 Chapter 39 of Dr. Thorn—this is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Dr. Thorn by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 39. What the World Says About Blood Beatrice said Frank rushing suddenly into his sister's room. I want you to do me one special favour. This was three or four days after Frank had seen Mary Thorn. Since that time he had spoken to none of his family on the subject, but he was only postponing from day to day the task of telling his father. He had now completed his round of visits to the kennel, master huntsman, and stables of the county hunt, and was at liberty to attend to his own affairs. So he had decided on speaking to the squire that very day, but he first made his request to his sister. I want you to do me one special favour. The day for Beatrice's marriage had now been fixed, and it was not to be very distant. Mr. Oriel had urged that their honeymoon trip would lose half its delights, if they did not take advantage of the fine weather, and Beatrice had nothing to allege in answer. The day had just been fixed, and when Frank ran into her room with his special request, she was not in a humour to refuse him anything. "'If you wish me to be at your wedding, you must do it,' said he. "'Wish you to be there? You must be there, of course. Oh, Frank, what do you mean? I'll do anything you ask, if it is not to go to the moon or anything of that sort.' Frank was too much an earnest joke. "'You must have Mary for one of your bridesmaids,' he said. Now, mind, there may be some difficulty, but you must insist on it. I know what's been going on, but it is not to be borne that she should be excluded on such a day as that. You that have been like sisters all your lives till a year ago?' "'But, Frank, now, Beatrice, don't have any buts. Say that you will do it, and it will be done. I am sure Oriel will approve, and so will my father.' "'But, Frank, you won't hear me. Not if you make objections. I have set my heart on you doing it. But I had set my heart on the same thing.' "'Well?' And I went to Mary on purpose, and told her just as you tell me now that she must come. I meant to make Mama understand that I could not be happy unless it were so. But Mary positively refused.' "'Refused? What did she say?' "'I could not tell you what,' she said. Indeed, it would not be right if I could. But she positively declined. She seemed to feel that after all that had happened she could never come to Greshamsbury again. Fiddlestick! But, Frank, those are her feelings, and until the truth I could not combat them, I know she is not happy, but time will cure that. And to tell you the truth, Frank, it was before I came back that you asked her, was it not? Yes, just the day before you came, I think. Well, it's all altered now. I've seen her since that. Have you, Frank? What do you take me for? Of course I have. The very first day I went to her. And now, Beatrice, you may believe me or not as you like. But if I ever marry, I shall marry Mary Thorn. And if she ever marries, I think I may say she will marry me. At any rate I have her promise. And now you cannot be surprised that I should wish her to be at your wedding, or that I should declare that if she is absent I will be absent. I don't want any secrets, and you may tell my mother if you like it, and all the Decorses too, for anything I care. Frank had ever been used to command his sisters, and they, especially Beatrice, had ever been used to obey. On this occasion she was well inclined to do so, if she only knew how. She again remembered how Mary had once sworn to be at her wedding, to be near her, and to touch her, even though all the blood of the Decorses should be crowded before the altar railings. I should be so happy that she should be there, but what might it do, Frank, if she refuses? I have asked her, and she has refused. Go to her again. You need not have any scruples with her. Do not I tell you that she will be your sister? Not come here again to Gresham spree? Why, I tell you that she will be living here, while you were living at the parsonage for years and years to come. Beatrice promised that she would go to Mary again, and that she would endeavor to talk her mother over, if Mary would consent to come. But she could not yet make herself believe that Mary Thorn would ever be mistress of Gresham spree. It was so indispensably necessary that Frank should marry money. Besides, what were those horrid rumors which were now becoming rife as to Mary's birth, rumors more horrid than any which had yet been heard? Augusta had said hardly more than the truth, when she spoke of her father being broken-hearted by his debts. His troubles were becoming almost too many for him, and Mr. Gaysby, though no doubt he was an excellent man of business, did not seem to lessen them. Mr. Gaysby indeed was continually pointing out how much he owed, and in what a quagmire of difficulties he had entangled himself. Now, to do Mr. Yates' humble be-justice, he had never made himself disagreeable in this manner. Mr. Gaysby had been doubtless right, when he declared that Sir Louis Scatchard had not himself the power to take any steps hostile to the squire. But Sir Louis had also been right, when he boasted that in spite of his father's will he could cause others to move in the better. Others did move and were moving, and it began to be understood that a moiety, at least, of the remaining Gresham's property must be sold. Even this, however, would by no means leave the squire in undisturbed possession of the other moiety, and thus Mr. Gresham was nearly broken-hearted. Frank had now been home a week, and his father had not as yet spoken to him about the family troubles, nor had a word as yet been said between them as to Mary Thorn. It had been agreed that Frank should go away for twelve months in order that he might forget her. He had been away the twelve months, and had now returned, not having forgotten her. It generally happens that in every household one subject of importance occupies it at a time. The subject of importance now mostly thought of in the Gresham's free household was the marriage of Beatrice. The Arabella had to supply the trousseau for her daughter, the squire had to supply the money for the trousseau, Mr. Gaysby had the task of obtaining the money for the squire. While this was going on, Mr. Gresham was not anxious to talk to his son, either about his own debts or his son's love. There would be time for these things when the marriage feast should be over. So thought the father, but the matter was precipitated by Frank. She also had put off the declaration which he had to make, partly from a wish to spare the squire, but partly also with a view to spare himself. We have all some of that cowardice which induces us to postpone an inevitably evil day. At this time the discussions as to Beatrice's wedding were frequent in the house, and at one of them Frank had heard his mother repeat the names of the proposed bridesmaids. Before his name was not among them, and hence had arisen his attack on his sister. Lady Arabella had had her reason for naming the list before her son, but she overshot her mark. She wished to show him how totally Mary was forgotten at Gresham's Brie, but she only inspired him with the resolve that she should not be forgotten. He accordingly went to his sister, and then the subject being full on his mind, he resulted once to discuss it with his father. Sir, are you at leisure for five minutes, he said, entering the room in which the squire was accustomed to sit majestically, to receive his tenants, scold his dependents, and in which, in former happy days, he had always arranged the meats of the barcature hunt. Mr. Gresham was quite at leisure. When was he not so? But had he been immersed in the deepest business of which he was capable, he would gladly have put it aside at his son's instance. I don't like to have any secret from you, sir, said Frank, nor for the matter of that from anybody else. The anybody else was intended to have reference to his mother, and therefore I would rather tell you at once what I have made up my mind to do. Frank's address was very abrupt, and he felt it was so. He was, rather, red in the face, and his manner was flustered. He had quite made up his mind to break the whole affair to his father, but he had hardly made up his mind as to the best mode of doing so. Good heavens, Frank, what do you mean? You're not going to do anything rash. What is it you mean, Frank? I don't think it is rash, said Frank. Sit down, my boy, sit down. What is it that you say you are going to do? Nothing immediately, sir, said he rather abashed. But as I have made up my mind about Mary Thorn, quite made up my mind, I think it right to tell you. Oh, about Mary, said the squire, almost relieved. And then Frank, in voluble language, which he hardly, however, had quite under his command, told his father all that had passed between him and Mary. You see, sir, said he, that it is fixed now, and cannot be altered, nor must it be altered. You ask me to go away for twelve months, and I have done so? It has made no difference, you see. As to our means of living, I am quite willing to do anything that may be best and most prudent. I was thinking, sir, of taking a farm somewhere near here, and living on that. The squire sat quite silent for some moments after this communication had been made to him. Frank's conduct as a son had been such that he could not find fault with it, that in this special matter of his love, how is it possible for him to find fault? He himself was almost as fond of Mary as of a daughter, and though he, too, would have been desirous that his son should relieve the estate from its embarrassments by rich marriage, he did not at all share Lady Arabella's feelings on the subject. No countess to Corsi had ever engraved it on the tablets of his mind that the world would come to ruin if Frank did not marry money. Ruin there was, and would be, but it had been brought about by no sin of Frank's. Do you remember about her birth, Frank? said he at last. Yes, sir, everything. She told me all she knew, and Dr. Thorn finished the story. And what do you think of it? It is a pity and a misfortune. It might perhaps have been a reason why you or my mother should not have had Mary in the house many years ago, but it cannot make any difference now. Frank had not meant to lean so heavily on his father, but he did so. The story had never been told to Lady Arabella, was not even known to her now positively and on good authority. But Mr. Gresham had always known it. If Mary's birth was so great a stain upon her, why had he brought her into his house among his children? It is a misfortune, Frank, a very great misfortune. It will not do for you and me to ignore birth. Too much of the value of one's position depends upon it. But what was Mr. Moffatt's birth? said Frank, almost with scorn. Or what misdonstables he would have added had it not been that his father had not been concerned in that sin of wedding him to the oil of Levinan. True, Frank, but yet what you would mean to say is not true. We must take the world as we find it. Were you to marry a rich heiress where her birth even so low is that of poor Mary? Don't call her poor Mary, father. She is not poor. My wife will have a right to take rank in the world however she was born. Well, poor in that way. But were she an heiress the world would forgive her birth on account of her wealth. The world is very complacent, sir. You must take it as you find it, Frank. I only say that such is the fact. If poor Locke would have married the daughter of a shoe-black without a farthing he would make a meze-lionce. But if the daughter of the shoe-black had half a million of money nobody would dream of saying so. I'm stating no opinion of my own. I am only giving you the world's opinion. I don't give a straw for the world. That is a mistake, my boy. You do care for it, and would be very foolish if you did not. What you mean is that on this particular point you value your love more than the world's opinion. Well, yes, that is what I mean. But the squire, though he had been very lucid in his definition, had got no nearer to his object, had not even yet ascertained what his own object was. This marriage would be ruinous to Gresham's free, and yet what was he to say against it, seeing that the ruin had been his fault and not his sons? You could let me have a farm, could you not, sir? I was thinking of about six or seven hundred acres. I suppose it could be managed somehow. A farm, said his father, abstractedly. Yes, sir, I must do something for my living. I should make less of a mess of that than of anything else. Besides, it would take such a time to be an attorney or a doctor or anything of that sort. Do something for his living, and was the heir of Gresham's free come to this, the heir and only son, whereas he, the squire, had succeeded at an earlier age than Frank's to an unembarrassed income of fourteen thousand pounds a year? The reflection was very hard to bear. Yes, I daresay you could have a farm, and then he threw himself back in his chair, closing his eyes. Then after a while rose again and walked hurriedly about the room. Frank, he said at last, standing opposite to his son, I wonder what you think of me. Think of you, sir? ejaculated Frank. Yes, what do you think of me for having thus ruined you? I wonder whether you hate me? Frank jumping up from his chair through his arms around his father's neck. Hate you, sir? How can you speak so cruelly? You know well that I love you. And, father, do not trouble yourself about the estate for my sake. I do not care for it. I can be just as happy without it. Let the girls have what is left, and I will make my own way in the world somehow. I will go to Australia. Yes, sir, that will be the best. I and Mary will both go. Nobody will care about her birth there. But, father, never say, never think that I do not love you. The squire was too much moved to speak at once. So he sat down again and covered his face with his hands. Frank went on pacing the room till gradually his first idea recovered possession of his mind and the remembrance of his father's grief faded away. May I tell Mary, he said at last, that you consent to our marriage? It will make her so happy. But the squire was not prepared to say this. He was pledged to his wife to do all that he could to oppose it, and he himself thought that if anything could consummate the family ruin it would be this marriage. I cannot say that, Frank. I cannot say that. What would you both live on? It would be madness. We could go to Australia, answered he bitterly. I have just said so. Oh, no, my boy, you cannot do that. You must not throw the old place up altogether. There is no other one but you, Frank, and we have lived here now for so many, many years. But if we cannot live here any longer, Father, but for this scheme of yours we might do so. I will give up everything to you, the management of the estate, the park, all the land we have in hand, if you will give up this fatal scheme. For, Frank, it is fatal. You are only twenty-three. Why should you be in such a hurry to marry? You married a twenty-one, sir. Frank was again severe on his father but unwittingly. Yes, I did, said Mr. Gresham, and see what has come of it. Had I waited ten years longer, how different would everything have been? No, Frank, I cannot consent to such a marriage, nor will your mother. It is your consent, I ask, sir, and I am asking for nothing but your consent. It would be sheer madness. Madness for you both. My own Frank, my dear, dear boy, do not drive me to distraction. Give it up for four years. Four years? Yes, for four years I ask it as a personal favour, as an obligation to myself, in order that we may be saved from ruin. You, your mother and sisters, your family name, and the old house. I do not talk about myself, but were such a marriage to take place, I should be driven to despair. Frank found it very hard to resist his father, who now had hold of his hand and arm, and was thus half retaining him, and half embracing him. Frank, say that you will forget this for four years, say for three years. But Frank would not say so. To postpone his marriage for four years, or for three, seemed to him to be tantamount to giving up Mary altogether, and he would not acknowledge that anyone had the right to demand of him to do that. My word is pledged, sir, he said. Pledged? Pledged to whom? To Miss Thorn. But I will see her, Frank, and her uncle. She was always reasonable. I am sure she will not wish to bring ruin on her old friends at Greshamsbury. Her old friends at Greshamsbury have done but little lately to deserve her consideration. She has been treated shamefully. I know it has not been by you, sir, but I must say so. She has already been treated shamefully, but I will not treat her falsely. Well, Frank, I can say no more to you. I have destroyed the estate which should have been yours, and I have no right to expect that you should regard what I say. Frank was greatly distressed. He had not any feeling of animosity against his father with reference to the property, and would have done anything to make the squire understand this, short of giving up his engagement to Mary. His feeling rather was that as each had a case against the other they should cry quits, that he should forgive his father for his bad management on condition that he himself was to be forgiven with regard to his determined marriage. Not that he put it exactly in that shape, even to himself, but could he have unraveled his own thoughts he would have found that such was the web on which they were based. Father, I do regard what you say, but you would not have me be false. Had you doubled the property instead of lessening it, I could not regard what you say any more. I should be able to speak in a very different tone. I feel that, Frank. Do not feel it any more, sir. Say what you wish, as you would have said it under any other circumstances, and pray believe this. The idea never occurs to me that I have the ground of complaint as regards to the property, never. Whatever troubles we may have, do not let that trouble you. Soon after this, Frank left him. What more was there that could be said between them? They could not be of one accord, but even yet it might not be necessary that they should quarrel. He went out and roamed by himself through the grounds, rather more in meditation than was his want. If he did marry, how was he to live? He talked of a profession, but had he meant to do as others do, who make their way in professions, he should have thought of that a year or two ago, or rather have done more than think of it. He spoke also of a farm, but even that could not be had in a moment. Nor, if it could, would it produce a living. Where was his capital? Where was his skill? And he might have asked also, where the industry so necessary for such a trade? He might set his father at defiance, but if Mary were equally headstrong with himself, he might marry her, but what then? As he walked slowly about cutting off the daisies with his stick, he met Mr. Oriole going up to the house, as was now his custom, to dine there and spend the evening close to Beatrice. How I envy you, Oriole, he said, what would I not give to have such a position in the world as yours? Thou shalt not covet a man's house, nor his wife, said Mr. Oriole. Perhaps it ought to have been added, nor his position. It wouldn't have made much difference when a man is tempted to commandments, I believe, do not go for much. Do they not, Frank? That's a dangerous doctrine, and one which, if you had my position, you would hardly admit. But what makes you so much out of sorts? Your own position is generally considered about the best which the world has to give. Is it? Then let me tell you that the world has very little to give. What can I do? Where can I turn? Oriole, if there be an empty lying humbug in the world, it is the theory of high birth and pure blood which some of us endeavor to maintain. Blood, indeed. If my father had been a baker, I should have known by this time where to look for my livelihood. As it is, I am told of nothing but my blood. Will my blood ever get me half a crown? And then the young Democrat walked on again in solitude, leaving Mr. Oriole in doubt as to the exact line of argument which he had meant to inculcate. Chapter 40 of Dr. Thorne This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Dr. Thorne by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 40. The Two Doctors Change Patience Dr. Phil Grave still continued his visits to Gresham spree, for Lady Arabella had not yet mustered the courage necessary for swallowing her pride and sending once more for Dr. Thorne. Nothing pleased Dr. Phil Grave more than those visits. He habitually attended grander families and richer people, but then he had attended them habitually. Gresham spree was a prize taken from the enemy. It was his rock of Gibraltar, of which he thought much more than of any ordinary Hampshire or Wiltshire, which had always been within his own kingdom. He was just starting one morning with his post-horses for Gresham spree, when an impudent-looking groom with a crooked nose trotted up to his door. For Joe still had a crooked nose, all the doctors' care having been inefficacious to remedy the evil effects of Bridget's little tap with the rolling pin. Joe had no written credentials for his mass to his hardly equal to writing, and Lady Scatchard had declined to put herself into further personal communication with Dr. Phil Grave, but he had the effrontery enough to deliver any message. "'B. U. Dr. Phil Grave,' said Joe, with one finger just raised to his cocked hat. "'Yes,' said Dr. Phil Grave, with one foot on the step of the carriage, but pausing at the sight of so well turned out to serve it. "'Yes, I am, Dr. Phil Grave.' "'Then you be to go to Boxall Hill immediately, before anywhere else.' "'Boxall Hill?' said the doctor, with a very angry frown. "'Yes, Boxall Hill, my master's place. My master is Sir Louis Scatchard, Baronet. You've heard of him, I suppose.' Dr. Phil Grave had not his mind quite ready for such an occasion, so he withdrew his foot from the carriage-step, and rubbing his hands one over another, looked at his own hall-door for inspiration. A single glance at his face was sufficient to show that no ordinary thoughts were being turned over within his breast. "'Well,' said Joe, thinking that his master's name had not altogether produced the magic effect which he had expected, remembering also how submissive Grayson had always been, who being a London doctor must be supposed to be a bigger man than this provincial fellow. "'Did you know as how my master is dying very like while you stand there?' "'What is your master's disease?' said the doctor, facing Joe slowly, and still rubbing his hands. What ails him? What is the matter with him?' "'Oh, the matter with him. Well, to say it out at once, then, he do take a drop too much at times, and then he has the horrors, what it is they call delicious bee-mans or something of the sort. "'Oh, ah, yes, I know. And tell me, my man, who is attending him?' "'Attending him? Why, I do, and his mother. That is her ladyship.' "'Yes, but what medical attendant? What doctor?' "'Why, there was Grayson in London, and Grayson, and the doctor looked as though a name so medicinally humble, had never before struck the tympanum of his ear. "'Yes, Grayson, and then, down at—what's the name of the place? There was Thorn.' "'Greshamsbury?' "'Yes, Greshamsbury. But he and Thorn didn't hit it off, and so since that he has had no one but myself.' "'I will be at Boxall Hill in the course of the morning,' said Dr. Philgrave. "'Or rather you may say that I will be there at once. I will take it in my way. And having thus resolved, he gave his orders that the post-horses should make such a detour as would enable him to visit Boxall Hill on his road. It is impossible, said he to himself, that I should be twice treated in such a manner in the same house. He was not, however, altogether in a comfortable frame of mind as he was driven up to the hall door. He could not but remember the smile of triumph with which his enemy had regarded him in that hall. He could not but think how he had returned fee-less to Barchester, and how little he had gained in the medical world by rejecting Lady Scatchard's bank-note. However, he also had had his triumph since that. He had smiled scornfully at Dr. Thorn when he had seen him in the Greshamsbury Street, and had been able to tell, at twenty houses through the county, how Lady Arabella had at last been obliged to place herself in his hands. And he triumphed again when he found himself really standing by Sir Louis Scatchard's bedside. As for Lady Scatchard, she did not even show herself. She kept in her own little room, sending out Hannah to ask him up the stairs, and she only just got a peep at him through the door as she heard the medical creak of his shoes as he again descended. We need say but little of his visit to Sir Louis. It mattered nothing now, whether it was Thorn, or Grayson, or Philgrave. And Dr. Philgrave knew that it mattered nothing. He had skill at least for that, and heart enough also to feel that he would feign have been relieved from this task. Would feign have left his patient in the hands even of Dr. Thorn. The name which Joe had given to his master's illness was certainly not a false one. He did find Sir Louis in the horrors. If any father have a son whose besetting sin is a passion for alcohol, let him take his child to the room of a drunken when possessed by the horrors. Nothing will cure him if not that. I will not disgust my reader by attempting to describe the poor wretch in his misery, the sunken but yet glaring eyes, the emaciated cheeks, the fallen mouth, the parched sore lips, the face now dry and hot, and then suddenly clammy with drops of perspiration, the shaking hand, and all but palsy limbs, and worse than this the fearful mental efforts, and the struggles for drink, struggles to which it is often necessary to give way. Dr. Philgrave soon knew what was to be the man's fate, but he did what he might to believe it. There, in one big best bedroom, looking out to the north, Lacer Louis Scatchard dying wretchedly, there in the other big best bedroom, looking out to the south, had died the other barren at about a twelve-month sense, and each a victim to the same sin. To this had come the prosperity of the house of Scatchard. And then Dr. Philgrave went on to Gresham spree. It was a long day's work, both for himself and the horses. But then the triumph for being dragged up that avenue compensated both for the expense and the labour. He always put on his sweetest smile as he came near the hall door, and rubbed his hands in the most complacent manner of which he knew. It was seldom that he saw any of the family but Lady Arabella. But then he desired to see none other, and when he left her in a good humour, was quite content to take his glass of sherry and eat his lunch by himself. On this occasion, however, the servant had once asked him to go into the dining-room, and there he found himself in the presence of Frank Gresham. The fact was that Lady Arabella, having at last decided, had sent for Dr. Thorn, and it had become necessary that some one should be entrusted with the duty of informing Dr. Philgrave. That some one must be the squire or Frank. Lady Arabella would doubtless have preferred a messenger more absolutely friendly to her own side of the house, but such messenger there was none. She could not send Mr. Gaysby to see her doctor, and so of the two evils she chose the least. Dr. Philgrave, said Frank, shaking hands with him very cordially as he came up, my mother is so much obliged to you for all your care and anxiety on her behalf, and so indeed are we all. The doctor shook hands with him very warmly. This little expression of a family feeling on his behalf was the more gratifying, as he had always thought that the males of the Gresham-Spy family were still wedded to that pseudo-doctor, that half-apothecary who lived in the village. It has been awfully troublesome to you coming over all this way, I am sure. Indeed, money could not pay for it, my mother feels that. It must cut up your time so much. Not at all, Mr. Gresham, not at all, said the barchester doctor, rising up on his toes proudly as he spoke. A person of your mother's importance, you know, I should be happy to go any distance to see her. Ah! but Dr. Philgrave, we cannot allow that. Mr. Gresham, don't mention it. Oh, yes, but I must, said Frank, who thought he had done enough for civility and was now anxious to come to the point. The fact is, doctor, that we are very much obliged for what you have done, but for the future my mother thinks that she can trust to such assistance as she can get here in the village. Frank had been particularly instructed to be very careful how he mentioned Dr. Thorn's name, and therefore he cleverly avoided it. Get what assistance she wanted in the village! What words were those that he heard? Mr. Gresham, perhaps I do not completely—yes, alas, he had completely understood what Frank had meant that he should understand. Frank desired to be civil, but he had no idea of beating unnecessarily about the bush on such an occasion as this. It's by Sir Omicron's advice, Dr. Philgrave, you see, this man here—and he nodded his head towards the doctor's house, being still anxious not to pronounce the hideous name—has known my mother's constitution for so many years. Oh, Mr. Gresham, of course, if it is wished. Yes, Dr. Philgrave, it is wished. Lunch is coming directly, and Frank rang the bell. Nothing, I thank you, Mr. Gresham. Do take a glass of sherry. Nothing at all. I am very much obliged to you. Won't you let the horses get some oats? I will return at once, if you please, Mr. Gresham. And the doctor did return, taking with him on this occasion the fee that was offered to him. His experience had, at any rate, taught him so much. But though Frank could do this for Lady Arabella, he could not receive Dr. Thorne on her behalf. The bitterness of that interview had to be borne by herself. A messenger had been sent for him, and he was upstairs with her ladyship while his rival was receiving his conchée downstairs. She had two objects to accomplish, if it might be possible. She had found that high words with the doctor were of no avail, but it might be possible that Frank could be saved by humiliation on her part. If she humbled herself before this man, would he consent to acknowledge that his niece was not the fit bride for the heir of Gresham's Brie? The doctor entered the room where she was lying on her sofa, and walking up to her with a gentle but yet not constrained step, took the seat beside her little table, just as he had always been accustomed to do, and as though there had been no break in their intercourse. Well, doctor, you see that I have come back to you, she said, with a faint smile. Or rather I have come back to you, and believe me, Lady Arabella, I am very happy to do so. There need be no excuses. You were doubtless right to try what other skill could do, and I hope it has not been tried in vain. She had meant to have been so condescending, but now all that was put quite beyond her power. It was not easy to be condescending to the doctor. She had been trying all her life, and had never succeeded. I have had, Sir Omicron Pie, she said. So I was glad to hear. Sir Omicron is a clever man, and has a good name. I always recommend Sir Omicron myself. And Sir Omicron returns the compliments, said she, smiling gracefully, for he recommends you. He told Mr. Gresham that I was very foolish to quarrel with my best friend. So now we are friends again, are we not? You see how selfish I am. And she put out her hand to him. The doctor took her hand cordially, and assured her that he bore her no ill will, that he fully understood her conduct, and that he had never accused her of selfishness. This was all very well, and very gracious. But nevertheless Lady Arabella felt that the doctor kept the upper hand in those sweet forgiveness's. Rather as she had intended to keep the upper hand, at least for a while, so that her humiliation might be more effective when it did come. And then the doctor used his surgical lure, as he well knew how to use it. There was an assured confidence about him, an air which seemed to declare that he really knew what he was doing. These were very comfortable to his patients, but they were wanting in Dr. Filgrave. When he had completed his examinations and questions, when she had completed her little details and made her answer, she certainly was more at ease than she had been since the doctor had last left her. Don't go yet for a moment, she said. I have one word to say to you. He declared that he was not the least in a hurry. He desired nothing better, he said, than to sit there and talk to her. And I owe you a most sincere apology, Lady Arabella. A sincere apology, said she, becoming a little red, was he going to say anything about Mary? Was he going to own that he and Mary and Frank had all been wrong? Yes, indeed. I ought not to have brought Sir Louis Scatchard here. I ought to have known that he would have disgraced himself. Oh, it does not signify, said her ladyship, in a tone almost of disappointment. I had forgotten it. Mr. Gresham and you had more inconvenience than we had. He is an unfortunate, wretched man, most unfortunate, with an immense fortune which he can never live to possess. And who will the money go to, doctor? This was a question for which Dr. Thorne was hardly prepared. Go to, he repeated. Oh, some member of the family, I believe, there are plenty of nephews and nieces. Yes, but will it be divided, or all go to one? Probably to one, I think. Roger had a strong idea of leaving it all in one hand. If it should happen to be a girl, thought Lady Arabella, what an excellent opportunity would that be for Frank to marry money. And now, doctor, I want to say one word to you. Considering the very long time that we have known each other, it is better that I should be open with you. This estrangement between us and dear Mary has given us all so much pain. Can we not do anything to put an end to it? Well, what can I say, Lady Arabella? That depends so wholly on yourself. If it depends on me, it shall be done at once. The doctor bowed, and though he could hardly be said to do so stiffly, he did it coldly. His bow seemed to say, certainly, if you choose to make a proper amande, it can be done. But I think it is very unlikely that you will do so. The nurse is just going to be married. You know that, doctor. The doctor said that he did know it. And it will be so pleasant that Mary should make one of us poor Beatrice. You don't know what she has suffered. Yes, said the doctor, there has been suffering, I am sure, suffering on both sides. You cannot wonder that we should be so anxious about Frank, Dr. Thorn, an only son and the heir to an estate that has been so very long in the family. And Lady Arabella put her handkerchief to her eyes, as though these facts were in themselves melancholy, and not to be thought of by a mother without some soft tears. Now, I wish you could tell me what your views are in a friendly manner between ourselves. You won't find me unreasonable. My views, Lady Arabella? Yes, doctor, about your niece, you know. You must have views of some sort. That's of course. It occurs to me that perhaps we are all in the dark together, if so a little candid speaking between you and me may set it all right. Lady Arabella's career had not, hitherto, been conspicuous for candor, as far as Dr. Thorn had been able to judge of it, but there was no reason why he should not respond to so very becoming an invitation on her part. He had no objection to a little candid speaking, at least so he declared, as to his views with regard to Mary. There were merely these, that he would make her as happy and comfortable as he could while she remained with him, and that he would give her his blessing, for he had nothing else to give her, when she left him, if she ever should do so. Now, it will be said that the doctor was not very candid in this. Not more so, perhaps, than was Lady Arabella herself. But when one is specially invited to be candid, one is naturally set upon one's guard. Those who by disposition are most open or apt to become crafty when so admonished. When a man says to you, let us be candid with each other, you feel instinctively that he desires to squeeze you without giving a drop of water himself. Yes, but about Frank, said Lady Arabella. About Frank, said the doctor, with an innocent look which her ladyship could hardly interpret. What I mean is this. Can you give me your word that these young people do not intend to do anything rash? One word like that from you will set my mind quite at rest, and then we could be so happy again. Ah, who is to answer for what rash things a young man will do? said the doctor, smiling. Lady Arabella got up from the sofa and pushed away the little table. The man was false, hypocritical, and cunning. Nothing could be made of him. They were all in the conspiracy together to rob her of her son, to make him marry without money. What should she do? Where should she turn for advice or counsel? She had nothing more to say to the doctor, and he, perceiving that this was the case, took his leave. This little attempt to achieve Cantor had not succeeded. Dr. Thorn had answered Lady Arabella as had seen best to him on the spur of the moment, but he was by no means satisfied with himself. As he walked away through the gardens, he bethought himself whether it would be better for all parties if he could bring himself to be really candid. Would it not be better for him at once to tell the squire what were the future prospects of his niece, and let the father agree to the marriage, or not agree to it, as he might think fit? But then if so, if he did do this, would he not in fact say, There is my niece, there is this girl of whom you have been talking for the last twelve months, indifferent to what agony of mind you may have occasioned to her. There she is, a probable heiress. It may be worth your son's while to wait a little time, and not cast her off till he shall know whether she be an heiress or no. If it shall turn out that she is rich, let him take her. If not, why? He can desert her then as well as now. He could not bring himself to put his niece into such a position as this. He was anxious enough that she should be Frank Gresham's wife, for he loved Frank Gresham. He was anxious enough also that she should give to her husband the means of saving the property of his family. But Frank, though he might find her rich, was bound to take her while she was poor. Then also he doubted whether he would be justified in speaking of this will at all. He almost hated the will for the trouble and vexation it had given him, and the constant stress it had laid on his conscience. He had spoken of it as yet to know one, and he thought that he was resolved not to do so whilst Sir Lewis should yet be in the land of the living. On reaching home he found a note from Lady Scatchard informing him that Dr. Philgrave had been once more at Boxhole Hill, and that on this occasion he had left the house without anger. I don't know what he has said about Lewis, she added, for to tell the truth, Doctor, I was afraid to see him, but he comes again to-morrow, and then I shall be braver. But I fear my poor boy is in a bad way. Chapter 41 of Dr. Thorne This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Dr. Thorne by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 41. Dr. Thorne won't interfere. At this period there was, as it were, a truce to the ordinary little skirmishes, which had been so customary between Lady Arabella and the squire. Things had so fallen out that they neither of them had much spirit for a contest, and moreover, on that point which at the present moment was most thought of by both of them, they were strangely in unison, for each of them was anxious to prevent the threatened marriage of their only son. It must moreover be remembered that Lady Arabella had carried a great point in ousting Mr. Yates Umbleby and putting the management of the estate into the hands of her own partisan. But then the squire had not done less in getting rid of Philgrave and reinstating Dr. Thorne in possession of the family invalids. The losses, therefore, had been equal, the victories equal, and there was a mutual object. And it must be confessed also that Lady Arabella's taste for grandeur was on the decline. Miss Fortune was coming too near her to leave her much anxiety for the gayities of a London season. Things were not faring well with her. When her eldest daughter was going to marry a man of Fortune at a man of Parliament, she had thought nothing of demanding a thousand pounds or so for the extraordinary expenses incident to such an occasion. But now Beatrice was to become the wife of a parish person, and even that was thought to be a fortunate event. She had, therefore, no heart for Splendour. The quieter we can do it the better, she wrote to her Countess's sister. Her father wanted to give him at least a thousand pounds, but Mr. Gaysme has told me confidentially that it literally cannot be done at the present moment. Ah, my dear Rosina, how things have been managed. If one or two of the girls will come over, we shall all take it as a favour. Beatrice would think it very kind of them, but I don't think of asking you or Amelia. Amelia was always the grandest of the D'Corsi family, being almost on an equality with, nay in some respect superior to, the Countess herself. But this, of course, was before the days of the nice place in Surrey. Such and so humble being the present temper of the Lady of Greshamsbury, it will not be thought surprising that she and Mr. Gresham should at last come together in their efforts to reclaim their son. At first Lady Arabella urged upon the squire the duty of being very peremptory and very angry. Do as other fathers do in such cases, make him understand that he will have no allowance to live on. He understands that well enough, said Mr. Gresham. Threatened to cut him off with a shilling, said her ladyship with spirit. I haven't a shilling to cut him off with, answered the squire bitterly. But Lady Arabella herself soon perceived that this line would not do. As Mr. Gresham himself confessed, his own sins against his son had been too great to allow of his taking a high hand with him. Besides, Mr. Gresham was not a man who could ever be severe with a son whose individual conduct had been so good as Frank's. This marriage was, in his view, a misfortune to be averted if possible, to be averted by any possible means. But as far as Frank was concerned it was to be regarded rather as a monomania than a crime. I did feel so certain that he would have succeeded with Miss Dunstable, said the mother, almost crying. I thought it impossible but that at his age a twelve-month snocking about the world would cure him, said the father. I never heard of a boy being so obstinate about a girl, said the mother. I'm sure he didn't get it from the Decorses. And then again they talked it over in all its bearings. But what are they to live on, said Lady Arabella, appealing as it were to some impersonation of reason? That's what I wanted to tell me. What are they to live upon? I wonder whether the Decorses could get him into some embassy, said the father. He does talk of a profession. What, with the girl at all, asked Lady Arabella with horror, alarmed at the idea of such an appeal being made to her noble brother. No, but before he marries he might be broken of it that way. Nothing will break him, said the wretched mother. Nothing, nothing. For my part I think he is possessed. Why was she brought here? Oh dear, oh dear, why was she ever brought into this house? This last question Mr. Gresham did not think it necessary to answer. The evil had been done and it would be useless to dispute it. I'll tell you what I'll do, said he. I'll speak to the doctor himself. It's not the slightest use, said Lady Arabella. He will not assist us. Indeed I firmly believe it's all his own doing. Oh, nonsense! That really is nonsense, my love. Very well, Mr. Gresham, what I say is always nonsense, I know. You have always told me so. But yet, see how things have turned out. I knew how it would be when she was first brought into the house. This assertion was rather a stretch on the part of Lady Arabella. Well, it is nonsense to say that Frank is in love with the girl at the doctor's bidding. I think you know, Mr. Gresham, that I don't mean that. What I say is this, that Dr. Thorne, finding what an easy fool Frank is. I don't think he's at all easy, my love, and certainly not a fool. Very well, have it your own way, I'll not say a word more. I'm struggling to do my best and I'm brow-beaten on every side. God knows I am not in the state of health to bear it. And Lady Arabella bowed her head into her pocket-handkerchief. I think, my dear, that if you were to see Mary herself it might do some good, said the squire, when the violence of his wife's grief had somewhat subsided. What, go and call upon this girl? Yes, you can send Beatrice to give her notice, you know. She never was unreasonable, and I do not think that you would find her so. You should tell her, you know. Oh, I should know very well what to tell her, Mr. Gresham. Yes, my love, I'm sure you would, nobody better, but what I mean is that if you are to do any good you should be kind in your manner. Mary Thorne has a spirit that you cannot break. You may perhaps lead, but nobody can drive her. As this scheme originated with her husband, Lady Arabella could not, of course, confess that there was much in it. But nevertheless she determined to attempt it, thinking that if anything could be efficacious for good in their present misfortunes it would be her own diplomatic powers. It was therefore at last settled between them that he should endeavor to talk over the doctor and that she would do the same with Mary. And then I will speak to Franks, said Lady Arabella, as yet he has never had the audacity to open his mouth to me about Mary Thorne, though I believe he declares his love openly to everyone else in the house. And I will get Oriole to speak to him, said the squire. I think patience might do more good. I did once think he was getting fond of patience, and I was quite unhappy about it then. Ah, dear, I should be almost pleased at that now. And thus it was arranged that all the artillery of Gresham's free was to be brought to bear at once on Frank's love so as to crush it, as it were, by the very weight of metal. It may be imagined that the squire would have less scruple in addressing the doctor on this matter than his wife would feel, and that his part of their present joint undertaking was less difficult than hers, for he and the doctor had ever been friends at heart. But nevertheless he did feel much scruple, as with his stick in hand he walked down to the little gate which opened out near the doctor's house. This feeling was so strong that he walked on beyond this door to the entrance, thinking of what he was going to do, and then back again. It seemed to be his fate to be depending always on the clemency or consideration of Dr. Thorne. At this moment the doctor was imposing the only obstacle which was offered to the sale of a great part of the estate. Sir Lewis, through his lawyer, was pressing the doctor to sell, and the lawyer was loudly accusing the doctor of delaying to do so. He has the management of your property, said Mr. Finney, but he manages it in the interest of his own friend. It is quite clear, and we will expose it. By all means, said Sir Lewis, it is a shame that it shall be exposed. Of all this the squire was aware. When he reached the doctor's house he was shown into the drawing room and found Mary there alone. It had always been his habit to kiss her forward when he chanced to meet her about the house at Gresham's free. She had been younger and more childish then, but even now she was but a child to him, so he kissed her as he had been want to do. She blushed slightly as she looked up into his face and said, Oh, Mr. Gresham, I am so glad to see you here again. As he looked at her he could not but acknowledge that it was natural that Frank should love her. He had never before seen that she was attractive, had never had an opinion about it. She had grown up as a child under his eye, and as she had not the name of being especially a pretty child, he had never thought on the subject. Now he saw before him a woman whose every feature was full of spirit and animation, whose eyes sparkled with more than mere brilliancy, whose face was full of intelligence, whose very smile was eloquent. Was it to be wondered at that Frank should have learned to love her? Miss Thorn wanted but one attribute which many consider essential to feminine beauty. She had no brilliancy of complexion, no pearly whiteness, no vivid carnation, nor indeed did she possess the dark brilliance of a brunette. But there was a speaking earnestness in her face, an expression of mental faculty which the squire now for the first time perceived to be charming. And then he knew how good she was. He knew well what was her nature, how generous, how open, how affectionate, and yet how proud. Her pride was her fault, but even that was not a fault in his eyes. Out of his own family there was no one whom he had loved and could love as he loved her. He felt and acknowledged that no man could have a better wife. And yet he was there with the express object of rescuing his son from such a marriage. You are looking very well, Mary, he said almost involuntarily. Am I, she answered, smiling? It's very nice at any rate to be complimented. Uncle never pays me any compliments of that sort. In truth she was looking well. She would say to herself over and over again from morning to night that Frank's love for her would be, must be, unfortunate, could not lead to happiness, but nevertheless it did make her happy. She had before his return made up her mind to be forgotten, and it was so sweet to find that he had been so far from forgetting her. A girl may scold a man in words for the rashness in his love, but her heart never scolds him for such an offence as that. She had not been slighted, and her heart therefore still rose buoyant within her breast. The doctor entered the room. As the squire's visit had been expected by him, he had, of course, not been out of the house. And now I suppose I must go, said Mary, for I know you are going to talk about business. But Uncle, Mr. Gresham says I am looking very well. Why have you not been able to find that out? She said, Dear, good girl, said the squire, as the door shut behind her, a dear, good girl, and the doctor could not fail to see that his eyes were filled with tears. I think she is, said he quietly, and then they both sat silent as though each was waiting to hear whether the other had anything more to say on that subject. The doctor at any rate had nothing more to say. I have come here especially to speak to you about her, said the squire. About Mary? Yes, doctor, about her and Frank. Something must be done, some arrangement made, if not for our sakes, at least for theirs. What arrangement, squire? Ah, that is the question. I take it for granted that either Frank or Mary has told you that they have engaged themselves to each other. Frank told me so twelve months since. But has not Mary told you? Not exactly that, but never mind. She has, I believe, no secret from me, though I have said but little to her. I think I know it all. Well, what then? The doctor shook his head and put up his hands. He had nothing to say, no proposition to make, no arrangement to suggest. The thing was so, and he seemed to say that, as far as he was concerned, there was an end of it. The squire sat looking at him, hardly knowing how to proceed. It seemed to him that the fact of a young man and a young lady being in love with each other was not a thing to be left to arrange itself, particularly seeing the rank of life in which they were placed. But the doctor seemed to be of a different opinion. But Dr. Thorne, there is no man on God's earth who knows my affairs as well as you do, and in knowing mine you know Frank's. Do you think it possible that they should marry each other? Possible, yes, it is possible. You mean, will it be prudent? Well, take it that way. Would it not be most imprudent? At present it certainly would be. I have never spoken to either of them on the subject, but I presume they do not think of such a thing for the present. But Dr. the squire was certainly taken aback by the coolness of the doctor's manner. After all, he, the squire, was Mr. Gresham of Greshamsbury, generally acknowledged to be the first commoner in Barsacher. After all, Frank was his heir, and in process of time he would be Mr. Gresham of Greshamsbury. Crippled as the estate was, there would be something left, and the rank at any rate remained. But as to marry, she was not even the doctor's daughter. She was not only penniless, but nameless, fatherless, worse than motherless. It was incredible that Dr. Thorn, with his generally exalted ideas as to family, should speak in this cold way as to a projected marriage between the heir of Greshamsbury and his brother's bastard child. But Dr. repeated the squire. The doctor put one leg over the other and began to rub his calf. Squire said he, I think I know all that you would say, all that you mean, and you don't like to say it because you would not wish to pain me by alluding to Mary's birth. But independently of that, what would they live on, said the squire energetically. Birth is a great thing, a very great thing. You and I think exactly alike about that, so we need have no dispute. You are quite as proud of Ullithorn as I am of Greshamsbury. I might be if it belonged to me. But you are. There's no use arguing. But putting that aside altogether, what would they live on? If they were to marry, what would they do? Where would they go? You know what Lady Aurebella thinks of such things. Would it be possible that they should live up at the house with her? Besides, what a life would that be for both of them. Could they live here? Would that be well for them? The squire looked at the doctor for an answer, but he still went on rubbing his calf. Mr. Gresham, therefore, was constrained to continue his expostulation. When I am dead there will still, I hope, be something, something left for the poor fellow. Lady Aurebella and the girls would be better off, perhaps, than now, and I sometimes wish for Frank's sake that the time had come. The doctor could not now go on rubbing his leg. He was moved to speak and declared that of all events, that was the one which would be furthest from Frank's heart. I know no son, said he, who loves his father more dearly than he does. I do believe it, said the squire. I do believe it, but yet I cannot but feel that I am in his way. No, squire, no, you are in no one's way. You will find yourself happy with your son yet and proud of him. And proud of his wife, too. I hope so, and I think so. I do indeed, or I should not say so, squire. We will have many a happy day yet together, when we shall talk of all these things over the dining-room fire at Gresham spree. The squire felt it kind, did the doctor, that he should thus endeavor to comfort him, but he could not understand and did not inquire on what basis these golden hopes were founded. It was necessary, however, to return to the subject which he had come to discuss. Would the doctor assist him in preventing this marriage? That was now the one thing necessary to be kept in view. But doctor, about the young people, of course they cannot marry. You are aware of that. I don't know that exactly. Well, doctor, I must say I thought you would feel it. Feel what, squire? That situated as they are, they ought not to marry. That is quite another question. I have said nothing about that either to you or to anybody else. The truth is, squire, I have never interfered in this matter one way or the other, and I have no wish to do so now. But should you not interfere? Is not Mary the same to you as your own child? Dr. Thorn hardly knew how to answer this. He was aware that his argument about not interfering was in fact absurd. Mary could not marry without his interference, and had it been the case that she was in danger of making an improper marriage, of course he would interfere. His meaning was that he would not at the present moment express any opinion. He would not declare against a match which might turn out to be in every way desirable, nor if he spoke in favor of it could he give his reasons for doing so. Under these circumstances he would have wished to say nothing could that only have been possible. But as it was not possible, and as he must say something, he answered the squire's last question by asking another. What is your objection, squire? Objection? Why? What on earth would they live on? Then I understand that if that difficulty were over you would not refuse your consent merely because of Mary's birth? This was a manner in which the squire had by no means expected to have the affair presented to him. It seemed so impossible that any sound-minded man should take any but his view of the case that he had not prepared himself for argument. There was every objection to his son marrying Miss Thorn, but the fact of there having no income between them did certainly justify him in alleging that first. But that difficulty can't be got over, doctor. You know, however, that it would be cause of grief to us all to see Frank marry much beneath his station. That is, I mean, in family. You should not press me to say this, for you know that I love Mary dearly. But my dear friend, it is necessary. Wounds sometimes must be opened in order that they may be healed. What I mean is this. And, squire, I'm sure I need not say to you that I hope for an honest answer. Were Mary Thorn an heiress? Had she, for instance, such wealth as that Miss Dunstable that we hear of? In that case, would you object to the match? When the doctor declared that he expected an honest answer, the squire listened with all his ears. But the question, when finished, seemed to have no bearing on the present case. Come, squire, speak your mind faithfully. There was some talk once of Frank's marrying Miss Dunstable. Did you mean to object to that match? Miss Dunstable was legitimate, at least I presume so. Oh, Mr. Gresham, has it come to that? Miss Dunstable then would have satisfied your ideas of high birth? Mr. Gresham was rather posed, and regretted at the moment his allusion to Miss Dunstable's presumed legitimacy. But he soon recovered himself. No, said he, it would not. And I am willing to admit, as I have admitted before, that the undoubted advantages arising from wealth are taken by the world as atoning for what otherwise would be a mes alliance. But you admit that, do you? You acknowledge that as your conviction on the subject? Yes, but the squire was going on to explain the propriety of this opinion, but the doctor uncivally would not hear him. Then, squire, I will not interfere in this matter one way or the other. How on earth can such an opinion? Pray excuse me, Mr. Gresham, but my mind is now quite made up. It was very nearly so before. I will do nothing to encourage Frank, nor will I say anything to discourage Mary. That is the most singular resolution that a man of sense like you ever came to. I can't help it, squire, it is my resolution. But what is Miss Dunstable's fortune to do with it? I cannot say that it has anything, but in this matter I will not interfere. The squire went on for some time, but it resolved to no purpose. And at last he left the house considerably in dungeon. The only conclusion to which he could come was that Dr. Thorn had thought the chance on his niece's behalf too good to be thrown away, and had therefore resolved to act in this very singular way. I would not have believed it of him, though all Barsacher had told me. He said to himself, as he entered the great gates, and he went on repeating the same words till he found himself in his own room. No, not if all Barsacher had told me. He did not, however, communicate the ill result of his visit to the Lady Aurebella. End of Chapter 41. In spite of the family troubles these were happy days for Beatrice. It so seldom happens that young ladies on the eve of their marriage have their future husbands living near them. This happiness was hers, and Mr. Aureal made the most of it. She was constantly being coaxed down to the Barshanage by patients, in order that she might give her opinion, in private, as to some domestic arrangement, some piece of furniture, or some new carpet, but this privacy was always invaded. What Mr. Aureal's parishioners did in these Halcyon days I will not ask. His morning services, however, had been altogether given up, and he had provided himself with a very excellent curate. But one grief did weigh heavily on Beatrice. She continually heard her mother say things which made her feel that it would be more than ever impossible that Mary should be at her wedding, and yet she had promised her brother to ask her. Frank had also repeated his threat that if Mary were not present he would absent himself. Beatrice did, but most girls do in such a case. What all would do who are worth anything? She asked her lover's advice. Oh, but Frank can't be an earnest said the lover. Of course he'll be at our wedding. You don't know him, Caleb. He is so changed that no one hardly would know him. You can't conceive how much an earnest he is, how determined and resolute, and then I should like to have Mary so much if Mama would let her come. Ask Lady Arabella, said Caleb. Well, I suppose I must do that, but I know what she'll say, and Frank will never believe that I have done my best. Mr. Oriole comforted her with such little whispered consolations as he was able to afford, and then she went away on her errand to her mother. She was indeed surprised at the manner in which her prayer was received. She could hardly fault her forth her petition, but when she had done so, Lady Arabella answered in this wise. Well, my dear, I have no objection, none the least. That is, of course, if Mary is disposed to behave herself properly. Oh, ma-ba, of course she will, said Beatrice. She always did and always does. I hope she will, my love, but, Beatrice, when I say that I shall be glad to see her, of course I mean under certain conditions. I have never disliked Mary Thorn, and if she would only let Frank understand that she will not listen to his mad proposals, I should be delighted to see her at Greshamsbury just as she used to be. Beatrice could say nothing in answer to this, but she felt very sure that Mary, let her intention be what it might, would not undertake to make Frank understand anything at anybody's bidding. I will tell you what I will do, my dear, continued Lady Arabella. I will call on Mary myself. What, at Dr. Thorn's house? Yes, why not? I have been at Dr. Thorn's house before now, and Lady Arabella could not but think of her last visit thither, and the strong feeling she had as she came out that she would never again enter those doors. She was, however, prepared to do anything on behalf of a rebellious son. Oh, yes, I know that, ma-ma. I will call upon her, and if I can possibly manage it, I will ask her myself to make one of your party. If so, you can go to her afterwards and make your own arrangements. Just write her a note, my dear, and say that I will call tomorrow at twelve. It might fluster her if I were to go in without notice. Beatrice did as she was bid, but with a presentiment that no good would come of it. The note was certainly unnecessary for the purpose assigned by Lady Arabella, as Mary was not given to be flustered by such occurrences. But perhaps it was as well that it was written, as it enabled her to make up her mind steadily as to what information should be given and what should not be given to her coming visitor. On the next morning at the appointed hour Lady Arabella walked down to the doctor's house. She never walked about the village without making some little disturbance among the inhabitants. With the squire himself they were quite familiar, and he could appear and reappear without creating any sensation. But her ladyship had not made herself equally common in men's sight. Therefore when she went in at the doctor's little gate, the fact was known through all Greshamsbury in ten minutes, and before she had left the house Mrs. Umbilby and Miss Gushing had quite settled between them what was the exact cause of the very singular event. The doctor, when he heard what was going to happen, carefully kept out of the way. Mary, therefore, had the pleasure of receiving Lady Arabella alone. Nothing could exceed her ladyship's affability. Mary thought that it perhaps might have savoured less of condescension. But then on this subject Mary was probably prejudiced. Lady Arabella smiled and simpered, and asked after the doctor and the cat and Janet, and said everything that could have been desired by any one less unreasonable than Mary Thorn. And now, Mary, I'll tell you why I have called. Mary bowed her head slightly as much to say that she would be glad to receive any information that Lady Arabella could give her on that subject. Of course you know that Beatrice is going to be married very shortly. Mary acknowledged that she had heard so much. Yes, we think it will be in September, early in September, and that is coming very soon now. The poor girl is anxious that you should be at her wedding. Mary turned slightly red, but she merely said, and that somewhat too coldly, that she was much indebted to Beatrice for her kindness. I can assure you, Mary, that she is very fond of you, as much so as ever, and so indeed am I, and all of us are so. You know that Mr. Gresham was always your friend. Yes, he always was, and I am grateful to Mr. Gresham, answered Mary. It was well for Lady Arabella that she had her temper under command. For had she spoken her mind out, there would have been very little chance left for reconciliation between her and Mary. Yes, indeed he was, and I think we all did what little we could to make you welcome at Gresham's, Mary, till those unpleasant occurrences took place. What occurrences, Lady Arabella? And Beatrice is so very anxious on this point, said her ladyship, ignoring for the moment Mary's question. You two have been so much together that she feels she can not be quite happy if you are not near her when she is being married. Dear Beatrice, said Mary, warmed for the moment to an expression of genuine feeling. She came to me yesterday, begging that I would waive any objection I might have to your being there. I have made her no answer yet. What answered you think I ought to make her? Mary was astounded at this question, and hesitated in her reply. What answer ought you to make her? She said. Yes, Mary, what answered you think I ought to give? I wish to ask you the question, as you are the person most concerned. Mary considered for a while, and then did give her opinion on the matter in a firm voice. I think you should tell Beatrice that as you cannot at present receive me cordially in your house it will be better that you should not be called on to receive me at all. This was certainly not the sort of answer that Lady Arabella expected, and she was now somewhat astounded in her turn. But Mary, she said, I should be delighted to receive you cordially if I could do so. But it seems you cannot, Lady Arabella, and so there must be an end of it. Oh, but I do not know that. And she smiled, her sweetest smile. I do not know that. I want to put an end to all this ill feeling if I can. It all depends on one thing, you know. Does it, Lady Arabella? Yes, upon one thing. You won't be angry if I ask you another question, eh, Mary? No, at least I don't think I will. Is there any truth in what we hear about your being engaged to Frank? Mary made no immediate answer to this, but sat quite silent, looking Lady Arabella in the face, not but that she had made up her mind as to what answer she would give, but the exact words failed her at the moment. Of course you must have heard of such a rumor, continued Lady Arabella. Oh, yes, I have heard of it. Yes, and you have noticed it, and I must say very properly. When you went to Boxall Hill, and before that with Miss Orioles to her aunts, I thought you behaved extremely well. Mary felt herself glow with indignation, and began to prepare the words that should be sharp and decisive. But nevertheless people talk, and Frank, who was still quite a boy. Mary's indignation was not softened by this illusion to Frank's folly. Seems to have got some nonsense in his head. I grieve to say it, but I feel myself injustice-bound to do so, that in this matter he has not acted as well as you have done. Now therefore I merely ask you whether there is any truth in the report. If you tell me that there is none, I shall be quite contented. But it is altogether true, Lady Arabella. I am engaged to Frank Gresham. Engaged to be married to him? Yes, engaged to be married to him. What was to say or do now? Nothing could be more plain and more decided, or less embarrassed with doubt than Mary's declaration. And as she made it she looked her visitor full in the face, blushing indeed for her cheeks were now suffused as well as her forehead, but boldly and as it were with defiance. And you tell me so to my face, Miss Thorn? And why not? Did you not ask me the question? And would you have me answer you with a falsehood? I am engaged to him. As you would put the question to me, what other answer could I make? The truth is that I am engaged to him. The decisive abruptness with which Mary declared her own iniquity almost took away her ladyship's breath. She had certainly believed that they were engaged and had hardly hoped that Mary would deny it, but she had not expected that the crime would be acknowledged, or at any rate, if acknowledged, that the confession would be made without some show of shame. On this Lady Arabella could have worked, but there was no such expression, nor was there the slightest hesitation. I am engaged to Frank Gresham, and having so said, Mary looked her visitor full in the face. Then it is indeed impossible that you should be received at Gresham's free. At present quite so, no doubt. In saying so, Lady Arabella, you only repeat the answer I made to your first question. I can now go to Gresham's free only in one light, that of Mr. Gresham's accepted daughter-in-law. And that is perfectly out of the question, altogether out of the question now and forever. I will not dispute with you about that, but as I said before, my being at Beatrice's wedding is not to be thought of. Lady Arabella sat for a while silent, that she might meditate, if possible, calmly, as to what line of argument she had now better take. It would be foolish in her, she thought, to return home having merely expressed her anger. She had now an opportunity of talking to Mary, which might not again occur. The difficulty was in deciding in what special way she should use the opportunity. Should she threaten, or should she entreat? To do her justice it should be stated that she did actually believe that the marriage was all but impossible. She did not think that it could take place. But the engagement might be the ruin of her son's prospects, seeing how he had before him one imperative, one immediate duty, that of marrying money. Having considered all this, as well as her hurry would allow her, she determined first to reason, then to entreat, and lastly, if necessary, to threaten. I am astonished. You cannot be surprised at that, Miss Thorne. I am astonished at hearing so singular a confession made. Do you think my confession singular, or is it the fact of my being engaged to your son? We will pass over that for the present. But do let me ask you, do you think it possible, I say possible, that you and Frank should be married? Oh, certainly, quite possible. Of course you know that he is not a shilling in the world. Nor have I, Lady Arabella. Nor will he have were he to do anything so utterly hostile to his father's wishes. The property you are aware is altogether at Mr. Gresham's disposal. I am aware of nothing about the property, and can't say nothing about it except this, that it has not been and will not be inquired after by me in this matter. If I marry Frank Gresham, it will not be for the property. I am sorry to make such an apparent boast, but you force me to do it. On what, then, are you to live? You are too old for love in a cottage, I suppose. Not at all too old. Frank you know is still quite a boy. Impudent hussy, forward ill-conditioned saucy minx, such were the epithets which rose to Lady Arabella's mind, but she politely suppressed them. Miss Thorn, this subject is of course to me very serious, very ill-adapted for jesting. I look upon such a marriage as absolutely impossible. I do not know what you mean by impossible, Lady Arabella. I mean in the first place that you, too, could not get yourselves married. Oh yes, Mr. Oriel would manage that for us. We are his parishioners, and he would be bound to do it. I beg your pardon. I believe that under all the circumstances it would be illegal. Mary smiled, but she said nothing. You may laugh, Miss Thorn, but I think you will find that I am right. There are still laws to prevent such fearful distress as would be brought about by such a marriage. I hope that nothing I shall do will bring distress on the family. Ah, but it would. Don't you know that it would? Think of it, Miss Thorn. Think of Frank's state and of his father's state. You know enough of that, I am sure, to be well aware that Frank is not in the condition to marry without money. Think of the position which Mr. Gresham's only son should hold in the county. Think of the old name and the pride we have in it. You have lived among us enough to understand all this. Think of these things, and then say whether it is possible such a marriage should take place without family distress of the deepest kind. Think of Mr. Gresham. If you truly love my son, you could not wish to bring on him all this misery and ruin. Mary now is touched, for there was truth in what Lady Arabella said, but she had no power of going back. Her troth was plighted, and nothing that any human being could say should shake her from it. If he indeed chose to repent, that would be another thing. Lady Arabella, she said, I have nothing to say in favor of this engagement except that he wishes it. And is that a reason, Mary? To me it is, not only a reason, but a law. I have given him my promise. And you will keep your promise even to his own ruin? I hope not. Our engagement, unless he shall choose to break it off, must necessarily be a long one, but the time will come—what, when Mr. Gresham is dead? Before that, I hope. There is no probability of it, and because he is headstrong, you, who have always had credit for so much sense, will hold him to this mad engagement? No, Lady Arabella, I will not hold him to anything to which he does not wish to be held. Nothing that you can say shall move me. Nothing that anybody can say shall induce me to break my promise to him, but a word from himself will do it. One look will be sufficient. Let him give me to understand in any way that his love for me is injurious to him, that he has learned to think so, and then I will renounce my part in this engagement as quickly as you could wish it. There was much in this promise, but still not so much as Lady Arabella wished to get. Mary she knew was obstinate but reasonable. Frank she thought was both obstinate and unreasonable. It might be possible to work on Mary's reason, but quite impossible to touch Frank's irrationality. So she persevered foolishly. Miss Thorn, that is Mary, for I still wish to be thought your friend. I will tell you the truth, Lady Arabella, for some considerable time past I have not thought you so. Then you have wronged me, but I will go on with what I was saying. You quite acknowledged that this is a foolish affair? I acknowledged no such thing. Something very much like it, you have not a word in its defense. Not to you I do not choose to be put on my defense by you. I don't know who has more right. However you promise that if Frank wishes it you will release him from his engagement? Release him? It is for him to release me, that is, if he wishes it. Very well at any rate you give him permission to do so. But will it not be more honorable for you to begin? No I think not. Ah, but it would. If he and his position should be the first to speak, the first to suggest that this affair between you is a foolish one, what would people say? They would say the truth. And what would you yourself say? Nothing. What would he think of himself? Ah, that I do not know. It is according as that may be that he will or will not act at your bidding. Exactly, and because you know him to be high-minded, because you think that he, having so much to give, will not break his word to you, to you who have nothing to give in return, it is therefore that you say that the first step must be taken by him. Is that noble? Then Mary rose from her seat, for it was no longer possible for her to speak what was in her to say, sitting there leisurely on the sofa. Lady Arabella's worship of money had not hitherto been so brought forward in the conversation as to give her unpardonable offense. But now she felt that she could no longer restrain her indignation. To you who have nothing to give in return, had she not given all that she possessed, had she not emptied her store into his lap, that heart of hers beating with such genuine life, capable of such perfect love, throbbing with so grand a pride, had she not given that, and was not that between him and her more than twenty Gresham's priests nobler than any pedigree? To you who have nothing to give indeed, this to her who was so ready to give everything? Lady Arabella, she said, I think that you do not understand me, and that it is not likely that you should. If so, our further talking will be worse than useless. I have taken no account of what will be given between your son and me in your sense of the word giving. But he has professed to love me. As she spoke, she still looked on the lady's face. But her eyelashes for a moment screened her eyes, and her color was a little heightened. And I have acknowledged that I also love him, and so we are engaged. To me my promise is sacred. I will not be threatened into breaking it. If, however, he shall wish to change his mind, he can do so. I will not upgrade him. Will not, if I can help it, think harshly of him. So much you may tell him if it suits you. But I will not listen to your calculations as to how much or how little each of us may have to give to the other. She was still standing when she finished speaking, and so she continued to stand. Her eyes were fixed on Lady Arabella, and her position seemed to say that sufficient words had been spoken, and that it was time that her ladyship should go, and so Lady Arabella felt it. Gradually she also rose slowly, fatacitly. She acknowledged that she was in the presence of a spirit superior to her own, and so she took her leave. Very well, she said, in a tone that was intended to be grandiloquent, but which failed grievously. I will tell him that he has your permission to think a second time on this matter. I do not doubt that he will do so. Mary would not condescend to answer, but curtsied low as her visitor left the room, and so the interview was over. The interview was over, and Mary was alone. She remained standing as long as she heard the footsteps of Frank's mother on the stairs, not immediately thinking of what had passed, but still boing herself up with her hot indignation, as though her work with Lady Arabella was not yet finished. But when the footfall was no longer heard, and the sound of the closing door told her that she was in truth alone, she sank back in her seat and, covering her face with her hands, burst into bitter tears. All that doctrine about money was horrible to her. That insolent pretense that she had quoted Frank because of his worldly position made her all but ferocious. But Lady Arabella had not the less spoken much that was true. She did think of the position which the heir of Gresham's should hold in the county, and of the fact that a marriage would mar that position so vitally. She did think of the old day and the old Gresham pride. She did think of the squire and his deep distress. It was true that she had lived among them long enough to understand these things, and to know that it was not possible that this marriage should take place without deep family sorrow. And then she asked herself whether, in consenting to accept Frank's hand, she had adequately considered this, and she was forced to acknowledge that she had not considered it. She had ridiculed Lady Arabella for saying that Frank was still a boy. But was it not true that his offer had been made with a boy's energy rather than a man's forethought? If so, if she had been wrong to accede to that offer when made, would she not be doubly wrong to hold him to it now that she saw their error? It was doubtless true that Frank himself could not be the first to draw back. What would people say of him? She could now calmly ask herself the question that had so angered her when asked by Lady Arabella. If he could not do it, and if nevertheless it behooved them to break off this match, by whom was it to be done, if not by her? Was not Lady Arabella right throughout, right in her conclusions, though so foully wrong in her manner of drawing them? And then she did think for one moment of herself. You who have nothing to give in return. Such had been Lady Arabella's main accusation against her. Was it in fact true that she had nothing to give? Her maiden love, her feminine pride, her very life and spirit and being, were these things nothing? Were they to be weighed against pounds sterling per annum? And when so weighed were they ever to kick the beam like feathers? All these things had been nothing to her when, without reflection, governed wholly by the impulse of the moment, she had first allowed his daring hand to lie for an instant at her own. She had thought nothing of these things when that other shooter came. It's your father, Frank, to love whom it was as impossible to her as it was not to love him. Her love had been pure from all such thoughts. She was conscious that it ever would be pure from them. Lady Arabella was unable to comprehend this, and therefore was Lady Arabella so utterly distasteful to her. Frank had once held her close to his warm breast, and her very soul had thrilled with joy to feel that he so loved her. With the joy which she had hardly dared to acknowledge. At that moment her maidenly efforts had been made to push him off, but her heart had grown to his. She had acknowledged him to be master of her spirit, her bosom's lord, the man whom she had been born to worship, the human being to whom it was for her to link her destiny. Frank's acres had been of no account, nor had his want of acres. Lord had brought them two together, that they should love each other. That conviction had satisfied her, and she had made it a duty to herself that she would love him with her very soul. And now she was called upon to wrench herself as Sunder from him, because she had nothing to give in return. Well she would wrench herself as Sunder, as far as such wrenching might be done compatibly with her solemn promise. It might be right that Frank should have an opportunity offered him so that he might escape from his position without disgrace. She would endeavor to give him this opportunity. So with one deep sigh she arose, took herself pen, ink, and paper, and sat herself down again so that the wrenching might begin. And then for a moment she thought of her uncle. Why had he not spoken to her of all this? Why had he not warned her? He who had ever been so good to her, why had he now failed her so grievously? She had told him everything, had had no secret from him, but he had never answered her a word. He must have known, she said to herself piteously, he also must have known that I could give nothing in return. Such accusation, however, availed her not at all, so she sat down and slowly wrote her letter. Dearest Frank she began. She had at first written, Dear Mr. Gresham, but her heart revolted against such useless coldness. She was not going to pretend that she did not love him. Dearest Frank, your mother has been here talking to me about our engagement. I do not generally agree with her about such matters, but she has said some things today which I cannot but acknowledge to be true. She says that our marriage would be distressing to your father, injurious to all your family, and ruinous to yourself. If this be so, how can I, who love you, wish for such a marriage? I remember my promise, and have kept it. I would not yield to your mother when she desired me to disclaim our engagement. But I do think it will be more prudent, if you will consent to forget all that has passed between us, not perhaps to forget it, that may not be possible for us, but to let it pass by as though it had never been. If so, if you think so, dear Frank, do not have any scruples on my account. What will be best for you must be best for me. Think what a reflection it would ever be to me to have been the ruin of one that I love so well. Let me have but one word to say that I am released from my promise, and I will tell my uncle that the matter between us is over. It will be painful for us at first. Those occasional meetings which must take place will distress us, but that will wear off. We shall always think well of each other, and why should we not be friends? This doubtless cannot be done without inward wounds, but such wounds are in God's hands, and He can cure them. I know what your first feelings will be on reading this letter, but do not answer it in obedience to first feelings. Think over it, think of your father, and all you owe him, of your old name, your old family, and of what the world expects from you. Mary was forced to put her hand to her eyes to save her paper from her falling tears, as she found herself thus repeating nearly word for word the arguments that had been used by Lady Arabella. Think of these things coolly, if you can, but at any rate without passion, and then let me have one word in answer. One word will suffice. I have but to add this. Do not allow yourself to think that my heart will ever reproach you. It cannot reproach you for doing that which I myself suggest. Mary's logic in this was very false, but she was not herself aware of it. I will never reproach you either in word or thought, and as for all others it seems to me that the world agrees that we have hitherto been wrong. The world, I hope, will be satisfied when we have obeyed it. God bless you, dearest Frank. I shall never call you so again, but it would be a pretense were I to write otherwise in this letter. Think of this, and then let me have one line. Your affectionate friend, Mary Thorn. P.S. Of course I cannot be a dear Beatrice's marriage, but when they come back to the parsonage I shall see her. I am sure they will both be happy because they are so good. I need hardly say that I shall think of them on their wedding day. When she had finished her letter she had rested plainly in her own somewhat bold handwriting to Francis N. Gresham, Jr. Esquire, and then took it herself to the little village post office. There should be nothing underhand about her correspondence. All the Gresham's free world should know of it, that world of which she had spoken in her letter, if that world so pleased. Having put her penny label on it she handed it with an open brow and an unembarrassed face to the baker's wife, who was her majesty's postmistress at Gresham's free, and having so finished her work she returned to see the table prepared for her uncle's dinner. I will say nothing to him, said she to herself, till I get the answer. He will not talk to me about it, so why should I trouble him? End of chapter 42.