 Chapter thirty-seven of Dr. Thorn by Anthony Trollop. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Nick Whitley, Perley, United Kingdom. Chapter thirty-seven, Salui leaves Greshamsbury. Janet had been sedulous in her attentions to Salui, 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 nulls must be right by this time, I suppose. It was very bad, Salui, 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 a whine. 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. Salui 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 portwain, she said, at twelve o'clock, and another at three had been ordered for him. I don't care of blankety-blank for the orders, said Salui. 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. Salui 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 assayed 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 call right, but I won't stand it. You are not going to make a child of me, Dr. Thorn, so you need not think it. And then there was a long quarrel between them, but an indifferent reconciliation. The baronet 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 behoved 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 Louis 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 a 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 hundreds time to make him understand that he had but one chance of living. The doctor was not 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. So Louis again declared that the doctor wished him to die, and spoke of sending for his attorney, Finney, to come to Grashamsbury 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 mischiefs that he might do? Nay, certainly would do. Farewell then to all hopes for Greshensbury 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, as the heir to an old but grievously embarrassed property, had no right to marry, at his early age, a girl without a shilling, marry 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 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 Doctor Thorn again visited him. I don't think 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 so doing, you will at any rate give yourself the best chance. Best chance? Why, Dash and Doctor, there are fellas who have done ten times worse than I, and they are not going to kick. Come now. I know you were 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 and his wretchedness began to weep. Come, Doctor, if you put me once more on my legs, I'll let you draw on the estate for five hundred pounds by a blank 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 Doctor Thorn again went to him 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, Doctor Thorn 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 eluded, 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 to-day. Indeed I have, and I want to do what's right. Mightn't 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 favourite beverage. I do wish to do what's right. I do indeed. Only, you see, I'm so lonely. As to those fellas up in London, I don't think that one of them cares a straw about me. Dr. Thorn 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 any one 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. There's Jenkins. He's the best of them, but even he is always wanting to make money of me. Not but what I'm 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 there, 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. Thorn 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 Catchard was. Still, there was left to him the power of feeling something like sincere love. It may be presumed that he did love Mary Thorn, and that he was at the time earnest in declaring that if she could be given to him he would endeavour to live according to her uncle's counsel. It was only a trifle, he asked. But alas, that trifle could not be vouchsaid. I should much approve of your getting married. But I do not know how I can help you. Of course I am mean to miss Mary. I do love her. I really do, Doctor Thorn. 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, Doctor Thorn, 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 is 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 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 Baronette 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 a loud voice, but in vain, that his liquor 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 Baronette up at Greshamsbury. On this day, the evening before Mr. Gaysby's visit, Sir Louis condescended to come down to dinner. He dined, however, tet-a-tet with the Doctor. Mary was not there, nor was anything said as to her absence. Sir Louis Couchard never set eyes upon her again. He bore himself very arrogantly on that evening, having resumed the airs 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 impertinence as to the Greshams and the Greshamsbury 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. Thorn except at the Squire's dinner. On this occasion he asked only for the baronet. Ah, ah, I'm 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 very well, I dare say. But when a man has so large a stake at interest as I have in this Greshamsbury 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 Greshamsbury. 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 total, as we used to say at Eden. 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 dash I mean to look after it. Have you any doubt, 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 perspecurity 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 in his face, said that he had not had their pleasure. Mr. Finney was not in his lane. Well, you will know him then, and you'll find 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 in leaving Greshensbury. 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 adieu. No, sir, he's not up yet, said Janet respectfully. Then send him out, 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 with 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 a house. I have not had any dinner these two days, and I haven't had what can be called a cup of tea, since he's been in the house, but I'll make up for that to-night. CHAPTER 38 DECOURSY PRECEPTS AND DECOURSY PRACTICE 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 Decorsy 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 Decorsy, Greshamsbury House, June 1850, DASH. 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 Mamar. For, although her judgment is good, too, she has so many cares and troubles that it is natural that she 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 Papa's affairs, and Mamar, 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 Gumpchin, 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 Mamar is charming, and as regards myself, I must say that there has been nothing in his behaviour 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 repel 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 in earnest, I hardly liked 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 presentiment 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 flooded, 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 was 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 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 you 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 of my family I did not exactly mean Papa, or even Mamar. 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 Mamar 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 a 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. Gumption, though he is only the second partner. Mortimer Gaisley 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 Momar say it is quite a gentleman's place. It is let now, but he will live there when he is married, and he has property of his own besides which he can settle. So you see he is quite as well-off as Mr. Aureal, better indeed, and if a man is in a profession, I believe it is considered that it does 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 especially, 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 so 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 happen to like him. If we were to act in that way, what would the world come to a media? Perhaps my ideas may be overstrained. If so, you will tell me. When Mr. Aureal 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 de Coursy, and the Marquis of Kensington Gore, and that sort. I mention the Marquis, because Mr. Mortimer 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 Aureals 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. Mortimer Gaysby talk of some attorney at Barchester, you would say 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, A 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 D'Corsi, was in a different sphere, but I really felt almost relieved when he behaved in that way. With Mortimer 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 comilful. 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 anyone bearing the name of D'Corsi would have to blush. Always, dearest Amelia, your most affectionate cousin, Augusta Gresham, p. s. A 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 Mortimer 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 Amelia D'Corsi was thirty-four. Was it lightly that Lady Amelia 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 Amelia 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 Amelia's answer was almost equally formidable. Lady Amelia de Corsi to Miss Augusta Gresham. Corsi Castle, June 1850-Desh. 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 Mrs. Gumption and Gaysby stands probably quite among the first attorneys in London, and I know that Papar 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 late? 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 is 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 waif in a rank above his own. Is it not, therefore, clear, that in marrying him you would descend to a rank below your own? They 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 in that way, what would the world come to? It has been God's pleasure that we shall be born with hay-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. Mortimer 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, ay am be no means defending that. It may be good or bad, and ay have had no opportunity of inquiring respecting Mr. Oriole's family. Beatrice, moreover, has never appeared to me to feel what was due to herself in such matters. But, as I said, her marriage with Mr. Oriole is very different. Clergeman, 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 a letter. Your feelings on the subject altogether do you great credit. I have no doubt that Mr. Gresham, if asked, would accede to the match. But that is just the reason where 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 who married to the agent for the family estate. For dear Augusta, that is the real truth. Mr. Gaze be 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 way 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 late of a nephew. Indeed, were you to marry Mr. Gaze be, the house to which he belongs would, I imagine, have to give up the management of this property. Even were, Mr. Gaze be 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 A. never was an advocate for the Moffat match. I acquiesced in it, because Mama did so. If A. could have had me own way, A. 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 allying 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. Gaze be the matter would be altogether different. He is a man earning his bread. Honestly, I dare say, but in a humble position, you say he is very respectable. I do not doubt it, and so is Mr. Skrags the butcher at Corsi. You see, Augusta, to what such arguments reduce you? I dare say 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 a nor you would be justified in sacrificing ourselves for such amusements. We have had 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 selection. But the strongest-minded are perhaps those who are able to forgo themselves and their own fences, and to refrain from any alliance that does not tend to the maintenance of hay principles. Of course, a speak of those who have blood in their veins. You and I need not die latest to the conduct of others. I hope 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 Breed till Mr. Gaysby shall return. Immediately that he does so seek an interview with him. Do not wait till he asks for it. 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 that the subject demanded. Tell him that you are 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. Ain't no you will be a little downhearted after going through this struggle. But I will endeavour to inspire you. When we are both together you will feel more sensibly the value of that hay position which you will preserve by rejecting Mr. Gaysby and will regret less acutely whatever you may lose. Your very affectionate cousin Amelia de Coursy. 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 may 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 piece of gilding for which she had been instructed by her mother to sell herself, it was impossible to pity her that 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 the nice place in Surrey, having as she would have a carriage, even though all the Decorses 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 a 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. This third letter, therefore, was written, and it is the end of the correspondence. Ms. Augusta Gresham to Lady Amelia de Corsi, Gresham's Rehouse, July 1850, My dearest Amelia, I did not answer your letter before, because I thought it better to delay doing so, till Mr. Gaysby had been here. He came the day before yesterday, and yesterday I did as nearly as possible what you had vased. 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. Aureal be a parvenu, Beatrice's children won't be well-born merely because their father was a 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 nobody's then, who are 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 spoken to 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. Gays be 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 he was quite firm. I must say that he behaved very well, and that I really do think he laked 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. But I find that one has to suffer, Amelia. And no, 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 laked him. It would not be so bad, if we all sought a lake 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. A purpose going on next Friday if that will suit you and dear Aunt. I have told Mama that you all wanted me, and she made no objection. Do rate at 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 lungs 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 eye-core of the Decorsi 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 at last retired in disgust. Augusta went to Corsi Castle, and received from her cousin that consolation and restrengthening 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 Corsi 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 rumours as to the cause of his prolonged visit became current in the little town. No female sire of the present family of Corsi 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 comial for 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 seemed to have consisted in rejecting any suitor who may have hitherto kneeled to them. But now it was told through Corsi that one suitor had kneeled, and not in vain. From Corsi the rumour flew to Barchester, and then scammed down to Greshamdry, startling the inhabitants, and making one poor heart throb with a violence that would have been piteous had it been known. The suitor, so named, was Mr. Mortimer Gaysby. Yes, Mr. Mortimer Gaysby 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 Gaysby, who had been found to be a treasure in every way, quite a paragon of men, was about to be taken into the Decorsi 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 realised, 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. Oriol's family to be able to attend. Mr. Mortimer Gaysby was taken into the Decorsi 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 quarrelling 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 behoved 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 eclaire at his club, and some additional weight in the firm to which he belonged. He gets his share of the course he is shooting, and is asked about to Greshamsbury and other Barsicher houses, not only to dine at table and 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 some day be able to bring him into Parliament. What the world says about blood. Beatrice, said Frank, rushing suddenly into his sister's room, I want you to do me one special favour. This was three or four days after Frank had seen Mary Thorn. Since that time he had spoken to none of his family on the subject, but he was only postponing from day to day the task of telling his father. He had now completed his round of visits to the kennel, master huntsman, and stables of the county hunt, and was at liberty to attend to his own affairs. So he had decided on speaking to the squire that very day, but he first made his request to his sister. I want you to do me one special favour. The day for Beatrice's marriage had now been fixed, and it was not to be very distant. Mr. Aureol had urged that their honeymoon trip would lose half its delights if they did not take advantage of the fine weather, and Beatrice had nothing to allege in answer. The day had just been fixed, and when Frank ran into her room with his special request, she was not in a humour to refuse him anything. If you wish me to be at your wedding, you must do it, said he. Wish you to be there? You must be there, of course. Oh, Frank, what do you mean? I'll do anything you ask. If it's not to go to the moon or anything of that sort. Frank was too much in earnest to joke. You must have Mary for one of your bridesmaids, he said. Now, mind there may be some difficulty, but you must insist on it. I know what has been going on, but it is not to be born that she should be excluded on such a day as that. You that have been like sisters all your lives till a year ago, but Frank now, Beatrice, don't have any buts. Say that you will do it, and it will be done. I am sure Aureol will approve, and so will my father. But Frank, you won't hear me, not if you make objections. I have set my heart on your doing it, but I had set my heart on the same thing. Well, and I went to Mary on purpose and told her just as you tell me now that she must come. I meant to make Mama understand that I could not be happy unless it was so, but Mary positively refused. Refused? What did she say? I could not tell you what she said, indeed it would not be right if I could, but she positively declined. She seemed to feel that after all that has happened she never could come to Gresham Spree again. Fiddlestick! But Frank, those are her feelings, and to tell the truth I could not combat them. I know she is not happy, but time will cure that. And to tell you the truth, Frank, it was before I came back that you asked her, was it not? Yes. Just the day before you came, I think. Well, it's all altered now. I have seen her since that. Have you, Frank? What do you take me for? Of course I have. The very first day I went to her, and now, Beatrice, you may believe me or not as you like, but if ever I marry I shall marry Mary Thorn, and if ever she marries I think I may say she will marry me at any rate I have her promise, and now you cannot be surprised that I should wish her to be at your wedding, or that I should declare that if she is absent I will be absent. I don't want any secrets, and you may tell my mother if you like it, and all the discourses too for anything I care. Frank had ever been used to command his sisters, and they, especially Beatrice, had ever been used to obey. On this occasion she was well inclined to do so if she only knew how. She again remembered how Mary had once sworn to be at her wedding, to be near her, and to touch her, even though all the blood of the discourses should be crowded before the altar railings. I should be so happy that she should be there, but what am I to do, Frank, if she refuses? I have asked her, and she has refused. Go to her again. You need not have any scruples with her. Do not I tell you she will be your sister? Not come here again to Greshamsbury? Why, I tell you that she will be living here, while you are living there at the Parsonage for years and years to come. Beatrice promised that she would go to Mary again, and that she would endeavour to talk her mother over if Mary would consent to come, but she could not yet make herself believe that Mary Thorn would ever be mistress of Greshamsbury. It was so indispensably necessary that Frank should marry money. Besides, what were those horrid rumours which were now becoming rife as to Mary's birth? Rumours more horrid than any which had yet been heard? Augusta had said hardly more than the truth when she spoke of her father being broken-hearted by his debts. His troubles were becoming almost too many for him, and Mr. Gaysby, though no doubt he was an excellent man of business, did not seem to lessen them. Mr. Gaysby indeed was continually pointing out how much he owed, and in what a quagmire of difficulties he had entangled himself. Now, to do Mr. Yates' humble be justice, he had never made himself disagreeable in this manner. Mr. Gaysby had been doubtless right when he declared that Sir Louis Scatchard had not himself the power to take any steps hostile to the squire, but Sir Louis had also been right when he bolstered that in spite of his father's will, he could cause others to move in the matter. Others did move, and were moving, and it began to be understood that a moiety at least of the remaining Gresham's Brie property must be sold. Even this, however, would by no means leave the squire in undisturbed possession of the other moiety, and thus Mr. Gresham was nearly broken hearted. Frank had now been at home a week, and his father had not as yet spoken to him about the family troubles, nor had a word as yet been said between them as to marry Thorn. It had been agreed that Frank should go away for twelve months in order that he might forget her. He had been away the twelve months, and had now returned, not having forgotten her. It generally happens that in every household one subject of importance occupies it at a time. The subject of importance now, mostly thought of in the Gresham's Brie household, was the marriage of Beatrice. Lady Arabella had to supply the trousseau for her daughter. The squire had to supply the money for the trousseau. Mr. Gaysby had the task of obtaining the money for the squire. While this was going on, Mr. Gresham was not anxious to talk to his son, either about his own debts, or his son's love. There would be time for these things when the marriage feast should be over. So thought the father, but the matter was precipitated by Frank. He also had put off the declaration which he had to make, partly from a wish to spare the squire, but partly also with a view to spare himself. We have all some of that cowardice which induces us to postpone an inevitably evil day. At this time the discussions as to Beatrice's wedding were frequent in the house, and at one of them Frank had heard his mother repeat the names of the proposed bridesmaids. Mary's name was not among them, and hence had arisen his attack on his sister. Lady Arabella had had her reason for naming the list before her son, but she overshot her mark. She wished to show him how totally Mary was forgotten at Gresham's wedding, but she only inspired him with a resolve that she should not be forgotten. He accordingly went to his sister, and then the subject being full on his mind, he'd resolved at once to discuss it with his father. Sir, are you at leisure for five minutes? he said, entering the room in which the squire was accustomed to sit majestically, to receive his tenants, scold his dependents, and in which, in former happy days, he had always arranged the meats of the passager hunt. Mr. Gresham was quite at leisure. When was he not so? But had he been immersed in the deepest business of which he was capable, he would gladly have put it aside at his son's instance. I don't like to have any secret from you, sir, said Frank, nor for the matter of that from anybody else. The anybody else was intended to have reference to his mother, and therefore I would rather tell you at once what I have made up my mind to do. Frank's address was very abrupt, and he felt it was so. He was rather red in the face, and his manner was fluttered. He had quite made up his mind to break the whole affair to his father, but he had hardly made up his mind as to the best mode of doing so. Good heavens, Frank, what do you mean? You are not going to do anything rash. What is it you mean, Frank? I don't think it is rash, said Frank. Sit down, my boy, sit down. What is it that you say you are going to do? Nothing immediately, sir, said he, rather abashed. But as I have made up my mind about Mary Thorn, quite made up my mind, I think it right to tell you. Oh, about Mary, said the squire, almost relieved, and then Frank in voluble language, which he hardly, however, had quite under his command, told his father all that had passed between him and Mary. You see, sir, said he, that it is fixed now, and cannot be altered, nor must it be altered. You asked me to go away for twelve months, and I have done so. It has made no difference, you see. As to our means of living, I am quite willing to do anything that may be best, and most prudent. I was thinking, sir, of taking a farm somewhere near here and living on that. The squire sat quite silent for some moments after this communication had been made to him. Frank's conduct as a son had been such that he could not find fault with it, and in this special matter of his love, how was it possible for him to find fault? He himself was almost as fond of Mary as of a daughter, and though he too would have been desirous that his son should relieve the estate from its embarrassments by a rich marriage, he did not at all share Lady Arabella's feelings on the subject. No countess to coursey had ever engraved it on the tablets of his mind that the world would come to ruin if Frank did not marry money, ruin there was, and would be, but it had been brought about by no sin of Frank's. Do you remember about her birth, Frank? He said at last. Yes, sir, everything. She told me all she knew, and Dr. Thorn finished the story. And what do you think of it? It is a pity, and a misfortune. It might perhaps have been a reason why you, or my mother, should not have had Mary in the house many years ago, but it cannot make any difference now. Frank had not meant to lean so heavily on his father, but he did do so. The story had never been told to Lady Arabella, was not even known to her now, positively, and on good authority, but Mr. Gresham had always known it. If Mary's birth was so great a stain upon her, why had he brought her into his house among his children? It is a misfortune, Frank, a very great misfortune. It will not do for you and me to ignore birth. Too much of the value of one's position depends upon it. But what was Mr. Moffat's birth, said Frank, almost with scorn, or what misdonstables he would have added, had it not been that his father had not been concerned in that sin of wedding him to the oil of Lebanon. True, Frank! But yet what you would mean to say is not true. We must take the world as we find it. Were you to marry a rich heiress? Were her birth even as low as that of poor Mary? Don't call her poor Mary, father. She is not poor. My wife will have a right to take rank in the world however she was born. Well, poor in that way. But were she an heiress, the world would forgive her birth on account of her wealth. The world is very complacent, sir. You must take it as you find it, Frank. I only say that such is the fact. If Paul Ock were to marry the daughter of a shoe-black without a farthing, he would make a mesalliance. But if the daughter of the shoe-black had half a million of money, nobody would dream of saying so. I am stating no opinion of my own. I am only giving you the world's opinion. I don't give a straw for the world. That is a mistake, my boy. You do care for it, and would be very foolish if you did not. What you mean is that on this particular point you value your love more than the world's opinion. Well, yes, that is what I mean. But the squire, though he had been very lucid in his definition, had got no nearer to his object, had not even yet ascertained what his own object was. This marriage would be ruinous to Greshamsbury, and yet what was he to say against it, seeing that the ruin had been his fault, and not his son's? You could let me have a farm, could you not, sir? I was thinking of about six or seven hundred acres. I suppose it could be managed somehow. A farm, said the father abstractedly. Yes, sir, I must do something for my living. I should make less of a mess of that than of anything else. Besides, it would take such a time to be an attorney or a doctor or anything of that sort. Do something for his living. And was the heir of Greshamsbury come to this, the heir and only son, whereas he, the squire, had succeeded at an earlier age than Frank's, to an unembarrassed income of fourteen thousand pounds a year. The reflection was very hard to bear. Yes, I daresay you could have a farm. And then he threw himself back in his chair, closing his eyes. Then, after a while, rose again, and walked hurriedly about the room. Frank, he said at last standing opposite to his son, I wonder what you think of me. Think of you, sir? ejaculated Frank. Yes. What do you think of me for having thus ruined you? I wonder whether you hate me? Frank, jumping up from his chair, through his arms round his father's neck. Hate you, sir? How can you speak so cruelly? You know well that I love you, and father do not trouble yourself about the estate for my sake. I do not care for it. I can be just as happy without it. Let the girls have what is left, and I will make my own way in the world somehow. I will go to Australia. Yes, sir, that will be best. I and Mary will both go. Nobody will care about our birth there. But father never say, never think, that I do not love you. The squire was too much moved to speak at once, though he sat down again and covered his face with his hands. Frank went on pacing the room till gradually his first idea recovered possession of his mind, and the remembrance of his father's grief faded away. May I tell Mary, he said at last, that you consent to our marriage? It will make us so happy. But the squire was not prepared to say this. He was pledged to his wife to do all that he could to oppose it, and he himself thought that if anything could consummate the family ruin, it would be this marriage. I cannot say that, Frank. I cannot say that. What would you both live on? It would be madness. We would go to Australia, on Ziti, in Italy. I have just said so. Oh, no, my boy, you cannot do that. You must not throw the old place up altogether. There is no other one but you, Frank, but we have lived here now for so many, many years. But if we cannot live here any longer, Father, but for this scheme of yours, we might do so, I will give up everything to you, the management of the estate, the park, all the land we have in hand, if you will give up this fatal scheme. For, Frank, it is fatal. You are only twenty-three. Why should you be in such a hurry to marry? You married at twenty-one, sir. Frank was again severe on his father, but unwittingly. Yes, I did, said Mr. Gresham, and see what has come of it, and I waited ten years longer. How different would everything have been? No, Frank, I cannot consent to such a marriage. Nor will your mother. It is your consent, I ask, sir, and I am asking for nothing, but your consent. It would be sheer madness, madness for you both. My own Frank, my dear, dear boy, do not drive me to distraction. Give it up for four years. Four years? Yes, for four years. I ask it as a personal favour, as an obligation to myself, in order that we may be saved from ruin. You, your mother and sisters, your family name, and the old house. I do not talk about myself, but were such a marriage to take place, I should be driven to despair. Frank found it very hard to resist his father, who now had hold of his hand and arm, and was thus half retaining him, and half embracing him. Frank, say that you will forget this for four years, say for three years, but Frank would not say so. To postpone his marriage for four years, or for three, seemed to him to be tantamount to giving up Mary altogether, and he would not acknowledge that anyone had the right to demand of him to do that. My word is pledged, sir, he said. Pledged? Pledged to whom? To Miss Thorn. But I will see her, Frank, and her uncle. She was always reasonable. I am sure she will not wish to bring ruin on her old friends at Grashamsbury. Her old friends at Grashamsbury have done but little lately to deserve her consideration. She has been treated shamefully. I know it is not been by you, sir, but I must say so. She has already been treated shamefully, but I will not treat her falsely. Well, Frank, I can say no more to you. I have destroyed the estate which should have been yours, and I have no right to expect you should regard what I say. Frank was greatly distressed. He had not any feeling of animosity against his father with reference to the property, and would have done anything to make the squire understand this, short of giving up his engagement to Mary. His feeling rather was that as each had a case against the other they should cry quits, that he should forgive his father for his bad management, on condition that he himself was to be forgiven with regard to his determined marriage. Not that he put it exactly in that shape, even to himself. But could he have unraveled his own thoughts? He would have found that such was the web on which they were based. Father, I do regard what you say, but you would not have me be false. Had you doubled the property instead of lessening it, I should not regard what you say any more. I should be able to speak in a very different tone. I feel that, Frank. Do not feel it any more, sir. Say what you wish, as you would have said it, under any other circumstances, and pray believe this. The idea never occurs to me that I have ground of complaint as regards to the property. Never! Whatever troubles we may have, do not let that trouble you. Soon after this Frank left him. What more was there that could be said between them? They could not be of one accord, but even yet it might not be necessary that they should quarrel. He went out and roamed by himself through the grounds. Rather more in meditation than was his won't. If he did marry, how was he to live? He talked of a profession. But had he meant to do as others do, who make their way in professions, he should have thought of that a year or two ago, or rather have done more than think of it. He spoke also of a farm, but even that could not be had in a moment. Nor, if it could, would it produce a living. Where was his capital? Where his skill? And he might have asked also where the industry so necessary for such a trade. He might set his father at defiance, and if Mary were equally headstrong with himself, he might marry her. But what then? As he walked slowly about, cutting off the daisies with his stick, he met Mr. Aureal, going up to the house as was now his custom, to dine there, and spend the evening close to Beatrice. How I envy you, Aureal, he said. What would I not give to have such a position in the world as yours? Now, shalt not covet a man's house nor his wife, said Mr. Aureal. Perhaps it ought to have been added, nor his position. It wouldn't have made much difference. When a man is tempted, the commandments, I believe, do not go for much. Do they not, Frank? That's a dangerous doctrine, and one which, if you had my position, you would hardly admit. But what makes you so much out of sorts? Your own position is generally considered about the best which the world has to give. Is it? Then let me tell you that the world has very little to give. What can I do? Where can I turn? Aureal, if there be an empty lying humbug in the world, it is the theory of high birth and pure blood which some of us endeavor to maintain. Blood, indeed. If my father had been a baker, I should know by this time where to look for my livelihood. As it is, I am told of nothing but my blood. Will my blood ever get me half a crown? And then the young Democrat walked on again, in solitude, leaving Mr. Aureal in doubt as to the exact line of argument which he had meant to inculcate.