 CHAPTER 27 Miss Thorn goes on a visit. And now began the unpleasant things at Greshamsbury of which we have here told. When Lady Arabella walked away from the doctor's house, she resolved that let it cost what it might. There should be war to the knife between her and him. She had been insulted by him, so at least she said to herself, and so she was prepared to say to others also. And it was not to be borne that a decourse should allow her parish doctor to insult her with impunity. She would tell her husband with all the dignity that she could assume, that it had now become absolutely necessary that he should protect his wife by breaking entirely with his unmannered neighbour, and as regarded the young members of her family, she would use the authority of a mother and absolutely forbid them to hold any intercourse with Mary Thorn. So resolving, she walked quickly back to her own house. The doctor, when left alone, was not quite satisfied with the part he had taken in the interview. He had spoken from impulse, rather than from judgment. And as is generally the case with men who do so speak, he had afterwards to acknowledge to himself that he had been imprudent. He accused himself probably of more violence than he had really used, and was therefore unhappy. But nevertheless his indignation was not at rest. He was angry with himself, but not on that account the less angry with Lady Arabella. She was cruel, overbearing and unreasonable, cruel in the most cruel of manners, so he thought. But not on that account was he justified in forgetting the forbearance due from a gentleman to a lady. Mary moreover had owed much to the kindness of this woman, and therefore Doctor Thorn felt that he should have forgiven much. Thus the doctor walked about his room much disturbed, now accusing himself for having been so angry with Lady Arabella, and then feeding his own anger by thinking of her misconduct. The only immediate conclusion at which he resolved was this, that it was unnecessary that he should say anything to Mary on the subject of her ladyship's visit. There was no doubt sorrow enough in store for his darling. Why should he aggravate it? Lady Arabella would doubtless not stop now in her course, but why should he accelerate the evil which she would doubtless be able to effect? Lady Arabella, when she returned to the house, allowed no grass to grow under her feet. As she entered the house, she desired that Miss Beatrice should be sent to her directly should returned, and she desired also that as soon as the square should be in his room, a message to that effect might be immediately brought to her. Beatrice, she said, as soon as the young lady appeared before her, and in speaking she assumed her firmest tone of authority, Beatrice, I am sorry, my dear, to say anything that is unpleasant to you, but I must make it a positive request that you will for the future drop all intercourse with Dr. Thorn's family. Beatrice, who had received Lady Arabella's message immediately on entering the house, and had run upstairs imagining that some instant haste was required, now stood before her mother rather out of breath, holding her bonnet by the strings. Oh, Bama! she exclaimed, what on earth has happened? My dear, said the mother, I cannot really explain to you what has happened, but I must ask you to give me your positive assurance that you will comply with my request. You don't mean that I am not to see Mary any more? Yes, I do, my dear, at any rate for the present. When I tell you that your brother's interest imperatively demands it, I am sure that you will not refuse me. Beatrice did not refuse, but she did not appear too willing to comply. She stood silent, leaning against the end of a sofa, and twisting her bonnet strings in her hand. Well, Beatrice, but, Mama, I don't understand. Lady Arabella had said that she could not exactly explain, but she found it necessary to attempt to do so. Dr. Thorn has openly declared to me that a marriage between poor Frank and Mary is all he could desire for his niece. After such unparalleled audacity as that, even your father will see the necessity of breaking with him. Dr. Thorn? Oh, Mama, you must have misunderstood him. My dear, I am not apt to misunderstand people, especially when I am so much in earnest as I was in talking to Dr. Thorn. But, Mama, I know so well what Mary herself thinks about it, and I know what Dr. Thorn thinks about it. He, at any rate, has been candid in what he said. There can be no doubt on earth that he has spoken his true thoughts. There can be no reason to doubt him. Of course such a match would be all that he could wish. Mama, I feel sure that there is some mistake. Very well, my dear, I know that you are infatuated about these people, and that you are always inclined to contradict what I say to you. But remember, I expect that you will obey me when I tell you not to go to Dr. Thorn's house any more. But, Mama, I expect you to obey me, Beatrice. Though you are so prone to contradict, you have never disobeyed me, and I fully trust that you will not do so now. Lady Arabella had begun by exacting or trying to exact a promise, but as she found that this was not forthcoming, she thought it better to give up the point without a dispute. It may be that Beatrice would absolutely refuse to pay this respect to her mother's authority, and then where would she have been? At this moment a servant came up to say that the squire was in his room, and Lady Arabella was opportunity saved the necessity of discussing the matter further with her daughter. I am now, she said, going to see your father on the same subject. You may be quite sure, Beatrice, that A. should not willingly speak to him on any matter relating to Dr. Thorn. Did I not find it absolutely necessary to do so? This, Beatrice knew, was true, and she did therefore feel convinced that something terrible must have happened. While Lady Arabella opened her budget, the squire sat quite silent, listening to her with apparent respect. She found it necessary that her description to him should be much more elaborate than that which she had vouchsafed to her daughter, and in telling her grievance, she insisted most especially on the personal insult which had been offered to herself. After what has now happened, said she, not quite able to repress a tone of triumph, as she spoke, I do expect, Mr. Gresham, that you will— Will? Will what, my dear? Will at least protect me from the repetition of such treatment? You are not afraid that Dr. Thorn will come here to attack you? As far as I can understand, he never comes near the place. Unless, when you send for him— No, I do not think that he will come to Greshamsbury any more. I believe I have put a stop to that. Then what is it, my dear, that you want me to do? Lady Arabella paused a minute before she replied. The game which she now had to play was not very easy. She knew, or thought she knew, that her husband, in his heart of hearts, much preferred his friend to the waif of his bosom, and that he would, if he could, shuffle out of noticing the doctor's inequities. It behoved her, therefore, to put them forward in such a way that they must be noticed. A suppose, Mr. Gresham, you do not wish that Frank should marry the girl. I do not think there is the slightest chance of such a thing, and I am quite sure that Dr. Thorn would not encourage it. But I tell you, Mr. Gresham, that he says he will encourage it. Oh, you have misunderstood him. Of course. A always misunderstand everything, and know that. A misunderstood it when I told you how you would distress yourself if you took those nasty helms. I have had other troubles more expensive than the helms, said the poor squire, sighing. Oh, yes, I know what you mean. A waif and family are expensive, of course. It is a little too late now to complain of that. My dear, it is always too late to complain of any troubles when they are no longer to be avoided. We need not, therefore, talk any more about the helms at present. I do not wish to speak of them, Mr. Gresham, nor I. But a hope you will not think me unreasonable if they are anxious to know what you intend to do about Dr. Thorn. To do? Yes. It appears you will do something. You do not wish to see your son marry such a girl as Mary Thorn. As far as the girl herself is concerned, said the squire, turning rather red, I am not sure that he could do much better. I know nothing whatever against Mary. Frank, however, cannot afford to make such a match it would be his ruin. Of course it would. Utter ruin! He never could hold up his head again. Therefore it is, I ask, what do you intend to do? The squire was bothered. He had no intention whatever of doing anything. And no belief in his wife's assertion as to Dr. Thorn's iniquity. But he did not know how to get her out of the room. She asked him the same question over and over again, and on each occasion urged on him the heinousness of the insult to which she personally had been subjected, so that at last he was driven to ask her what it was she wished him to do. Well then, Mr. Gresham, if you ask me, I must say that I think you should abstain from any intercourse with Dr. Thorn whatever. Break off all intercourse with him? Yes. What do you mean? He has been turned out of this house, and I am not to go to see him at his own. I certainly think that you ought to discontinue your visits to Dr. Thorn altogether. Nonsense, my dear! Absolute nonsense! Nonsense! Mr. Gresham! It is no nonsense! As you speak in that way, I must let you know plainly what I feel. I am endeavouring to do my duty by my son. As you justly observe, such a marriage as this would be utter ruin to him. When I found that the young people were actually talking of being in love with each other, making vows and all that sort of thing, I did think it time to interfere. I did not, however, turn them out of Gresham's brie as you accuse me of doing, in the kindest possible manner. Well, well, well, I know all that. There, they are gone, and that's enough. I don't complain. Surely that ought to be enough? Enough, Mr. Gresham! No, it is not enough. A find that in spite of what has occurred, the clearest intimacy exists between the two families, that poor Beatrice, who is so very young, and not so prudent as she should be, is made to act as a go-between. And when I speak to the doctor, hoping that he will assist me in preventing this, he not only tells me that he means to encourage Mary in her plans, but positively insults me to my face, laughs at me for being an earl's daughter, and tells me, yes, he absolutely told me to get out of his house. Let it be told, with some shame as to the squire's conduct, that his first feeling on hearing this was one of envy, of envy and regret that he could not make the same uncivil request. Not that he wished to turn his wife absolutely out of his house, but he would have been very glad to have had the power of dismissing her summarily from his own room. This, however, was at present impossible, so he was obliged to make some mild reply. You must have mistaken him, my dear. He could not have intended to say that. Oh, of course, Mr. Gresham, it is all a mistake, of course. It will be a mistake, only a mistake, when you feigned your son married to Mary Thorn. Well, my dear, I cannot undertake to quarrel with Dr. Thorn. This was true, for the squire could hardly have quarrelled with Dr. Thorn, even had he wished it. Then I think it right to tell you that I shall, and Mr. Gresham, I did not expect much cooperation from you, but I did think that you would have shown some little anger when you heard that I had been so ill-treated. I shall, however, know how to take care of myself, and I shall continue to do the best I can to protect Frank from these wicked intrigues. So, saying, her ladyship arose and left the room, having succeeded in destroying the comfort of all our Gresham's brief friends, it was very well for the squire to declare that he would not quarrel with Dr. Thorn, and of course he did not do so. But he himself had no wish whatever that his son should marry Mary Thorn, and as a falling drop will hollow a stone, so did the continual harping of his wife on the subject, if rise to some amount of suspicion in his own mind. Then, as to Beatrice, though she had made no promise that she would not again visit Mary, she was by no means prepared to set her mother's authority altogether at defiance, and she also was sufficiently uncomfortable. Dr. Thorn said nothing of the matter to his niece, and she therefore would have been absolutely bewildered by Beatrice's absence, had she not received some tidings of what had taken place at Gresham's brief through Patience Oriole, Beatrice and Patience discussed the matter fully, and it was agreed between them that it would be better that Mary should know what sterner orders respecting her had gone forth from the tyrant at Gresham's brief, and that she might understand that Beatrice's absence was compulsory. Patience was thus placed in this position, that on one day she walked and talked with Beatrice, and on the next with Mary, and so matters went on for a while at Gresham's brief, not very pleasantly, very unpleasantly, and very uncomfortably did the months of May and June pass away. Beatrice and Mary occasionally met, drinking tea together at the Parsonage, or in some other of the ordinary meetings of country society, but there were no more confidentially distressing, confidential discourses, no more whispering of Frank's name, no more sweet allusions to the inexpediency of a passion which, according to Beatrice's views, would have been so delightful had it been expedient. The squire and the doctor also met constantly. There were, unfortunately, many subjects on which they were obliged to meet. Louis Philippe, or Sir Louis, as we must call him, though he had no power over his own property, was wide awake to all the coming privileges of ownership, and he would constantly point out to his guardian the manner in which, according to his ideas, the most should be made of it. The young baronet's ideas of good taste were not of the most refined description, and he did not hesitate to tell Dr. Thorn that his, the doctor's, friendship with Mr. Grasham must be no bar to his, the baronet's, interest. Sir Louis also had his own lawyer, whom gave not to Thorn to understand that, according to his ideas, the sum due on Mr. Grasham's property was too large to be left on its present footing. The title deeds, he said, should be surrendered, or the mortgage foreclosed. All this added to the sadness which now seemed to envelop the village of Grashamsbury. Early in July Frank was to come home. The manner in which the comings and goings of poor Frank were allowed to disturb the arrangements of all the ladies, and some of the gentlemen of Grashamsbury was most abominable, and yet it can hardly be said to have been his fault. He would have been only too well pleased had Zings been allowed to go on after their old fashion. Things were not allowed so to go on. At Christmas Miss Oriole had submitted to be exiled in order that she might carry Mary away from the presence of the young Bashore, an arrangement by which all the winter festivities of the poor doctor had been thoroughly sacrificed, and now it began to be said that some similar plan for the summer must be suggested. It was not be supposed that any direction to this effect was conveyed either to Mary or to the doctor. The suggestion came from them, and was mentioned only to patients, but patients as a matter of course told Beatrice, and Beatrice told her mother somewhat triumphantly, hoping thereby to convince the she-dragon of Mary's innocence. Alas, she-dragons are not easily convinced of the innocence of any one. Lady Arabella quite coincided in the propriety of Mary's being sent off, with her she never inquired, in order that the coast may be clear for poor Frank, but she did not a whit the more abstain from talking of the wicked intrigues of those thorns. As it turned out Mary's absence caused her to talk all the more. The Boxall Hill property, including the house and furniture, had been left to the contractor's son, it being understood that the property would not be at present in his own hands, but that he might inhabit the house if he chose to do so. It would thus be necessary for Lady Scatchard to find a home for herself, unless she could remain at Boxall Hill by her son's permission. In this position of affairs the doctor had been obliged to make a bargain between them. So Louis did wish to have the comfort, or perhaps the honour, of a country house, but he did not wish to have the expense of keeping it up. He was also willing to let his mother live at the house, but not without a consideration, after a prolonged degree of haggling. Terms were agreed upon, and a few weeks after her husband's death Lady Scatchard found herself alone at Boxall Hill, alone as regards society and the ordinary sense, but not quite alone, as concerned her ladyship, for the faithful Hannah was still with her. The doctor was, of course, often at Boxall Hill, and never left it without an urgent request from Lady Scatchard, but he would bring his niece over to see her. Now Lady Scatchard was no fit companion for Mary Thorne, and though Mary had often asked to be taken to Boxall Hill, certain considerations had hitherto induced the doctor to refuse the request, but there was that about Lady Scatchard a kind of homely honesty of purpose, an absence of all conceit as to her own position, and a strength of womanly confidence in the doctor as her friend, which by degrees won upon his heart. When, therefore, both he and Mary felt that it would be better for her again to absent herself for a while from Greshamsbury, it was, after much deliberation, agreed that she should go on a visit to Boxall Hill. To Boxall Hill accordingly she went, and was received almost as a princess. Mary had all her life been accustomed to women of rank, and had never habituated herself to feel much trepidation in the presence of titled grandees, but she had prepared herself to be more than ordinarily submissive to Lady Scatchard. Her hostess was a widow, was not a woman of high birth, was a woman of whom her uncle spoke well, and for all these reasons Mary was determined to respect her and pay to her every consideration, but when she settled down in the house she found it almost impossible to do so. Lady Scatchard treated her as a farmer's wife, might have treated some convalescent young lady who had been sent to her charge for a few weeks in order that she might benefit by the country air. Her ladyship could hardly bring herself to sit still and eat her dinner tranquilly in her guest's presence, and then nothing was good enough for Mary. Lady Scatchard besought her almost with tears to say what she liked best to eat and drink, and was in despair when Mary declared she didn't care that she liked anything, and that she was in no wise particular in such matters. A roast fowl, Miss Tharhorn, very nice Lady Scatchard, and bread-sauce? Bread-sauce? Yes, oh yes, I like bread-sauce, and poor Mary tried hard to show a little interest, and just a few sausages. We make them all in the house, Miss Tharhorn, we know what they are, and mashed potatoes. Do you like them best mashed or baked? Mary, finding herself obliged to vote, voted for mashed potatoes. Very well, but Miss Tharhorn, if you like boiled fowl better, with a little bit of ham, you know, I do hope you'll say so, and there's lamb in the house, quite beautiful. Now, do we say something? Do we, Miss Tharhorn? So invoked, Mary felt herself obliged to say something, and declared for the roast fowl and sausages, but she found it very difficult to pay much outward respect to a person who would pay so much outward respect to her. A day or two after her arrival it was decided that she should ride about the place on a donkey. She was accustomed to riding, the doctor having generally taken care that one of his own horses should, when required, consent to carry a lady, but there was no steed at Boxall Hill that she could mount, and when Lady Scatchard had offered to get a pony she had willingly compromised matters by expressing the delight she would have in making a campaign on a donkey. Upon this Lady Scatchard had herself set off in quest of the desired animal, much to Mary's horror, and did not return till the necessary purchase had been effected. Then she came back with the donkey close at her heels, almost holding its collar, and stood there at the hall door till Mary came to approve. I hope she'll do. I don't think she'll kick," said Lady Scatchard, patting the head of her purchase quite triumphantly. Oh, you are so kind, Lady Scatchard! I'm sure she'll do quite nicely. She seems very quiet, said Mary. Please, my lady, it's a hay, said the boy who held the halter. Oh, a hay is it, said her ladyship, but the hay-dunk is quite as quiet as the she's, ain't they? Oh, yes, my lady, a deal quite all the world over, and twice as useful. I'm so glad of that, Miss Thorn, said Lady Scatchard, her eyes bright with joy, and so Mary was established with her donkey, who did all that could be expected from an animal in his position. But dear Lady Scatchard, said Mary, as they sat together at the open drawing-room window the same evening, you must not go on calling me Miss Thorn. My name is Mary, you know. Won't you call me Mary? And she came and knelt at Lady Scatchard's feet, and took hold of her, looking up into her face. Lady Scatchard's cheeks became rather red, as though she was somewhat ashamed of her position. You are so very kind to me, continued Mary, and it seems so cold to hear you call me Miss Thorn. Well, Miss Thorn, I'm sure I'd call you anything to please you, only I didn't think whether you'd like it from me. As I do think Mary is the prettiest name in all the language, I should like it very much. My dear Raja always loved that name better than any other, ten times better. I used to wish sometimes that I'd been called Mary. Did he? Why? He once had a sister called Mary. Such a beautiful creature. I declare I sometimes think you were like her. Oh dear, then she must have been beautiful indeed, said Mary, laughing. She was very beautiful. I just remember her. Oh, so beautiful. She was quite a poor girl, you know. And so was I then. Isn't it odd that I should have to be called My Lady now? Do you know Miss Thorn? Mary. Mary, said her guest. Ah, yes, but somehow I hardly like to make so free. But as I was saying, I do so dislike being called My Lady. I always think the people are laughing at me. And so they are. Oh, nonsense. Yes they are, though. Poor dear Raja, he used to call me My Lady just to make fun of me. I didn't mind it so much from him. But Miss Thorn, Mary, Mary, Mary. Ah, well, I shall do it in time. But Miss Mary. Ha, ha, never mind. Let me alone. But what I want to say is this. Do you think I could drop it? Hannah says that if I go the right way about it, she is sure I can. Oh, but Lady Scatchard, you shouldn't think of such a thing. Shouldn't I now? Oh, no. For your husband's sake, you should be proud of it. He gained great honour, you know. Ah, well, said she, sighing after a short pause. If you think it will do him any good, of course I'll put up with it. And then I know Louie would be mad if I talked of such a thing. But Miss Thorn, dear, a woman like me don't like to have to be made a fool of all the days of her life if she can help it. But Lady Scatchard, said Mary, when this question of the title had been duly settled, and her ladyship made to understand that she must bear the burden for the rest of her life. But Lady Scatchard, you were speaking of Sir Roger's sister. What became of her? Oh, she did very well at last, as Sir Roger did himself. But in early life she was very unfortunate, just at the time of my marriage with Dear Roger. And then, just as she was about to commence so much as she knew of the history of Mary Scatchard, she remembered that the author of her sister-in-law's misery had been a Thorn, a brother of the doctor, and therefore, as she presumed, a relative of her guest. And suddenly she became mute. Well, said Mary, just as you were married, Lady Scatchard. Poor Lady Scatchard had very little worldly knowledge, and did not in the least know how to turn the conversation or escape from the trouble into which she had fallen. All manner of reflections began to crowd upon her. In her early days she had known very little of the Thorns, nor had she thought much of them since, except as regarded her friend the doctor. But at this moment she began, for the first time, to remember that she had never heard of more than two brothers in the family. Who then could have been Mary's father? She felt at once that it would be improper for to say anything as to Henry Thorn's terrible faults, and sudden fate, improper also to say more about Mary Scatchard. But she was quite unable to drop the matter otherwise than abruptly, and with a start. She was very unfortunate, you say, Lady Scatchard. Yes, Miss Thorn, Mary, I mean. Never mind me, I shall do it in time. Yes, she was. But now I think of it I had better say nothing more about it. There are reasons, and I ought not to have spoken of it. You won't be provoked with me, will you? Mary assured her that she would not be provoked, and of course asked no more questions about Mary Scatchard, nor did she think much more about it. It was not so, however, with her ladyship, who could not keep herself from reflecting that the old clergyman in the closet barchester certainly had but two sons, one of whom was now the doctor at Grashamthbury, and the other of whom had perished so wretchedly at the gate of that farmyard, who then was the father of Mary Thorn. The days passed very quietly at Boxall Hill. Every morning Mary went out on her donkey, who justified by his demeanour all that had been said in his praise. Then she would read or draw, then walk with Lady Scatchard, then dine, then walk again, and so the days passed quietly away. Once or twice a week the doctor would come over and drink his tea there, riding home in the cool of the evening. Mary also received one visit from her friend Patience. So the days passed quietly away till the tranquillity of the house was suddenly broken by tidings from London. Lady Scatchard received a letter from her son, contained in three lines, in which he intimated that on the following day he meant to honour her with a visit. He had intended, he said, to have gone to Brighton with some friends, but as he felt himself a little out of sorts he would postpone his marine trip and do his mother the grace of spending a few days with her. This news was not very pleasant to Mary, by whom it had been understood, as it had also by her uncle, that Lady Scatchard would have had the house to herself. But as there were no means of preventing the evil, Mary could only inform the doctor and prepare herself to meet Sir Louis Scatchard. Chapter 28 The Doctor hears something to his advantage. Sir Louis Scatchard had told his mother that he was rather out of sorts, and when he reached Boxall Hill it certainly did not appear that he had given any exaggerated statement of his own maladies. He certainly was a good deal out of sorts. He had had more than one attack of delirium tremens since his father's death, and had almost been at death's door. Nothing had been said about this by Dr. Thorn at Boxall Hill, but he was by no means ignorant of his ward's state. Twice he had gone up to London to visit him. Twice he had begged him to go down into the country and place himself under his mother's care. On the last occasion the doctor had threatened him with all manner of pains and penalties, with pains as to his speedy departure from this world and all its joys, and with penalties in the shape of poverty if that departure should by any chance be retarded. But these threats had at the moment been in vain, and the doctor had compromised matters by inducing Sir Louis to promise that he would go to Brighton. The Baronette, however, who was at length frightened by some renewed attack, gave up his Brighton scheme, and without any notice to the doctor hurried down to Boxall Hill. Mary did not see him on the first day of his coming, but the doctor did. He received such intimation of the visit as enabled him to be at the house soon after the young man's arrival, and knowing that his assistance might be necessary, he rode over to Boxall Hill. It was a dreadful task to him, this of making the same fruitless endeavour for the son that he had made for the father, and in the same house. But he was bound by every consideration to perform the task. He had promised the father that he would do for the son all that was in his power, and he had moreover the consciousness that should Sir Louis succeed in destroying himself the next heir to all the property was his own niece, Mary Thorn. He found Sir Louis in a low, wretched, miserable state. Though he was a drunkard as his father was, he was not at all such a drunkard as was his father. The physical capacities of the men were very different. The daily amount of alcohol which the father had consumed would have burnt up the son in a week, whereas though the son was continually tipsy, what he swallowed would hardly have had an injurious effect upon the father. You are all wrong, quite wrong, said Sir Louis petulantly. It isn't that at all. I have taken nothing this week past, literally nothing. I think it's the liver. Dr. Thorn wanted no one to tell him what was the matter with his ward. It was his liver. His liver, and his head, and his stomach, and his heart. Every organ in his body had been destroyed or was in the course of destruction. His father had killed himself with brandy. The son, more elevated in his tastes, was doing the same thing with curasso, maraschino, and cherry bounce. Sir Louis, said the doctor, he was obliged to be much more punctilious with him than he had been with the contractor. The matter is in your own hands entirely. If you cannot keep your lips from that accursed poison, you have nothing in this world to look forward to. Nothing. Nothing. Mary proposed to return with her uncle to Greshamsbury, and he was at first well inclined that she should do so. But this idea was overruled, partly in compliance with Lady Scatchard's entreaties, and partly because it would have seemed as though they had both thought the presence of its owner had made the house an unfit habitation for decent people. The doctor therefore returned, leaving Mary there, and Lady Scatchard visited herself between her two guests. On the next day Sir Louis was able to come down to a late dinner, and Mary was introduced to him. He had dressed himself in his best array, and as he had, at any rate for the present moment, been frightened out of his libations, he was prepared to make himself as agreeable as possible. His mother waited on him almost as a slave might have done, but she seemed to do so with the fear of a slave, rather than the love of a mother. She was fidgety in her attentions, and worried him by endeavouring to make her evening sitting-room agreeable. But Sir Louis, though he was not very sweetly behaved under these manipulations from his mother's hands, was quite complacent to miss Thorn. Nay, after the expiration of a week, he was almost more than complacent. He peaked himself on his gallantry, and Nay found that in the otherwise dull seclusion of Bucksall Hill, he had a good opportunity of exercising it. To do him justice it must be admitted that he would not have been incapable of a decent career had he stumbled upon some girl who could have loved him before he stumbled upon his maraschino bottle. Such might have been the case with many a lost rake. The things that are bad are accepted because the things that are good do not come easily in his way. How many a miserable father reviles with bitterness of spirit the low tastes of his son, who has done nothing to provide his child with higher pleasures. Sir Louis, partly in the hopes of Mary's smiles, and partly frightened by the doctor's threats, did for a while keep himself within decent bounds. He did not usually appear before Mary's eyes till three or four in the afternoon, but when he did come forth he came forth sober and resolute to please. His mother was delighted, was not slow to sing his praises, and even the doctor who now visited Bucksall more frequently than ever began to have some hopes. One constant subject, I must not say of conversation on the part of Lady Scatchard, but rather of declamation, had hesitube in the beauty and manly attributes of Frank Gresham. She had hardly ceased to talk to Mary of the infinite good qualities of the young squire, and especially of his prowess in the matter of Mr. Marford. Mary had listened to all this eloquence, not perhaps with inattention, but without much reply. She had not been exactly sorry to hear Frank talked about. Indeed, had she been so minded, she could herself have said something on the same subject. But she did not wish to take Lady Scatchard altogether into her confidence, and she had been unable to say much about Frank Gresham without doing so. Lady Scatchard had had, therefore, gradually conceived the idea that her darling was not a favourite with her guest. Now, therefore, she changed the subject, and as her own son was behaving with such unexampled propriety, she dropped Frank and confined her eulogies to Louis. He had been a little wild, she admitted. Young men so often were so, but she hoped that it was now over. He does still take a little drop of those French drinks in the morning, said Lady Scatchard in her confidence, but she was too honest to be false even in her own cause. He does do that, I know. But that's nothing, my dear, to swell in all day, and everything can't be done at once, can it, Miss Thorne? On this subject Mary found her tongue loosened. She could not talk about Frank Gresham, but she could speak with hope to the mother of her only son. She could say that Sir Louis was still very young, that there was reason to trust that he might now reform, that his present conduct was apparently good, and that he appeared capable of better things. So much, she did say, and the mother took her sympathy for more than it was worth. On this matter, and on this matter perhaps alone, Sir Louis and Lady Scatchard were in accord. There was much to recommend Mary to the Baronet. Not only did he see her to be beautiful, and perceive her to be attractive and ladylike, but she was also the niece of the man who, for the present, held the purse-strings of his wealth. Mary, it is true, had no fortune, but Sir Louis knew that she was acknowledged to be a lady, and he was ambitious that his lady should be a lady. There was also much to recommend Mary to the mother, to any mother, and thus it came to pass that Miss Thorne had no obstacle between her and the dignity of being Lady Scatchard II. No obstacle whatever. If only she could bring herself to wish it. It was some time, two or three weeks perhaps, before Mary's mind was first opened to this new brilliancy in her prospects. Sir Louis at first was rather afraid of her, and did not declare his admiration in any very determined terms. He certainly paid her many compliments, which from anyone else she would have regarded as abominable. But she did not expect great things from the Baronet's taste. She concluded that he was only doing what he thought a gentleman should do, and she was willing to forgive much for Lady Scatchard's sake. His first attempts were perhaps more ludicrous than passionate. He was still too much an invalid to take walks, and Mary was therefore saved from his company in her rambles. But he had a horse of his own at Boxall Hill, and had been advised to ride by the doctor. Mary also wrote, on a donkey only it is true, but Sir Louis found himself bound in gallantry to accompany her. Mary's steed had answered every expectation, and proved himself very quiet, so quiet that without the admonition of a cudgel behind him he could hardly be persuaded into the demurist trot. Now, as Sir Louis's horse was of a very different metal, he found it rather difficult not to step faster than his enamorata, and let him struggle as he would, was generally so far ahead as to be debarred the delights of conversation. When, for the second time, he proposed to accompany her, Mary did what she could to hinder it. She saw that he had been rather ashamed of the manner in which his companion was mounted, and she herself would have enjoyed her ride much more without him. He was an invalid, however. It was necessary to make much of him, and Mary did not absolutely refuse his offer. Lady Statured said he, as they were standing at the door previous to mounting, he always called his mother, Lady Statured. Why don't you have a horse for Miss Thon? This donkey is, is, really is so very, very, can't go at all, you know. Lady Statured began to declare that she would wellingly have got a pony if Mary would have let her do so. Oh, no, Lady Statured, not on any account. I do like the donkey so much. I do indeed. But he won't go, said Salue, and for a person who rides like you, Miss Thon, such a horsewoman, you know. Why, you know, Lady Statured, it's positively ridiculous, dash absurd, you know. And then, with an angry look at his mother, he mounted his horse and was soon leading the way down the avenue. Miss Thon, said he, pulling himself up at the gate, if I had known that I was to be so extremely happy as to have found you here, I would have brought you down the most beautiful creature, an Arab. She belongs to my friend Jenkins, but I wouldn't have stood at any price in getting her for you. Bajove, if you were on that mare, I'd back you for style and appearance against anything in Hyde Park. The offer of this sporting wager, which naturally would have been very gratifying to Mary, was lost upon her, for Salue had again unwittingly got on in advance, but he stopped himself in time to hear Mary again declare her passion was a donkey. If you could only see Jenkins's little mare, Miss Thon, only say one word, and she shall be down here before the week's end. Price shall be no obstacle, none whatever. Bajove, what a pair you would be! This generous offer was repeated four or five times, but on each occasion Mary only half heard what was said, and on each occasion the baronet was far too much in advance to hear Mary's reply. At last he recollected that he wanted to call on one of the tenants, and begged his companion to allow him to ride on. If you at all dislike being left alone, you know, oh, dear no, not at all, Salue. I am quite used to it, because I don't care about it, you know. Only I can't make this horse walk the same pace as that brute. You mustn't abuse my pet, Salue. It's a dashed shame on my mother's part, said Salue, who even when in his best behaviour could not quite give up his ordinary mode of conversation. When she was fortunate enough to get such a girl as you to come and stay with her, she ought to have had something proper for her to ride upon. But I'll look to it as soon as I am a little stronger, you see, if I don't, and so saying, Salue trotted off, leaving Mary in peace with her donkey. Salue had now been living cleanly and for swearing sack for what was to him a very long period, and his health felt the good effects of it. No one rejoiced at this more cordially than did the doctor. To rejoice at it was with him a point of conscience. He could not help telling himself now and again that, circumstances as he was, he was most specially bound to take joy in any sign of reformation which the baronet might show. Not to do so would be almost tantamount to wishing that he might die in order that Mary might inherit his wealth, and therefore the doctor did with all his energy, devote himself to the difficult task of hoping and striving that Salue might yet live to enjoy what was his own. But the task was altogether a difficult one, for as Salue became stronger in health, so also did he become more exorbitant in his demands on the doctor's patience and more repugnant to the doctor's tastes. In his worst fits of disreputable living he was ashamed to apply to his guardian for money, and in his worst fits of illness he was, through fear, somewhat patient under his doctor's hands. But just at present he had nothing of which to be ashamed and was not at all patient. Doctor, said he one day at Boxall Hill, how about those Grashen's pre-title deeds? Oh, that will all be properly settled between my lawyer and your own. Oh, ah, yes, no doubt the lawyer's will saddle it, saddle it with a fine bill of costs, of course. But, as Finney says, Finney was Salue's legal advisor. I have got a tremendously large interest at stake in this matter. Eighty thousand pounds is no joke. It ain't everybody that can shell out eighty thousand pounds when they're wanted. But I should like to know how the things are going on. I have a right to ask, you know, a doctor. The title deeds of a large portion of the Grashen's Brea estate will be placed with the mortgage deeds before the end of next month. Oh, that's all right. I choose to know about these things. For though my father did make such a confounded will, there's no reason I shouldn't know how things are going. You shall know everything that I know, Salue. And now, doctor, what are we to do about money? About money? Yes, money, rattle, ready. Put money in your purse and cut a dash, eh, doctor? Not that I want to cut a dash. No, I'm going on the quiet line altogether now. I've done with all that sort of thing. I'm heartily glad of it. Heartily, said the doctor. Yes, I am not going to make way for my faraway cousin yet, not if I know it at least. I shall soon be all right now, doctor, shan't I? All right is a long word, Salue. But I do hope you will be all right in time. If you will live with decent prudence, you shouldn't take that filth in the morning, though. Filth in the morning? That's my mother, I suppose. That's her ladyship. She's been talking, has she? Don't you believe her, doctor? There's not a young man in barcature is going more regular, all right within the posts, than I am. The doctor was obliged to acknowledge that there did seem to be some improvement. And now, doctor, how about money, eh? Dr. Thorn, like other guardians similarly circumcised, began to explain that Salue had already had a good deal of money, and had begun also to promise that more should be forthcoming in the event of good behaviour when he was somewhat suddenly interrupted by Salue. Well, now, I'll tell you what, doctor. I've got a bit of news for you, something that I think will astonish you. The doctor opened his eyes and tried to look as though ready to be surprised, something that will really make you look about, and something too that will be very much to the here is advantage, as the newspaper advertisements say. Something to my advantage, said the doctor. Well, I hope you'll think so. Doctor, what would you think now of my getting married? I should be delighted to hear of it, more delighted than I can express. That is, of course, if you were to marry well. It was your father's most eager wish that you should marry early. That's partly my reason, said the young hypocrite. But then, if I marry, I must have an income fit to live on, eh, doctor? The doctor had some fear that his interesting protégé was desirous of a wife for the sake of the income, instead of desiring the income for the sake of the wife. But, let the cause be what it would, marriage would probably be good for him. And he had no hesitation, therefore, in telling him that if he married well, he should be put in possession of sufficient income to maintain the new lady Scatchard in a manner becoming her dignity. As to marrying well, said Salouie, you, I take it, will be the last man, doctor, to quarrel with my choice. Shall I, said the doctor, smiling? Well, you won't disapprove, I guess, as the Yankee says. What would you think of Miss Mary Thorn? It must be said in Salouie's favour that he had probably no idea whatever of the estimation in which such young ladies as Mary Thorn are held by those who are nearest and dearest to them. He had no sort of conception that she was regarded by her uncle as an inestimable treasure, almost too precious to be rendered up to the arms of any man, and infinitely beyond any price in silver and gold, Baronet's incomes of eight or ten thousand a year, and such coins usually current in the world's markets, he was a rich man and a Baronet, and Mary was an unmarried girl without a portion. In Salouie's estimation he was offering everything and asking for nothing. He certainly had some idea that girls were apt to be coy and required a little wooing in the shape of presents, civil speeches, perhaps kisses also, the civil speeches he had he thought done, and imagined that they had been well received. The other things were to follow, an Arab pony, for instance, and the kisses probably with it, and then all these difficulties would be smoothed. But he did not for a moment conceive that there would be any difficulty with the uncle. How should there be? Was he not a Baronet with ten thousand a year coming to him? Had he not everything which fathers want for portionless daughters and uncles for dependent nieces, might he not well inform the doctor that he had something to tell him for his advantage? And yet to tell the truth, the doctor did not seem to be overjoyed when the announcement was first made to him. He was by no means overjoyed. On the contrary, even Salouie could perceive his guardian's surprise was altogether unmixed with delight. What a question was this that was asked him! What would he think of a marriage between Mary Thorn, his Mary, and Salouie's Scatchard, between the alpha of the whole alphabet, and him whom he could not but regard as the Omega? Think of it! Why, he would think of it as though a lamb and a wolf were to stand at the altar together. Had Salouie been a hotentot or an eskimo, the proposal could not have astonished him more. The two persons were so totally of a different class that the idea of the one falling in love with the other had never occurred to him. What would you think of Miss Mary Thorn? Salouie had asked, and the doctor, instead of answering him with ready and pleased alacrity, stood silent. Thunder struck with amazement. Wow! wouldn't she be a good wife? said Salouie, rather in a tone of disgust at the evident disapproval shown at his choice. I thought you'd have been so delighted! Mary Thorn! ejaculated the doctor at last. Have you spoken to my niece about this, Salouie? Well, I have, and yet I haven't. I haven't, and yet in a manner I have. I don't understand you, said the doctor. Why, you see, I haven't exactly popped to her yet, but I have been doing the civil, and if she's up to snuff, as I take her to be, she knows very well what I'm after by this time. Up to snuff! Mary Thorn! His Mary Thorn! Up to snuff! To snuff, too, of such a very disagreeable description! I think, Salouie, that you are in mistake about this. I think you will find that Mary will not be disposed to avail herself of the great advantages, for great they undoubtedly are, which you are able to offer to your intended wife. If you will take my advice, you will give up thinking of Mary. She would not suit you. Not suit me? Oh, but I think she just would. She's got no money, you mean. No, I did not mean that. It will not signify to you whether your wife has money or not. You need not look for money. But you should think of someone more nearly of your own temperament. I am quite sure that my niece would refuse you. These last words the doctor uttered with much emphasis. His intention was to make the baronet understand that the matter was quite hopeless, and to induce him if possible to drop it on the spot. But he did not know Salouie. He ranked him too low in the scale of human beings, and gave him no credit for any strengths of character. Salouie, in his way, did love Mary Thorn, and could not bring himself to believe that Mary did not, or at any rate would not, soon return his passion. He was moreover sufficiently obstinate, firm, we ought perhaps to say, for his pursuit in this case was certainly not an evil one. And he at once made up his mind to succeed in spite of the uncle. If she consents, however, you will do so too, asked he. It is impossible she should consent, said the doctor. Impossible? I don't see anything at all impossible. But if she does, but she won't. Very well, that's to be seen. But just tell me this. If she does, will you consent? The stars would fall first. It's all nonsense. Give it up, my dear friend. Believe me, you are only preparing unhappiness for yourself. And the doctor put his hand kindly on the young man's arm. She will not. Cannot accept such an offer. Will not? Cannot, said the Baronet, thinking over all the reasons which in his estimation could possibly be inducing the doctor to be so hostile in his views, and shaking the hand off his arm. Will not? Cannot. But come, doctor, answer my question fairly. If she'll have me for better or worse, you won't say odd against it, will you? But she won't have you. Why should you give her and yourself the pain of a refusal? Oh, as for that, I must stand my chances like another. And as for her, why dash, doctor? You wouldn't have me believe that any young lady thinks it so very dreadful to have a Baronet with ten thousand pounds a year at her feet, especially when that same Baronet ain't very old. Nor yet particularly ugly. I ain't so green as that, doctor. I suppose she must go through it then, said the doctor, amusing. But, doctor Thorn, I did look for a kinder answer from you, considering all that you so often say about your great friendship with my father. I did think you'd at any rate answer me when I asked you a question. But the doctor did not want to answer that special question. Could it be possible that Mary should wish to marry this odious man? Could such a state of things be imagined to be the case? He would not refuse his consent, infinitely as he would be disgusted by her choice. But he would not give Sir Louis any excuse for telling Mary that her uncle approved of so odious a match. I cannot say that in any case I should approve of such a marriage, Sir Louis. I cannot bring myself to say so, for I know it would make you both miserable. But on that matter my niece will choose wholly for herself. And about the money, doctor, if you marry a decent woman, you shall not want the means of supporting her decently. And so, saying, the doctor walked away, leaving Sir Louis to his meditations. Recording by Nick Whitley, Pearlie, United Kingdom Chapter 29 The Donkey Ride Sir Louis, when left to himself, was slightly dismayed and somewhat discouraged. But he was not induced to give up his object. The first effort of his mind was made in conjecturing what private motive Dr. Thorn could possibly have in wishing to debar his niece from marrying a rich young baronet. That the objection was personal to himself, Sir Louis did not for a moment imagine. Could it be that the doctor did not wish that his niece should be richer and grander and altogether bigger than himself? Or was it possible that his guardian was anxious to prevent him from marrying from some view of the reversion of the large fortune? That there was some such reason, Sir Louis was well sure. But let it be what it might he would get the better of the doctor. He knew, so he said to himself, what stuff girls were made of, baronets did not grow like blackberries, and so assuring himself with such philosophy he determined to make his offer. The time he selected for doing this was the hour before dinner, but on the day on which his conversation with the doctor had taken place he was deterred by the presence of a strange visitor. To account for this strange visit it will be necessary that we should return to Greshamsbury for a few minutes. Frank, when he returned home for his summer vacation, found that Mary had again flown, and the very fact of her absence added fuel to the fire of his love, more perhaps than even her presence might have done, for the flight of the quarry ever adds eagerness to the pursuit of the huntsman. Lady Arabella, moreover, had a bitter enemy, a foe utterly opposed to her side in the contest, where she had once fondly looked for her staunchest ally. Frank was now in the habit of corresponding with misdonstable, and received from her most energetic admonitions to be true to the love which he had sworn. True to it he resolved to be, and therefore when he found that Mary was flown he resolved to fly after her. He did not, however, do this till he had been in a measure provoked to it by the sharp-tongued cautions and blunted irony of his mother. It was not enough for her that she had banished Mary out of the parish, and made Dr. Thorn's life miserable. Not enough that she harassed her husband with her ranks on the constant subject of Frank's marrying money, and dismayed Beatrice with invectives against the iniquity of her friend. The snake was so but scorched. To kill it outright, she must induce Frank utterly to renounce Miss Thorn. This task she assayed, but not exactly with success. Well, mother, said Frank, at last turning very red, partly with shame, and partly with indignation, as he made the Frank avowal. Since you press me about it, I tell you fairly that my mind is made up to marry Mary sooner or later if— Oh, Frank! Good heavens, you wicked boy! You are saying this purposely to drive me distracted, if—continued Frank, not attending to his mother's interjections—if she will consent. Consent, said Lady Arabella. Oh, heavens! And falling into the corner of the sofa, she buried her face in her handkerchief. Yes, mother, if she will consent. And now that I have told you so much, it is only just that I should tell you this also, that as far as I can see at present I have no reason to hope that she will do so. Oh, Frank! The girl is doing all she can to catch you, said Lady Arabella, not prudently. No, mother, there you wrong her altogether, wrong her most cruelly. You ungracious wicked boy! You call me cruel! I don't call you cruel, but you wrong her cruelly, most cruelly. When I have spoken to her about this, for I have spoken to her, she has behaved exactly as you would have wanted her to do, but not at all as I wished her. She has given me no encouragement. You have turned her out among you, Frank was beginning to be very bitter now, but she has done nothing to deserve it. If there has been any fault, it has been mine. But it is well that we should all understand each other. My intention is to marry Mary if I can, and so speaking, certainly without due filial respect, he turned towards the door. Frank! said his mother, raising herself up with energy to make one last appeal. Frank, do you wish to see me die of a broken heart? You know, mother, I would wish to make you happy if I could. If you wish to see me ever happy again, if you do not wish to see me sink brokenhearted to my grave, you must give up this mad idea, Frank. And now all Lady Arabella's energy came out. Frank, there is but one course left open to you. You must marry money! And then Lady Arabella stood up before her son, as Lady Macbeth might have stood, had Lady Macbeth lived to have a son of Frank's years. Miss Dunstable, I suppose, said Frank scornfully, no, mother, I made an ass, and worse than an ass of myself once in that way, and I won't do it again. I hate money. Oh, Frank! I hate money. But Frank, the estate! I hate the estate. At least I shall hate it, if I am expected to buy it at such a price as that. The estate is my father's. Oh, no, Frank! It is not. It is in the sense I mean. He may do with it as he pleases. He will never have a word of complaint from me. I am ready to go into a profession tomorrow. I'll be a lawyer, or a doctor, or an engineer. I don't care what. Frank, in his enthusiasm, probably overlooked some of the preliminary difficulties. Or I'll take a farm under him and earn my bread that way. But, mother, don't talk to me any more about marrying money. And so, saying, Frank left the room. Frank, it will be remembered, was twenty-one when he was first introduced to the reader. He is now twenty-two. It may be said that there was a great difference between his character then and now. A year at that period will make a great difference, but the change has been not in his character, but in his feelings. Frank went out from his mother and immediately ordered his black horse to be got ready for him. He would at once go over to Boxall Hill. He went himself to the stables to give his orders, and as he returned to get his gloves and whip, he met Beatrice in the corridor. Beatrice, said he, stepped in here, and she followed him into his room. I'm not going to bear this any longer. I'm going to Boxall Hill. Oh, Frank, how can you be so imprudent? You, at any rate, have some decent feeling for Mary. I believe you have some regard for her, and therefore I tell you, will you send her any message? Oh, yes, my best, best love. That is, if you will see her. But, Frank, you are very foolish. Very. And she will be infinitely distressed. Do not mention this. That is not at present. Not that I mean to make any secret of it. I shall tell my father everything. I'm off now. And then, paying no attention to her remonstrance, he turned down the stairs and was soon on horseback. He took the road to Boxall Hill, but he did not ride very fast. He did not go jauntily as a jolly, thriving wooer, but musingly, and often with diffidence, meditating every now and then whether it would not be better for him to turn back, to turn back, but not from fear of his mother, not from prudential motives, not because that often repeated lesson as to marrying money was beginning to take effect, not from such causes as these, but because he doubted how he might be received by Mary. He did, it is true, think something about his worldly prospects. He had talked rather grandiloquently to his mother as to his hating money and hating the estate. His mother's never ceasing worldly cares on such subjects, perhaps demanded that a little grandiloquence should be opposed to them, that Frank did not hate the estate, nor did he at all hate the position of an English country gentleman. Miss Dunstable's eloquence, however, rang in his ears. For Miss Dunstable had an eloquence of her own, even in her letters. Never let them talk you out of your own true, honest, hearty feelings, she had said. Greshamsbury is a very nice place, I am sure, and I hope I shall see it some day, but all its green nulls are not half so nice, should not be half so precious as the pulses of your own heart. That is your own estate, your own, your very own, your own, and another's. Whatever may go to the moneylenders, don't send that there. Don't mortgage that, Mr. Gresham. No, said Frank pluckily, as he put his horse into a faster trot. I won't mortgage that. They may do what they like with the estate, but my heart's my own. And so, speaking to himself almost aloud, he turned a corner of the road rapidly, and came at once upon the doctor. Hello, doctor! Is that you? said Frank, rather disgusted. What? Frank! I hardly expected to meet you here, said Dr. Thorn, not much better pleased. They were now not above a mile from Boxall Hill, and the doctor, therefore, could not but surmise whither Frank was going. They had repeatedly met since Frank's return from Cambridge, both in the village and in the doctor's house. But not a word had been said between them about Mary, beyond what the merest courtesy had required. Not that each did not love the other sufficiently to make a full confidence between them desirable to both. But neither had had the courage to speak out, nor had either of them the courage to do so now. Yes, said Frank, blushing, I am going to Lady Scatchard's. Shall I find the ladies at home? Yes, Lady Scatchard is there, but Sir Louis is there also, an invalid. Perhaps you would not wish to meet him. Oh, I don't mind, said Frank, trying to laugh. He won't bite, I suppose. The doctor longed in his heart to pray to Frank to return with him, not to go and make further mischief, not to do that which might cause a more bitter estrangement between himself and the squire, but he had not the courage to do it. He could not bring himself to accuse Frank of being in love with his niece. So, after a few more senseless words on either side, words which each knew to be senseless as he uttered them, they both rode on their own ways. And then the doctor, silently, and almost unconsciously, made such a comparison between Louis Scatchard and Frank Gresham as Hamlet made between the dead and live king. It was Hyperion to a satire. Was it not as impossible that Mary should not love the one as that she should love the other? Frank's offer of his affections had at first probably been but a boyish abolition of feeling. But if it should now be that this had grown into a manly and disinterested love, how could Mary remain unmoved? What could her heart want more? Better, more beautiful, more rich than such a love as his? Was he not personally all that a girl could like? Were not his disposition, mind, character, acquirements, all such as women most delight to love? Was it not impossible that Mary should be indifferent to him? So meditated the doctor, as he rode along, with only two true a knowledge of human nature. Ah, it was impossible. It was quite impossible that Mary should be indifferent. She had never been indifferent since Frank had uttered his first half-joking word of love. Such things are more important to women than they are to men, to girls than they are to boys. When Frank had first told her that he loved her, I months before that, when he merely looked his love, her heart had received the whisper, had acknowledged the glance, unconscious as she was herself, and resolved as she was to rebuke his advances. When, in her hearing, he had said soft nothings to patient's aureole, a hated, irrepressible tear had gathered in her eye, when he had pressed in his warm, loving grasp the hand which she had offered him as a token of mere friendship, her heart had forgiven him the treachery. Nay almost thanked him for it, before her eyes or her words had been ready to rebuke him. When the rumour of his liaison with Miss Dunstable reached her ears, when she heard of Miss Dunstable's fortune, she had wept. Wept outright in her chamber. Wept, as she said to herself, to think that he should be so mercenary. But she had wept, as she should have said to herself, but finding that he was so faithless. Then, when she knew at last that this rumour was false, when she found that she was banished from Gresham's Reef for his sake, when she was forced to retreat with her friend patients, how could she but love him, in that he was not mercenary? How could she not love him, in that he was so faithful? It was impossible that she should not love him. Was he not the brightest and the best of men that she had ever seen? All was like to see, that she could possibly ever see, she would have said to herself, could she have brought herself to own the truth? And then, when she heard how true he was, how he persisted against father, mother and sisters, how could it be that that should not be a merit in her eyes, which was so great a fault in theirs? When Beatrice, with would-be solemn face, but with eyes beaming with feminine affection, would gravely talk of Frank's tender love as a terrible misfortune, as a misfortune to them all, to marry herself as well as others, how could marry to others and love him? Beatrice is his sister, she would say within her own mind, otherwise she would never talk like this. Were she not his sister, she could not but know the value of such love as this. Ah, yes, Mary did love him, love him with all the strength of her heart, and the strength of her heart was very great. And now, by degrees in those lonely donkey rides at Boxall Hill, in those solitary walks, she was beginning to own to herself the truth. And now that she did own it, what should be her course? What should she do? How should she act if this loved one persevered in his love? And ah, what should she do? How should she act if he did not persevere? Could it be that there should be happiness in store for her? Was it not too clear that let the matter go how it would? There was no happiness in store for her. Much as she might love Frank Gresham, she could never consent to be his wife unless the squire would smile on her, as his daughter-in-law. The squire had been all that was kind, all that was affectionate, and then too Lady Arabella. As she thought of the Lady Arabella, a sterner form of thought came across her brow. Why should Lady Arabella rob her of her heart's joy? What was Lady Arabella that she, Mary Thorn, need quail before her? Had Lady Arabella stored only in her way? Lady Arabella flanked by the decorcy legion. Mary felt sure that she could have demanded Frank's hand as her own before them all, without a blush of shame, or a moment's hesitation. Thus, when her heart was all but ready to collapse within her, would she gain some little strength by thinking of the Lady Arabella? Please, my lady, Arabe young squire Gresham, said one of the untutored servants at Boxall Hill, opening Lady Scatchard's little parlor door, as her ladyship was amusing herself by pulling down and turning, and refolding, and putting up again a heap of household linen, which was kept in a huge press for the express purpose of supplying her with occupation. Lady Scatchard, holding a vast counterpane in her arms, looked back over her shoulders, and perceived that Frank was in the room. Down went the counterpane on the ground, and Frank soon found himself in the very position which that useful article had so lately filled. Oh, Master Frank! Oh, Master Frank! said her ladyship almost in an hysterical fit of joy, and then she hugged and kissed him as she had never kissed and hugged her own son, since that son had first left the parent nest. Frank bore it patiently, and with a merry laugh, but Lady Scatchard said he, What will they all say? You forget I am a man now, and he stooped his head as she again pressed her lips upon his forehead. I don't care what none of them say, said her ladyship, quite going back to her old days. I will kiss my own boy, so I will. Hey, but Master Frank, this is good of you. A sight of you is good for sore eyes, and my eyes have been sore enough too since I saw you, and she put her apron up to wipe away a tear. Yes, said Frank, gently trying to disengage himself, but not successfully. Yes, you have had a great loss, Lady Scatchard. I was so sorry when I heard of your grief. You always had a soft, kind heart, Master Frank, so you had. God's blessing on you. What a fine man you have grown! Deary me, what it seems as though it were only just to the day like. And she pushed him a little off from her, so that she might look the better into his face. Well, is it all right? I suppose you would hardly know me again now I've got a pair of whiskers. Know you? I should know you well if I saw but the heel of your foot. Boy, what a head of hair you have got, and so dark too, but it doesn't curl as it used once. And she stroked his hair and looked into his eyes and put her hand to his cheeks. You'll sink me an old fool, Master Frank. I know that. But you may sink what you like. If I live for the next twenty years, you'll always be my own boy, so you will. By degrees, slow degrees, Frank managed to change the conversation, and to induce Lady Scatchard to speak on some other topic than his own infantine perfections. He affected an indifference as he spoke of her guest, which would have deceived no one but Lady Scatchard, but her it did deceive. And then he asked where Mary was. She's just gone out on a donkey, somewhere about the place. She rides on a donkey mostly every day. But you'll start and take a bit of dinner with her, say? Now, do we, Master Frank? But Master Frank excused himself. He did not choose to pledge himself to sit down to dinner with Mary. He did not know in what mood they might return with regard to each other at dinner time. He said therefore that he would walk out, and if possible find Miss Thorn, and that he would return to the house again before he went. Lady Scatchard then began making apologies for Sir Louis. He was an invalid. The doctor had been with him all the morning, and he was not yet out of his room. These apologies, Frank willingly accepted, and then made his way as he could onto the lawn. A gardener, of whom he inquired, offered to go with him in pursuit of Miss Thorn. This assistance, however, he declined, and set forth in quest of her having learnt what were her most usual haunts. Nor was he directed wrongly, for after walking about twenty minutes, he saw, through the trees, the legs of a donkey moving on the green sward at about two hundred yards from him. On that donkey doubtless sat Mary Thorn. The donkey was coming towards him, not exactly in a straight line, but so much so as to make it impossible that Mary should not see him if he stood still. He did stand still, and soon, emerging from the trees, Mary saw him all but close to her. Her heart gave a leap within her, but she was so far mistress of herself as to repress any visible sign of outward emotion. She did not fall from her donkey, or scream, or burst into tears. She merely uttered the words, Mr. Gresham, in a tone of not unnatural surprise. Yes, said he, trying to laugh, but less successful than she had been in suppressing a show of feeling. Mr. Gresham, I have come over at last to pay my respects to you. You must have thought me very uncurtious not to do so before. This, she denied. She had not, she said, thought him a tall uncivil. She had come to Boxall Hill to be out of the way, and of course had not expected any such formalities. As she uttered this, she almost blushed at the abrupt truth of what she was saying, but she was taken so much unawares that she did not know how to make the truth other than abrupt. To be out of the way, said Frank, and why should you want to be out of the way? Oh, there were reasons, said she, laughing. Perhaps I have quarrelled dreadfully with my uncle. Frank, at the present moment, had not about him a scrap of badinage. He had not a single easy word at his command. He could not answer her with anything in guise of a joke. So he walked on, not answering at all. I hope all my friends at Gresham'sbury are well, said Mary, is Beatrice quite well. Quite well, said he. And patience? What, Miss Aureal? Yes, I believe so. I haven't seen her this day or two. How was it that Mary felt a little flush of joy, as Frank spoke in this indifferent way about Miss Aureal's health? I thought she was always a particular friend of yours, said she. What? Who? Miss Aureal? So she is. I like her amazingly. So does Beatrice. And then he walked about six steps in silence, plucking up courage for the great attempt. He did pluck up his courage, and then rushed at once to the attack. Mary, said he, and as he spoke he put his hand on the donkey's neck. And looked tenderly into her face. He looked tenderly, and as Mary's ear at once told her, his voice sounded more soft than it had ever sounded before. Mary, do you remember the last time that we were together? Mary did remember it well. It was on that occasion when he had treacherously held her hand. On that day, when, according to law, he had become a man, when he had outraged all the propriety of the decorcy interest by offering his love to Mary in Augusta's hearing, Mary did remember it well. But how was she to speak of it? It was your birthday, I think, said she. Yes, it was my birthday. I wonder whether you remember what I said to you then. I remember that you were very foolish, Mr. Gresham. Mary, I have come to repeat my folly, that is, if it be folly. I told you then that I loved you, and I dare say that I did so awkwardly, like a boy. Perhaps I may be just as awkward now, but you altered any rate to believe me when you find that a year has not altered me. Mary did not think him at all awkward. And she did believe him. But how was she to answer him? She had not yet taught herself what answer she ought to make, if he persisted in his suit. She had hitherto been content to run away from him. But she had done so because she would not submit to be accused of the indelicacy of putting herself in his way. She had rebuked him when he first spoke of his love. But she had done so because she looked on what he said as a boy's nonsense. She had schooled herself in obedience to the Gresham's pre-doctrines. Was there any real reason? Any reason founded on truth and honesty? Why she should not be a fitting wife to Frank Gresham, Francis Newbold Gresham of Gresham'sbury, though he was, or was to be? He was well-born, as well-born as any gentleman in England. She was basely born, as basely born as any lady could be. Was this sufficient bar against such a match? Mary felt in her heart that some twelve-month since, before she knew what little she did now know of her own story, she would have said it was so. And would she indulge her own love by invagling him, she loved, into a base marriage? But then reason spoke again. What, after all, was this blood, of which she had taught herself to think so much? Would she have been more honest? More fit to Gresham's honest man's half-stone, had she been the legitimate descendant of a score of legitimate duchesses? Was it not her first duty to think of him, of what would make him happy? Then, of her uncle, what he would approve? Then, what of herself? What would best become her modesty, her sense of honour? Could it be well that she should sacrifice the happiness of two persons to a theoretic love of pure blood? So she had argued within herself, not now, sitting on the donkey with Frank's hand before her on the tame brute's neck, but on other, former occasions, as she had ridden along demurely among those trees. So she had argued, but she had never brought her arguments to a decision. All manner of thoughts crowded on her to prevent her doing so. She would think of the squire, and resolve to reject Frank, and would then remember Lady Arabella and resolve to accept him. Her resolutions, however, were most irresolute, and so when Frank appeared in person before her, carrying his heart in his hand, she did not know what answer to make to him. Thus it was with her, as with so many other maidens, similarly circumstances. At last she left it all to chance. You altered any rate to believe me, said Frank, when you find that a year has not altered me. A year should have taught you to be wiser, said she. You should have learnt by this time, Mr. Gresham, that your lot and mine are not cast in the same mould, that our stations in life are different. Would your father or mother approve of your even coming here to see me? Mary, as she spoke these sensible words, felt that they were flat, stale, and unprofitable. She felt also that they were not true in sense, that they did not come from her heart, that they were not such as Frank deserved at her hands, and she was ashamed of herself. My father, I hope, will approve of it, said he, that my mother should disapprove of it is a misfortune which I cannot help, but on this point I will take no answer from my father or mother. The question is one too personal to myself. Mary, if you say that you will not, or cannot, return my love, I will go away. Not from here only, but from Gresham's brie. My presence shall not banish you from all that you hold dear. If you can honestly say that I am nothing to you, can be nothing to you, I will then tell my mother that she may be at ease, and I will go away somewhere, and get over it as I may. The poor fellow got so far, looking apparently at the donkey's ears, with hardly a gasp of hope in his voice, and he so far carried Mary with him that she also had hardly a gasp of hope in her heart. There he paused for a moment, and then, looking up into her face, he spoke but one word more, but, said he, and there he stopped. It was clearly told in that but. Thus he would do if Mary would declare that she did not care for him. If, however, she could not bring herself so to declare, then was he ready to throw his father and mother to the winds, then would he stand his ground, then would he look all other difficulties in the face, sure that they might finally be overcome. Poor Mary, the whole onus of settling the matter was thus thrown upon her. She had only to say that he was indifferent to her. That was all. If all the blood of the Howards had depended upon it, she could not have brought herself to utter such a falsehood, indifferent to her, as he walked there by her donkey's side, talking thus earnestly of his love for her. Was he not to her like some god come from the heavens to make her blessed? Did not the sun shine upon him with a halo, so that he was bright as an angel? Indifferent to her. Could the open, unadulterated truth have been practicable for her? She would have declared her indifference in terms that would truly have astonished him. As it was, she found it easier to say nothing. She bit her lips to keep herself from sobbing. She struggled hard, but in vain, to prevent her hands and feet from trembling. She seemed to swing upon her donkey as though like to fall, and would have given much to be upon her own feet upon the sword. There is so much in that wicked old French proverb. Had Frank known more about a woman's mind? Had he that is been forty-two, instead of twenty-two, he would at once have been sure of his game, and have felt that Mary's silence told him all he wished to know. But then, had he been forty-two instead of twenty-two, he would not have been so ready to risk the acres of Gresham'sbury for the smiles of Mary Thorne. If you can't say one word to comfort me, I will go, said he disconsolently. I made up my mind to tell you this. And so I came over. I told Lady Scatchard I should not stay, not even for dinner. I did not know he was so hurried, said she, almost in a whisper. On a sudden he stood still, and pulling the donkey's reign caused him to stand still also. The beast required very little persuasion to be so guided, and obligingly remained meekly passive. Mary! Mary! said Frank, throwing his arms round her knees as she sat upon her steed, and pressing his face against her body. Mary, you were always honest. Be honest now. I love you with all my heart. Will you be my wife? But still Mary said not a word. She no longer bit her lips. She was beyond that, and was now using all her efforts to prevent her tears from falling absolutely on her lover's face. She said nothing. She could no more rebuke him now, and send him from her, than she could encourage him. She could only sit there, shaking and crying, and wishing she was on the ground. Frank, on the whole, rather liked the donkey. It enabled him to approach somewhat nearer to an embrace than he might have found practicable had they both been on their feet. The donkey himself was quite at his ease, and looked as though he was approvingly conscious of what was going on behind his ears. I have a right to a word, Mary. Say go, and I will leave you at once. But Mary did not say go. Perhaps she would have done so had she been able, but just at present she could say nothing. This came from her having failed to make up her mind in due time as to what course it would best become her to follow. One word, Mary, one little word. There, if you will not speak, here is my hand. If you will have it, let it lie in yours. If not, push it away. So saying, he managed to get the end of his fingers on to her palm, and there it remained unrepulsed. La jeunesse was beginning to get a lesson. Experience, when duly sought after, sometimes comes early in life. In truth Mary had not strength to push the fingers away. My love, my own, my own! said Frank, presuming on the very negative sign of acquiescence, my life, my own one, my own Mary, and then the hand was caught hold of, and was at his lips, before an effort could be made to save it from such treatment. Mary, look at me, say one word to me. There was a deep sigh, and then came the one word. Oh, Frank! Mr. Grasham, I hope I have the honour of seeing you quite well, said a voice close to his ear. I beg to say that you are welcome to Bugsall Hill. Frank turned round, and instantly found himself shaking hands with Sir Louis Scatchard. How Mary got over her confusion Frank never saw, for he had enough to do to get over his own. He involuntarily deserted Mary, and began talking very fast to Sir Louis. Sir Louis did not once look at Miss Thorn, but walked back towards the house with Mr. Grasham, sulky enough in temper, but still making some effort to do the fine gentleman. Mary, glad to be left alone, nearly occupied herself with sitting on the donkey, and the donkey, when he found that the two gentlemen went towards the house, for company's sake, and for his stable's sake, followed after them. Frank, stayed but three minutes in the house, gave another kiss to Lady Scatchard, getting three in return, and thereby infinitely disgusting Sir Louis, shook hands, anything but warmly, with the young ballonette, and just felt the warmth of Mary's hand within his own. He felt also the warmth of her eyes last glance, and rode home a happy man. End of Chapter 29, Recording by Nick Whitley, Pearlie, United Kingdom