arrangement is proposed to me which I shall think advantageous, I shall do so at once. There is near a hundred thousand pounds owing to me. Yes, to me. Thorn is only a name in the matter. The money is my money, and by blank, I mean to look after it. Have you any doubts, Sir Louis, as to the money being secure? Yes, I have. It isn't so easy to have a hundred thousand pounds secured. The squire is a poor man, and I don't choose to allow a poor man to owe me such a sum as that. Besides, I mean to invest it in land. I tell you fairly, therefore I shall foreclose. Mr. Gaysby, using all the perspicuity which his professional education had left to him, tried to make Sir Louis understand that he had no power to do anything of the kind. No power? Mr. Gresham shall see whether I have no power. When a man has a hundred thousand pounds owing to him, he ought to have some power, and as I take it he has. But we will see. Perhaps you know Finney, do you? Mr. Gaysby, with a good deal of scorn on his face, said that he had not had that pleasure. Mr. Finney was not in his line. Well, you will know him then, and you'll find that he's sharp enough. That is, unless I have some offer made to me that I may choose to accept. Mr. Gaysby declared that he was not instructed to make any offer, and so he took his leave. On that afternoon Sir Louis went off to Boxall Hill, transferring the miserable task of superintending his self-destruction from the shoulders of the doctor to those of his mother. Of Lady Scatchard, the baronet took no account in his proposed sojourn in the country, nor did he take much of the doctor at leaving Gresham's free. He again wrapped himself in his furs, and with tottering steps climbed up into the barouche which was to carry him away. Is my man up behind, he said to Janet, while the doctor was standing at the little front garden gate, making his adduce? No, sir, he's not up yet, said Janet respectfully. Then said about, will you, I can't lose my time waiting here all day. I shall come over to Boxall Hill and see you, said the doctor, whose heart softened towards the man, in spite of his brutality as the hour of his departure came. I shall be happy to see you if you like to come, of course, that is, in the way of visiting, and that sort of thing, as for doctoring, if I want any, I shall send for Philgrave. Such were his last words as the carriage where the rush went off from the door. The doctor, as he re-entered the house, could not avoid smiling, for he thought of Dr. Philgrave's last patient at Boxall Hill. It's a question to me, said he to himself, whether Dr. Philgrave will ever be induced to make another visit to that house, even with the object of rescuing a baronet out of my hands. He's gone, isn't he, uncle? said Mary, coming out of her room. Yes, my dear, he's gone, poor fellow. He may be a poor fellow, uncle, but he's a very disagreeable inmate in the house. I have not had any dinner these two days. And I haven't had what might be called a cup of tea since he's been in the house, but I'll make up for that tonight. End of Chapter 37 There is a mode of novel writing, which used to be much in vogue, but which has now gone out of fashion. It is, nevertheless, one which is very expressive when in good hands, and which enables the author to tell his story, or some portion of his story, with more natural trust than any other. I mean that of familiar letters. I trust I shall be excused if I attempt it as regards this one chapter, though it may be that I shall break down and fall into the commonplace narrative, even before the one chapter be completed. The correspondents are the Lady Amelia Decorsi and Miss Gresham. I, of course, give precedence to the higher rank, but the first epistle originated with the latter named Young Lady. Let me hope that they will explain themselves. Miss Gresham to Lady Amelia Decorsi Gresham's Free House June 1850 Blank My dearest Amelia, I wish to consult you on a subject which, as you will perceive, is of a most momentous nature. You know how much reliance I place in your judgment and knowledge of what is proper. And therefore I write to you before speaking to any other living person on the subject, not even to Mama, for although her judgment is good too, she has so many cares and troubles that it is natural that it should be a little warped when the interests of her children are concerned. Now that it is all over, I feel that it may possibly have been so in the case of Mr. Moffat. You are aware that Mr. Mortimer Gaysby is now staying here, and that he has been here for nearly two months. He is engaged in managing poor papaz affairs, and Mama, who likes him very much, says that he is a most excellent man of business. Of course you know that he is the junior partner in the very old firm of Gumpts and Gaysby and Gaysby, who, I understand, do not undertake any business at all, except what comes to them from peers or commoners of the very highest class. I soon perceived, dearest Amelia, that Mr. Gaysby paid me more than ordinary attention, and I immediately became very guarded in my manner. I certainly liked Mr. Gaysby from the first. His manners are quite excellent, his conduct to Mama is charming, and as regards myself, I must say that there has been nothing in his behavior of which even you could complain. He has never attempted the slightest familiarity, and I will do him the justice to say that though he has been very attentive, he has also been very respectful. I must confess that for the last three weeks I have thought that he meant something. I might perhaps have done more to propel him, or I might have consulted you earlier as to the propriety of keeping all together out of his way. But you know, Amelia, how often these things lead to nothing, and though I thought all along that Mr. Gaysby was an earnest, I hardly like to say anything about it, even to you, till I was quite certain. If you had advised me, you know, to accept his offer, and if after that he had never made it, I should have felt so foolish. But now he has made it. He came to me yesterday, just before dinner, in the little drawing-room, and told me in the most delicate manner, in words that even you could not have but approved, that his highest ambition was to be thought worthy of my regard, and that he felt for me the warmest love, and the most profound admiration, and the deepest respect. You may say, Amelia, that he is only an attorney, and I believe that he is an attorney, but I am sure you would have esteemed him had you heard the very delicate way in which he expressed his sentiments. Something had given me a pre-sentiment of what he was going to do when I saw him come into the room, so that I was on my guard. I tried very hard to show no emotion, but I suppose I was a little flurried as I once detected myself calling him Mr. Mortimer. His name, you know, is Mortimer Gaysby. I ought not to have done so, certainly, but it was not so bad as if I had called him Mortimer without the Mr., was it? I don't think there could possibly be a prettier Christian name than Mortimer. Well, Amelia, I allowed him to express himself without interruption. He once attempted to take my hand, but even this was done without any assumption of familiarity, and when he saw that I would not permit it, he drew back and fixed his eyes on the ground as though he were ashamed, even of that. Of course I had to give him an answer, and though I had expected that something of this sort would take place, I had not made up my mind on the subject. I would not, certainly, under any circumstances, accept him without consulting you. If I really disliked him, of course there would be no doubt, but I can't say, dearest Amelia, that I do absolutely dislike him, and I really think that we would make each other very happy if the marriage were suitable as regarded both our positions. I collected myself as well as I could, and I really do think that you would have said that I did not behave badly, though the position was rather trying. I told him that, of course, I was flattered by his sentiments, though much surprised at hearing them, that since I knew him, I had esteemed him and valued him as an acquaintance, but that looking on him as a man of business, I had never expected anything more. I then endeavored to explain to him that I was not perhaps privileged, as some other girls might be, to indulge my own feelings altogether. Perhaps that was saying too much and might make him think that I was in love with him, but from the way I said it I don't think he would, for I was very much guarded in my manner, and very collected. And then I told him that in any proposal of marriage that might be made to me, it would be my duty to consult my family as much if not more than myself. He said, of course, and asked whether he might speak to papa. I tried to make him understand that in talking to my family I did not exactly mean papa or even mamma. Of course I was thinking of what was due to the name of Gresham. I know very well what papa would say. He would give his consent in half a minute. He is so brokenhearted by these debts. And to tell you the truth, Amelia, I think mamma would too. He did not seem quite to comprehend what I meant, but he did say that he knew it was a high ambition to marry into the family of the Greshams. I am sure you would confess that he has the most proper feelings, and as for expressing them, no man could do it better. He owned that it was ambition to ally himself with the family above his own rank in life, and that he looked to doing so as a means of advancing himself. Now this was at any rate honest. That was one of his motives, he said, though of course not his first, and then he declared how truly attached he was to me, in answer to this I remarked that he had known me only a very short time. This perhaps was giving him too much encouragement, but at that moment I hardly knew what to say, for I did not wish to hurt his feelings. He then spoke of his income. He has fifteen hundred a year from the business, and that will be greatly increased when his father leaves it, and his father is much older than Mr. Gumpchen, though he is only the second partner. Morta Magaispe will be the senior partner himself before very long, and perhaps that does alter his position a little. He has a very nice place down somewhere in Surrey. I have heard Mama say it is quite a gentleman's place. It is let now, but he will live there when he is married, and he is property of his own besides which he can settle. So you see, he is quite as well off as Mr. Oriel, better indeed, and if a man is in a profession, I believe it is considered that it is not much matter what. Of course a clergyman can be a bishop, but then I think I have heard that one attorney did once become Lord Chancellor. I should have my carriage, you know. I remember his saying that specially, though I cannot recollect how he brought it in. I told him at last that I was so much taken by surprise, that I could not give him an answer then. He was going up to London, he said, on the next day, and might he be permitted to address me on the same subject when he returned? I could not refuse him, you know, and so now I have taken the opportunity of his absence to write to you for your advice. You understand the world so very well, and know exactly what one ought to do in such a strange position. I hope I have made it intelligible at least as to what I have written about. I have said nothing as to my own feelings, because I wish you to think on the matter without consulting them. If it would be derogatory to accept Mr. Gaysby, I certainly would not do so, because I happened to like him. If we were to act in that way, what would the world come to, Amelia? Perhaps my ideas may be overstrained. If so, you will tell me. When Mr. Oriel proposed for Beatrice, nobody seemed to make any objection. It all seemed to go as a matter, of course. She says that his family is excellent, but as far as I can learn his grandfather was a general in India and came home very rich. Mr. Gaysby's grandfather was a member of the firm, and so, I believe, was his great-grandfather. Don't you think this ought to count for something? Besides, they have no business except with the most aristocratic persons, such as Uncle D'Corsi, and the Marquis of Kensington Gore, and that sort. I mention the Marquis, because Mr. Morta Gaysby is there now, and I know that one of the gumptions was once in Parliament, and I don't think that any of the Orioles ever were. The name of attorney is certainly very bad, is it not, Amelia? But they certainly do not seem to be all the same, and I do think that this ought to make a difference. To hear Mr. Morta Gaysby talk of some attorney at Barchester, you would think that there is quite as much difference between them as between a bishop and a curate, and so I think there is. I don't wish at all to speak of my own feelings, but if he were not an attorney, he is, I think, the sort of man I should like. He is very nice in every way, and if you were not told, I don't think you'd know he was an attorney. But dear Amelia, I will be guided by you altogether. He is certainly much nicer than Mr. Moffat, and has a great deal more to say for himself. Of course, Mr. Moffat, having been in Parliament, and having been taken up by Uncle DeCorsi, was in a different sphere. But I really felt almost relieved when he behaved in that way. With Morta Gaysby, I think it would be different. I shall wait so impatiently for your answer, so do pray right at once. I hear some people say that these sort of things are not so much thought of now as they were once, and that all manner of marriages are considered to be commie faux. I do not want, you know, to make myself foolish by being too particular. Perhaps all these changes are bad, and I rather think they are. But if the world changes, one must change too. One can't go against the world. So do right and tell me what you think. Do not suppose that I dislike the man, for I really cannot say that I do. But I would not for anything make an alliance for which any one bearing the name of DeCorsi would have to blush. Always, dearest Emilia, your most affectionate cousin, Augusta Gresham. P.S. I fear Frank is going to be very foolish with Mary Thorn. You know it is absolutely important that Frank should marry money. It strikes me as quite possible that Morta Gaysby may be in Parliament some of these days. He is just the man for it. Poor Augusta prayed very hard for her husband, but she prayed to a bosom that on this subject was as hard as a flint, and she prayed in vain. Augusta Gresham was twenty-two. Lady Emilia DeCorsi was thirty-four. Was it likely that Lady Emilia would permit Augusta to marry, the issue having thus been left in her hands? Why should Augusta derogate from her position by marrying beneath herself, seeing that Lady Emilia had spent so many more years in the world, without having found it necessary to do so? Augusta's letter was written on two sheets of note-paper crossed all over, and Lady Emilia's answer was almost equally formidable. Lady Emilia DeCorsi, to Miss Augusta Gresham, Corsi Castle, June, 1850 Blank. My dear Augusta, I received your letter yesterday morning, but I have put off answering it till this evening, as I have wished to give it very mature consideration. The question is one which concerns not only your character, but happiness for life, and nothing less than very mature consideration would justify me in giving a decided opinion on the subject. In the first place I may tell you that I have not a word to say against, Mr. Mortimer Gaysby. When Augusta had read as far as this, her heart sank within her. The rest was all leather and prunella. She saw at once that the fiat had gone against her, and that her wish to become Mrs. Mortimer Gaysby was not to be indulged. I have known him for a long time, and I believe him to be a very respectable person, and I have no doubt a good man of business. The firm of Messas, Gumption, and Gaysby stands probably quite among the first attorneys in London, and I know that Papa has a very high opinion of them. All of these would be excellent arguments to use in favour of Mr. Gaysby as a suitor had his proposals been made to anyone in his own rank of life. But you, in considering the matter, should, I think, look on it in a very different light. The very fact that you pronounce him to be so much superior to other attorneys shows in how very low esteem you hold the profession in general. It shows also, dear Augusta, how well aware you are that they are a class of people among whom you should not seek a partner for life. My opinion is that you should make Mr. Gaysby understand, very courteously, of course, that you cannot accept his hand. You observe that he himself confesses that in marrying you he would seek a wife in a rank above his own. Is it not therefore clear that in marrying him you would descend to a rank below your own? I shall be very sorry if this grieves you, but still it will be better that you should bear the grief of overcoming a temporary fancy than take a step which may so probably make you unhappy, and which some of your friends would certainly regard as disgraceful. It is not permitted to us, my dear Augusta, to think of ourselves in such matters. As you truly say, if we were to act that way, what would the world come to? It has been God's pleasure that we should be born with high blood in our veins. This is a great boon which we both value, but the boon has its responsibilities as well as its privileges. It is established by law that the royal family shall not intermarry with subjects. In our case there is no law, but the necessity is not the less felt. We should not intermarry with those who are probably of a lower rank. Mr. Morta Gaysby is, after all, only an attorney, and although you speak of his great-grandfather, he is a man of no blood whatsoever. You must acknowledge that such an admixture should be looked on by a decorcy or even by aggression as a pollution. Here Augusta got very red, and she felt almost inclined to be angry with her cousin. Beatrice's marriage with Mr. Oriole is different, though remember I am by no means defending that. It may be good or bad, and I have had no opportunity of inquiring respecting Mr. Oriole's family. Beatrice, moreover, has never appeared to me to feel what was due to her herself in such matters. But, as I said, her marriage with Mr. Oriole is very different. Clergemen, particularly the rectors and vickers of country parishes, do become privileged above other professional men. I could explain why, but it would be too long in the letter. Your feelings on the subject altogether do you great credit. I have no doubt that Mr. Gresham, if asked, would exceed to the match, but that is just the reason why he should not be asked. It would not be right that I should say anything against your father to you. But it is impossible for any of us not to see that all through life he has thrown away every advantage and sacrificed his family. Why is he now in debt, as you say? Why is he not holding the family seat in Parliament? Even though you are his daughter, you cannot but feel that you would not do right to consult him on such a subject. As to dear Aunt, I feel sure that were she in good health, and left to exercise her own judgment, she would not wish to see you married to the agent for the family estate. For, dear Augusta, that is the real truth. Mr. Gaysby often comes here in the way of business, and though Papa always receives him as a gentleman, that is, he dines at table and all that, he is not on the same footing in the house as the ordinary guests and friends of the family, how would you like to be received at Corsi Castle in the same way? You will say perhaps that you would still be Papa's niece, so you would, but you know how strict in such matters Papa is, and you must remember that the wife always follows the rank of the husband. Papa is accustomed to the strict etiquette of a court, and I am sure that no consideration would induce him to receive the estate agent in the light of a nephew. Indeed, were you to marry Mr. Gaysby, the house to which he belongs would, I imagine, have to give up the management of this property. Even were Mr. Gaysby in Parliament, and I do not see how it is probable that he should get there. It would not make any difference. You must remember, dearest, that I never was an advocate for the Moffat match. I acquiesced in it, because Mama did so. If I could have had my own way, I would adhere to all our old prescriptive principles. Neither money nor position can atone to me for low birth. But the world alas is retrograding, and according to the new fangled doctrines of the day a lady of blood is not disgraced by a lying herself to a man of wealth, and what may be called quasi-aristocratic position. I wish it were otherwise, but so it is, and therefore the match with Mr. Moffat was not disgraceful, though it could not be regarded as altogether satisfactory. But with Mr. Gaysby the matter would be altogether different. He is a man earning his bread, honestly, I daresay, but in a humble position. You say he is very respectable. I do not doubt it, and so is Mr. Skraggs the butcher at Corsi. You see, Augusta, to what such arguments reduce you. I daresay he may be nicer than Mr. Moffat in one way. That is, he may have more small talk at his command, and be more clever in all those little pursuits and amusements which are valued by ordinary young ladies. But my opinion is that neither you nor I would be justified in sacrificing ourselves for such amusements. We have high duties before us. It may be that the performance of those duties will prohibit us from taking apart in the ordinary arena of the feminine world. It is natural that girls should wish to marry, and therefore those who are weak take the first that come. Those who have more judgment make some sort of a selection. But the strongest minded are, perhaps, those who are able to forego themselves and their own fancies and to refrain from any alliance that does not tend to the maintenance of high principles. Of course, I speak of those who have blood in their veins. You and I need not die late as to the conduct of others. I hope that what I have said will convince you. Indeed, I know that it only requires that you and I should have a little cousinly talk on this matter to be quite in accord. You must now remain at Gresham's reach till Mr. Gaysby shall return. Immediately that he does so, seek an interview with him, do not wait until he asks for it, and then tell him that when he addressed you the matter had taken you so much by surprise that you were not at the moment able to answer him with that decision which the subject demanded. Tell him that you were flattered. In saying this, however, you must keep a collected countenance and be very cold in your manner, but that family reasons would forbid you to avail yourself of his offer, even did no other cause prevent it. And then, dear Augusta, come to us here. I know you will be a little downhearted after going through this struggle, but I will endeavor to inspire you. When we are both together you will feel more sensibly the value of that high position which you will preserve by rejecting Mr. Gaysby, and will regret less acutely whatever you may lose. Your very affectionate cousin, Amelia Decorsi. P.S. I am greatly grieved about Frank, but I have long feared that he would do some very silly thing. I have heard lately that Miss Mary Thorn is not even the legitimate niece of your Dr. Thorn, but is the daughter of some poor creature who was seduced by the doctor in Barchester. I do not know how true this may be, but I think your brother should be put on his guard. It might do good. Poor Augusta, she was in truth to be pitted, for her efforts were made with the intention of doing right according to her lights. For Mr. Moffat she had never cared a straw, and when therefore she lost the peace of Gilding, for which she had been instructed by her mother to sell herself, it was impossible to pity her. But Mr. Gaysby she would have loved with that sort of love which it was in her power to bestow, with him she would have been happy, respectable, and contented. She had written her letter with great care. When the offer was made to her she could not bring herself to throw Lady Amelia to the winds, and marry the man as it were out of her own head. Lady Amelia had been the tyrant of her life, and so she strove hard to obtain her tyrant's permission. She used all her little cunning in showing that after all Mr. Gaysby was not so very plebeian. All her little cunning was utterly worthless. Lady Amelia's mind was too strong to be caught with such chaff. Augusta could not serve God and Mammon. She must either be true to the God of her cousin's idolatry, and remain single, or serve the Mammon of her own inclinations, and marry Mr. Gaysby. When refolding her cousin's letter after the first perusal she did for a moment think of rebellion. Could she not be happy at that nice place in Surrey, having as she would have a carriage, even though all the decorcies should drop her? It had been put to her that she would not like to be received at Corsi Castle with the scant civility which would be considered due to Mrs. Mortimer Gaysby. But what if she could put up without being received at Corsi Castle at all? Such ideas did float through her mind dimly. But her courage failed her. It is so hard to throw off a tyrant, so much easier to yield when we have been in the habit of yielding. The third letter therefore was written, and it is the end of the correspondence. As Augusta Gresham to Lady Amelia de Corsi, Gresham's free house, July 1850, Blank, my dearest Amelia. I did not answer your letter before, because I thought it better than I doing so, till Mr. Gaysby had been here. He came the day before yesterday, and yesterday I did as nearly as possible what you advised. Perhaps on the whole it will be better. As you say, rank has its responsibilities as well as its privileges. I don't quite understand what you mean about clergymen, but we can talk that over when we meet. Indeed it seems to me that if one is to be particular about family, and I am sure I think we ought, one ought to be so without exception. If Mr. Oriole be a palmonie, Beatrice's children won't be well-born merely because their father was the clergyman, even though he is a rector. Since my former letter I have heard that Mr. Gaysby's great-great-great grandfather established the firm, and there are many people who were nobodies then who were thought to have good blood in their veins now. But I do not say this because I differ from you. I agree with you so fully that I had once made up my mind to reject the man, and consequently I have done so. When I told him I could not accept him from family considerations, he asked me whether I had spoke into papa. I told him no, and that it would be no good as I had made up my own mind. I don't think he quite understood me, but it did not perhaps much matter. You told me to be very cold, and I think that perhaps he thought me less gracious than before. Indeed I fear that when he first spoke I may seem to have given him too much encouragement. However it is all over now, quite over. As Augusta wrote this, she barely managed to save the paper beneath her hand from being moistened with the tear which escaped from her eye. I do not mind confessing now, she continued, at any rate to you that I did like Mr. Gaysby a little. I think his temper and disposition would have suited me. But I am quite satisfied that I have done right. He tried very hard to make me change my mind. That is, he said a great many things as to whether I would not put off my decision. But I was quite firm. I must say that he behaved very well, and that I really do think he liked me honestly and truly. But of course I could not sacrifice family considerations on that account. Yes, rank has its responsibilities as well as its privileges. I will remember that. It is necessary to do so, as otherwise one would be without consolation for what one has to suffer. For I find that one has to suffer, Amelia. I know Papa would have advised me to marry this man. And so I dare say Mama would and Frank and Beatrice if they knew that I liked him. It would not be so bad if we all thought alike about it. But it is hard to have the responsibilities all on one's own shoulder, is it not? But I will go over to you and you will comfort me. I always feel stronger on this subject at Corsi than at Greshamsbury. We will have a long talk about it, and then I shall be happy again. I purpose going on next Friday if that will suit you and dear Aunt. I have told Mama you all wanted me, and she made no objection. Do write it once, dearest Amelia, for to hear from you now will be my only comfort. Yours ever most affectionately and obliged, Augusta Gresham. P.S. I told Mama what you said about Mary Thorn, and she said, Yes, I suppose all the world knows it now, and if all the world did know it it makes no difference to Frank. She seemed very angry, so you see it was true. Though by so doing we shall somewhat anticipate the end of our story, it may be desirable that the full tale of Mr. Gaysby's loves should be told here. When Mary is breaking her heart on her deathbed in the last chapter, or otherwise accomplishing her destiny, we shall hardly find a fit opportunity of saying much about Mr. Gaysby and his aristocratic bride. For he did succeed at last in obtaining a bride in whose veins ran the noble icor of the coursey blood in spite of the high doctrine preached so eloquently by the Lady Amelia, as Augusta had truly said he had failed to understand her. He was led to think by her manner of receiving his first proposal, and justly so enough that she liked him and would accept him, and he was therefore rather perplexed by his second interview. He tried again and again and begged permission to mention the matter to Mr. Gresham, but Augusta was very firm, and he had last retired in disgust. Augusta went to coursey castle and received from her cousin that consolation and re-strengthening which she so much required. Four years afterwards, long after the fate of Mary Thorn had fallen like a thunderbolt on the inhabitants of Greshamsbury, when Beatrice was preparing for her second baby, and each of the twins had her accepted lover. Mr. Mortimer Gaysby went down to coursey castle, of course, on matters of business. No doubt he dined at the table and all that. We have the word of Lady Amelia that the earl with his usual good nature allowed him such privileges. Let us hope that he never encroached on them. But on this occasion Mr. Gaysby stayed a long time at the castle, and singular rumors as to the cause of his prolonged visit became current in the little town. No female scion of the present family, of course, he had, as yet, found a mate. We may imagine that eagles find it difficult to pair when they become scarce in their localities, and we all know how hard it has sometimes been to get comil foe husbands when there has been any number of Protestant princesses on hand. Some such difficulty had doubtless brought it about that the Countess was still surrounded by her full bevy of maidens. Rank has its responsibilities as well as its privileges, and these young ladies' responsibilities seem to have consisted in rejecting any suitor who may have hitherto kneeled to them. But now it was told through coursey that one suitor had kneeled and not in vain. From coursey the rumor flew to Barchester, and thence came down to Greshamsbury, startling the inhabitants, and making one poor heart throb with the violence that would have been piteous had it been known. The suitor, so named, was Mr. Morta Magasby. Yes, Mr. Morta Magasby had now awarded to him many other privileges than those of dining at the table and all that. He rode with the young ladies in the park, and they all talked to him very familiarly before company, all except the Lady Amelia. The Countess even called him Mortimer, and treated him quite as one of the family. At last came a letter from the Countess to her dear sister Arabella. It should be given at length, but that I fear to introduce another epistle. It is such an easy mode of writing, and facility is always dangerous. In this letter it was announced with much preliminary ambiguity that Mortimer Magasby, who had been found to be a treasure in every way, quite a paragon of men, was about to be taken into the Dacorsi bosom as a child of that house. On that day, fortnight, he was destined to lead to the altar, the Lady Amelia. The Countess then went on to say that dear Amelia did not write herself, being so much engaged by her coming duties, the responsibilities of which she doubtless fully realized as well as the privileges. But she had begged her mother to request that the twins should come and act as bridesmaids on the occasion. Dear Augusta, she knew, was too much occupied in the coming event in Mr. Oriole's family to be able to attend. Mr. Mortimer Magasby was taken into the Dacorsi family and did lead the Lady Amelia to the altar, and the Gresham twins did go there and act as bridesmaids, and, which is much more to say for human nature, Augusta did forgive her cousin, and after a certain interval went on a visit to that nice place in Surrey, which she had once hoped would be her own home. It would have been a very nice place, Augusta thought, had not Lady Amelia Gaysby been so very economical? We must presume that there was some explanation between them. If so, Augusta yielded to it and confessed it to be satisfactory. She had always yielded to her cousin and loved her with that sort of love, which is begotten between fear and respect. Anything was better than quarreling with her cousin Amelia. And Mr. Mortimer Gaysby did not altogether make a bad bargain. He never received a shilling of dowry, but that he had not expected, nor did he want it. His troubles arose from the overstrained economy of his noble wife. She would have it that as she had married a poor man—Mr. Gaysby, however, was not a poor man—it behooved her to manage her house with great care. Such a match as that she had made, this she told in confidence to Augusta, had its responsibilities as well as its privileges. But on the whole Mr. Gaysby did not repent his bargain. When he asked his friends to dine, he could tell them that Lady Amelia would be very glad to see them. His marriage gave him some écla at his club, and some additional weight in the firm to which he belonged. He gets his share of the course he shooting, and is asked about to Greshamsbury and other Barsicher houses not only to dine a table at all that, but to take his part in whatever delights country society there has to offer. He lives with the great hope that his noble father-in-law may someday be able to bring him into