 Chapter 40 of Dr. Thorn by Anthony Trollop. This Librivox recording is in the public domain, recording by Nick Whitley, Perley, United Kingdom. Chapter 40 The Two Doctors Change Patience Dr. Phil Graves still continued his visits to Greshamsbury, for Lady Arabella had not yet mastered the courage necessary for swallowing her pride and sending once more for Dr. Thorn. Nothing, please, Dr. Phil Graves, more than those visits. He habitually attended grander families and richer people, but then he had attended them habitually. Greshamsbury was a prize taken from the enemy. It was his rock of Gibraltar, of which he thought much more than of any ordinary Hampshire or Wiltshire, which had always been within his own kingdom. He was just starting one morning with his post-horses for Greshamsbury, when an impudent-looking groom with a crooked nose trotted up to his door. For Joe still had a crooked nose. All the doctors care having been inefficacious to remedy the evil effects of Bridget's little tap with the rolling pin. Joe had no written credentials, for his master was hardly equal to writing, and Lady Scatchard had declined to put herself into further personal communication with Dr. Phil Graves. But he had, if frontery enough, to deliver any message. They owe Dr. Phil Graves, said Joe, with one finger just raised to his cocked hat. Yes, said Dr. Phil Graves, with one foot on the step of the carriage, but pausing at the sight of so well turned out a certain time. Yes, I am Dr. Phil Graves. Then you be to go to Buxall Hill immediately, before anywhere else. Marksall Hill, said the doctor, with a very angry frown. Yes, Buxall Hill, my master's place, my master is Sir Louis Scatchard Baronet. You've heard of him, I suppose. Dr. Phil Graves had not his mind quite ready for such an occasion. So he withdrew his foot from the carriage-step, and rubbing his hands one over another, looked at his own hall-door for inspiration. A single glance at his face was sufficient to show that no ordinary thoughts were being turned over within his breast. Well, said Joe, thinking that his master's name had not altogether produced the magic effect which he had expected, remembering also how submissive Grayson had always been, who being a London doctor must be supposed to be a bigger man than this provincial fellow. Do you know of how my master is dying very like while you stand there? What is your master's disease? said the doctor, facing Joe slowly and still rubbing his hands. What ails him? What is the matter with him? Oh, the matter with him! Well, to say it out at once, then, he do take a drop too much at times, and then he has the horrors. What is it they call it? Delicious beam-ends or something of that sort. Oh, yes, I know. And tell me, my man, who is attending him? Attending him? Why, I do, and his mother. That is a ladyship. Yes, but what medical attendant? What doctor? Why, there was Grayson in London and Grayson. And the doctor looked as though a name so medicinally humble, had never before struck the tymbanum of his ear. Yes, Grayson. And then down at what's the name of the place that was Thorn? Greshamsbury. Yes, Greshamsbury. But he and Thorn didn't eat it off, and so since that he has had no one but myself. I will be at Boxall Hill in the course of the morning, said Dr. Philgrave. Or rather, you may say, that I will be there at once. I will take it in my way. And having thus resolved he gave his orders that the post-horses should make such a detour as would enable him to visit Boxall Hill on his road. It is impossible, said he to himself, that I should be twice treated in such a manner in the same house. He was not, however, altogether in a comfortable frame of mind, as he was driven up to the hall door. He could not but remember the smile of triumph with which his enemy had regarded him in that hall. He could not but think how he had returned the less to barchester and how little he had gained in the medical world by rejecting Lady Scatchard's bank note. However, he also had had his triumphs since that. He had smiled scornfully at Dr. Thorn when he had seen him in the Greshamsbury Street and had been able to tell at twenty houses through the county how Lady Arabella had at last been obliged to place herself in his hands. And he triumphed again when he found himself really standing by Sir Louis Scatchard's bedside. As for Lady Scatchard, she did not even show herself. She e-capped in her own little room, sending out Hannah to ask him up the stairs, and she only just got a peep at him through the door as she heard the medical creak of his shoes as he again descended. We need say but little of his visit to Sir Louis. It mattered nothing now whether it was Thorn, or Grayson, or Philgrave. And Dr. Philgrave knew that it mattered nothing. He had skill at least for that, and hard enough also to feel that he would feign have been relieved from this task. Would feign have left this patient in the hands even of Dr. Thorn. The name which Joe had given to his master's illness was certainly not a false one. He did find Sir Louis in the horrors. If any father have a son whose besetting sin is a passion for alcohol, let him take his child to the room of a drunkard when possessed by the horrors. Nothing will cure him if not that. I will not disgust my reader by attempting to describe the poor wretch in his misery, the sunken but yet glaring eyes, the emaciated cheeks, the fallen mouth, the parched sore lips, the face now dry and hot, and then suddenly clammy with drops of perspiration, the shaking hand and all but palsy'd limbs, and worse than this the fearful mental efforts and the struggles for drink, struggles to which it is often necessary to give way. Dr. Phil Graves soon knew what was to be the man's fate, but he did what he might to relieve it. There, in one big best bedroom looking out to the north, lay Sir Louis scattered, dying wretchedly. There, in the other big best bedroom looking out to the south, had died the other baronet about a twelve-month since, and each a victim to the same sin. To this had come the prosperity of the house of Scatchard. And then Dr. Phil Graves went on to Greshamsbury. It was a long day's work, both for himself and the horses, but then the triumph of being dragged up that avenue compensated for both the expense and the labour. He always put on his sweetest smile as he came near the hall door, and rubbed his hands in the most complacent manner of which he knew. It was seldom that he saw any of the family but Lady Arabella, but then he desired to see none other, and when he left her in a good humour, was quite content to take his glass of sherry and eat his lunch by himself. On this occasion, however, the servant at once asked him to go into the dining-room, and there he found himself in the presence of Frank Gresham. The fact was that Lady Arabella, having at last decided, had sent for Dr. Thorn, and it had become necessary that someone should be entrusted with the duty of informing Dr. Phil Graves. That someone must be the squire or Frank. Lady Arabella would doubtless have referred a messenger more absolutely friendly to her own side of the house, but such messenger there was none. She could not send Mr. Gaysby to see her doctor, and so of the two evils she chose the least. Dr. Phil Graves said Frank, shaking hands with him very cordially as he came up, my mother is so much obliged to you for all your care and anxiety on her behalf, and so indeed are we all. The doctor shook hands with him very warmly. This little expression of a family feeling on his behalf was the more gratifying, as he had always thought that the males of the Greshamsbury family were still wedded to that pseudo doctor, that half apocry who lived in the village. It has been awfully troublesome to you coming over all this way, I am sure. Indeed money could not pay for it. My mother feels that it must cut up your time so much. Not at all, Mr. Gresham. Not at all, said the barchester doctor, rising up on his toes proudly as he spoke. A person of your mother's importance, you know. I should be happy to go any distance to see her. But Dr. Phil Graves, we cannot allow that. Mr. Gresham, don't mention it. Oh yes, but I must, said Frank, who thought that he had done enough for civility, and was now anxious to come to the point. The fact is, Doctor, that we are very much obliged for what you have done. But for the future my mother thinks she can trust to such assistance as she can get here in the village. Frank had been particularly instructed to be very careful how he mentioned Dr. Thorn's name, and therefore cleverly avoided it. Yet what assistance she wanted in the village? What words were those that he heard? Mr. Gresham, perhaps I do not completely. Yes, alas, he had completely understood what Frank had meant that you should understand. Frank desired to be civil, but he had no idea of beating unnecessarily about the bush on such an occasion as this. It's by Sir Omicron's advice, Dr. Phil Graves. You see, this man here, and he nodded his head towards the Doctor's house, being still anxious not to pronounce the hideous name, has known my mother's constitution for so many years. Oh, Mr. Gresham, of course, if it is wished. Yes, Dr. Phil Graves, it is wished. Lunch is coming directly, and Frank rang the bell. Nothing, eh, thank you, Mr. Gresham. Do take a glass of sherry. Nothing at all. I am very much obliged to you. Won't you let the horses get some oats? I will return at once, if you please, Mr. Gresham. And the Doctor did return, taking with him on this occasion the fee that was offered to him. His experience had at any rate taught him so much. But though Frank could do this, for Lady Arabella, he could not receive Dr. Thorn on her behalf. The bitterness of that interview had to be borne by herself. A messenger had been sent for him, and he was upstairs with her ladyship, while his rival was receiving his congee downstairs. She had two objects to accomplish, if it may be possible. She had felt that hey words with the Doctor were of no avail, but it may be possible that Frank could be saved by humiliation on her part. If she humbled herself before this man, would he consent to acknowledge that his niece was not the fit braid for the heir of Greshamsbury? The Doctor entered the room where she was lying on her sofa, and walking up to her with a gentle but yet not constrained step, took the seat beside her little table, just as he had always been accustomed to do, and as though there had been no break in their intercourse. Well, Doctor, you see, the day have come back to you, she said with a faint smile. Or rather, I have come back to you, and believe me, Lady Arabella, I am very happy to do so. There need be no excuses. You were doubtless right to try what other skill could do, and I hope it has not been tried in vain. She had meant to have been so condescending, but now all that was put quite beyond her power. It was not easy to be condescending to the Doctor. She had been trying all her life, and had never succeeded. A half head, Sir Omicron pay, she said. So I was glad to hear. Sir Omicron is a clever man, and has a good name. I always recommend Sir Omicron myself. And Sir Omicron returns the compliment, said she, smiling gracefully, for he recommends you. He told Mr. Gresham that A was very foolish to quarrel with my best friend. So now we are friends again, are we not? You see how selfish A am! And she put out her hand to him. The Doctor took her hand cordially, and assured her that he bore no ill will, that he fully understood her conduct, and that he had never accused her of selfishness. This was all very well and very gracious. But nevertheless Lady Arabella felt that the Doctor kept the upper hand in those sweet forgivenesses, whereas she had intended to keep the upper hand at least for a while, so that her humiliation might be more effective when it did come. And then the Doctor used his surgical law as he well knew how to use it. There was an assured confidence about him, an air which seemed to declare that he really knew what he was doing. These were very comfortable to his patients. But they were wanting in Dr. Philgrave, when he had completed his examinations and questions, and she had completed her little details and made her answer. She certainly was more at ease than she had been, since the Doctor had last left her. Don't go yet for a moment," she said. I have one word to say to you. He declared that he was not the least in a hurry. He desired nothing better, he said, than to sit there and talk to her. And I owe you a most sincere apology, Lady Arabella. A sincere apology, said she, becoming a little red. Was he going to say anything about Mary? Was he going to own that he and Mary and Frank had all been wrong? Yes, indeed. I ought not to have brought Sir Louis Cachard here. I ought to have known that he would have disgraced himself. Oh, it is not signify, said her Ladyship, in a tone almost of disappointment. I had forgotten it. Mr. Gresham and you had more inconvenience than we had. He is an unfortunate, wretched man, most unfortunate, with an immense fortune which he can never live to possess. And who will the money go to, Doctor? This was a question for which Dr. Thorn was hardly prepared. Oh, too, he repeated. Oh, some member of the family, I believe. There are plenty of nephews and nieces. Yes, but will it be debated, or all go to one? Probably to one, I think. Sir Roger had a strong idea of leaving it all in one hand. If it should happen to be a girl, thought Lady Arabella, what an excellent opportunity would that be for Frank to marry money. And now, Doctor, I want to say one word to you. Considering the very long game that we have known each other, it is better that I should be open with you. This estrangement between us and dear Mary has given us all so much pain. Cannot we do anything to put an end to it? Well, what can I say, Lady Arabella? That depends so wholly on yourself. If it depends on me, it shall be done at once. The Doctor bowed, and though he could hardly be said to do so stiffly, he did it coldly. His bow seemed to say, certainly, if you choose to make a proper amont, it can be done, but I think it is very unlikely that you will do so. Beatrice is just going to be married. You know that, Doctor. The Doctor said that he did know it, and it will be so pleasant that Mary should make one of us. Poor Beatrice, you don't know what she has suffered. Yes, said the Doctor. There has been suffering, I am sure, suffering on both sides. You cannot wonder that we should be so anxious about Frank, Doctor Thorn, in only son and the heir to an estate that has been so very long in the family. And Lady Arabella put her handkerchief to her eyes, as though these facts were in themselves, melancholy, and not to be thought of by a mother without some soft tears. Now a wish you could tell me what your views are in a friendly manner between ourselves. You won't find me unreasonable, my views, Lady Arabella. Yes, Doctor, about your niece, you know. You must have views of some sort. That's of course. It occurs to me that perhaps we are all in the dark together. If so, a little ken did speaking between you and me may set it all right. Lady Arabella's career had not hitherto been conspicuous for candour, as far as Doctor Thorn had been able to judge of it. But that was no reason why he should not respond to so very becoming an invitation on her part. He had no objection to a little candid speaking, at least so he declared. As to his views with regard to Mary, they were merely these, that he would make her as happy and comfortable as he could while she remained with him, and that he would give her his blessing, for he had nothing else to give her, when she left him, if ever she should do so. Now it will be said that the Doctor was not very candid in this, not more so perhaps than was Lady Arabella herself. But when one is specially invited to be candid, one is naturally set upon one's guard. Those who by disposition are most open are apt to become crafty when so admonished. When a man says to you, let us be candid with each other, you feel instinctively that he desires to squeeze you without giving a drop of water himself. Yes, but about Frank, said Lady Arabella, about Frank, said the Doctor with an innocent look, which her ladyship could hardly interpret. What a mean is this! Can you give me your word that these young people do not intend to do anything rash? One word like that from you will set me mind great at rest, and then we could be so happy together again. Ah! Who is to answer for what rash things a young man will do? said the Doctor, smiling. Lady Arabella got up from the sofa and pushed away the little table. The man was false, hypocritical, and cunning. Nothing could be made of him. They were all in a conspiracy together to rob her of her son, to make him marry without money. What should she do? Where should she turn for advice or counsel? She had nothing more to say to the Doctor, and he, perceiving that this was the case, took his leave. This little attempt to achieve candour had not succeeded. Doctor Thorn had answered Lady Arabella as it seemed best to him on the spur of the moment, but he was by no means satisfied with himself. As he walked away through the gardens, he bethought himself whether it would be better for all parties, if he could bring himself to be really candid. Would it not be better for him at once to tell the squire what were the future prospects of his niece, and let the father agree to the marriage, or not agree to it, as he might think fit? But then, if so, if he did do this, would he not in fact say, there is my niece, there is this girl of whom you have been talking for the last twelve months, indifferent to what agony of mind you may have occasioned to her. There she is, a probable heiress. It may be worth your son's while to wait a little time, and not cast her off, till he shall know whether she be an heiress or no. If it shall turn out that she is rich, let him take her. If not, why he can desert her then, as well as now. He could not bring himself to put his niece into such a position as this. He was anxious enough that she should be Frank Gresham's wife, for he loved Frank Gresham. He was anxious enough also that she should give to her husband the means of saving the property of his family. But Frank, though he might find her rich, was bound to take her while she was poor. Then also he doubted whether he would be justified in speaking of this will at all. He almost hated the will for the trouble and vexation it had given him, and the constant stress it had laid on his conscience. He had spoken of it as yet to no one, and he thought that he was resolved not to do so while Sir Louis should yet be in the land of the living. On reaching home he found a note from Lady Scatchard, informing him that Dr Philgrave had once more been at Boxall Hill, and that on this occasion he had left the house without anger. I don't know what he has said about Louis, she added. For to tell the truth, Doctor, I was afraid to see him, but he comes again tomorrow, and then I shall be braver, but I fear that my poor boy is in a bad way. CHAPTER 41 Dr Thorn won't interfere. At this period there was, as it were, a truce to the ordinary little skirmishes, which had been so customary between Lady Arabella and the Squire. Things had so fallen out that they neither of them had much spirit for a contest. And, moreover, on that point which at the present moment was most thought of by both of them, they were strangely in unison, for each of them was anxious to prevent the threatened marriage of their only son. It must, moreover, be remembered that Lady Arabella had carried a great point in ousting Mr Yates' umbilby, and putting the management of the estate into the hands of her own party then. But then the Squire had not done less in getting rid of Philgrave and reinstating Dr Thorn in possession of the family invalids. The losses, therefore, had been equal, the victories equal, and there was a mutual object. And it must be confessed also that Lady Arabella's taste for grandeur was on the decline. This fortune was coming too near to her to leave her much anxiety for the gayities of a London season. Things were not faring well with her. When her eldest daughter was going to marry a man of fortune and a member of parliament, she had thought nothing of demanding a thousand pounds or so for the extraordinary expenses incident to such an occasion. But now Beatrice was to become the waif of a perished person, and even that was thought to be a fortunate event. She had, therefore, no heart for Splenda. The quieter we can do it, the better, she wrote to her Countess's sister. Her father wanted to give him at least a thousand pounds. But Mr Gaysby has told me confidentially that it literally cannot be done at the present moment. Ah, my dear Rizina, how things have been managed? If one or two of the gals will come over, we shall all take it as a favour. Beatrice would think it very caned of them, but I don't think of asking you or Amelia. Amelia was always the grandest of the Decourcy family, being almost on an equality with, nay in some respect superior to, the Countess herself. But this, of course, was before the days of the nice place in Sari. Such and so humble being the present temper of the Lady of Greshamsbury, it will not be thought surprising that she and Mr Gresham should at last come together in their efforts to reclaim their son. At first Lady Erebella urged upon the square the duty of being very peremptory and very angry. Do as other fathers do in such cases. Make him understand that he will have no allowance to live on. He understands that well enough, said Mr Gresham. Threatened to cut him off with a shilling, said a ladyship with spirit. I haven't a shilling to cut him off with, answered the squire bitterly. But Lady Erebella herself soon perceived that this lane would not do. As Mr Gresham himself confessed his own sins against his son, had been too great to allow of his taking a hay-hen with him. Besides, Mr Gresham was not a man who could ever be severe with a son whose individual conduct had been so good as Frank's. This marriage was, in his view, a misfortune to be averted if possible, to be averted by any possible means. But as far as Frank was concerned, it was to be regarded rather as a monomania than a crime. It did feel so certain that he would have succeeded with misdustable, said the mother almost crying. I thought it impossible, but that at his age a twelve-months knocking about the world would cure him, said the father. I never heard of a boy being so obstinate about a girl, said the mother. I'm sure he didn't get it from the Decourses. And then again they talked it over in all its bearings. But what are they to live upon, said Lady Arabella, appealing as it were to some impersonation of reason. That's what I want him to tell me. What are they to live upon? I wonder whether Decourses could get him into some embassy, said the father. He does talk of a profession. What, with the girl and all, asked Lady Arabella with horror, alarmed at the idea of search and appeal being made to her noble brother? No, but before he marries. He might be broken of it that way. Nothing will break him, said the wretched mother. Nothing, nothing! For Maypart A think that he is possessed. Why was she brought here? Oh, dear, oh, dear, why was she ever brought into this house? This last question Mr. Gresham did not think it necessary to answer. That evil had been done, and it would be useless to dispute it. I'll tell you what I'll do, said he. I'll speak to the doctor himself. It's not the latest youth, said Lady Arabella. He will not assist us. Indeed, they firmly believe it's all his own doing. Oh, nonsense! That really is nonsense, my love. Very well, Mr. Gresham. What A say is always nonsense. A know you have always told me so. But yet see how things have turned out. A knew how it would be when she was first brought into the house. This assertion was rather a stretch on the part of Lady Arabella. Well, it is nonsense to say that Frank is in love with the girl at the doctor's bidding. A think you know, Mr. Gresham, that I don't mean that. What A say is this. The doctor's thorn, feigning what an easy fool Frank is. I don't think he's at all easy, my love. And certainly is not a fool. Very well. Have it your own way. A'l not say a word more. A'l struggling to do me best. And I'm brow-beaten on every side. God knows I am not in a state of health to bear it. And Lady Arabella bowed her head into her pocket handkerchief. I think, my dear, if you were to see Mary herself, it might do some good, said the squire, when the violence of his wife's grief had somewhat subsided. What, gale and call upon this gale? Yes. You can send Beatrice to give her notice, you know. She never was unreasonable. And I do not think that you would find her so. You should tell her, you know. Oh, A should know very well what to tell her, Mr. Gresham. Yes, my love. I'm sure you would. Nobody better. But what I mean is, that if you are to do any good, you should be kind in your manner. Mary Thorn has a spirit that you cannot break. You may perhaps lead, but nobody can drive her. As this scheme originated with her husband, Lady Arabella could not, of course, confess that there was much in it. But nevertheless, she determined to attempt it, thinking that if anything could be efficacious for good in their present misfortunes, it would be her own diplomatic powers. It was therefore at last settled between them, that he should endeavor to talk over the doctor, and that she would do the same with Mary. And then A will speak to Frank, said Lady Arabella. As yet he has never had the audacity to open his mouth to me about Mary Thorn, though I believe he declares his love openly to everyone else in the house. And I will get Oriole to speak to him, said the squire. A think patience may do more good. A did once think he was getting fond of patience, and A was quite unhappy about it then. Ah, dear, A should be almost pleased at that now. And thus it was arranged that all the artillery of Greshamsbury was to be brought to bear at once on Frank's love, so as to crush it, as it were, by the very weight of metal. It may be imagined that the squire would have less scruple in addressing the doctor on this matter than his wife would feel, and that his part of their present joint undertaking was less difficult than hers, for he and the doctor had ever been friends at heart. But nevertheless he did feel much scruple, as with his stick in hand he walked down to the little gate which opened out near the doctor's house. This feeling was so strong that he walked on beyond this door to the entrance, thinking of what he was going to do, and then back again. It seemed to be his fate to be depending always on the clemency or consideration of Dr. Thorn. At this moment the doctor was imposing the only obstacle which was offered to the sale of a great part of his estate. So Louis, through his lawyer, was pressing the doctor to sell, and the lawyer was loudly accusing the doctor of delaying to do so. He has the management of your property, said Mr. Finney, but he manages it in the interest of his own friend. It is quite clear, and we will expose it, by all means, said Sir Louis. It's a dashed shame, and it shall be exposed. Of all this the squire was aware. When he reached the doctor's house he was shown into the drawing-room, and found Mary there alone. It had always been his habit to kiss her forehead when he chanced to meet her about the house at Gresham'sbury. She had been younger and more childish then, but even now she was but a child to him. So he kissed her, as he had been wont to do. She blushed slightly as she looked up into his face and said, Oh, Mr. Gresham, I am so glad to see you here again. As he looked at her he could not but acknowledge that it was natural that Frank should love her. He had never before seen that she was attractive, had never had an opinion about it. She had grown up as a child under his eye, and as she had not had the name of being especially a pretty child, he had never thought on the subject. Now he saw before him a woman whose every feature was full of spirit and animation, whose eye sparkled with more than mere brilliancy, whose face was full of intelligence, whose very smile was eloquent. Was it to be wondered at that Frank should have learnt to love her? Miss Thorn wanted but one attribute which many consider essential to feminine beauty. She had no brilliancy of complexion, no pearly whiteness, no vivid carnation, nor indeed did she possess the dark brilliance of a brunette. But there was a speaking earnestness in her face, an expression of mental faculty, which the squire now, for the first time, perceived to be charming. And then he knew how good she was, he knew well what was her nature, how generous, how open, how affectionate, and yet how proud. Her pride was her fault, but even that was not a fault in his eyes. Out of his own family there was no one whom he had loved and could love as he loved her. He felt and acknowledged that no man could have a better wife. And yet he was there with the express object of rescuing his son from such a marriage. You are looking very well, Mary, he said almost involuntarily. Am I? she answered, smiling. It's very nice at any rate to be complimented. Uncle never pays me any compliments of that sort. In truth she was looking well. She would say to herself over and over again, from morning to night, that Frank's love for her would be, must be unfortunate, could not lead to happiness. But nevertheless it did make her happy. She had, before his return, made up her mind to be forgotten. And it was so sweet to find that he had been so far from forgetting her. A girl may scold a man in words for rashness in his love, but her heart never scolds him for such an offence as that. She had not been slighted, and her heart therefore still rose buoyant within her breast. The doctor entered the room. As the squire's visit had been expected by him, he had of course not been out of the house. And now I suppose I must go, said Mary, for I know you are going to talk about business. But Uncle, Mr. Gresham says I'm looking very well. Why have you not been able to find that out? She's a dear good girl, said the squire, as the door shut behind her. A dear good girl. And the doctor could not fail to see that his eyes were filled with tears. I think she is, said he quietly, and then they both sat silent, as though each was waiting to hear whether the other had anything more to say on that subject. The doctor, at any rate, had nothing more to say. I have come here especially to speak to you about her, said the squire, about Mary. Yes, doctor, about her, and Frank, something must be done, some arrangement made, if not for our sakes, at least for theirs. What arrangement, squire? That is the question. I take it for granted that either Frank or Mary has told you that they have engaged themselves to each other, Frank told me so twelve months since, and has not Mary told you? Not exactly that, but never mind. She has, I believe, no secret from me, though I have said but little to her. I think I know it all. Well, what then? The doctor shook his head and put up his hands. He had nothing to say, no proposition to make, no arrangement to suggest. The thing was so, and he seemed to say that as far as he was concerned there was an end of it. The squire sat looking at him, hardly knowing how to proceed. It seemed to him that the fact of a young man and a young lady being in love with each other was not a thing to be left to arrange itself, particularly seeing the rank of life in which they were placed. But the doctor seemed to be of a different opinion. But Doctor Thorne, there is no man on God's earth who knows my affairs as well as you do, and in knowing mine, you know Frank's. Do you think it possible that they should marry each other? Possible? Yes, it is possible. You mean, will it be prudent? Well, take it in that way. Would it not be most imprudent? At present it certainly would be. I have never spoken to either of them on the subject, but I presume they do not think of such a thing for the present. But Doctor, the squire was certainly taken aback by the coolness of the doctor's manner. After all, he, the squire, was Mr. Gresham of Greshamsbury, generally acknowledged to be the first commoner in barcature. After all, Frank was his heir, and in process of time he would be Mr. Gresham of Greshamsbury, crippled as the estate was, there would be something left, and the rank, at any rate, remained. But as to Mary, she was not even the doctor's daughter. She was not only penniless, but nameless, fatherless, worse than motherless. It was incredible that Doctor Thorn, with his generally exalted ideas as to family, should speak in this cold way as to a projected marriage between the heir of Greshamsbury and his brother's bastard child. But Doctor, repeated the squire, the doctor put one leg over the other, and began to rub his calf. Squire said he, I think I know all that you would say, all that you mean, and you don't like to say it, because you would not wish to pain me by alluding to Mary's birth. But independently of that, what would they live on, said the squire energetically. Birth is a great thing, a very great thing. You and I think exactly alike about that, so we need have no dispute. You are quite as proud of Alathorn as I am of Greshamsbury. I might be if it belonged to me, but you are. It is no use arguing. But putting that aside altogether, what would they live on? If they were to marry, what would they do? Where would they go? You know what Lady Arabella thinks of such things. Would it be possible that they should live up at the house with her? Besides, what a life would that be for both of them? Could they live here? Would that be well for them? The Squire looked at the doctor for an answer, but he still went on rubbing his calf. This to Gresham therefore was constrained to continue his expostulation. When I am dead, there will still, I hope, be something, something left for the poor fellow. Lady Arabella and the girls would be better off perhaps than now, and I sometimes wish for Frank's sake that the time had come. The doctor could not now go on rubbing his leg. He was moved to speak, and declared that, of all events, that was the one which would be furthest from Frank's heart. I know no son, said he, who loves his father more dearly than he does. I do believe it, said the Squire. I do believe it, but yet I cannot but feel that I am in his way. No, Squire, no! You are in no one's way. You will find yourself happy with your son yet, and proud of him, and proud of his wife too. I hope so, and I think so. I do indeed, or I should not say so, Squire. We will have many a happy day yet together, when we shall talk of all these things over the dining-room fire at Gresham's Brie. The Squire felt it kind in the doctor that he should thus endeavour to comfort him, but he could not understand, and did not inquire on what basis these golden hopes was founded. It was necessary, however, to return to the subject which he had come to discuss. Would the doctor assist him in preventing this marriage? That was now the one thing necessary to be kept in view. But, doctor, about the young people. Of course they cannot marry. You are aware of that. I don't know that exactly. Well, doctor, I must say I thought you would feel it. Feel what, Squire? That, situated as they are, they ought not to marry. That is quite another question. I have said nothing about that, either to you or to anybody else. The truth is, Squire, I have never interfered in this matter one way or the other, and I have no wish to do so now. But should you not interfere? Is not married the same to you as your own child? Dr. Thorn hardly knew how to answer this. He was aware that his argument about not interfering was, in fact, absurd. Mary could not marry without his interference, and had it been the case that she was in danger of making an improper marriage, of course he would interfere. His meaning was that he would not at the present moment express any opinion. He would not declare against a match which might turn out to be an every way desirable. Nor, if he spoke in favour of it, could he give his reasons for doing so. Under these circumstances he would have wished to say nothing. Could that only have been possible? But as it was not possible, and as he must say something, he answered the Squire's last question by asking another. What is your objection, Squire? Objection? Why? What on earth would they live on? Then I understand that if that difficulty were over, you would not refuse your consent merely because of Mary's birth. This was a manner in which the Squire had by no means expected to have the affair presented to him. It seemed so impossible that any sound-minded man should take any but his view of the case that he had not prepared himself for argument. There was every objection to his son marrying Miss Thorn, but the fact of there having no income between them did certainly justify him in alleging that first. But that difficulty can't be got over, Doctor. You know, however, that it would be cause of grief to us all to see Frank marry much beneath his station. That is, I mean, in family. You should not press me to say this, for you know that I love Mary dearly. But, my dear friend, it is necessary. Wounds sometimes must be opened in order that they may be healed. What I mean is this. And, Squire, I am sure I need not say to you that I hope for an honest answer. Were Mary Thorn an heiress? Had she, for instance, such wealth as that mistrustable that we hear of, in that case, would you object to the match? When the Doctor declared that he expected an honest answer, the Squire listened with all his ears. But the question, when finished, seemed to have no bearing on the present case. Come, Squire, speak your mind faithfully. There was some talk once of Frank's marrying Miss Dunstable. Did you mean to object to that match? Miss Dunstable was legitimate. At least, I presume so. Oh, Mr. Gresham, has it come to that? Miss Dunstable, then, would have satisfied your ideas of high berth. Mr. Gresham was rather posed, and regretted at the moment his allusion to Miss Dunstable's presumed legitimacy. But he soon recovered himself. No, said he. It would not. And I am willing to admit, as I have admitted before, that the undoubted advantages arising from wealth are taken by the world as atoning from what would otherwise be a mes alliance. But you admit that, do you? You acknowledge that as your conviction on the subject. Yes, but— The Squire was going on to explain the propriety of this opinion, but the doctor uncivally would not hear him. Then, Squire, I will not interfere in this matter one way or the other. How on earth can such an opinion pray excuse me, Mr. Gresham, but my mind is now quite made up. It was very nearly so before. I will do nothing to encourage, Frank, nor will I say anything to discourage Mary. At is the most singular resolution that a man of sense like you ever came to. I can't help it, Squire. It is my resolution. But what has Miss Dunstable's fortune to do with it? I cannot say that it has anything. But in this matter I will not interfere. The Squire went on for some time, but it was all to no purpose, and at last he left the house considerably and dudgeon. The only conclusion to which he could come was that Dr. Thorn had thought the chance on his niece's behalf too good to be thrown away, and had therefore resolved to act in this very singular way. I would not have believed it of him, though all Barsicher had told me, he said to himself, as he entered the greater gates, and he went on repeating the same words till he found himself in his own room. No, not if all Barsicher had told me. He did not, however, communicate the ill result of his visit to the Lady Arabella. End of Chapter 41, Recording by Nick Whitley, Perley, United Kingdom Chapter 42 of Dr. Thorn by Anthony Trollope This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Nick Whitley, Perley, United Kingdom Chapter 42 What Can You Give in Return In spite of the family troubles, these were happy days for Beatrice. It so seldom happens that young ladies on the eve of their marriage have their future husbands living near them. This happiness was hers, and Mr. Oriole made the most of it. She was constantly being coaxed down to the parsonage by patients in order that she might give her opinion, in private, as to some domestic arrangement, some piece of furniture, or some new carpet. But this privacy was always invaded. What Mr. Oriole's parishioners did in these housey and days, I will not ask. His morning services, however, had been altogether given up, and he had provided himself with a very excellent curate. But one grief did weigh heavily on Beatrice. She continually heard her mother say things which made her feel that it would be more than ever impossible that Mary should be at her wedding, and yet she had promised her brother to ask her. Frank had also repeated his threat, that if Mary were not present he would absent himself. Beatrice did what most girls do in such a case, what all would do, who are worth anything. She asked her lover's advice. Oh, but Frank can't be an earnest, said the lover. Of course he'll be at our wedding. You don't know him, Caleb. He has so changed that no one hardly would know him. You can't conceive how much in earnest he is, how determined and resolute. And then I should like to have Mary so much if Mama would let her come. Ask Lady Arabella, said Caleb. Well, I suppose I must do that. But I know what she'll say, and Frank will never believe that I have done my best. Mr. Oriole comforted her with such little whispered consolations as he was able to afford, and then she went away on her errand to her mother. She was indeed surprised at the manner in which her prayer was received. She could hardly fault her for her petition, but when she had done so, Lady Arabella answered in this wise, Well, my dear, ay have no objection, none the least. That is, of course, if Mary is disposed to behave herself properly. Oh, Mama, of course she will, said Beatrice. She always did, and always does. I hope she will, my love. But, Beatrice, when I say that I shall be glad to see her, of course, I mean under certain conditions. I never disliked Mary Thorn, and if she would only let Frank understand that she will not listen to his mad proposals, ay should be delighted to see her at Greshamsbury just as she used to be. Beatrice could say nothing in answer to this, but she felt very sure that Mary, let her intention be what it might, would not undertake to make Frank understand anything at anybody's bidding. Ay will tell you what ay will do, my dear, continued Lady Arabella. Ay will call on Mary, myself. What, a Dr. Thorn's house? Yes, way not. Ay have been at Dr. Thorn's house before now, and Lady Arabella could not but think of her last visit, Zither, and the strong feeling she had as she came out, that she would never again enter those doors. She was, however, prepared to do anything on behalf of her rebellious son. Oh, yes, I know that, Mama. Ay will call upon her, and if they can possibly manage it, Ay will ask her, myself, to make one of your party. If so, you can go to her afterwards and make your own arrangements. Just rate her a note, my dear, and say that Ay will call tomorrow at twelve. It may fluster her, if I were to go in without notice. Beatrice did as she was bid, but with a presentiment that no good would come of it. The note was certainly unnecessary for the purpose assigned by Lady Arabella, as Mary was not given to be flustered by such occurrences. But perhaps it was as well that it was written, as it enabled her to make up her mind steadily as to what information should be given, and what should not be given to her coming visitor. On the next morning, at the appointed hour, Lady Arabella walked down to the doctor's house. She never walked about the village without making some little disturbance among the inhabitants. With the squire himself, they were quite familiar, and he could appear and reappear without creating any sensation. But her ladyship had not made herself equally common in men's sight. Therefore, when she went in at the doctor's little gate, the fact was known through all Greshamsbury in ten minutes. And before she had left the house, Mrs. Umbelby and Miss Gushing had quite settled between them what was the exact cause of the very singular event. The doctor, when he had heard what was going to happen, carefully kept out of the way. Mary therefore had the pleasure of receiving Lady Arabella alone. Nothing could exceed her ladyship's affability. Mary thought that it perhaps might have favoured less of condescension. But then on this subject Mary was probably prejudiced. Lady Arabella smiled and simpered, and asked after the doctor, in the cat, in Janet, and said everything that could have been desired by anyone less unreasonable than Mary's sawn. And now, Mary, he'll tell you where A have called. Mary bowed her head slightly, as much to say that she would be glad to receive any information that Lady Arabella could give her on that subject. Of course you know that Beatrice is going to be married very shortly. Mary acknowledged that she had heard so much. Yes, we think it will be in September, early in September, and there it is coming very soon now. The poor girl is anxious that you should be at her wedding. Mary turned slightly red, but she merely said, and that somewhat too coldly, that she was much indebted to Beatrice for her kindness, A can assure you, Mary, that she is very fond of you, as much so as ever. And so indeed, M.A., and all of us are so, you know that Mr. Gresham was always your friend. Yes, he always was, and I am grateful to Mr. Gresham, answered Mary. It was well for Lady Arabella that she had her temper under command, for had she spoken her mind out, there would have been very little chance left for reconciliation between her and Mary. Yes, indeed he was, and I think we all did what little we could to make you welcome at Gresham's Brie, Mary, till those unpleasant occurrences took place. What occurrences, Lady Arabella? And Beatrice is so very anxious on this point, said her ladyship, ignoring for the moment Mary's question, you two have been so much together that she feels she cannot be quite happy if you are not near her when she is being married. Dear Beatrice, said Mary, warmed for the moment to an expression of genuine feeling. She came to me yesterday, begging that I would waive any objection a mate have to your being there. I have made her no answer yet. What answer do you think I ought to make her? Mary was astounded at this question, and hesitated in her reply. What answer ought you to make her? She said. Yes, Mary, what answer do you think I ought to give? I wish to ask you the question, as you are the person the most concerned. Mary considered for a while, and then did give her opinion on the matter in a firm voice. I think you should tell Beatrice that as you cannot at present receive me cordially in your house, it will be better that you should not be called on to receive me at all. This was certainly not the sort of answer that Lady Arabella expected, and she was now somewhat astounded in her term. But Mary, she said, A should be delighted to receive you cordially, if I could do so. But it seems you cannot, Lady Arabella, and so there must be an end of it. Oh, but I do not know that, and she smiled her sweetest smile. I do not know that. I want to put an end to all this ill feeling, if I can. It all depends upon one thing, you know. Does it, Lady Arabella? Yes, upon one thing. You won't be angry if I ask you another question, eh, Mary? No, at least I don't think I will. Is there any truth in what we hear about your being engaged to Frank? Mary made no immediate answer to this, but sat quite silent, looking, Lady Arabella, in the face. Not but that she had made up her mind as to what answer she would give, but the exact words failed her at the moment. Of course you must have heard of such a rumour, continued Lady Arabella. Oh, yes, I have heard of it. Yes, and you have noticed it, and I must say very properly. When you went to Boxall Hill, and before that with Miss Orioles to her aunts, a thought you behaved extremely well. Mary felt herself glow with indignation, and began to prepare words that should be sharp and decisive. But nevertheless people talk, and Frank, who is still quite a boy, Mary's indignation was not softened by this allusion to Frank's folly, seems to have got some nonsense in his head, aggrieved to see it, but I feel may self-injustice bound to do so, that in this matter he has not acted as well as you have done. Now, therefore, I merely ask you whether there is any truth in the report. If you tell me that there is none, I shall be quite contented. But it is altogether true, Lady Arabella, I am engaged to Frank Gresham, engaged to be married to him, yes, engaged to be married to him, what was to say or do now. Nothing could be more plain, more decided, or less embarrassed with doubt than Mary's declaration, and as she made it she looked her visitor full in the face, blushing indeed, for her cheeks were now suffused as well as her forehead, but boldly and as it were with defiance. And you tell me so to my face, Miss Thorn, and why not? Did you not ask me the question, and would you have me answer you with a falsehood? I am engaged to him. As you would put the question to me, what other answer could I make? The truth is that I am engaged to him. The decisive abruptness with which Mary declared her own iniquity almost took away her ladyship's breath. She had certainly believed that they were engaged, and had hardly hoped that Mary would deny it, but she had not expected that the crime would be acknowledged, or at any rate, if acknowledged, that the confession would be made without some show of shame. On this Lady Arabella could have worked, but there was no such expression, nor was there the slightest hesitation. I am engaged to Frank Gresham, and having so said, Mary looked her visitor full in the face, then it is indeed impossible that you should be received at Gresham's Brie, at present quite so, no doubt. In saying so, Lady Arabella, you only repeat the answer I made to your first question. I can now go to Gresham's Brie only in one light, that of Mr. Gresham's accepted daughter-in-law, and that is perfectly out of the question, altogether out of the question now and forever. I will not dispute with you about that, but as I said before, my being at Beatrice's wedding is not to be thought of. Lady Arabella set for a whale salent, that she met meditative possible calmly as to what lane of argument she had now better take. It would be foolish in her, she thought, to return home having merely expressed her anger. She had now an opportunity of talking to Mary, which may not again occur. The difficulty was, in deciding in what special way she should use the opportunity. Should she threaten, or should she entreat? To do her justice, it should be stated that she did actually believe that the marriage was all but impossible. She did not think that it could take place, but the engagement might be the ruin of her son's prospects. Seeing how he had before him one imperative, one immediate duty, that of marrying money. Having considered all this, as well as her hurry would allow her, she determined first to reason, then to entreat, and lastly, if necessary, to threaten. A am astonished, you cannot be surprised at that, Miss Thorn, a am astonished at hearing so singular a confession made. Do you think my confession singular, or is it the fact of my being engaged to your son? We will pass over that for the present, but do let me ask you, do you think it possible, essay possible, that you and Frank should be married? Oh, certainly, quite possible. Of course you know that he has not a shilling in the world, nor have I, Lady Arabella, nor will he have were he to do anything so utterly hostile to his father's wishes. The property, as you are aware, is altogether at Mr. Gresham's disposal. I am aware of nothing about the property, and can say nothing about it except this, that it has not been, and will not be, inquired after, by me in this matter. If I marry Frank Gresham it will not be for the property. I am sorry to make such an apparent boast, but you force me to do it. On what then are you to live? You are too old for love in a cottage, I suppose. Not at all too old. Frank, you know, is still quite a boy, impudent hussy, forward, ill-conditioned, saucy minx. Such were the epithets which rose to Lady Arabella's mind, but she politely suppressed them. Miss Thorn, this subject is, of course, to me very serious, very ill-adapted for jesting. A look upon such a marriage as absolutely impossible. I do not know what you mean by impossible, Lady Arabella. A mean in the first place, that you two could not get yourselves married. Oh, yes, Mr. Oriole would manage that for us. We are his parishioners, and he would be bound to do it. A beg your pardon, a belief that under all the circumstances it would be illegal. Mary smiled, but she said nothing. You may laugh, Miss Thorn, but I think you will feign that I am rate. There are still laws to prevent such fearful distress as would be brought about by such a marriage. I hope that nothing I shall do will bring distress on the family. Ah, but it would. Don't you know that it would? Think of it, Miss Thorn. Think of Frank's state, and of his father's state. You know enough of that, I am sure, to be well aware that Frank is not in a condition to marry without money. Think of the position which Mr. Gresham's only son should hold in the county. Think of the old name, and the parade we have in it. You have lived among us enough to understand all this. Think of these things, and then say whether it is possible such a marriage should take place without family distress of the deepest kind. Think of Mr. Gresham. If you truly love my son, you could not wish to bring on him all this misery and ruin. Mary now was touched, for there was truth in what Lady Arabella said. But she had no power of going back. Her truth was plighted, and nothing that any human being could say should shake her from it. If he indeed chose to repent, that would be another thing. Lady Arabella, she said, I have nothing to say in favour of this engagement, except that he wishes it. And is that a reason, Mary? To me it is. Not only a reason, but a law. I have given him my promise. And you will keep your promise, even to his own ruin. I hope not. Our engagement, unless he shall choose to break it off, must necessarily be a long one. But the time will come. What, when Mr. Gresham is dead? Before that, I hope. There is no probability of it. And because he is headstrong, you, who have always had credit for so much sense, will hold him to this med engagement. No, Lady Arabella, I will not hold him to anything to which he does not wish to be held. Nothing that you can say shall move me. Nothing that anybody can say shall induce me to break my promise to him. But a word from himself will do it. One look will be sufficient. Let him give me to understand, in any way, that his love for me is injurious to him, that he has learnt to think so. And then I will renounce my part in this engagement as quickly as you could wish it. There was much in this promise. But still not so much as Lady Arabella wished to get. Mary she knew was obstinate, but yet reasonable. Frank, she thought, was both obstinate and unreasonable. It may be possible to work on Mary's reason, but quite impossible to touch Frank's irrationality. So she persevered foolishly. Miss Thorn, that is Mary, for I still wish to be thought your friend. I will tell you the truth, Lady Arabella. For some considerable time past I have not thought you so. Then you have wronged me. The day will go on with what I was seeing. You quite acknowledge that this is a foolish affair. I acknowledge no such thing. Something very much like it. You have not a word in its defence. Not to you. I do not choose to be put on my defence by you. I don't know who has more right. However, you promise that if Frank wishes it, you will release him from his engagement. Release him? It is for him to release me. That is, if he wishes it. Very well. At any rate, you give him permission to do so. But will it not be more honourable for you to begin? No, I think not. Ah, but it would. If he and his position should be the first to speak, the first to suggest that this affair between you is a foolish one, what would people say? They would say the truth. And what would you yourself say? Nothing. What would he think of himself? Ah, that I do not know. It is according as that may be that he will or will not act at your bidding. Exactly. And because you know him to be haymended, because you think that he, having so much to give, will not break his word to you, to you, who have nothing to give in return, it is therefore that you say that the first step must be taken by him. Is that noble? Then Mary rose from her seat, for it was no longer possible for her to speak what was in her to say, sitting there leisurely on her sofa. Lady Arabella's worship of money had not hitherto been so brought forward in the conversation as to give her unpardonable offence. But now she felt that she could no longer restrain her indignation. To you, who have nothing to give in return, had she not given all that she possessed? Had she not emptied his store into his lap, that heart of hers beating with such genuine life, capable of such perfect love, throbbing with so grand a pride, had she not given that? And was it not that, between him and her, more than twenty Gresham's Breeze, nobler than any pedigree? To you, who have nothing to give indeed, this to her, who was so ready to give everything. Lady Arabella, she said, I think that you do not understand me, and that it is not likely that you should. If so, our further talking will be worse than useless. I have taken no account of what will be given between your son and me in your sense of the word giving, but he has professed to love me. As she spoke, she still looked on the lady's face, but her eyelashes for a moment screened her eyes, and her colour was a little heightened. And I have acknowledged that I also love him, and so we are engaged. To me my promise is sacred. I will not be threatened into breaking it. If, however, he shall wish to change his mind, he can do so. I will not abrade him. Will not, if I can help it, think harshly of him. So much you may tell him if it suits you, but I will not listen to your calculations as to how much or how little each of us may have to give to the other. She was still standing when she finished speaking, and so she continued to stand. Her eyes were fixed on Lady Arabella, and her position seemed to say that sufficient words had been spoken, and that it was time that her ladyship should go. And so Lady Arabella felt it. Gradually she also rose. Slowly, but tessantly, she acknowledged that she was in the presence of a spirit superior to her own, and so she took her leave. Very well, she said, in a tone that was intended to be grand eloquent, but which failed grievously, A will tell him that he has your permission to think a second tame on this matter. A do not doubt but that he will do so. Mary would not condescend to answer, but curtsied low as her visitor left the room. And so the interview was over. The interview was over, and Mary was alone. She remained standing as long as she heard the footsteps of Frank's mother on the stairs, not immediately thinking of what had passed, but still buoying herself up with her hot indignation, as though her work with Lady Arabella was not yet finished. But when the footfall was no longer heard, and the sound of the closing door told her that she was in truth alone, she sank back in her seat, and covering her face with her hands burst into bitter tears. All that doctrine about money was horrible to her. That insolent pretense that she had courted Frank because of his worldly position made her all but ferocious. But Lady Arabella had not the less spoken much that was true. She did think of the position which the air of Greshamsbury should hold in the county, and of the fact that a marriage would mar that position so vitally. She did think of the old name, and the old Gresham pride. She did think of the squire and his deep distress. It was true that she had lived among them long enough to understand these things, and to know that it was not possible that this marriage should take place without deep family sorrow. And then she asked herself whether, in consenting to accept Frank's hand, she had adequately considered this, and she was forced to acknowledge that she had not considered it. She had ridiculed Lady Arabella for saying that Frank was still a boy, but was it not true that his offer had been made with a boy's energy rather than a man's forethought? If so, if she had been wrong to exceed to that offer when made, would she not be doubly wrong to hold him to it, now that she saw their error? It was doubtless true that Frank himself could not be the first to draw back. What would people say of him? She could now calmly ask herself the question that had so angered her when asked by Lady Arabella, if he could not do it, and if nevertheless it behoved them to break off this match, by whom was it to be done, if not by her, was not Lady Arabella right throughout, right in her conclusions, though so foully wrong in her manner of drawing them. And then she did think for one moment of herself, you who have nothing to give in return, such had been Lady Arabella's main accusation against her. Was it in fact true that she had nothing to give? Her maiden love, her feminine pride, her very life and spirit and being—were these things nothing? Were they to be weighed against Pound's sterling peranum? And when so weighed, were they ever to kick the beam like feathers? All these things had been nothing to her, when without reflection, governed wholly by the impulse of the moment, she had first allowed his daring hand to lie for an instant in her own. She had thought nothing of these things when that other suitor came, richer by far than Frank, to love whom it was as impossible to her as it was not to love him. Her love had been pure from all such thoughts. She was conscious that it ever would be pure from them. Lady Arabella was unable to comprehend this, and therefore was Lady Arabella so utterly distasteful to her. Frank had once held her close to his warm breast, and her very soul had thrilled with joy to feel that he so loved her, with a joy which she had hardly dared to acknowledge. At that moment her maidenly efforts had been made to push him off, but her heart had grown to his. She had acknowledged him to be master of her spirit, her bosom's lord, the man whom she had been born to worship, the human being to whom it was for her to link her destiny. Frank's acres had been of no account, nor had his want of acres. God had brought them two together that they should love each other. That conviction had satisfied her, and she had made it a duty to herself that she would love him with her very soul. And now she was called upon to wrench herself asunder from him, because she had nothing to give in return. Well, she would wrench herself asunder. As far as such wrenching might be done compatibly with her solemn promise, it might be right that Frank should have an opportunity offered him, so that he might escape from his position without disgrace. She would endeavour to give him this opportunity. So, with one deep sigh, she arose, took herself pen, ink, and paper, and sat herself down again so that the wrenching might begin. And then for a moment she thought of her uncle. Why had he not spoken to her of all this? Why had he not warned her? He, who had ever been so good to her, why had he now failed her so grievously? She had told him everything. Had had no secret from him, but he had never answered her a word. He also must have known, she said to herself piteously, he also must have known that I could give nothing in return. Such accusation, however, availed her not at all, so she sat down and slowly wrote her letter. Dearest Frank! she began. She had at first written, dear Mr. Gresham, but her heart revolted against such useless coldness. She was not going to pretend she did not love him. Dearest Frank! your mother has been here talking to me about our engagement. I do not generally agree with her about such matters, but she has said some things today which I cannot but acknowledge to be true. She says that our marriage would be distressing to your father, injurious to all your family, and ruinous to yourself. If this be so, how can I, who love you, wish for such a marriage? I remember my promise and have kept it. I would not yield to your mother when she desired me to disclaim our engagement, but I do think it will be more prudent if you will consent to forget all that has passed between us. Not perhaps to forget it, that may not be possible for us, but to let it pass by as though it had never been. If so, if you think so, dear Frank, do not have any scruples on my account. What will be best for you must be best for me. Think what a reflection it would ever be to me to have been the ruin of one that I loved so well. Let me have but one word to say that I am released from my promise, and I will tell my uncle that the matter between us is over. It will be painful for us at first. As occasional meetings which must take place will distress us, but that will wear off. We shall always think well of each other, and why should we not be friends? This doubtless cannot be done without inward wounds. But such wounds are in God's hands, and He can cure them. I know what your first feelings will be on reading this letter, but do not answer it in obedience to first feelings. Think over it. Think of your father, and all you owe him, of your old name, your old family, and of what the world expects from you. Mary was forced to put her hand to her eyes to save her paper from her falling tears as she found herself thus repeating, nearly word for word, the arguments that had been used by Lady Arabella. Think of these things coolly, if you can, but at any rate without passion, and then let me have one word in answer. One word will suffice. I have but to add this. Do not allow yourself to think that my heart will ever reproach you. It cannot reproach you for doing that which I myself suggest. Mary's logic in this was very false, but she was not herself aware of it. I will never reproach you either in word or thought. And as for all others, it seems to me that the world agrees that we have hitherto been wrong. The world, I hope, will be satisfied when we have obeyed it. God bless you, dearest Frank. I shall never call you so again. But it would be a pretense were I to write otherwise in this letter. Think of this, and then let me have one line. Your affectionate friend, Mary Thorn. P.S. Of course I cannot bear Beatrice's marriage, but when they come back to the parsonage I shall see her. I am sure they will both be happy, because they are so good. I need hardly say that I shall think of them on their wedding day. When she had finished her letter, she addressed it plainly in her own somewhat bold handwriting to Francis N. Gresham June Esk, and then took it herself to the little village post office. There should be nothing underhand about her correspondence. All the Gresham's free world should know of it. That world of which she had spoken in her letter. It's that world so pleased. Having put her penny-label on it, she handed it with an open brow and an unembarrassed face to the baker's wife, who was her Majesty's postmistress at Gresham's free, and having so finished her work, she returned to see the table prepared for her uncle's dinner. I will say nothing to him, said she to herself, till I get the answer. He will not talk to me about it. So why should I trouble him?