 Chapter 20 The Proposal And now the departures from Coorsie Castle came rapidly one after another, and there remained but one more evening before Miss Dunstable's carriage was to be packed. The Countess in the early moments of Frank's courtship had controlled his ardour and checked the rapidity of his amorous professions, but as days and at last weeks wore away, she found that it was necessary to stir the fare which she had before endeavoured to slacken. There will be nobody here to night but our own circle, said she to him, and I rarely think you should tell Miss Dunstable what your intentions are. She will have fair ground to complain of you if you do not. Frank began to feel that he was in a dilemma. He had commenced making love to Miss Dunstable partly because he liked the amusement, and partly from a satirical propensity to quiz his aunt by appearing to fall into her scheme, but he had overshot the mark, and did not know what answer to give when he was thus called upon to make a downright proposal. And then, although he did not care to rushes about Miss Dunstable in the way of love, he nevertheless experienced a sort of jealousy when he found that she appeared to be indifferent to him, and that she corresponded the meanwhile with his cousin George, though all their flirtations had been carried on on both sides palpably by way of fun, though Frank had told himself ten times a day that his heart was true to Mary Thorn, yet he had an undefined feeling that it behoved Miss Dunstable to be a little in love with him. He was not quite at ease in that she was not a little melancholy now that his departure was so nigh, and above all he was anxious to know what were the real facts about that letter. He had, in his own breast, threatened Miss Dunstable with a heartache, and now, when the time for their separation came, he found that his own heart was the more likely to ache of the two. I suppose I must say something to her, for my aunt will never be satisfied, said he to himself, as he sauntered into the little drawing-room on that last evening, but at the very time he was ashamed of himself, for he knew he was going to ask badly. His sister and one of his cousins were in the room, but his aunt, who was quite on the alert, soon got them out of it, and Frank and Miss Dunstable were alone. So all our fun and all our laughter has come to an end, said she, beginning the conversation. I don't know how you feel, but for myself I really am a little melancholy at the idea of parting, and she looked up at him with her laughing black eyes, as though she never had, and never could have, a care in the world. Melancholy, oh yes, you look so, said Frank, who really did feel somewhat lackadaisically sentimental, but how thoroughly glad the countess must be that we are both going, continued she. I declare we have treated her most infamously. Ever since we've been here, we've had all the amusement to ourselves. I've sometimes thought she would turn me out of the house. I wish with all my heart she had. Oh, you cruel barbarian, why on earth should you wish that? That I might have joined you in your exile. I hate Corsy Castle, and should have rejoiced to leave, and—and—and what? And I love Miss Dunstable, and should have doubly, trebly rejoiced to leave it with her. Frank's voice quivered a little as he made this gallant profession, but still Miss Dunstable only laughed the louder. Upon my word, of all my knights you are by far the best be avived, said she, and say much the prettiest things. Frank became rather red in the face, and felt that he did so. Miss Dunstable was treating him like a boy. While she pretended to be so fond of him, she was only laughing at him, and corresponding the while with his cousin George. Now Frank Gresham already entertained a sort of contempt for his cousin, which increased the bitterness of his feelings. Could it really be possible that George had succeeded, while he had utterly failed, that his stupid cousin had touched the heart of the heiress, while she was playing with him as with a boy? Of all your knights, is that the way you talk to me when we are going to part? When was it Miss Dunstable that George De Coursy became one of them? Miss Dunstable, for a while, looked serious enough. What makes you ask that? said she. What makes you inquire about Mr. De Coursy? Oh, I have eyes, you know, and can't help seeing. Not that I see or have seen anything that I could possibly help. And what have you seen, Mr. Gresham? Why, I know you have been writing to him. Did he tell you so? No, he did not tell me, but I know it. For a moment she sat silent, and then her face again resumed its usual happy smile. Girl, Mr. Gresham, you were not going to quarrel with me, I hope? Even if I did write a letter to your cousin, why should I not write to him? I correspond with all manner of people. I'll write to you some of these days, if you'll let me, and will promise to answer my letters. Frank threw himself back on the sofa, on which he was sitting, and in doing so brought himself somewhat nearer to his companion than he had been. He then drew his hand slowly across his forehead, pushing back his thick hair, and as he did so he sighed somewhat plaintively. I do not care, said he, for the privilege of correspondence on such terms. If my cousin George is to be a correspondent of yours also, I will give up my claim, and then he sighed again, so that it was piteous to hear him. He was certainly an errant puppy, and an egregious ass into the bargain, but then it must be remembered in his favour that he was only twenty-one, and that much had been done to spoil him. Miss Dunstable did remember this, and therefore abstained from laughing at him. Why, Mr. Gresham, what on earth do you mean? In all human probability I shall never write another line to Mr. D'Corsi. But if I did, what possible harm could it do you? Oh, Miss Dunstable, you do not in the least understand what my feelings are, don't I? Then I hope I never shall. I thought I did. I thought they were the feelings of a good, true-hearted friend, feelings that I could sometimes look back upon with pleasure, as being honest, when so much that one meets is false. I have become very fond of you, Mr. Gresham, and I should be sorry to think that I did not understand your feelings. This was almost worse and worse. Young lady is like Miss Dunstable, for she was still to be numbered in the category of young ladies. Do not usually tell young gentlemen that they are very fond of them. To boys and girls they may make such a declaration. Now Frank Gresham regarded himself as one who had already fought his battles, and fought them not without glory. He could not therefore endure to be thus openly told by Miss Dunstable that she was very fond of him. Fond of me, Miss Dunstable? I wish you were. So I am. Very. You little know how fond I am of you, Miss Dunstable. And he put out his hand to take hold of hers. She then lifted up her own, and slapped him lightly on the knuckles. And what can you have to say to Miss Dunstable that can make it necessary that you should pinch her hand? I tell you fairly, Mr. Gresham, if you make a fool of yourself, I shall come to a conclusion that you are all fools, and that it is hopeless to look out for anyone worth caring for. Such advice as this, so kindly given, so wisely meant, so clearly intelligible, he should have taken and understood, young as he was. But even yet he did not do so. A fool of myself? Yes, I suppose I must be a fool if I have so much regard for Miss Dunstable as to make it painful for me to know that I am to see her no more. A fool? Yes, of course I am a fool. A man is always a fool when he loves. Miss Dunstable could not pretend to doubt his meaning any longer, and was determined to stop him, let it cost what it would. She now put out her hand, not over white, and as Frank soon perceived, gifted with a very fair allowance of strengths. Now, Mr. Gresham, said she, before you go any further, you shall listen to me. Will you listen to me for a moment without interrupting me? Frank was, of course, obliged to promise that he would do so. You are going, or rather you were going, for I shall stop you, to make a profession of love. A profession, said Frank, making a slight unsuccessful effort to get his hand free. Yes, a profession. A false profession, Mr. Gresham. A false profession. A false profession. Look into your heart. Into your heart of hearts. I know you at any rate have a heart. Look into it closely, Mr. Gresham. You know you do not love me. Not as a man should love the woman whom he swears to love. Frank was taken aback. So, appealed to, he found that he could not any longer say that he did love her. He could only look into her face with all his eyes and sit there listening to her. How is it possible that you should love me? I am heaven knows how many years you're senior. I am neither young nor beautiful, nor have I been brought up as she should be, whom you in time will really love and make your wife. I have nothing that should make you love me. But, but I am rich. It is not that, said Frank stoutly, feeling himself imperatively called upon to utter something in his own defence. Ah, Mr. Gresham, I fear it is that. For what other reason can you have laid your plans to talk in this way to such a woman as I am? I have laid no plans, said Frank, now getting his hand to himself. At any rate, you wrong me there, Miss Dunstable. I like you so well. Nay, love you if a woman may talk of love in the way of friendship, that if money, money alone would make you happy, you should have it heaped on you. If you want it, Mr. Gresham, you shall have it. I have never thought of your money, said Frank, certainly. But it grieves me, continued she. It does grieve me, to think that you, you, you, so young, so gay, so bright, that you should have looked for it in this way. From others I have taken it just as the wind that whistles. And now two big, slow tears escaped from her eyes, and would have rolled down her rosy cheeks, were it not that she brushed them off with the back of her hand. You have utterly mistaken me, Miss Dunstable, said Frank. If I have, I will humbly beg your pardon, said she. But, but, but, you have indeed you have. How can I have mistaken you? Were you not about to say that you loved me, to talk absolute nonsense, to make me an offer? If you were not, if I have mistaken you indeed, I will beg your pardon. Frank had nothing further to say in his own defence. He had not wanted Miss Dunstable's money. That was true. But he could not deny that he had been about to talk that absolute nonsense of which she spoke with so much scorn. You would almost make me think that there are none honest in this fashionable world of yours. I well know why Lady D'Corsi has had me here. How could I help knowing it? She has been so foolish in her plans, that ten times a day she has told her own secret. But I have said to myself twenty times, that if she were crafty, you were honest. And am I dishonest? I have laughed in my sleeve to see how she played her game, and to hear others around playing theirs, all of them thinking that they could get the money of the poor fool who had come at their beck and call. But I was able to laugh at them, as long as I thought that I had one true friend to laugh with me. But one cannot laugh with all the world against one. I am not against you, Miss Dunstable. Sell yourself for money. Why, if I were a man, I would not sell one jot of liberty for mountains of gold. What tie myself in the hay-day of my youth to a person I could never love for a price? Purge myself, destroy myself, and not only myself, but her also, in order that I might live idly. Oh heavens, Mr. Gresham, can it be that the words of such a woman as your aunt have sunk so deeply in your heart, have blackened you so foully as to make you think of such vile folly as this? Have you forgotten your soul, your spirit, your man's energy, the treasure of your heart, and you so young? For shame, Mr. Gresham, for shame, for shame. Frank found the task before him by no means an easy one. He had to make Miss Dunstable understand that he had never had the slightest idea of marrying her, and that he had made love to her merely with the object of keeping his hand in for the work as it were, with that object, and the other equally laudable one, of interfering with his cousin George. And yet there was nothing for him but to get through this task as best he might. He was goaded to it by the accusations which Miss Dunstable brought against him, and he began to feel that though her invective against him might be bitter when he had told the truth, they could not be so bitter as those she now kept hinting at under her mistaken impression as to his views. He had never had any strong propensity for money-hunting, but now that offence appeared in his eyes abominable, unmanly, and disgusting. Any imputation would be better than that. Miss Dunstable, I never for a moment thought of doing what you accuse me of. On my honour I never did. I have been very foolish, very wrong, idiotic, I believe, but I have never intended that. Then, Mr. Gresham, what did you intend? This was rather a difficult question to answer. And Frank was not very quick in attempting it. I know you will not forgive me, he said at last. And indeed I do not see how you can. I don't know how it came about, but this is certain, Miss Dunstable. I have never for a moment thought about your fortune. That is thought about it in the way of coveting it. You never thought of making me your wife, then? Never, said Frank, looking boldly into her face. You never intended really to propose to go with me to the altar, and then make yourself rich by one great perjury. Never for a moment, said he. You have never gloated over me as the bird of prey gloats over the poor beast that is soon to become carrion beneath its claws. You have not counted me out as equal to so much land, and calculated on me as a balance at your bankers. Ah, Mr. Gresham, she continued, seeing that he stared as though struck almost with awe by her strong language. You little guess what a woman situated as I am has to suffer. I have behaved badly to you, Miss Dunstable, and I beg your pardon. But I have never thought of your money. Then we will be friends again, Mr. Gresham, won't we? It is so nice to have a friend like you. There, I think I understand it now. You need not tell me. It was half by way of making a fool of my aunt, said Frank, in an apologetic tone. There is merit in that at any rate, said Miss Dunstable. I understand it all now. You thought to make a fool of me in real earnest. Well, I can forgive that, at any rate it is not me. It may be that Miss Dunstable did not feel much acute anger at finding that this young man had addressed her with words of love in the course of an ordinary flirtation. Although that flirtation had been unmeaning and silly, this was not the offense against which her heart and breast had found peculiar cause to arm itself. This was not the injury from which she had hitherto experienced suffering. At any rate, she and Frank again became friends. And before the evening was over, they perfectly understood each other. Twice during this long tete-a-tete, Lady Ducourcy came into the room to see how things were going on, and twice she went out almost unnoticed. It was quite clear to her that something uncommon had taken place, was taking place, or would take place, and that should this be for weal or for woe, no good could now come from her interference. On each occasion, therefore, she smiled sweetly on the pair of turtledoves, and gladed out of the room as quietly as she had gladed into it. But at last it became necessary to remove them, for the world had gone to bed. Frank, in the meantime, had told to Miss Dunstable all his love for Mary Thorn, and Miss Dunstable had enjoined him to be true to his vows. To her eyes there was something of heavenly beauty and young true love, of beauty that was heavenly, because it had been unknown to her. Mind you, let me hear, Mr. Gresham, said she, mind you do, and Mr. Gresham never, never forget her for one moment, not for one moment, Mr. Gresham. Frank was about to swear that he never would, again, when the Countess for the third time sailed into the room. Young people, said she, do you know what a clock it is? Dear me, Lady Decorsi, I declare it is past twelve. I really am ashamed of myself. How glad you will be to get rid of me to-morrow. No, no, indeed we shan't, shall we, Frank? And so Miss Dunstable passed out. Then, once again, the aunt tapped her nephew with her fan. It was the last time in her life that she did so. He looked up in her face, and his look was enough to tell her that the acres of Gresham's Brie were not to be reclaimed by the ointment of Lebanon. Nothing further on the subject was said. On the following morning Miss Dunstable took her departure, not a much heeding the rather cold words of farewell which her hostess gave her, and on the following day Frank started for Gresham's Brie. End of Chapter 20, Recording by Nick Whitley, Perley, United Kingdom Chapter 21 of Dr. Thorn by Anthony Trollope This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Nick Whitley, Perley, United Kingdom Chapter 21 Mr. Moffat falls into trouble We will now, with the reader's kind permission, skip over some months in our narrative. Frank returned from Corsi Castle to Gresham's Brie, and having communicated to his mother, much in the same manner as he had to the Countess, the fact that his mission had been unsuccessful, he went up after a day or two to Cambridge. During his short stay at Gresham's Brie, he did not even catch a glimpse of Mary. He asked for her, of course, and was told that it was not likely that she would be at the house just at present. He called at the doctors, but she was denied to him there. She was out, Janet said, probably with Miss O'Reil. He went to the parsonage and found Miss O'Reil at home. But Mary had not been seen that morning. He then returned to the house, and having come to the conclusion that she had not thus vanished into air, otherwise than by preconcerted arrangement, he boldly taxed Beatrice on the subject. Beatrice looked very demure, declared that no one in the house had quarrelled with Mary, confessed that it had been thought prudent that she should for a while stay away from Gresham's Brie, and, of course, ended by telling her brother everything, including all the scenes that had passed between Mary and herself. It is out of the question your thinking of marrying her, Frank, said she, you must know that nobody feels it more strongly than poor Mary herself. And Beatrice looked the very personification of domestic prudence. I know nothing of the kind, said he, with the headlong imperative air that was usual with him, in discussing matters with his sisters. I know nothing of the kind. Of course, I cannot say what Mary's feelings may be, a pretty life she must have had of it, among you, but you may be sure of this, Beatrice, and so may my mother, that nothing on earth shall make me give her up. Nothing! And Frank, as he made the protestation, strengthened his own resolution by thinking of all the counsel that Miss Dunstable had given him. The brother and sister could hardly agree, as Beatrice was dead against the match, not that she would not have liked Mary Thorn for a sister-in-law, but that she shared, to a certain degree, the feeling which was now common to all the Greshams, that Frank must marry money. It seemed at any rate to be imperative that he should either do that or not marry at all. Poor Beatrice was not very mercenary in her views. She had no wish to sacrifice her brother to any Miss Dunstable, but yet she felt, as they all felt, Mary Thorn included, that such a match as that, of the young air with the doctor's niece, was not to be thought of, not to be spoken of as a thing that was in any way possible. Therefore Beatrice, though she was Mary's great friend, though she was her brother's favourite sister, could give Frank no encouragement. Poor Frank! Circumstances had made but one bride possible to him. He must marry money. His mother said nothing to him on the subject. When she learnt that the affair with Miss Dunstable was not to come off, she merely remarked that it would perhaps be best for him to return to Cambridge as soon as possible. Had she spoken her mind out, she would probably have also advised him to remain there as long as possible. The Countess had not omitted to write to her, when Frank left Corsey Castle, and the Countess's letter certainly made the anxious mother think that her son's education had hardly yet been completed with this secondary object, but with that of keeping him out of the way of Mary Thorn in the first place, Lady Arabello was now quite satisfied that her son should enjoy such advantages as an education completed at the university might give him. With his father Frank had a long conversation, but alas the gist of his father's conversation was this, that it behoved him, Frank, to marry money. The father, however, did not put it to him in the cold callous way in which his lady aunt had done, and his lady mother. He did not bid him go and sell himself to the first female he could find possessed of wealth. It was with inward self-reproaches and true grief of spirit, that the father told the son that it was not possible for him to do as those may do who are born really rich or really poor. If you marry a girl without a fortune, Frank, how are you to live? The father asked, after having confessed how D.P. himself had injured his own heir. I don't care about money, sir, said Frank. I shall be just as happy as if Boxall Hill had never been sold. I don't care a straw about that sort of thing. Ah, my boy, but you will care. You will soon find that you do care. Let me go into some profession. Let me go to the bar. I am sure I could earn my own living. Earn it. Of course I could. Why not I, as well as others? I should like of all things to be a barrister. There was much more of the same kind in which Frank said all that he could think of to lessen his father's regrets. In their conversation not a word was spoken about Mary Thorn. Frank was not aware whether or no his father had been told of the great family danger which was dreaded in that quarter. That he had been told we may surmise, as Lady Arabella was not wont to confine the family dangers to her own bosom. Moreover, Mary's presence had, of course, been missed. The truth was that the squire had been told, with great bitterness, of what had come to pass, and all the evil had been laid at his door. He it had been who had encouraged Mary to be regarded almost as a daughter of the house of Gresham's Bray. He it was who taught that odious doctor, odious in all but his aptitude for good doctoring, to think himself a fit match for the aristocracy of the county. It had been his fault, this great necessity, that Frank should marry money, and now it was his fault that Frank was absolutely talking of marrying a pauper. By no means in quiescence did the squire hear these charges brought against him. The Lady Arabella in each attack got quite as much as she gave, and at last was driven to retreat in a state of headache, which she declared to be chronic, and which, so she assured her daughter Augusta, must prevent her from having any more lengthened conversations with her Lord at any rate for the next three months. But though the squire may be said to have come off on the whole victor in these combats, they did not perhaps have on that account the less effect upon him. He knew it was true that he had done much towards ruining his son, and he also could think of no other remedy than matrimony. It was Frank's doom, pronounced even by the voice of his father, that he must marry money. And so Frank went off again to Cambridge, feeling himself as he went to be a much lesser man in Greshamsbury Estimation, than he had been some two months earlier, when his birthday had been celebrated. Once, during his short stay at Greshamsbury, he had seen the Doctor, but the meeting had been anything but pleasant. He had been afraid to ask after Mary, and the Doctor had been too diffident of himself to speak of her. They had met casually on the road, and though each in his heart loved the other, the meeting had been anything but pleasant. And so Frank went back to Cambridge, and as he did so he stoutly resolved that nothing should make him untrue to marry Thorne. Beatrice, said he on the morning he went away, when she came into his room to superintend his packing. Beatrice, if she ever talks about me, oh Frank, my darling Frank, don't think of it. It is madness. She knows it is madness. Never mind. If she ever talks about me, tell her that the last word I said was that I would never forget her. She can do as she likes. Beatrice made no promise, never hinted that she would give the message, but it may be taken for granted that she had not been long in company with Mary Thorne before she did give it. And then there were other troubles at Greshamsbury. It had been decided that Augusta's marriage was to take place in September, but Mr Moffat had, unfortunately, been obliged to postpone the happy day. He himself had told Augusta, not, of course, without protestations as to his regret, and had written to this effect to Mr Gresham. Electioneering matters and other troubles had, he said, made this peculiarly painful postponement absolutely necessary. Augusta seemed to bear her misfortune with more equanimity than is, we believe, usual with young ladies under such circumstances. She spoke of it to her mother in a very matter-of-fact way, and seemed almost contented at the idea of remaining at Greshamsbury till February, which was the time now named for the marriage. But Lady Arabella was not equally well satisfied, nor was the squire. I hath believed that fellow is not honest, he had once said out loud before Frank, and this set Frank a thinking of what dishonesty in the matter it was probable that Mr Moffat might be guilty, and what would be the fitting punishment for such a crime. Nor did he think on the subject in vain, especially after a conference on the matter which he had with his friend Harry Baker. This conference took place during the Christmas vacation. It should be mentioned that the time spent by Frank at Corsi Castle had not done much to assist him in his views as to an early degree, and that it had at last been settled, that he should stay up at Cambridge another year. When he came home at Christmas he found that the house was not peculiarly lively. Mary was absent on a visit with Miss Oriol. Both these young ladies were staying with Miss Oriol's aunt in the neighbourhood of London, and Frank soon learnt that there was no chance that either of them would be home before his return. No message had been left for him by Mary, none at least had been left with Beatrice, and he began in his heart to accuse her of coldness and perfidy, not certainly with much justice, seeing that she had never given him the slightest encouragement. The absence of patience Oriol added to the dullness of the place. It was certainly hard upon Frank that all the attraction of the village should be removed to make way and prepare for his return, harder perhaps on then, for to tell the truth Miss Oriol's visit had been entirely planned to enable her to give Mary a comfortable way of leaving Greshamsbury during the time that Frank should remain at home. Frank thought himself cruelly used. But what did Mr. Oriol think when doomed to eat his Christmas pudding alone, because the young squire would be unreasonable in his love? What did the doctor think, as he sat solitary by his deserted hearse, the doctor who no longer permitted himself to enjoy the comforts of the Greshamsbury dining-table? Frank hinted and grumbled, talked to Beatrice of the determined constancy of his love, and occasionally consoled himself by a stray smile from some of the neighbouring bells. The black horse was made perfect, the old grey pony was by no means discarded, and much that was satisfactory was done in the sporting-line. But still the house was dull, and Frank felt that he was the cause of its being so. Of the doctor he saw but little, he never came to Greshamsbury, unless to see Lady Arabella as doctor, or to be closeted with the squire. There were no social evenings with him, no animated confabulations at the doctor's house, no discourses between them, as there had won't to be, about the merits of the different covers, and the capacities of the different hounds. These were dull days on the whole for Frank, and sad enough we may say for our friend the doctor. In February Frank again went back to college, having settled with Harry Baker certain affairs which weighed on his mind. He went back to Cambridge, promising to be home on the twentieth of the month, those to be present at his sister's wedding. A cold and chilling time had been named for these hymenial joys, but one not altogether unsuited to the feelings of the happy pair. February is certainly not a warm month, but with the rich it is generally a cosy, comfortable time. Good fires, winter cheer, groaning tables, and warm blankets, make a fictitious summer, which to some tastes is more delightful than the long days and the hot sun. And some marriages are especially winter matches. They depend for their charm on the same substantial attractions, instead of heart beating to heart in sympathetic unison, purse jinx to purse. The rich new furniture of the new abode is looked to, instead of the rapture of a pure embrace. The new carriage is depended on, rather than the new heart's companion, and the first bright gloss, prepared by the upholsterer's hands, stands in lieu of the rosy tints which young love lends to his true votaries. Mr. Moffat had not spent his Christmas at Greshamsbury. That eternal election petition, those eternal lawyers, the eternal care of his well-managed wealth, forbade him the enjoyment of any such pleasures. He could not come to Greshamsbury for Christmas, nor yet for the festivities of the new year. But now and then he wrote prettily worded notes, sending occasionally a silver-guilt pencil case, or a small brooch, and informed Lady Arabella that he looked forward to the 20th of February with great satisfaction. But in the meanwhile the squire became anxious, and at last went up to London, and Frank, who was at Cambridge, bought the heaviest cutting whip to be found in that town, and wrote a confidential letter to Harry Baker. Poor Mr. Moffat! It is well known that none but the brave deserved the fair, but thou, without much excuse for bravery, had secured for thyself one who, at any rate, was fair enough for thee. Would it not have been well had thou looked into thyself to see what real bravery might be in thee, before thou hadst prepared to desert this fair one? Thou hadst already won. That last achievement one may say did require some special courage. Poor Mr. Moffat! It is wonderful that, as he sat in that gig, going to Gatherham Castle, planning how he would be off with Miss Gresham, and afterwards on with Miss Dunstable, it is wonderful that he should not then have cast his eye behind him, and looked at that stalwart pair of shoulders which were so close to his own back. As he afterwards pondered on his scheme while sipping the Duke's claret, it is odd that he should not have observed the fiery pride of purpose and power of wrath, which was so plainly written on that young man's brow, or, when he matured and finished, and carried out his purpose, that he did not think of that keen grasp which had already squeezed his own hand with somewhat too warm a vigor, even in the way of friendship. Poor Mr. Moffat! It is probable that he forgot to think of Frank at all as connected with his promised bride. It is probable that he looked forward only to the squire's violence and the enmity of the House of Corsi, and that he found from inquiry at his heart's pulses that he was man enough to meet these. Could he have guessed what a whip Frank Gresham would have bought at Cambridge? Could he have divined what a letter would have been written to Harry Baker? It is probable, nay, we think we may say certain, that Miss Gresham would have become Mrs. Moffat. Miss Gresham, however, never did become Mrs. Moffat. About two days after Frank's departure for Cambridge, it is just possible that Mr. Moffat was so prudent as to make himself aware of the fact, that just two days after Frank's departure, a very long, elaborate, and clearly explanatory letter was received at Gresham's brie. Mr. Moffat was quite sure that Miss Gresham and her very excellent parents would do him the justice to believe that he was not actuated, etc., etc., etc. The long and the short of this was that Mr. Moffat signified his intention of breaking off the match, without offering any intelligible reason. Augusta again bore her disappointment well, not indeed without sorrow and heartache, and inward hidden tears, but still well. She neither raved nor fainted, nor walked about by moonlight alone. She wrote no poetry, and never once thought of suicide, when indeed she remembered the rosy-tinted lining, the unfathomable softness of that long-acre carriage her spirit did, for one moment, give way. But on the whole, she bore it as a strong-minded woman, and a decorcy, should do. But both Lady Arabella and the Squire were greatly vexed. The former had made the match, and the latter, having consented to it, had incurred deeper responsibilities to enable him to bring it about. The money which was to have been given to Mr. Moffat was still to the fore, but alas how much, how much, that he could ill-spare, had been thrown away on bridal preparations. It is moreover an unpleasant thing for a gentleman to have his daughter jilted, perhaps peculiarly so, to have her jilted by a tailor's son. Lady Arabella's woe was really piteous. It seemed to her as though cruel fate were heaping misery after misery upon the wretched house of Greshon's Bray. A few weeks since things were going so well with her. Frank's Anne was all but the accepted husband of almost untell'd wealth. So at least she was informed by her sister-in-law. Whereas Augusta was the accepted wife of wealth, not indeed untell'd, but of dimensions quite sufficiently respectable to cause much joy in the telling, where now were her golden hopes, where now the splendid future of her poor-duped children. Augusta was left to pine alone, and Frank, in a still worse plight, insisted on maintaining his love for a bastard and a pauper. For Frank's affair she had received some poor consolation by laying all the blame on the squire's shoulders. What she had then said was now repaid to her with interest, for not only had she been the maker of Augusta's match, but she had boasted of the deed with all her mother's pride. It was from Beatrice that Frank had obtained his tidings. This last resolve on the part of Mr. Moffat had not altogether been unsuspected by some of the Greshon's, though altogether unsuspected by the Lady Arabella. Frank had spoken of it as a possibility to Beatrice, and was not quite unprepared when the information reached him. He consequently bought his big cutting whip, and wrote his confidential letter to Harry Baker. On the following day Frank and Harry might have been seen with their heads nearly close together, leaning over one of the tables in the large breakfast room at the Tavistock Hotel in Covent Garden. The ominous whip, to the handle of which Frank had already made his hand well accustomed, was lying on the table between them, and ever and on, Harry Baker would take it up and feel its weight approvingly. Oh, Mr. Moffat! Poor Mr. Moffat! Go not out into the fashionable world today! Above all, go not to that club of thine in Palmao, but, oh, especially go not there, as is thy won't to do, at three o'clock in the afternoon. With much care did those two young generals lay their plans of attack. Let it not for a moment be thought that it was ever in the minds of either of them that two men should attack one. But it was thought that Mr. Moffat might be rather coy in coming out from his seclusion to meet the proffered hand of his once-intended brother-in-law, when he should see that hand armed with a heavy whip. Baker, therefore, was content to act as a decoy duck, and remarked that he might no doubt make himself useful in restraining the public mercy, and probably in controlling the interference of policemen. It will be dused hard if I can't get five or six shies at him," said Frank, again clutching his weapon almost spasmodically. Oh, Mr. Moffat! Five or six shies with such a whip, and such an arm. For myself, I would sooner join in a second Balaclava gallop than encounter it. At ten minutes before four, these two heroes might be seen walking up Palmao towards the Dash Club. Young Baker walked with an eager, disengaged air. Mr. Moffat did not know his appearance. He had, therefore, no anxiety to pass along unnoticed. But Frank had in some mysterious way drawn his hat very far over his forehead, and had buttoned his shooting-coat up round his chin. Harry had recommended to him a great coat in order that he might the better conceal his face. But Frank had found that the great coat was an incumbrance to his arm. He put it on, and when thus closed he had tried the whip. He found that he cut the air with much less potency than in the lighter garment. He contended himself, therefore, with looking down on the pavement as he walked along, letting the long point of the whip stick up from his pocket, and flattering himself that even Mr. Moffat would not recognise him at the first glance, poor Mr. Moffat, if he had but had the chance. And now, having arrived at the front of the club, the two friends, for a moment, separate. Frank remained standing on the pavement, under the shade of the high stone area railing, while Harry jauntily skips up three steps at a time, and with a very civil word of inquiry of the hall-porter, sends in his card to Mr. Moffat. Mr. Harry Baker. Mr. Moffat, never having heard of such a gentleman in his life, unwittingly comes out into the hall, and Harry, with the sweetest smile, addresses him. Now the plan of the campaign had been settled in this wise. Baker was to send into the club for Mr. Moffat, and invite that gentleman down into the street. It was probable that the invitation might be declined, and it had been calculated in such case that the two gentlemen would retire for Polly into the strangest room, which was known to be immediately opposite the hall door. Frank was to keep his eye on the portals, and if he found that Mr. Moffat did not appear as readily as might be desired, he also was to ascend the steps and Harry into the strangest room. Then, whether he met Mr. Moffat there or elsewhere, or wherever he might meet him, he was to greet him with all the friendly vigor in his power, while Harry disposed of the club portals. But, fortune, whoever favours the brave, specially favoured Frank Gresham on this occasion. Just as Harry Baker had put his card into the servant's hand, Mr. Moffat, with his hat on, prepared for the street, appeared in the hall. Mr. Baker addressed him with his sweetest smile, and begged the pleasure of saying a word or two as they descended into the street. Had not Mr. Moffat been going thither, it would have been very improbable that he should have done so at Harry's instance. But, as it was, he merely looked rather solemn at his visitor. It was his won't to look solemn, and continued the descent of the steps. Frank, his heart leaping the while, saw his prey, and retreated two steps behind the area reeling, the dread weapon already well poised in his hand. Oh, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Moffat, if there be any goddess to interfere in thy favour, better come forward now, without delay. Better now bear thee off on a cloud, if there be one to whom thou art sufficiently dear. But there is no such goddess. Harry smiled blandly till they were well on the pavement, saying some nothing, and keeping the victim's face averted from the avenging angel. And then, when the raised hand was sufficiently nigh, he withdrew two steps towards the nearest lamppost. Not for him was the honour of the interview, unless indeed suckering policeman might give occasion for some gleam of glory. But suckering policeman were no more to become by than goddesses. Where were ye men when that savage whip fell about the ears of the poor ex-legislator? In Scotland Yard, sitting dozing on your benches, or talking soft nothings to the housemaids round the corner, for ye were not walking on your beets, nor standing at coin of vantage, to watch the tumult of the day. But had ye been there, what could ye have done? Had Sir Richard himself been on the spot, Frank Gresham would still, we may say, have had his five shies at that unfortunate one. When Harry Baker quickly seceded from the way, Mr. Moffat at once saw the fate before him. His hair doubtless stood on end, and his voice refused to give the loud screech with which he sought to invoke the club. An ashy paleness suffused his cheeks, and his tottering steps were unable to bear him away in flight. Once, and twice, the cutting whip came well down across his back. Had he been wise enough to stand still and take his thrashing in that attitude, it would have been well for him. But men so circumstanced have never such prudence. After two blows he made a dash at the steps, thinking to get back into the club. But Harry, who had by no means reclined in idleness against the lamppost, here stopped him. You had better go back into the street, said Harry. Indeed, you had, giving him a shove from off the second step. Then, of course, Frank could not do other than hit him anywhere. When a gentleman is dancing about with much energy, it is hardly possible to strike him fairly on his back. The blows, therefore, came now on his legs, and now on his head, and Frank, unfortunately, got more than his five or six tries before he was interrupted. The interruption, however, came all too soon for Frank's idea of justice. Though there be no policeman to take part in a London row, there are always others, ready enough to do so, amateur policemen, who generally sympathise with the wrong side, and in nine cases out of ten expend their generous energy in protecting thieves and pickpockets. When it was seen with what tremendous ardour that dread weapon fell about the ears of the poor, undefended gentleman, interference there was at last in spite of Harry Baker's best endeavours and loudest protestations. Do not interrupt them, sir, said he. Pray do not, it is a family affair, and they will neither of them like it. In the teeth, however, of these assurances, rude people did interfere, and after some nine or ten shies Frank found himself encompassed by the arms and encumbered by the weight of a very stout gentleman who hung affectionately about his neck and shoulders, whereas Mr. Moffat was already receiving consolation from two motherly females, sitting in a state of syncope on the good-natured knees of a fishmonger's apprentice. Frank was thoroughly out of breath, nothing came from his lips but half-muttered expletives and unintelligible denunciations of the iniquity of his foe, but still he struggled to be at him again. We all know how dangerous is the taste of blood, how cruelty will become accustomed even with the most tender-hearted. Frank felt that he had hardly fleshed his virgin lash, he thought almost with despair that he had not yet at all succeeded as became a man and a brother. His memory told him of but one or two of the slightest touches that had gone well home to the offender. He made a desperate effort to throw off that incubus round his neck and rush again to the combat. Harry, Harry, don't let him go, don't let him go! he barely articulated. Do you want to murder the man, sir? To murder him? said the stout gentleman over his shoulder, speaking solemnly into his very ear. I don't care, said Frank, struggling manfully, but uselessly. Let me out, I say. I don't care. Don't let him go, Harry, whatever you do. He has got it priddly tidily, said Harry. I think that will perhaps do for the present. By this time there was a considerable concourse. The club steps were crowded with the members, among whom there were many of Mr. Moffat's acquaintance. Policemen also now flocked up, and the question arose as to what should be done with the originators of the affray. Frank and Harry found that they were to consider themselves under a gentle arrest, and Mr. Moffat, in a fainting state, was carried into the interior of the club. Frank, in his innocence, had intended to have celebrated this little affair when it was over by a light ripast and a bottle of claret with his friend, and then to have gone back to Cambridge by the mail train. He found, however, that his schemes in this respect were frustrated. He had to get bail to attend at Marlborough Street police office, should he be wanted within the next two or three days, and was given to understand that he would be under the eye of the police, at any rate until Mr. Moffat should be out of danger. Out of danger? said Frank to his friend with a startled look. Why, I hardly got at him. Nevertheless, they did have their slight ripast, and also their bottle of claret. On the second morning after this occurrence, Frank was again sitting in that public room at the Tavistock, and Harry was again sitting opposite to him. The whip was not now so conspicuously produced between them, having been carefully packed up and put away among Frank's other travelling properties. They were so sitting, rather glum, when the door swung open, and a heavy, quick step was heard advancing towards them. It was the squire whose arrival there had been momentarily expected. Frank! said he. Frank, what on earth is all this? And as he spoke he stretched out both hands, the right to his son, and the left to his friend. He has given a blaggard a licking, that is all, said Harry. Frank felt that his hand was held with a peculiarly warm grasp, and he could not but think that his father's face raised though his eyebrows were. Though there was on it an intended expression of amazement, and perhaps regret, nevertheless he could not but think that his father's face looked kindly at him. God bless my soul, my dear boy! What have you done to the man? He's not a hape at the worst, sir, said Frank, still holding his father's hand. Oh, isn't he? said Harry, shrugging his shoulders. He must be made of some very tough article, then. But, my dear boys, I hope there's no danger. I hope there's no danger. Danger! said Frank, who could not yet induce himself to believe that he had been allowed a fair chance with Mr. Moffat. Oh, Frank! Frank, how could you be so rash? In the middle of Palmal, too! Well, well, well, all the women down at Gresham'sbury will have it that you have killed him. I almost wish I had, said Frank. Oh, Frank! Frank! But now tell me! And then the father sat well pleased, while he heard, chiefly from Harry Baker, the full story of his son's prowess. And then they did not separate without another slight ripast, and another bottle of claret. Mr. Moffat retired to the country for a while, and then went abroad, having doubtless learnt that the petition was not likely to give him a seat for the city of Barchester, and this was the end of the wooing with Miss Gresham. Sir Roger is unseated. After this little occurred at Gresham'sbury, or among Gresham'sbury people, which it will be necessary for us to record. Some notice was, of course, taken of Frank's prolonged absence from his college, and tidings, perhaps exaggerated tidings, of what had happened in Palmal, were not slow to reach the high street of Cambridge. But that affair was gradually hushed up, and Frank went on with his studies. He went back to his studies, it then being an understood arrangement between him and his father, that he should not return to Gresham'sbury till the summer vacation. On this occasion the squire and Lady Arabella had, strange to say, been of the same mind. They both wished to keep their son away from Miss Thorn, and both calculated that at his age, and with his disposition, it was not probable that any passion would last out a six-months absence. And when the summer comes, it will be an excellent opportunity for us to go abroad, said Lady Arabella. Poor Augusta will require some change to renovate her spirits. To this last proposition the squire did not assent. It was, however, allowed to pass over, and this much was fixed, that Frank was not to return home till mid-summer. It will be remembered that Sir Roger Scatchard had been elected as sitting member for the city of Barchester, but it will also be remembered that a petition against his return was threatened. Had that petition depended solely on Mr. Moffat, Sir Roger's seat no doubt would have been saved by Frank Gresham's cutting whip. But such was not the case. Mr. Moffat had been put forward by the decorcy interest, and that noble family, with its dependence, was not to go to the wall because Mr. Moffat had had a thrashing. No, the petition was to go on, and Mr. Near the Wind declared that no petition in his hands had hath so good a chance of success. Chance, no, but certainty, said Mr. Near the Wind, for Mr. Near the Wind had learnt something with reference to that honest publican and the payment of his little bill. The petition was presented and duly backed. The recognisances were signed, and all the proper formalities formally executed, and Sir Roger found that his seat was in jeopardy. His return had been a great triumph to him, and unfortunately he had celebrated that triumph, as he had been in the habit of celebrating most of the very triumphant occasions of his life. Though he was then hardly yet recovered from the effects of his last attack, he indulged in another violent drinking bout, and, strange to say, did so without any immediate visible bad effects. In February he took his seat amidst the warm congratulations of all men of his own class, and early in the month of April his case came on for trial. Every kind of electioneering sin known to the electioneering world was brought to his charge. He was accused of falseness, dishonesty, and bribery of every sort. He had, it was said, in the paper of indictment, bought votes, obtained them by treating, carried them off by violence, conquered them by strong drink, polled them twice over, countered those of dead men, stolen them, forged them, and created them by every possible fictitious contrivance. There was no description of wickedness appertaining to the task of procuring votes of which Sir Roger had not been guilty, either by himself or by his agents. It was quite horror-stroke at the list of his own enormities. But he was somewhat comforted when Mr. Closer still told him that the meaning of it all was that Mr. Roma, the barrister, had paid a former bill due to Mr. Reddy-Palm, the publican. I fear he was indiscreet, Sir Roger. I really fear he was. Those young men always are. Being energetic, they work like horses. But what's the use of energy without discretion, Sir Roger? But, Mr. Closer still, I knew nothing about it from first to last. The agency can be proved, Sir Roger, said Mr. Closer still, shaking his head. And then there was nothing further to be said on the matter. In these days of snow-white purity, all political delinquency is abominable in the eyes of British politicians. But no delinquency is so abominable as that of vinnality at elections. The sin of bribery is damnable. It is the one sin for which, in the House of Commons, there can be no forgiveness. When discovered, it should render the culprit liable to political death, without hope of pardon. It is treason against a higher throne than that on which the Queen sits. It is a heresy which requires an utter defy. It is a pollution to the whole House, which can only be cleansed by a great sacrifice. Anathema marinatha, out with it from amongst us, even though the half of our heart's blood be poured forth in that conflict, out with it, and for ever. Such is the language of patriotic members with regard to bribery, and doubtless, if sincere, they are in the right. It is a bad thing, certainly, that a rich man should buy votes. Bad also, that a poor man should sell them. By all means, let us repudiate such a system with heartfelt disgust. With heartfelt disgust, if we can do so, by all means. But not with disgust pretended only, and not felt in the heart at all. The laws against bribery at elections are now so stringent, that an unfortunate candidate may easily become guilty, even though actuated by the purest intentions. But not the less on that account does any gentleman, ambitious of the honour of serving his country and parliament, think it necessary, as a preliminary measure, to provide a round sum of money at his bankers. A candidate must pay for no treating, no refreshments, no band of music. He must give neither ribbons to the girls, nor ale to the men. If a huzzah be uttered in his favour, it is at his peril. It may be necessary for him to prove, before a committee, that it was the spontaneous result of British feeling in his favour, and not the purchased result of British beer, he cannot safely ask anyone to share his hotel dinner. Bribery hides itself now in the most impalpable shapes, and may be affected by the offer of a glass of sherry. But not the less on this account does a poor man find that he is quite unable to overcome the difficulties of a contested election. We strain at our gnats with a vengeance, but we swallow our camel with ease. For what purpose is it that we employ those peculiarly safe men of business, messes near the wind and closer still, when we wish to win our path through all obstacles into that sacred recess, if all be so open, all so easy, all so much above board. Alas, the money is still necessary, is still prepared, or at any rate expended. The poor candidate, of course, knows nothing of the matter till the attorney's bill is laid before him, when all danger of petitions has passed away. He little dreamt till then, not he, that there had been banquettings and junkettings, secret doings and deep drinkings at his expense. Poor candidate. Poor member, who was so ignorant as he. It is true he has paid such bills before, but it is equally true that he specially begged his managing friend Mr. Near the Wind to be very careful that all was done according to law. He pays the bill, however, and on the next election will again employ Mr. Near the Wind. Now and again, at rare intervals, some glimpse into the inner sanctuary does reach the eyes of ordinary mortal men, without some slight accidental peep into those mysteries, from whence all corruption has been so thoroughly expelled, and then how delightfully refreshing is the sight when, perhaps, some ex-member, hurled from his paradise like a fallen peri, reveals the secret of that pure heaven, and in the agony of his despair tells us all that it cost him to sit for dash through those few Halcyon years. But Mr. Near the Wind is a safe man, and easy to be employed with but little danger. All these stringent bribery laws only enhance the value of such very safe men as Mr. Near the Wind. To him, stringent laws against bribery are the strongest assurance of valuable employment. Were these laws of a nature to be evaded with ease, any indifferent attorney might manage a candidate's affairs and enable him to take his seat with security. It would have been well for Sir Roger if he had trusted solely to Mr. Closer still. Well also for Mr. Romer had he never fished in those troubled waters. In due process of time the hearing of the petition came on, and then, who so happy, setting at his ease that he's landen in, blowing his cloud from a long pipe with marvellous content, as Mr. Ready-Parm. Mr. Ready-Parm was the one great man of the contest. All depended on Mr. Ready-Parm, and well he did his duty. The result of the petition was declared by the committee to be as follows. That Sir Roger's election was null and void. That the election altogether was null and void. That Sir Roger had, by his agent, been guilty of bribery in obtaining a vote by the payment of a bill alleged to have been previously refused payment. That Sir Roger himself knew nothing about it. This is always a matter, of course. But that Sir Roger's agent, Mr. Romer, had been wittingly guilty of bribery, with reference to the transaction above described. Poor Sir Roger. Poor Mr. Romer. Poor Mr. Romer, indeed. His fate was perhaps as sad as well might be, and as foul a blot to the purism of these very pure times in which we live. Not long after those days it's so happening that some considerable amount of youthful energy and quidnunk ability were required to set litigation afloat at Hong Kong, Mr. Romer was sent thither as the fittest man for such work, with rich assurance of future garden. Who so happy then as Mr. Romer? But even among the pure there is room for envy and detraction. Mr. Romer had not yet ceased to wonder at new worlds, as he skimmed among the islands of that southern ocean, before the edict had gone forth for his return. There were men sitting in that huge court of parliament on whose breasts it lay as an intolerable burden that England should be represented among the antipodes by one who had tampered with the purity of the franchise. For them there was no rest till this great disgrace should be wiped out and atoned for. Men they were of that calibre that the slightest reflection on them of such a stigma seemed to themselves to blacken their own character. They could not break bread with satisfaction till Mr. Romer was recalled. He was recalled, and of course ruined, and the minds of those just men were then at peace. To any honourable gentleman who really felt his brows effused with a patriotic blush, as he thought of his country dishonoured by Mr. Romer's presence at Hong Kong, to any such gentleman, if any such there were, let all honour be given, even though the intensity of his purity may create amazement to our less finely organised souls. But if no such blush suffused the brow of any honourable gentleman, if Mr. Romer was recalled from quite other feelings, what then in lieu of honour shall we allot to those honourable gentlemen who were most concerned? So Roger, however, lost his seat, and after three months of the joys of legislation found himself reduced by a terrible blow to the low level of private life. And the blow to him was very heavy. Men but seldom tell the truth of what is in them, even to their dearest friends. They are ashamed of having feelings, or rather of showing that they are troubled by any intensity of feeling. It is the practice of the time to treat all pursuits as though they were only half important to us, as though in what we desire we were only half in earnest. To be visibly eager seems childish, and is always bad policy. And men, therefore, nowadays, though they strive as hard as ever in the service of ambition, harder than ever in that of mammon, usually do so with a pleasant smile on, as though after all they were but amusing themselves with the little matter in hand. Perhaps it had been so with Sir Roger in those electioneering days when he was looking for votes. At any rate, he had spoken of his seat in Parliament as but a doubtful good. He was willing, indeed, to stand having been asked, but the thing would interfere wonderfully with his business. And then what did he know about Parliament? Nothing on earth. It was the maddest scheme. But nevertheless he was not going to hang back when called upon. He had always been rough and ready when wanted, and there he was now ready as ever, and rough enough, too, God knows. It was thus that he had spoken of his coming parliamentary honours, and men had generally taken him at his word. He had been returned, and this success had been hailed as a great thing for the cause and class to which he belonged. But men did not know that his inner heart was swelling with triumph, and that his bosom could hardly contain his pride, as he reflected that the poor Barchester Stolmeson was now the representative in Parliament of his native city. And so when his seat was attacked, he still laughed and joked. They were welcome to it for him, he said. He could keep it or want it, and of the two perhaps the want of it would come most convenient to him. He did not exactly think that he had bribed any one, but if the big wigs chose to say so it was all one to him. He was rough and ready now as ever, et cetera, et cetera. But when the struggle came, it was to him a fearful one, not the less fearful because there was no one, no not one friend in all the world, to whom he could open his mind and speak out honestly what was in his heart. To Dr. Thorn, he might perhaps have done so, had his intercourse with the doctor been sufficiently frequent, but it was only now and again when he was ill, or when the squire wanted to borrow money that he saw Dr. Thorn, he had plenty of friends, heaps of friends in the parliamentary sense, friends who talked about him and lauded him at public meetings, who shook hands with him on platforms and drank his health at dinners. But he had no friend who could sit with him over his own hearth in true friendship, and listen to and sympathise with, and moderate the sighings of the inner man. For him there was no sympathy, no tenderness of love, no retreat, save unto himself, from the loud brass band of the outer world. The blow hit him terribly hard. It did not come altogether unexpectedly, and yet, when it did come, it was all but unendurable. He had made so much of the power of walking into that august chamber, and sitting shoulder to shoulder in legislative equality with the sons of Dukes and the curled darlings of the nation. Money had given him nothing, nothing but the mere feeling of brute power. With his three hundred thousand pounds he had felt himself to be no more palpably near to the goal of his ambition than when he had chipped stones for three shillings and sixpence a day. But when he was led up and introduced at that table, when he shook the old Premier's hand on the floor of the House of Commons, when he heard the honourable member for Barchester alluded to in grave debate as the greatest living authority on railway matters, then indeed he felt that he had achieved something. And now this cup was ravished from his lips, almost before it was tasted. When he was first told as a certainty that the decision of the committee was against him, he bore up against the misfortune like a man. He laughed heartily and declared himself well rid of a very profitless profession, cut some little joke about Mr. Moffat and his thrashing, and left on those around him an impression that he was a man so constituted, so strong in his own resolves, so steadily pursuant of his own work, that no little contentions of this kind could affect him. Men admired his easy laughter, as shuffling his half-crowns with both his hands in his trouser pockets, he declared that Masses Romer and Reddiparm were the best friends he had known for this many a day, but not the less did he walk out from the room in which he was standing, a broken-hearted man. Hope could not boy him up, as she may do other ex-members in similarly disagreeable circumstances. He could not afford to look forward to what further favors parliamentary future might have in store for him, after a lapse of five or six years, five or six years, while his life was not worth four years' purchase, of that he was perfectly aware. He could not now live without the stimulus of Brandy, and yet, while he took it, he knew he was killing himself. Death he did not fear, but he would feign have wished, after his life of labour, to have lived, while yet he could live, in the blaze of that high world to which, for a moment, he had attained. He laughed loud and cheerily as he left his parliamentary friends, and, putting himself into the train, went down to Boxall Hill. He laughed loud and cheerily, but he never laughed again. It had not been his habit to laugh much at Boxall Hill. It was there he kept his wife, and Mr. Winterbones, and the Brandy bottle behind his pillow. He had not often there found it necessary to assume that loud and cheery laugh. On this occasion he was apparently well in health when he got home, but both Lady Scatchard and Mr. Winterbones found him more than ordinarily cross. He made an affectation at sitting very hard to business, and even talked of going abroad to look at some of his foreign contracts. But even Winterbones found that his patron did not work as he had been wont to do, and at last with some misgivings. He told Lady Scatchard that he feared that everything was not right. He is always at it, my lady. Always, said Mr. Winterbones. Is he, said Lady Scatchard, well understanding what Mr. Winterbones' allusion meant. Always, my lady, I never saw nothing like it. Now there's me. I can always go my half hour when I've had my drop. But he, why, he don't go ten minutes. Not now. This was not cheerful to Lady Scatchard, but what was the poor woman to do? When she spoke to him on any subject he only snarled at her, and now that the heavy fit was on him she did not dare even to mention the subject of his drinking. She had never known him so savage in his humour as he was now, so bearish in his habits, so little inclined to humanity, so determined to rush headlong down, with his head between his legs, into the bottomless abyss. She thought of sanding for Dr. Thorn, but she did not know unto what guise to sand for him, whether as doctor or as friend. Under neither would he now be welcome, and she well knew that Sir Roger was not the man to accept in good part either a doctor or a friend who might be unwelcome. She knew that this husband of hers, this man who with all his faults was the best of her friends, whom of all she loved best, she knew that he was killing himself, and yet she could do nothing. So Roger was his own master, and if kill himself he would kill himself he must, and kill himself he did. Not indeed by one sudden blow. He did not take one huge dose of his consuming poison, and then fall dead upon the floor. It would perhaps have been better for himself, and better for those around him. Had he done so? No, the doctors had time to congregate around his bed. Lady Scatchard was allowed a period of nurse-tending. The sick man was able to say his last few words, and bid adieu to his portion of the lower world with dying decency. As these last words will have some lasting effect upon the surviving personages of our story, the reader must be content to stand for a short while by the side of Sir Roger's sick bed, and help us to bid him Godspeed on the journey which lies before him. End of Chapter 22 Recording by Nick Whitley, Pearly, United Kingdom It was declared in the early pages of this work that Dr. Thorn was to be our hero, but it would appear very much as though he had latterly been forgotten. Since that evening, when he retired to rest, without letting Mary share the grievous weight which was on his mind, we have neither seen nor heard ought of him. It was then full midsummer, and it is now early spring, and during the intervening months the doctor had not had a happy time of it. On that night, as we have before told, he took his niece to his heart. But he could not then bring himself to tell her that which it was so imperative that she should know, like a coward he would put off the evil hour till the next morning, and thus robbed himself of his night's sleep. But when the morning came the duty could not be postponed. Lady Arabella had given him to understand that his niece would no longer be a guest at Greshamsbury, and it was quite out of the question that Mary, after this, should be allowed to put her foot within the gate of the domain without having learned what Lady Arabella had said. So he told it her before breakfast, walking round their little garden, she with her hand in his. He was perfectly thunderstruck by the collected nay cool way in which she received his tidings. She turned pale indeed, he felt also that her hand somewhat trembled in his own, and he perceived that for a moment her voice shook. But no angry word escaped her lip, nor did she even deign to repudiate the charge, which was, as it were, conveyed in Lady Arabella's request. The doctor knew, or thought he knew, nay, he did know, that Mary was wholly blameless in the matter, that she had at least given no encouragement to any love on the part of the young heir, but nevertheless he had expected that she would avouch her own innocence. This, however, she by no means did. Lady Arabella is quite right, she said. Quite right? If she has any fear of that kind she cannot be too careful. She is a selfish, proud woman, said the doctor, quite indifferent to the feelings of others. Quite careless how deeply she may hurt her neighbours, if in doing so she may possibly benefit herself. She will not hurt me, uncle, nor yet you. I can live without going to Greshamsbury. But it is not to be endured that she should dare to cast an imputation on my darling. On me, uncle, she casts no imputation on me. Frank has been foolish. I have said nothing of it, for it was not worthwhile to trouble you. But, as Lady Arabella chooses to interfere, I have no right to blame her. He has said what he should not have said. He has been foolish. Uncle, you know I could not prevent it. Let her send him away then. Not you. Let her banish him. Uncle, he is her son. A mother can hardly send her son away so easily. Could you send me away, uncle? He merely answered her by twining his arm round her waist, and pressing her to his side. He was well sure that she was badly treated. And yet, now that she so unaccountably took Lady Arabella's part, he hardly knew how to make this out plainly to be the case. Besides, uncle, Greshamsbury is in a manner his own. How can he be banished from his father's house? No, uncle, there is an end of my visits there. They shall find that I will not thrust myself in their way. And then Mary, with a calm brow and steady gait, went in and made the tea. And what might be the feelings of her heart when she so sententiously told her uncle that Frank had been foolish? She was of the same age with him. As impressionable, though more powerful in hiding such impressions, as all women should be, her heart was as warm, her blood as full of life, her innate desire for the companionship of some much-loved object as strong as his. Frank had been foolish in avowing his passion. No such folly as that could be laid at her door. But had she been proof against the other folly? Had she been able to walk heart-hold by his side, while he chatted his common places about love? Yes, they are common places when we read of them in novels, common enough, too, to some of us, when we write them. But they are by no means common place when first heard by a young girl in the rich, barmy fragrance of a July evening stroll. Nor are they common places when so uttered for the first, or second time at least, or perhaps the third, tis a pity that so heavenly a pleasure should fall upon the senses. If it was so that Frank's folly had been listened to with a certain amount of pleasure, Mary did not even admit so much to herself. But why should it have been otherwise? Why should she have been less prone to love than he was? Had he not everything which girls do love, which girls should love, which God created noble, beautiful, all but God-like, in order that women, all but Goddess-like, might love, to love thoroughly, truly, heartily, with her whole body, soul, heart, and strengths, should not that be counted for a merit in a woman? And yet we are wont to make a disgrace of it. We do so most unnaturally, most unreasonably, for we expect our daughters to get themselves married off our hands. When the period of that step comes, then love is proper enough. But up to that, before that, as regards all those preliminary passages, which must, we suppose, be necessary, in all those it becomes a young lady to be icy-hearted as a river-god in winter. Oh whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad. Oh whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad, though father and meather and ore should go mad. Oh whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad. This is the kind of love which a girl should feel before she puts her hand proudly in that of her lover, and consents that they too shall be made one flesh. Mary felt no such love as this. She too had some inner perception of that dread destiny by which it behoved Frank Gresham to be forewarned. She too, though she had never heard so much said in words, had an almost instinctive knowledge that his fate required him to marry money. Thinking over this in her own way, she was not slow to convince herself that it was out of the question that she should allow herself to love Frank Gresham. However well her heart might be inclined to such a feeling, it was her duty to repress it. She resolved therefore to do so, and she sometimes flattered herself that she had kept her resolution. These were bad times for the doctor, and bad times for Mary too. She had declared that she could live without going to Greshamsbury, but she did not find it so easy. She had been going to Greshamsbury all her life, and it was as customary with her to be there as at home. Such old customs are not broken without pain. Had she left the place it would have been far different, but as it was she daily passed the gates, daily saw and spoke to some of the servants, who knew her as well as they did the young ladies of the family, was in hourly contact as it were with Greshamsbury. It was not only that she did not go there, but that everyone knew that she had suddenly discontinued doing so. Yes, she could live without going to Greshamsbury, but for some time she had but a poor life of it. She felt, nay, almost heard, that every man and woman, boy and girl in the village, was telling his and her neighbour, that Mary saw no longer went to the house because of Lady Arabella and the young squire. But Beatrice, of course, came to her. What was she to say to Beatrice? The truth? Nay, but it is not always so easy to say the truth, even to one's dearest friends. But you'll come up now, he has gone, said Beatrice. No, indeed, said Mary. That would hardly be pleasant to Lady Arabella, nor to me either. No, Trishy dearest, my visits to dear old Greshamsbury are done. Done. Done. Perhaps in some twenty years' time I may be walking down the lawn with your brother and discussing our childish days. That is always if the then Mrs. Gresham shall have invited me. How can Frank have been so wrong, so unkind, so cruel? said Beatrice. This, however, was a light in which Miss Thorn did not take any pleasure in discussing the matter. Her ideas of Frank's fault and unkindness and cruelty were doubtless different from those of his sister. Such cruelty was not unnaturally excused in her eyes by many circumstances which Beatrice did not fully understand. Mary was quite ready to go hand in hand with Lady Arabella and the rest of the Greshamsbury fold in putting an end, if possible, to Frank's passion. She would give no one a right to accuse her of assisting to ruin the young heir, but she could hardly bring herself to admit that he was so very wrong. No, nor yet even so very cruel. And then the squire came to see her, and this was a yet harder trial than the visit of Beatrice. It was so difficult for her to speak to him that she could not but wish him away. And yet, had he not come, had he altogether neglected her, she would have felt it to be unkind. She had ever been his pet, had always received kindness from him. I am sorry for all this, Mary. Very sorry, said he, standing up and holding both her hands in his. It can't be helped, sir, said she, smiling. I don't know, said he. I don't know. It ought to be helped somehow. I am quite sure you have not been to blame. No, said she, very quietly, as though the position was one quite a matter, of course. I don't think I have been very much to blame. There will be misfortunes sometimes when nobody is to blame. I do not quite understand it all, said the squire, but if, Frank, oh, we will not talk about him, said she, still laughing gently, you can understand, Mary, how dear he must be to me, but if, Mr. Gresham, I would not for worlds be the cause of any unpleasantness between you and him. But I cannot bear to think that we have banished you, Mary. It cannot be helped. Things will all come right in time. But you will be so lonely here. Oh, I shall get over all that. Here, you know, Mr. Gresham, I am monarch of all I survey. And there is a great deal in that. The squire did not quite catch her meaning, but a glimmering of it did reach him. It was competent to Lady Arabella to banish her from Greshamsbury. It was within the sphere of the squire's duties to prohibit his son from an imprudent match. It was for the Greshams to guard their Greshamsbury treasure as best they could within their own territories, but let them beware that they did not attack her on hers. In obedience to the first expression of their wishes, she had submitted herself to this public mark of their disapproval because she had seen at once, with her clear intellect, that they were only doing that which her conscience must approve. Without a murmur, therefore, she consented to be pointed at as the young lady who had been turned out of Greshamsbury because of the young squire. She had no help for it. But let them take care that they did not go beyond that. Outside those Greshams' brigades, she and Frank Gresham, she and Lady Arabella met on equal terms. Let them each fight their own battle. The squire kissed her forehead affectionately and took his leave, feeling somehow that he had been excused and pitted and made much of, whereas he had called on his young neighbour with the intention of excusing and pitying and making much of her, he was not quite comfortable as he left the house. But nevertheless he was sufficiently honest-hearted to own to himself that Mary Thorn was a fine girl, only that it was so absolutely necessary that Frank should marry money, and only also that poor Mary was such a burseless foundling in the world's esteem. Only but for these things, what a wife she would have made for that son of his! To one person only did she talk freely on the subject, and that one was Patience Oriel, and even with her the freedom was rather of the mind than of the heart. She never said a word of her feeling with reference to Frank, but she said much of her position in the village, and of the necessity she was under to keep out of the way. It is very hard, said Patience, that the offence should be all with him and the punishment all with you. Oh, as for that, said Mary, laughing, I will not confess to any offence, nor yet to any punishment. Certainly not to any punishment. It comes to the same thing in the end. No, not so, Patience. There is always some little sting of disgrace in punishment. Now, I am not going to hold myself in the least disgraced. But, Mary, you must meet the Greshams sometimes. Meet them? I have not the slightest objection on earth to meet all or any of them. They are not a wit dangerous to me, my dear. Tis I that am the wild beast, and tis they that must avoid me. And then she added, after a pause, slightly blushing, I have not the slightest objection even to meet him, if chance brings him in my way. Let them look to that. My undertaking goes no further than this, that I will not be seen within their gates. But the girls so far understood each other that Patience undertook, rather than promised, to give Mary what assistance she could, and, despite Mary's bravado, she was in such a position that she much wanted the assistance of such a friend as Miss Oriole. After an absence of some six weeks, Frank, as we have seen, returned home. Nothing was said to him except by Beatrice as to these new Greshamsbury arrangements, and he, when he found Mary was not at the place, went boldly to the doctor's house to seek her. But it has been seen also that she discreetly kept out of his way. This she had thought fit to do when the time came, although she had been so ready with her boast that she had no objection on earth to meet him. After that there had been the Christmas vacation, and Mary had again found discretion to be the better part of Valor. This was doubtless disagreeable enough. She had no particular wish to spend her Christmas with Miss Oriole's aunt, instead of at her uncle's fireside. Indeed, her Christmas festivities had hitherto been kept at Greshamsbury, the doctor and herself having made a part of the family circle there assembled. This was out of the question now, and perhaps the absolute change to old Miss Oriole's house was better for her than the lesser change to her uncle's drawing-room. Besides, how could she have demeaned herself when she met Frank in their parish church? All this had been fully understood by patients, and therefore had this Christmas visit been planned. And then this affair of Frank and Mary Thorn ceased for a while to be talked of at Greshamsbury, for that other affair of Mr. Moffat and Augusta monopolised the rural attention. Augusta, as we have said, bore it well, and sustained the public gaze without much flinching. A period of martyrdom, however, did not last long, for soon the news arrived of Frank's exploit in Palmal, and then the Greshamsburyites forgot to think much more of Augusta, being fully occupied in thinking of what Frank had done. The tale, as it was first told, declared that Frank had followed Mr. Moffat up into his club, had dragged him then into the middle of Palmal, and had then slaughtered him on the spot. This was, by degrees, modified, till a sobered fiction became generally prevalent, that Mr. Moffat was lying somewhere, still alive, but with all his bones in a general state of compound fracture. This adventure again brought Frank into the ascendant, and restored to Mary her former position as the Greshamsbury heroine. One cannot wonder at his being very angry, said Beatrice, discussing the matter with Mary. Very imprudently. Wonder? No, the wonder would have been if he had not been angry. One might have been quite sure that he would have been angry enough. I suppose it was not absolutely right for him to beat Mr. Moffat, said Beatrice apologetically. Not right, Trishy. I think he was very right. Not to beat him so very much, Mary. Oh! I suppose a man can't exactly stand measuring how much he does these things. I like your brother for what he has done, and I say so frankly, though I suppose I ought to eat my tongue out before I should say such a thing, eh, Trishy? I don't know that there's any harm in that, said Beatrice, to merely. If you both liked each other, there would be no harm in that, if that were all. Wouldn't there? said Mary in a low tone of bantering satire. That is so kind, Trishy, coming from you. From one of the family, you know. You are well aware, Mary, that if I could have my wishes— Yes, I am well aware what a paragon of goodness you are. If you could have your way, I should be admitted into heaven again, shouldn't I? Only, with this proviso, that if a stray angel should ever whisper to me with bated breath, mistaking me perchance for one of his own class, I should be bound to close my ears to his whispering, and remind him humbly that I was only a poor mortal. You would trust me so far, wouldn't you, Trishy? I would trust you in any way, Mary, but I think you are unkind in saying such things to me. Into whatever heaven I am admitted, I will go only on this understanding, that I am to be as good an angel as any of those around me. But, Mary dear, why do you say this to me? Because—because—because—because? Ah, me! Why, indeed, but because I have no one else to say it to. Certainly not because you have deserved it. It seems as though you were finding fault with me. And so I am. How can I do other than find fault? How can I help being sore? Trishy, you hardly realize my position. You hardly see how I am treated. How I am forced to allow myself to be treated without a sign of complaint. You don't see it at all. If you did, you would not wonder that I should be sore. Theatris did not quite see it all, but she saw enough of it to know that Mary was to be pitted, so instead of scolding her friend for being cross, she threw her arms round her and kissed her affectionately. But the doctor all this time suffered much more than his niece did. He could not complain out loudly. He could not aver that his pet lamb had been ill-treated. He could not even have the pleasure of openly quarrelling with Lady Arabella. But not the less did he feel it to be most cruel that Mary should have to live before the world as an outcast, because it had pleased Frank Gresham to fall in love with her, but his bitterness was not chiefly against Frank. That Frank had been very foolish he could not but acknowledge. But it was a kind of folly for which the doctor was able to find excuse. For Lady Arabella's cold propriety he could find no excuse. With the squire he had spoken no word on the subject, up to this period of which we are now writing. With her ladyship he had never spoken on it since that day when she had told him that Mary was to come no more to Greshamsbury. He never now dined or spent his evenings at Greshamsbury, and seldom was to be seen at the house except when called in professionally. The squire indeed he frequently met, but he either did so in the village or out on horseback or at his own house. When the doctor first heard that Sir Roger had lost his seat and had returned to Boxall Hill, he resolved to go over and see him. But the visit was postponed from day to day, as visits are postponed which may be made any day, and he did not in fact go till he was summoned there, somewhat peremptorily. A message was brought to him one evening to say that Sir Roger had been struck by paralysis, and that not a moment was to be lost. "'It always happens at night,' said Mary, who had more sympathy for the living uncle whom she did know than for the other dying uncle whom she did not know. "'What matters? There just give me my scarf. In all probability I may not be home to-night. Perhaps not till late to-morrow. God bless you, Mary!' and away the doctor went on his cold, bleak ride to Boxall Hill. "'Who will be his heir?' As the doctor rode along he could not quite rid his mind of this question. The poor man, now about to die, had wealth enough to make many heirs. What if his heart should have softened towards his sister's child? What if Mary should be found, in a few days, to be possessed of such wealth that the Greshams should be again happy to welcome her at Greshamsbury? The doctor was not a lover of money, and he did his best to get rid of such pernicious thoughts. But his longings, perhaps, were not so much that Mary should be rich, as that she should have the power of heaping coals of fire upon the heads of those people who had so injured her. End of Chapter 23 Recording by Nick Whitley, Pearlie, United Kingdom