 19 The Duke of Omnium The Duke of Omnium was, as we have said, a bachelor. Not the less on that account did he, on certain rare Gala days, entertain the beauty of the county at his magnificent rural seat, or the female fashion of London in Belgrave Square. But on this occasion the dinner at Gathoram Castle, for such was the name of his mansion, was to be confined to the lords of the creation. It was to be one of those days on which he collected round his board all the notables of the county in order that his popularity might not wane or the established glory of his hospitable house become dim. On such an occasion it was not probable that Lord D'Corsi would be one of the guests. The party, indeed, who went from Corsi Castle, was not large, and consisted of the Honourable George, Mr. Moffat, and Frank Gresham. They went in a tax cart with a tandem horse, driven very knowingly by George D'Corsi, and the fourth seat on the back of the vehicle was occupied by a servant, who was to look after the horses at Gathoram. The Honourable George drove either well or luckily, for he reached the Duke's house in safety, but he drove very fast. Poor, misdonstable, what would have been her lot had anything but good happen to that vehicle, so richly freighted with her three lovers. They did not quarrel as to the prize, and all reached Gathoram Castle in good humour with each other. The castle was new building of white stone, lately erected at an enormous expense by one of the first architects of the day. It was an immense pile, and seemed to cover ground enough for a moderate-sized town. But, nevertheless, reports said that when it was completed the noble owner found that he had no rooms to live in, and that that, on this account, and disposed to study his own comfort, he resided in a house of perhaps one tenth the size built by his grandfather in another county. Gathoram Castle would probably be called Italian in its style of architecture, though it may, I think, be doubted whether any such edifice, or anything like it, was ever seen in any part of Italy. It was a vast edifice, irregular in height, or it appeared to be so, having long wings on each side too high to be passed over by the eye as mere adjuncts to the mansion, and a portico so large as to make the house behind it look like another building of a greater altitude. This portico was supported by Ionic columns, and was in itself doubtless a beautiful structure. It was approached by a flight of steps very broad and very grand, but as an approach by a flight of steps hardly suits an Englishman's house to the immediate entrance of which it is necessary that his carriage should drive, there was another front door in one of the wings which was commonly used. A carriage, however, could, on very stupendously grand occasions, the visits, for instance, of queens and kings and royal dukes, be brought up under the portico, as the steps had been so constructed as to admit of a road with a rather stiff ascent being made close in front of the wing up into the very porch. Opening from the porch was the grand hall which extended up to the top of the house. It was magnificent indeed, being decorated with many colored marbles, and hung round with various trophies of the house of omnium. Banners were there, and armor, the sculptured busts of many noble progenitors, full-length figures and marble of those who had been especially prominent, and every monument of glory that wealth, long years, and great achievements could bring together. If only a man could but live in his hall and be forever happy there. But the Duke of Omnium could not live happily in his hall, and the fact was that the architect, in contriving this magnificent entrance for his own honor and fame, had destroyed the Duke's house as regards most of the ordinary purposes of residence. Nevertheless, Gatherham Castle is a very noble pile, and standing as it does on an eminence has a very fine effect when seen from many a distant knoll and verdant wooded hill. At seven o'clock Mr. Decorsi and his friends got down from their drag at the smaller door, for this was no day on which to mount up under the portico, nor was that any suitable vehicle to have been entitled to such honor. Frank felt some excitement a little stronger than that usual to him in such moments, for he had never yet been in the company with the Duke of Omnium, and he rather puzzled himself to think on what points he would talk to the man, who was the largest landowner in that county in which he himself had so great an interest. He, however, made up his mind that he would allow the Duke to choose his own subjects, merely reserving to himself the right of pointing out how deficient in Gorse covers was West Barsature, that being the Duke's division. They were soon divested of their coats and hats, and without entering on the magnificence of the Great Hall, were conducted through a rather narrow passage into a rather small drawing-room, small, that is, in proportion to the number of gentlemen there assembled. There might be about thirty, and Frank was inclined to think that they were almost crowded. A man came forward to greet them when their names were announced, but our hero at once knew that he was not the Duke, for this man was fat and short, whereas the Duke was thin and tall. There was a great hubbub going on, for everybody seemed to be talking to his neighbor, or in default of a neighbor, to himself. It was clear that the exalted rank of their host had put very little constraint on his guest's tongues, for they chatted away with as much freedom as farmers at an ordinary. Which is the Duke, at last Frank contrived to whisper to his cousin? Oh, he's not here, said George. I suppose he'll be in presently. I believe he never shows till just before dinner. Frank, of course, had nothing further to say, but he already began to feel himself a little snubbed. He thought that the Duke, Duke though he was, when he asked people to dinner, should be there to tell them that he was glad to see them. More people flashed into the room, and Frank found himself rather closely wedged in with a stout clergyman of his acquaintance. He was not badly off, for Mr. Athill was the friend of his own, who held a living near Gresham spree. Lately, however, at the lamented decease of Dr. Stanop, who had died of apoplexy at his villa in Italy, Mr. Athill had been presented with the better preferment of Ida down, and had therefore removed to another part of the country. He was something of a bon vivant, and a man who thoroughly understood dinner parties, and with much good nature he took Frank under his special protection. You stick to me, Mr. Gresham, he said, when we go into the dining-room, I'm at old hand at the Duke's dinners, and know how to make a friend comfortable as well as myself. But why doesn't the Duke come in? demanded Frank. He'll be here as soon as dinner is ready, said Mr. Athill. Or rather, the dinner will be ready as soon as he is here. I don't care therefore how soon he comes. Frank did not understand this, but he had nothing to do but to wait and see how things went. He was beginning to be impatient, for the room was now nearly full, and it seemed evident that no other guests were coming, when suddenly a bell rang and a gong was sounded, and at the same instant a door that had not yet been used flew open, and a very plainly dressed, plain, tall man entered the room. Frank at once knew that he was at last in the presence of the Duke of Omnium. But his grace, late as he was in commencing the duties as host, seemed in no hurry to make up for lost time. He quietly stood on the rug, with his back to the empty grate, and spoke one or two words in a very low voice to one or two gentlemen who stood nearest to him. The crowd in the meanwhile became suddenly silent. Frank, when he found that the Duke did not come and speak to him, felt that he ought to go and speak to the Duke. But no one else did so, and when he whispered his surprise to Mr. Adhill, that gentleman told him that this was the Duke's practice on all such occasions. Father Gill said the Duke, and it was the only word he had yet spoken out loud. I believe we are ready for dinner. Now, Mr. Father Gill was the Duke's land agent, and he it was who had greeted Frank and his friends at their entrance. Immediately the gong was again sounded, and another door leading out of the drawing room into the dining room was opened. The Duke led the way, and then the guests followed. "'Stick close to me, Mr. Gresham,' said Adhill. We'll get about the middle of the table where we shall be cosy and on the other side of the room out of this dreadful draft. I know the place well, Mr. Gresham, stick to me!' Mr. Adhill, who was a pleasant, chatty companion, had hardly seated himself, and was talking to Frank as quickly as he could, when Mr. Father Gill, who sat at the bottom of the table, asked him to say grace. It seemed to be quite out of the question that the Duke should take any trouble with his guests whatever. Mr. Adhill consequently dropped the word he was speaking, and uttered a prayer, if it was a prayer, that they might all have grateful hearts for that which God was about to give them. If it was a prayer, as far as my own experience goes, such utterances are seldom prayers. Seldom can be prayers. And if not prayers, what then? To me it is unintelligible that the full tide of glibest chatter can be stopped at a moment in the midst of profuse good living, and the giver thanked, becomingly, in words of heartfelt praise. Setting aside for the moment what one daily hears and sees, may not one declare that a change so sudden is not within the compass of the human mind? But then, to such reasoning one cannot but add what one does here and see. One cannot but judge of the ceremony by the manner in which one sees it performed, uttered, that is, and listened to. Clergemen there are, one meets them now and then, who endeavor to give to the dinner-table grace some of the solemnity of a church ritual, and what is the effect? Much the same as though one were to be interrupted for a minute in the midst of one of our church liturgies to hear a drinking song. And it will be argued that a man need be less thankful because at the moment of receiving he utters no thanksgiving, or will it be thought that a man is made thankful because what is called a grace is uttered after dinner? It can hardly be imagined that anyone will so argue or so think. Dinner-graces are probably the last remaining relic of certain daily services, which the church in olden days enjoined, knowns, compliments, and vespers were the others. Footnote one. It is, I know, alleged that Grace is the said before dinner because our Saviour uttered a blessing before his last supper. I cannot say that the idea of such analogy is pleasing to me. Of the knowns and compliments we have happily got quit, and it might be well if we could get rid of the dinner-graces also, that any man ask himself whether, on his own part, they are acts of prayer and thanksgiving, and if not that, what then? When the large party entered the dining-room, one or two gentlemen might be seen to come in from some other door and set themselves at the table near to the duke's chair. These were guests of his own who were staying in the house, his particular friends, the men with whom he lived. The others were strangers whom he fed, perhaps once he here, in order that his name might be known in the land as that of one who distributed food and wine hospitably through the county. The food and wine, the attendance also, and the view of the vast repository of plate he vouchsafed willingly to his county neighbors, but it was beyond his good nature to talk to them. To judge by the present appearance of most of them they were quite as well satisfied to be left alone. Frank was altogether a stranger there, but Mr. Athill knew every one at the table. That's Appjohn, said he. Don't you know Mr. Appjohn, the attorney from Barchester? He's always here. He does some of Father Gill's law business and makes himself useful. If any fellow knows the value of a good dinner he does, you'll see that the duke's hospitality will not be thrown away on him. It's very much thrown away upon me, I know, said Frank, who could not at all put up with the idea of sitting down to dinner without having spoken to his host. Oh, nonsense, said his clerical friend, you'll enjoy yourself amazingly by and by. There is not such champagne in any other house in Barchetture, and then the claret, and Mr. Athill pressed his lips together and gently shook his head, meaning to signify by the motion that the claret of Gatheram Castle was sufficient atonement for any penance which a man might have to go through in his mode of obtaining it. Who's that funny little man sitting there next but one to Mr. Decorsi? I never saw such a queer fellow in my life. Don't you know Old Bolus? Well, I thought everyone in Barchetture knew Bolus. You especially should do so, as he is such a dear friend of Dr. Thorn. A dear friend of Dr. Thorn? Yes, he was a pothickery at Scarrington in the old days, before Dr. Philgrave came into vogue. I remember when Bolus was thought to be a very good sort of doctor. Is he, is he, whispered Frank, is he by way of a gentleman? Ha, ha, ha! Well, I suppose we must be charitable and say that he is quite as good at any rate as many others that are here. And Mr. Athill, as he spoke, whispered into Frank's ear. You see, there's Finney here, another Barchetture attorney. Now I really think where Finney goes, Bolus may go, too. The more the merrier, I suppose, said Frank. Well, something a little like that. I wonder why Thorn is not here. I'm sure he was asked. Perhaps he did not wish particularly to meet Finney and Bolus. Do you know, Mr. Athill, I think he was quite right not to come. As for myself, I wish I was anywhere else. Ha, ha! You don't know the Duke's ways yet. And what's more, you're young, you happy fellow. But Thorn should have more sense. He ought to show himself here. The gormandising was now going on at a tremendous rate. Though the volubility of their tongues had been for a while stopped by the first shock of the Duke's presence, the guests seemed to feel no such constraint upon their teeth. They fed, one may almost say, rabidly, and gave their orders to the servants in an eager manner, much more impressive than that usual at smaller parties. Mr. Apjahn, who sat immediately opposite to Frank, had by some well-planned maneuver contrived to get before him the jowl of a salmon. But unfortunately he was not for a while equally successful in the article of sauce. A very limited portion, so at least thought Mr. Apjahn, had been put on his plate, and a servant with a huge sauce terrain absolutely passed behind his back inattentive to his audible requests. Poor Mr. Apjahn, in his despair, turned round to arrest the man by his coattails, but he was a moment too late, and all but fell backwards on the floor. As he righted himself, he muttered an anathema, and looked with a face of anguish at his plate. Anything the matter, Apjahn, said Mr. Father Gill kindly, seeing the utter despair written on the poor man's countenance, can I get anything for you? The sauce, said Mr. Apjahn, in a voice that would have melted a hermit, and as he looked at Mr. Father Gill, he pointed at the now distant sinner, who is dispensing his melted ambrosia, at least ten heads upwards, away from the unfortunate supplicant. Mr. Father Gill, however, knew where to look for bomb for such wounds, and in a minute or two Mr. Apjahn was employed quite to his heart's content. Well, said Frank to his neighbor, it may be very well once and away, but I think that on the whole Dr. Thornin' right. My dear Mr. Gresham, see the world on all sides, said Mr. Athill, who would also be in somewhat intent on the gratification of his own appetite, though with an energy less evident than that of the gentleman opposite. See the world on all sides if you have an opportunity, and believe me, a good dinner now and then is a very good thing. Yes, but I don't like eating it with hogs. Whoosh! Softly, softly, Mr. Gresham, or you'll disturb Mr. Apjahn's digestion. Upon my word he'll want it all before he is done. Now, I like this kind of thing once and away. Do you, said Frank, in a tone that was almost savage? Yes, indeed I do, one sees so much character, and after all, what harm does it do? My idea is that people should live with those whose society is pleasant to them. Live? Yes, Mr. Gresham, I agree with you there. It wouldn't do for me to live with the Eukromnium. I shouldn't understand, or probably approve, his ways. Nor should I, perhaps, much like the constant presence of Mr. Apjahn. But now and then, once in a year or so, I do own, I like to see them both. Here's the cup, now whatever you do, Mr. Gresham, don't pass the cup without tasting it. And so the dinner passed on slowly enough, as Frank thought. But all too quickly for Mr. Apjahn, it passed away, and the wine came circulating freely. The tongues were again loosed, the teeth being released from their labours, and under the influence of the claret, the Euk's presence was forgotten. But very speedily, the coffee was brought. This will soon be over now, said Frank to himself thankfully, for though he by no means despised good claret, he had lost his temper too completely to enjoy it at the present moment. But he was much mistaken. The farce as yet was only at its commencement. The Duke took his cup of coffee, and so did the few friends who sat close to him, but the beverage did not seem to be in great request with the majority of guests. When the Duke had taken his modicum, he rose up and silently retired, saying no word and making no sign. And then the farce commenced. Now, gentlemen, said Mr. Father Gil cheerily, we are all right. Apjahn, is there claret there? Mr. Bolas, I know you'll stick to the Madeira. You are quite right, for there isn't much of it left, and my belief is they'll never be more like it. And so the Duke's hospitality went on, and the Duke's guests drank merrily for the next two hours. Shant we see any more of him, asked Frank? Any more of whom, said Mr. Athill? Of the Duke. Oh, no, you'll see no more of him. He always goes when the coffee comes. It's brought in as an excuse. We've had enough of the light of his countenance to last till next year. The Duke and I are excellent friends, and have been so these fifteen years, but I never see more of him than that. I shall go away, said Frank. Nonsense! Mr. D'Corsi and your other friend won't stir for this hour yet. I don't care. I shall walk on, and they may catch me. I may be wrong, but it seems to me that a man insults me when he asks me to dine with him, and never speaks to me. I don't care if he be ten times Duke of Omnium. He can't be more than a gentleman, and as such I am as equal. And then, having thus given vent to his feelings in somewhat high flown language, he walked forth and trudged away along the road to Gord's Corsi. Frank Gresham had been born and bred a conservative, whereas the Duke of Omnium was well known as a consistent wig. There is no one so devoutly resolved to admit of no superior as your conservative, born and bred. No one so inclined to high domestic despotism as your thoroughgoing, consistent old wig. When he had proceeded about six miles, Frank was picked up by his friends, but even then his anger is hardly cooled. Was the Duke as civil as ever when you took your leave of him? Said he to his cousin George as he took his seat on the drag. The Duke was too stood wine. Let me tell you that, old fella. He copped out the honorable George as he touched up the leader under the flank. End of Chapter 19 Chapter 20 of Dr. Thorn This is the 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 20. The Proposal At now the departures from Corsi Castle came rapidly one after another, and they remained but one more evening before Ms. Dunstable's carriage was to be packed. The Countess, in the early moments of Frank's courtship, had controlled his ardor and checked the rapidity of his amorous professions. But as days and at last weeks wore away, she found that it was necessary to stir the fire which she had before endeavored to slacken. There will be nobody here tonight but our own circle, said she to him, and I really think you should tell Ms. Dunstable what your intentions are. She will have fair ground to complain of you if you do not. Frank began to feel that he was in a dilemma. He had commenced making love to Ms. Dunstable, partly because he liked the amusement, and partly from a satirical propensity to quiz his aunt by appearing to fall in with her scheme. But he had overshot the mark and did not know what answer to give when he was thus called upon to make a downright proposal. And then, although he did not care too rushes about Ms. Dunstable in the way of love, he nevertheless experienced a sort of jealousy when he found that she appeared to be indifferent to him and that she corresponded the meanwhile with his cousin, George. Though all their flirtations had been carried on on both sides palpably by way of fun, though Frank had told himself ten times a day that his heart was true to Mary Thorn, yet he had an undefined feeling that it behooved Ms. Dunstable to be a little in love with him. He was not quite at ease in that she was not a little melancholy now that his departure was so nigh. And above all he was anxious to know what were the real facts about that letter. He had in his own breast threatened Ms. Dunstable with a heartache, and now, when the time for their separation came, he found that his own heart was the more likely to ache of the two. I suppose I must say something to her or my aunt will never be satisfied, said he to himself as he sauntered into the little drawing-room on that last evening. But at the very time he was ashamed of himself, for he knew that he was going to ask badly. His sister and one of his cousins were in the room, but his aunt, who was quite on the alert, soon got them out of it and Frank and Ms. Dunstable were alone. So all our fun and all our laughter is come to an end, said she, beginning the conversation. I don't know how you feel, but for myself I really am a little melancholy at the idea of parting. And she looked up at him with her laughing black eyes, as though she never had and never could have a care in the world. Melancholy. Oh, yes, you look so, said Frank, who really did feel somewhat lackadaisically sentimental. But how thoroughly glad the counters must be that we are both going, continued she. I declare we have treated her most infamously, ever since we've been here we've had all the amusement to ourselves. I've sometimes thought that she would turn me out of the house. I wish with all my heart she had. Oh, you cruel barbarian, why on earth should you wish that? That I might have joined you in your exile? I hate Corsi Castle, and should have rejoiced to leave and—and—and what? And I love Ms. Dunstable, and should have doubly-trebly rejoiced to leave it with her. Frank's voice quivered a little as he made this gallant profession. But still Ms. Dunstable only laughed a louder. Upon my word of all my nights, you are by far the best behaved, said she, and say much the prettiest things. Frank became rather red in the face, and felt that he did so. Ms. Dunstable was treating him like a boy. While she pretended to be so fond of him, she was only laughing at him, and corresponding the while with his cousin George. Now Frank Gresham already entertained a sort of contempt for his cousin, which increased the bitterness of his feelings. Could it really be possible that George had succeeded while he had utterly failed, that his stupid cousin had touched the heart of the heiress while she was playing with him as with a boy? Of all your nights, is that the way you talk to me when we are going to part? When was it Ms. Dunstable that George D'Corsi became one of them? Ms. Dunstable for a while looked serious enough. What makes you ask that, said she? What makes you inquire about Mr. D'Corsi? Oh, I have eyes, you know, and can't help seeing. Not that I see or have seen anything that I could possibly help. And what have you seen, Mr. Gresham? Why, I know that you have been writing to him. Did he tell you so? No, he did not tell me, but I know it. For a moment she sat silent, and then her face again resumed its usual happy smile. Come, Mr. Gresham, you are not going to quarrel with me, I hope, even if I did write a letter to your cousin? Why should I not write to him? I correspond with all manner of people. I'll write to you some of these days if you'll let me, and will promise to answer my letters. Frank threw himself back on the sofa on which he was sitting, and in doing so brought himself somewhat nearer to his companion than he had been. He then drew his hands slowly across his forehead, pushing back his thick hair, and as he did so he sighed somewhat plaintively. I do not care, said he, for the privilege of correspondence on such terms, if my cousin George is to be a correspondent of yours also, I will give up my claim. And then he sighed again so that it was piteous to hear him. He was certainly an aren't puppy and an egregious ass into the bargain, but then it must be remembered in his favor that he was only twenty-one, and that much had been done to spoil him. Ms. Dunstable did remember this, and therefore abstained from laughing at him. Why, Mr. Gresham, what on earth do you mean? In all human probability I shall never write another line to Mr. De Corsi, but if I did, what possible harm could it do to you? Oh, Ms. Dunstable, you do not in the least understand what my feelings are. Don't I, then I hope I never shall. I thought I did. I thought they were the feelings of a good, true-hearted friend, feelings that I could sometimes look back upon with pleasure as being honest when so much that one beats is false. I have become very fond of you, Mr. Gresham, and I should be sorry to think that I did not understand your feelings. This was almost worse and worse, young ladies like Ms. Dunstable, for she was still to be numbered in the category of young ladies, do not usually tell young gentlemen that they are very fond of them. To boys and girls they may make such a declaration. Now, Frank Gresham regarded himself as one who would already fought his battles and fought them not without glory. He could not therefore endure to be thus openly told by Ms. Dunstable that she was very fond of him. Fond of me, Ms. Dunstable, I wish you were. So I am, very. You little know how fond I am of you, Ms. Dunstable, and he put out his hand to take hold of hers. She then lifted up her own and slapped him lightly on the knuckles. And what can you have to say to Ms. Dunstable that can make it necessary that you should pinch your hand? I tell you fairly, Mr. Gresham, if you make a fool of yourself, I shall come to a conclusion that you are all fools and that it is hopeless to look out for any one worth caring for. Such advice is this, so kindly given, so wisely meant, so clearly intelligible, he should have taken an understood young as he was, but even yet he did not do so. A fool of myself? Yes, I suppose I must be a fool if I have so much regard for Ms. Dunstable as to make it painful for me to know that I am to see her no more. A fool? Yes, of course I am a fool. A man is always a fool when he loves. Ms. Dunstable could not pretend to doubt his meaning any longer, and was determined to stop him, let it cost what it would. She now put out her hand, not over-white, and as Frank soon perceived, gifted with a very fair allowance of strength. Now Mr. Gresham said she, before you go any further you shall listen to me. Will you listen to me for a moment without interrupting me? Frank was, of course, obliged to promise that he would do so. You are going, or rather you were going, for I shall stop you to make a profession of love. A profession, said Frank, making a slight unsuccessful effort to get his hand free. Yes, a profession, a false profession, Mr. Gresham, a false profession, a false profession, look into your heart, into your heart of hearts. I know you at any rate have a heart. Look into it closely, Mr. Gresham. You know you do not love me, not as a man should love the woman whom he swears to love. Frank was taken aback. So appealed to, he found that he could not any longer say that he did love her. He could only look into her face with all his eyes and sit there listening to her. How is it possible that you should love me? I am heaven knows how many years you're senior. I am neither young nor beautiful, nor have I been brought up as she should be whom you in time will really love and make your wife. I have nothing that should make you love me, but I am rich. It is not that, said Frank, stoutly, feeling himself imperatively called upon to utter something in his own defense. Ah, Mr. Gresham, I fear that it is that. For what other reason can you have laid your plans to talk in this way to such a woman as I am? I have laid no plans, said Frank, now getting his hand to himself. At any rate you wrong me there, Miss Dunstable. I like you so well, nay, love you, if a woman may talk of love in the way of friendship, that if money, money alone, would make you happy, you should have it heaped on you. If you want it, Mr. Gresham, you shall have it. I have never thought of your money, said Frank, sir Lily. But it grieves me, continued she. It does grieve me to think that you, you, you so young, so gay, so bright, that you should have looked for it in this way, from others I have taken it just as the wind whistles, and now two big, slow tears escape from her eyes, and would have rolled down her rosy cheeks were it not that she brushed them off with the back of her hand. You have utterly mistaken me, Miss Dunstable, said Frank. If I have, I will humbly beg your pardon, said she, but, but, but you have, indeed you have. How can I have mistaken you? Were you not about to say that you loved me, to talk absolute nonsense, to make me an offer? If you were not, if I have mistaken you, indeed, I will beg your pardon. Frank had nothing further to say in his own defense. He had not wanted Miss Dunstable's money. That was true. But he could not deny that he had been about to talk that absolute nonsense, of which he spoke with so much scorn. You would almost make me think that there are none honest in this fashionable world of yours. I well know why Lady DeCorsi has had me here. How could I help knowing it? She has been so foolish in her plans that ten times a day she has told her own secret. But I have said to myself twenty times that if she were crafty, you were honest. And am I dishonest? I have laughed in my sleeve to see how she played her game and to hear others around her playing theirs, all of them thinking that they could get the money of the poor fool who would come at their beck and call. But I was able to laugh at them as long as I thought I had one true friend to laugh with me. But one cannot laugh with all the world against one. I am not against you, Miss Dunstable. Sell yourself for money. Why, if I were a man, I would not sell one jot of liberty for mountains of gold. What? Tie myself in the heyday of my youth to a person I could never love for a price. Purge myself, destroy myself, and not only myself, but her also, in order that I might live idly. Oh heavens, Mr. Gresham, can it be that the words of such a woman as your aunt have sunk so deeply into your heart, have blackened you so foully as to make you think of such vile folly as this? Have you forgotten your soul, your spirit, your man's energy, the treasure of your heart, and you so young? For shame, Mr. Gresham, for shame, for shame. Frank found the task before him by no means an easy one. He had to make Miss Dunstable understand that he had never had the slightest idea of marrying her, and that he had made love to her merely with the object of keeping his hand in for the work as it were, with that object and the other equally laudable one of interfering with his cousin George. And yet there was nothing for him but to get through this task as best he might. He was goaded to it by the accusations which Miss Dunstable brought against him, and he began to feel that though her invective against him might be bitter when he had told the truth, they could not be so bitter as those she now kept hinting at under her mistaken impression as to his views. He had never had any strong propensity for money hunting, but now that offense appeared in his eyes abominable, unmanly, and disgusting. Any imputation would be better than that. Miss Dunstable, I never for a moment thought of doing what you accuse me of. On my honor, I never did. I have been very foolish, very wrong, idiotic, I believe, but I have never intended that. Then, Mr. Gresham, what did you intend? This was rather a difficult question to answer, and Frank was not very quick in attempting it. I know you will not forgive me, he said at last, and indeed I do not see how you can. I don't know how it came about, but this is certain, Miss Dunstable, I have never for a moment thought about your fortune, that is, thought about it in the way of coveting it. You never thought of making me your wife, then? Never, said Frank, looking boldly into her face. You never intended really to propose to go with me to the altar, and then make yourself rich by one great perjury? Never for a moment, said he. You have never gloated over me as the bird of prey gloats over the poor beast that is soon to become carrion beneath its claws. You have not counted me out as equal to so much land and calculated on me as a balance at your bankers? Ah, Mr. Gresham, she continued, seeing that he stared as though struck almost with awe by her strong language. You little guess what a woman situated as I am has to suffer. I have behaved badly to you, Miss Dunstable, and I beg your pardon, but I have never thought of your money. Then we will be friends again, Mr. Gresham, won't we? It is so nice to have a friend like you. There, I think I understand it now. You need not tell me. It was half by way of making a fool of my aunt, said Frank, in an apologetic tone. There is merit in that, at any rate, said Miss Dunstable. I understand it all now. You thought to make a fool of me in real earnest. Well, I can forgive you that. At any rate, it is not mean. It may be that Miss Dunstable did not feel much acute anger at finding that this young man had addressed her with words of love in the course of an ordinary flirtation, although that flirtation had been unmeaning and silly. This was not the offense against which her heart and breast had found peculiar cause to arm itself. This was not the injury from which she had hitherto experienced suffering. At any rate, she and Frank again became friends, and before the evening was over, they perfectly understood each other. Twice during this long tata-tate, Lady Ducorsi came into the room to see how things were going on, and twice she went out almost unnoticed. It was quite clear to her that something uncommon had taken place, was taking place, or would take place, and that should this be for wheel or for woe, no good could come now from her interference. On each occasion, therefore, she smiled sweetly on the pair of turtledoves, and glided out of the room as quietly as she had glided into it. But at last it became necessary to remove them, for the world had gone to bed. Frank, in the meantime, had told to Miss Dunstable all his love for Mary Thorn, and Miss Dunstable had enjoined him to be true to his vows. To her eyes there was something of heavenly beauty in young, true love, of beauty that was heavenly because it had been unknown to her. Mind you, let me hear, Mr. Gresham, said she, mind you do, and Mr. Gresham, never, never forget her for one moment, not for one moment, Mr. Gresham. Frank was about to swear that he never would, again, when the Countess for the third time sailed into the room. Young people, said she, do you know what a clock it is? Dear me, Lady Ducorsi, I declare it is past twelve. I really am ashamed of myself. How glad you will be to get rid of me tomorrow. No, no, indeed we shan't, shall we, Frank? And so Miss Dunstable passed out. Then once again the aunt tapped her nephew with her fan. It was the last time in her life that she did so. He looked up in her face, and his look was enough to tell her that the acres of Gresham spree were not to be reclaimed by the ointment of Lebanon. Nothing further on the subject was said. On the following morning Miss Dunstable took her departure, not much heeding the rather cold words of farewell which her hostess gave her, and on the following day Frank started for Gresham spree. End of Chapter 20. Chapter 21 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 21. Mr. Moffat falls into trouble. We will now, with the reader's kind permission, skip over some months in our narrative. Frank returned from Corsi Castle to Gresham spree, and having communicated to his mother, much in the same manner as he had to the Countess, the fact that his mission had been unsuccessful, he went up after a day or two to Cambridge. During his short stay at Gresham spree, he did not even catch a glimpse of Mary. He asked for her, of course, and was told it was not likely that she would be at the house just at present. He called at the doctors, but she was denied to him there. She was out, Janet said, probably with Miss Oriole. He went to the parsonage and found Miss Oriole at home, but Mary had not been seen that morning. He then returned to the house and, having come to the conclusion that she had not thus vanished into air, otherwise than by pre-concerted arrangement, he boldly taxed Beatrice on the subject. Beatrice looked very demure, declared that no one in the house had quarreled with Mary, confessed that it had been thought prudent that she should for a while stay away from Gresham spree, and, of course, ended by telling her brother everything, including all the scenes that had passed between Mary and herself. It is out of the question you are thinking of marrying her, Frank, said she. You must know that nobody feels it more strongly than poor Mary herself, and Beatrice looked the very personification of domestic prudence. I know nothing of the kind, said he, with the headlong imperative air that was usual with him in discussing matters with his sisters. I know nothing of the kind. Of course I cannot say what Mary's feelings may be. A pretty life she must have had of it among you. But you may be sure of this, Beatrice, and so may my mother, that nothing on earth shall make me give her up, nothing. And Frank, as he made the protestation, strengthened his own resolution by thinking of all the counsel that Miss Dunstable had given him. The brother and sister could hardly agree, as Beatrice was dead against the match. Not that she would not have liked Mary Thorn for a sister-in-law, but that she shared to a certain degree the feeling which was now common to all the Greshams that Frank must marry money. It seemed at any rate to be imperative that he should either do that or not marry at all. Poor Beatrice was not very mercenary in her views. She had no wish to sacrifice her brother to any Miss Dunstable. But yet she felt, as they all felt, Mary Thorn included, that such a match as that, of the young heir with the doctor's niece, was not to be thought of, not to be spoken of as a thing that was in any way possible. Therefore Beatrice, though she was Mary's great friend, though she was her brother's favorite sister, could give Frank no encouragement. Poor Frank, circumstances had made but one bride possible to him. He must marry money. His mother said nothing to him on the subject. When she learned that the affair with Miss Dunstable was not to come off, she merely remarked that it would perhaps be best for him to return to Cambridge as soon as possible. Had she spoken her mind out, she would probably have also advised him to remain there as long as possible. The Countess had not omitted to write to her when Frank left Corsi Castle, and the Countess's letter certainly made the anxious mother think that her son's education had hardly yet been completed. With this secondary object, but with that of keeping him out of the way of Mary Thorn in the first place, Lady Arabella was now quite satisfied that her son should enjoy such advantages as an education completed that the university might give him. With his father Frank had a long conversation, but alas the gist of his father's conversation was this, that it behooved him, Frank, to marry money. The father, however, did not put to him in the cold, callous way in which his lady aunt had done and his lady mother. He did not bid him to go and sell himself to the first female he could find possessed of wealth. It was with inward self-reproaches and true grief of spirit that the father told his son that it was not possible for him to do as those may do who were born really rich or really poor. If you marry a girl without a fortune, Frank, how are you to live? The father asked, after having confessed how deep he himself had injured his own heir. I don't care about money, sir, said Frank. I shall be just as happy as if Boxall Hill had never been sold. I don't care straw about that sort of thing. Ah, my boy, but you will care. You will soon find that you do care. Let me go into some profession. Let me go to the bar. I am sure I could earn my own living. Earn it? Of course I could. Why not I, as well as others? I should like of all things to be a barrister. There was much more of the same kind in which Frank said all that he could think of to lessen his father's regrets. In their conversation not a word was spoken about Mary Thorn. Frank was not aware whether or no his father had been told of the great family danger which was dreaded in that quarter, that he had been told we may surmise, as Lady Arabella was not want to confine the family dangers to her own bosom. Moreover, Mary's presence had, of course, been missed. The truth was that the squire had been told with great bitterness of what had come to pass, and all the evil had been laid at his door. He it had been who had encouraged Mary to be regarded almost as a daughter of the house of Greshamsbury. He it was who taught that odious doctor, odious in all but his aptitude for good doctoring, to think himself a fit match for the aristocracy of the county. It had been his fault, this great necessity that Frank should marry money, and now it was his fault that Frank was absolutely talking of marrying a pauper. By no means in quiescence did the squire hear these charges brought against him. The Lady Arabella, in each attack, got quite as much as she gave, and at last was driven to retreat in a state of headache which she declared to be chronic, and which, so she assured her daughter, Augusta, must prevent her from having any more lengthened conversations with her Lord at any rate for the next three months. But though the squire may be said to have come off on the whole as victor in these combats, they did not perhaps have, on that account, the less effect upon him. He knew it was true that he had done much towards ruining his son, and he also could think of no other remedy than matrimony. It was Frank's doom, pronounced even by the voice of his father, that he must marry money. And so Frank went off again to Cambridge, feeling himself as he went, to be a much lesser man in Greshamsbury estimation than he had been some two months earlier when his birthday had been celebrated. Once during his short stay at Greshamsbury he had seen the doctor, but the meeting had been anything but pleasant. He had been afraid to ask after Mary, and the doctor had been too diffident of himself to speak of her. They had met casually on the road, and though each in his heart loved the other, the meeting had been anything but pleasant. And so Frank went back to Cambridge, and as he did so, he stoutly resolved that nothing should make him untrue to Mary Thorn. Beatrice said he, on the morning he went away, when she came into his room to superintend his packing. Beatrice, if she ever talks about me... Oh, Frank, my darling Frank, don't think of it. It is madness. She knows it is madness. Never mind. If she ever talks about me, tell her that the last word I said was that I would never forget her. She can do as she likes. Beatrice made no promise, never hinted that she would give the message, but it may be taken for granted that she had not been long in company with Mary Thorn before she did give it. And then there were other troubles at Gresham spree. It had been decided that Augusta's marriage was to take place in September, but Mr. Moffat had unfortunately been obliged to postpone the happy day. He himself had told Augusta, not of course without protestations as to his regret, and had written to this effect of Mr. Gresham. Electioneering matters and other troubles had, he said, made this peculiarly painful postponement absolutely necessary. Augusta seemed to bear her misfortune with more equanimity than is, we believe, usual with young ladies under such circumstances. She spoke of it to her mother in a very matter-of-fact way, and seemed almost contented at the idea of remaining at Gresham spree till February, which was the time now named for the marriage. But Lady Arabella was not equally well satisfied, nor was the squire. I have believed that fellow is not honest. He had once said out loud before Frank, and this set Frank a thinking of what this honesty in the matter it was probable that Mr. Moffat might be guilty and what would be the fitting punishment for such a crime. Nor did he think on the subject in vain, especially after a conference on the matter which he had with his friend Harry Baker. This conference took place during the Christmas vacation. It should be mentioned that the time spent by Frank at the Corsi Castle had not done much to assist him in his views as to an early degree, and that it had at last been settled that he should stay up at Cambridge another year. When he came home at Christmas he found that the house was not peculiarly lively. Mary was absent on a visit with Miss Oriole. Both these young ladies were staying with Miss Oriole's aunt in the neighborhood of London, and Frank soon learnt that there was no chance that either of them would be home before his return. No message had been left for him by Mary, none at least had been left with Beatrice, and he began in his heart to accuse her of coldness and perfidy, not certainly with much justice, seeing that she had never given him the slightest encouragement. The absence of patients Oriole added to the dullness of the place. It was certainly hard upon Frank that all the attraction of the village should be removed to make way and prepare for his return, harder perhaps on them, for to tell the truth Miss Oriole's visit had been entirely planned to enable her to give Mary a comfortable way of leaving Greshamsbury during the time that Frank should remain at home. Frank thought himself cruelly used. But what did Mr. Oriole think when doomed to eat his Christmas pudding alone, because the young squire would be unreasonable in his love? What did the doctor think as he sat solitary by his deserted hearth? The doctor, who no longer permitted himself to enjoy the comforts of the Greshamsbury dining table. Frank hinted and grumbled, talked to Beatrice of the determined constancy of his love, and occasionally consoled himself by a stray smile from some of the neighboring bells. The black horse was made perfect, the old gray pony was by no means discarded, and much that was satisfactory was done in the sporting line. But still the house was dull, and Frank felt that he was the cause of its being so. Of the doctor he saw but little. He never came to Greshamsbury unless to see Lady Arabella as doctor, or to be closeted with the squire. There were no social evenings with him, no animated confabulations at the doctor's house, no discourses between them as there had been want to be about the merits of the different covers, and the capacity of the different hounds. These were dull days on the whole for Frank, and sad enough, we may say, for our friend, the doctor. In February Frank again went back to college, having settled with Harry Baker certain affairs which weighed on his mind. He went back to Cambridge, promising to be home on the twentieth of the month, so as to be present for his sister's wedding. A cold and chilling time had been named for these hymenial joys, but one not altogether unsuited to the feelings of the happy pair. February is certainly not a warm month, but with the rich it is generally a cozy, comfortable time. Good fires, winter cheer, groaning tables, and warm blankets make a fictitious summer, which to some tastes is more delightful than the long days and the hot sun. And some marriages are especially winter matches. They depend for their charm on the same substantial attractions. Instead of heart beating to heart in sympathetic unison, purse chinks to purse. The rich new furniture of the new abode is looked to instead of the rapture of a pure embrace. The new carriage is depended on rather than the new heart's companion, and the first bright gloss prepared by the upholsterer's hands stands in lieu of the rosy tints which young love lends to his true votaries. Mr. Moffatt had not spent his Christmas at Greshamsbury. That eternal election petition, those eternal lawyers, the eternal care of his well-managed wealth, forbade him the enjoyment of any such pleasures. He could not come to Greshamsbury for Christmas, nor yet for the festivities of the new year, but now and then he wrote prettily worded notes, sending occasionally a silver-guilt pencil case, or a small brooch, and informed Lady Arabella that he looked forward to the twentieth of February with great satisfaction. But in the meantime the squire became anxious, and at last went up to London, and Frank, who was at Cambridge, bought the heaviest cutting whip to be found in that town, and wrote a confidential letter to Harry Baker. Poor Mr. Moffatt. It is well known that none but the brave deserve the fair, but thou, without much excuse for bravery, had secured for thyself one who, at any rate, was fair enough for thee. Would it not have been well hadst thou looked into thyself to see what real bravery might be in thee, before thou hadst prepared to desert this fair one, thou hadst already won? That last achievement, one may say, did require some special courage. Poor Mr. Moffatt. It is wonderful that as he sat in that gig going to gather him castle, planning how he would be off with Miss Gresham, and afterwards on with Miss Dunstable, it is wonderful that he should not have then cast his eye behind him, and looked at that stalwart pair of shoulders which were so close to his own back. As he afterwards pondered on his scheme while sipping the Duke's claret, it is odd that he should not have observed the fiery pride of purpose and power of wrath, which was so plainly written on that young man's brow, or when he matured and finished and carried out his purpose, that he did not think of that keen grasp which had already squeezed his own hand with somewhat too warm a vigor, even in the way of friendship. Poor Mr. Moffatt. It is probable that he forgot to think of Frank at all as connected with his promised bride. It is probable that he looked forward only to the squire's violence and the enmity of the House of Corsi, and that he found from inquiry at his heart's pulses that he was man enough to meet these. Could he have guessed what a whip Frank Gresham would have bought at Cambridge? Could he have divined what a letter would have been written to Harry Baker? It is probable, nay, we think we may say certain that Miss Gresham would have become Mrs. Moffatt. Miss Gresham, however, never did become Mrs. Moffatt. About two days after Frank's departure from Cambridge, it is just possible that Mr. Moffatt was so prudent as to make himself aware of the fact, but just two days after Frank's departure, a very long, elaborate, and clearly explanatory letter was received at Gresham's Brie. Mr. Moffatt was quite sure that Miss Gresham and her very excellent parents would do him the justice to believe that he was not actuated, etc., etc., etc. The long and the short of this was that Mr. Moffatt signified his intention of breaking off the match without offering any intelligible reason. Augusta again bore her disappointment well, not indeed without sorrow and heartache and inward hidden tears, but still well. She neither raved nor fainted nor walked about by moonlight alone. She wrote no poetry and never once thought of suicide. When indeed she remembered the rosy-tinted lining, the unfathomable softness of that long-acre carriage, her spirit did for one moment give way, but on the whole she bore it as a strong-minded woman, and it, of course, he should do. But both Lady Arabella and the Squire were greatly vexed. The former had made the match, and the latter, having consented to it, had incurred deeper responsibilities to enable him to bring it about. The money which was to have been given to Mr. Moffatt was still to the fore, but alas, how much, how much that he could ill-spare had been thrown away on bridal preparations! It is, moreover, an unpleasant thing for a gentleman to have his daughter jilted, perhaps peculiarly so to have her jilted by a tailor's son. Lady Arabella's woe was really piteous. It seemed to her as though cruel fate were heaping misery after misery upon the wretched house of Greshamsbury. A few weeks since, things were going so well with her, Frank then was all but the accepted husband of almost untold wealth, so at least she was informed by her sister-in-law. Whereas Augusta was the accepted wife of wealth, not indeed untold, but of dimensions quite sufficiently respectable to cause much joy in the telling, where now were her golden hopes, where now the splendid future of her poor, duped children, Augusta was left to pine alone, and Frank, in a still worse plight, insisted on maintaining his love for a bastard and a pauper. For Frank's affair she had received some poor consolation by laying all the blame on the squire's shoulders. What she had then said was now repaid to her with interest, for not only had she been the maker of Augusta's match, but she had boasted of the deed with all a mother's pride. It was from Beatrice that Frank had obtained his tidings. This last resolve on the part of Mr. Moffat had not altogether been unsuspected by some of the Greshams, though altogether unsuspected by the lady Arabella. Frank had spoken of it as a possibility to Beatrice, and was not quite prepared when the information reached him. He consequently bought his big cutting whip and wrote his confidential letter to Harry Baker. On the following day Frank and Harry might have been seen, with their heads nearly close together, leaning over one of the tables in the large breakfast room at the Tavistock Hotel in Covent Garden. The ominous whip to the handle of which Frank had already made his hand well accustomed, was lying on the table between them, and ever and anon Harry Baker would take it up and feel its weight approvingly. Oh, Mr. Moffat, poor Mr. Moffat, go not out into the fashionable world today. Above all, go not to that club of thine and pal mal. But oh, especially go not there, as is thy want to do, at three o'clock in the afternoon. With much care did those two young generals lay their plans of attack. Let it not for a moment be thought that it was ever in the minds of either of them that two men should attack one. But it was thought that Mr. Moffat might be rather coy in coming out from his seclusion to meet the profaned hand of his once intended brother-in-law when he should see that hand armed with a heavy whip. Baker, therefore, was content to act as decoy duck, and remarked that he might no doubt make himself useful in restraining the public mercy, and probably in controlling the interference of policemen. It will be juiced hard if I can't get five or six shies at him, said Frank, again clutching his weapon almost spasmodically. Oh, Mr. Moffat, five or six shies with such a whip and such an arm, for myself I would soon adjoin in a second balaclava gallop than encounter it. A ten minutes before four these two heroes might be seen walking up Palmel towards the Blank Club. Young Baker walked with an eager, disengaged air. Mr. Moffat did not know his appearance. He had, therefore, no anxiety to pass along unnoticed. But Frank had in some mysterious way drawn his hat very far over his forehead, and had buttoned his shooting-coat up round his chin. Harry had recommended to him a great coat, in order that he might the better conceal his face. But Frank had found that the great coat was an encumbrance to his arm. He put it on, and when thus clothed he had tried the whip, and he found that he cut the air with much less potency than in the lighter garment. He contented himself, therefore, with looking down on the pavement as he walked along, letting the long point of the whip stick up from his pocket, and flattering himself that even Mr. Moffat would not recognize him at first glance. Poor Mr. Moffat, if he had but had the chance. And now, having arrived at the front of the club, the two friends for a moment separate. Frank remained standing on the pavement, under the shade of the high stone area railing, while Harry draughtily skips up three steps at a time, and with a very civil word of inquiry of the Hall Porter, sends in his card to Mr. Moffat. Mr. Harry Baker. Mr. Moffat, never having heard of such a gentleman in his life, unwittingly comes out into the hall, and Harry, with his sweetest smile, addresses him. Now the plan of the campaign had been settled in this wise. Baker was to send into the club for Mr. Moffat, and invite that gentleman down into the street. It was probable that the invitation might be declined, and it had been calculated in such case that the two gentlemen would retire for parley into the stranger's room, which was known to be immediately opposite the hall door. Frank was to keep his eye on the portals, and if he found that Mr. Moffat did not appear as readily as might be desired, he also was to ascend the steps and hurry into the stranger's room. Then, whether he met Mr. Moffat there or elsewhere, or wherever he might meet him, he was to greet him with all the friendly vigor in his power, while Harry disposed of the club porters. But fortune, whoever favours the brave, specially favoured Frank Gresham on this occasion. Just as Harry Baker had put his card into the servant's hand, Mr. Moffat, with his hat on, prepared for the street, appeared in the hall. Mr. Baker addressed him with his sweetest smile, and begged the pleasure of saying a word or two as they descended into the street. Had not Mr. Moffat been going thither, it would have been very improbable that he should have done so at Harry's instance. But as it was, he merely looked rather solemn at his visitor. It was his want to look solemn, and continued the descent of the steps. Frank, his heart leaping the while, saw his prey, and retreated two steps behind the area railing, the dread weapon already well poised in his hand. Oh, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Moffat, if there be any goddess to interfere in thy favour, let her come forward now without delay, let her now bear thee off on a cloud, if there be one to whom thou art sufficiently dear. But there is no such goddess. Harry smiled blandly till they were well on the pavement, saying some nothing, and keeping the victim's face averted from the avenging angel. And then when the raised hand was sufficiently nigh, he withdrew two steps to the nearest lamppost. Not for him was the honour of the interview, unless indeed, suckering policemen might give him occasion for some gleam of glory. But suckering policemen were no more to be come by than goddesses. Where were ye, men, when that savage whip fell about the ears of the poor ex-legislator? In Scotland yards, sitting dozing on your benches, or talking soft nothings to the housemates round the corner. For ye were not walking your beats, nor standing at the coin of vantage to watch the tumults of the day. But had ye been there, what could ye have done? Had Sir Richard himself been on the spot, Frank Gresham would still, we may say, have had his five shies at that unfortunate one. When Harry Baker quickly seceded from the way, Mr. Moffat had once saw the fate before him. His hair doubtless stood on end, and his voice refused to give the loud screech with which he sought to invoke the club. An ashy paleness effused his cheeks, and his tottering steps were unable to bear him away in flight. Once and twice the cutting whip came well down across his back. Had he been wise enough to stand still and take his thrashing in that attitude, it would have been well for him. But men so circumstance have never such prudence. After two blows he made a dash at the steps, thinking to get back into the club. But Harry, who had by no means reclined in idleness against the lamppost, here stopped him. You would better go back into the street, said Harry, indeed you had, giving him a shove from off the second step. Then, of course, Frank could not do other than hit him anywhere. When a gentleman is dancing about with much energy, it is hardly possible to strike him fairly on his back. The blows therefore came now on his legs and now on his head, and Frank unfortunately got more than his five or six shies before he was interrupted. The interruption, however, came all too soon for Frank's idea of justice. Though there be no policeman to take part in a London row, there are always others ready enough to do so. Amateur policemen, who generally sympathize with the wrong side, and in nine cases out of ten, expend their generous energy in protecting thieves and pickpockets. When it was seen, with what tremendous ardor, that dread weapon fell about the ears of the poor, undefended gentleman, interference there was at last, in spite of Harry Baker's best endeavors and loudest protestations. Do not interrupt them, sir, said he. Pray do not. It is a family affair, and they will neither of them like it. In the teeth, however, of these assurances, rude people did interfere, and after some nine or ten shies, Frank found himself encompassed by the arms and encumbered by the weight of a very stout gentleman, who hung affectionately about his neck and shoulders, whereas Mr. Moffatt was already perceiving consolation from two motherly females, sitting in a state of syncope on the good-natured knees of a fishmonger's apprentice. Frank was thoroughly out of breath. Nothing came from his lips but the half-muddered expletives and unintelligible denunciations of the iniquity of his foe. But still he struggled to be at him again. We all know how dangerous is the taste of blood. Now cruelty will become accustomed even with the most tender hearted. Frank felt that he had hardly fleshed his virgin lash. He thought almost with despair that he had not yet at all succeeded as became a man and a brother. His memory told him of but one or two of the slightest touches that had gone well home to the offender. He made a desperate effort to show off that incubus round his neck and rush again to the combat. Harry, Harry, don't let him go. Don't let him go. He barely articulated. Do you want a myrrh to the man, sir, to murder him? said the stout gentleman over his shoulder, speaking solemnly into his very ear. I don't care, said Frank, struggling manfully but uselessly. Let me out, I say. I don't care. Don't let him go, Harry, whatever you do. He has got it pretty tidily, said Harry. I think that that will perhaps do for the present. By this time there was a considerable concourse. The club steps were crowded with the members, among whom there were many of Mr. Moffat's acquaintance. Policemen also now flocked up. And the question arose as to what should be done with the originators of the affray. Frank and Harry found that they were to consider themselves under a gentle arrest. And Mr. Moffat, in a feigning state, was carried into the interior of the club. Frank, in his innocence, had intended to have celebrated this little affair when it was over, by a light repast and a bottle of claret with his friend, and then to have gone back to Cambridge by the mail train. He found, however, that his schemes in this respect were frustrated. He had to get bailed to attend at Marlborough Street Police Office, should he be wanted within the next two or three days, and was given to understand that he would be under the eye of the police, at any rate until Mr. Moffat should be out of danger. Out of danger, said Frank to his friend with a startled look, why I hardly got at him. Nevertheless they did have their slight repast, and also their bottle of claret. On the second morning after the occurrence Frank was again sitting in that public room at the Tavistock, and Harry was again sitting opposite to him. The whip was not now so conspicuously produced between them, having been carefully packed up and put away among Frank's other travelling properties. They were so sitting, rather glum, when the door swung open, and a heavy, quick step was heard advancing towards them. It was the squire whose arrival there had been momentarily expected. Frank said he, Frank, what on earth is all this? And as he spoke he stretched out both hands, the right to his son, and the left to his friend. He has given a blag of licking, that is all, said Harry. Frank felt that his hand was held with a peculiarly warm grasp, and he could not but think that his father's face, raised though his eyebrows were, though there was on it an intended expression of amazement, and perhaps regret. Nevertheless he could not but think that his father's face looked kindly at him. God bless my soul, my dear boy! What have you done to the man? He's not a hipth-the-worse, sir, said Frank, still holding his father's hand. Oh, isn't he, said Harry, shrugging his shoulders. He must be made of some very tough article, then. But, my dear boys, I hope there's no danger. I hope there's no danger. Danger, said Frank, who could not yet induce himself to believe that he had been allowed a fair chance with Mr. Moffat. Oh, Frank, Frank, how could you be so rash, in the middle of Pal-Mal, too? Well, well, well, all the women down at Gresham's we will have it that you have killed him. I almost wish I had, said Frank. Oh, Frank, Frank, but now tell me. And then the father sat well pleased while he heard, chiefly from Harry Baker, the full story of his son's prowess, and then they did not separate without another slight repast and another bottle of claret. Mr. Moffat retired of the country for a while and then went abroad, having doubtless learned that the petition was not likely to give him a seat for the city of Barchester. And this was the end of the wooing with Miss Gresham. End of CHAPTER XXI. After this little occurred at Greshamsbury, or among Greshamsbury people, which it will be necessary for us to record, some notice was, of course, taken of Frank's prolonged absence from his college, and tidings, perhaps exaggerated tidings, of what had happened in Pal-Mal were not slow to reach the High Street of Cambridge, but that affair was gradually hushed up and frank went on with his studies. He went back to his studies, at then being an understood arrangement between him and his father, that he should not return to Greshamsbury till the summer vacation. On this occasion the Squire and Lady Arabella had, strange to say, been of the same mind. They both wished to keep their son away from Miss Thorn, and both calculated that at his age and with his disposition it was not probable that any passion would last out a six-months absence. And when the summer comes it will be an excellent opportunity for us to go abroad, said Lady Arabella. Poor Augusta will require some change to renovate her spirits. To this last proposition the Squire did not assent. It was, however, allowed to pass over, and this much was fixed that Frank was not to return home till mid-summer. It will be remembered that Sir Roger Scatchard had been elected a sitting member for the city of Marchester, but it will also be remembered that a petition against his return was threatened. Had that petition depended solely on Mr. Moffat, Sir Roger's seat no doubt would have been saved by Frank Greshams' cutting whip. But such was not the case. Mr. Moffat had been put forward by the decorcy interest, and that noble family, with its dependence, was not to go to the wall because Mr. Moffat had had a thrashing. No, the petition was to go on, and Mr. Near the Wind declared that no petition in his hands had half so good a chance of success. Chance, no, but certainly, said Mr. Near the Wind, for Mr. Near the Wind had learned something with reference to that honest publican and the payment of his little bill. The petition was presented and duly backed, and the recognizance it was signed, and all the proper formalities formally executed, and Sir Roger found that his seat was in jeopardy. His return had been a great triumph to him, and, unfortunately, he had celebrated that triumph, as he had been in the habit of celebrating most of the very triumphant occasions of his life. Though he was then hardly yet recovered from the effects of his last attack, he indulged in another violent drinking-bout, and, strange to say, did so without any immediate visible bad effects. In February he took his seat amidst the warm congratulations of all men of his own class, and early in the month of April his case came on for trial. Every kind of electioneering sin known to the electioneering world was brought to his charge. He was accused of falseness, dishonesty, and bribery of every sort. He had, it was said in the paper of indictment, bought votes, obtained them by treating, carried them off by violence, conquered them by strong drink, polled them twice over, counted those of dead men, stolen them, forged them, and created them by every possible fictitious contrivance. There was no description of wickedness appertaining to the task of procuring votes of which Sir Roger had not been guilty, either by himself or by his agents. He was quite horrorstruck at the list of his own enormities, but he was somewhat comforted when Mr. Closestill told him that the meaning of it all was that Mr. Romer, the barrister, had paid a form of bill due to Mr. Reddy-Palm, the publican. I fear he was in discreet, Sir Roger. I really fear he was. Those young men always are. Being energetic they work like horses. But what's the use of energy without discretion, Sir Roger? But Mr. Closestill, I knew nothing about it from first to last. The agency can be proved, Sir Roger, said Mr. Closestill, shaking his head. And then there was nothing further to be said on the matter. In these days of snow-white purity all political delinquency is abominable in the eyes of British politicians. But no delinquency is so abominable as that of venality at elections. The sin of bribery is damnable. It is the one sin for which, in the House of Commons, there can be no forgiveness. When discovered it should render the culprit liable to political death, without hope of pardon. It is treason against a higher throne than that on which the Queen sits. It is a heresy which requires an auto-duffet. It is a pollution to the whole house, which can only be cleansed by a great sacrifice. Anathema maranatha, out with it from amongst us, even though half of our hearts' blood be poured forth in the conflict, out with it and for ever. Such is the language of patriotic members with regard to bribery, and doubtless, if sincere, they are in the right. It is a bad thing, certainly, that a rich man should buy votes, bad also that a poor man should sell them. By all means, let us repudiate such a system with heartfelt disgust. With heartfelt disgust, if we can do so by all means, but not with disgust, pretended only, and not felt in the heart at all. The laws against bribery at elections are now so stringent that an unfortunate candidate may easily become guilty, even though actuated by the purest intentions. But not the less on that account does any gentleman, ambitious of the honour of serving his country and parliament, think it necessary as a preliminary measure to provide a round sum of money at his bankers. A candidate must pay for no treating, no refreshments, no band of music. He must give neither ribbons to the girls, nor ale to the men. If a hazzah be uttered in his favour, it is at his peril. It may be necessary for him to prove before a committee that it was the spontaneous result of British feeling in his favour, and not the purchased result of British beer. He cannot safely ask anyone to share his hotel dinner. Bribery hides itself now in the most impalpable shapes, and may be affected by the offer of a glass of sherry. But not the less on this account does the poor man find that he is quite unable to overcome the difficulties of a contested election. We strain at our gnats with a vengeance, but we swallow our camels with ease. For what purpose is it that we employ those peculiarly safe men of business, messes near the wind and closer still, when we wish to win our path through all obstacles into that sacred recess, if all be so open, all so easy, all so much above board? Alas, the money is still necessary, is still prepared, or at any rate expended. The poor candidate, of course, knows nothing of the matter till the attorney's bill is laid before him, when all danger of petitions has passed away. A little dream till then, not he, that there had been backwardings and junkettings, secret doings and deep drinkings at his expense. Poor candidate, poor member, who was so ignorant as he? To his true he has paid such bills before, but it is equally true that he specially begged his managing friend, Mr. Near the Wind, to be very careful that all was done according to law. He pays the bill, however, and ought the next election will again employ Mr. Near the Wind. Now and again at rare intervals, some glimpse into the inner sanctuary does reach the eyes of ordinary mortal men without. Some slight accidental peep into those mysteries from whence all corruption has been so thoroughly expelled, and then how delightfully refreshing is the sight when, perhaps, some ex-member, hurled from his paradise like a fallen peri, reveals the secret of that pure heaven, and in the agony of his despair tells us all that it cost him to sit for that borough of his through those few Halcyon years. But Mr. Near the Wind is a safe man, and easy to be employed, with but little danger. All those stringent bribery laws only enhance the value of such very safe men as Mr. Near the Wind. To him, stringent laws against bribery are the strongest assurance of valuable employment. With these laws of a nature to be evaded with ease, any indifferent attorney might manage a candidate's affairs and enable him to take his seat with security. It would have been well for Sir Roger if he had trusted solely to Mr. Closest still. Well also for Mr. Romer had he never fished in those troubled waters. In due process of time the hearing of the petition came on, and then who so happy, sitting at his ease at his London inn, blowing his cloud from a long pipe with measureless content as Mr. Ready-Pom. Mr. Ready-Pom was the one great man of the contest, all depended on Mr. Ready-Pom, and well he did his duty. The result of the petition was declared by the committee to be as follows, that Sir Roger's election was null and void, that the election altogether was null and void, that Sir Roger had, by his agent, been guilty of bribery in obtaining a vote by the payment of a bill alleged to have been previously refused payment, that Sir Roger himself knew nothing about it—this is always a matter of course—but that Sir Roger's agent, Mr. Romer, had been wittingly guilty of bribery, with reference to the transaction above described. Poor, Sir Roger, poor Mr. Romer. Poor Mr. Romer indeed. His fate was perhaps as sad as well might be, and as foul a blot to the purism of these very pure times in which we live. Not long after those days it's so happening that some considerable amount of youthful energy and quid noncability were required to set litigation afloat at Hong Kong. Mr. Romer was sent thither as the fittest man for such work with rich assurance of future garden. Who so happy, then, is Mr. Romer? But even among the pure there is room for envy and attraction. Mr. Romer had not yet ceased to wonder at new worlds, as he skimmed among the islands of that southern ocean, before the edict had gone forth for his return. There were men sitting in that huge court of parliament on whose breasts it lay as an intolerable burden that England should be represented among the antipodes by one who had tampered with the purity of the franchise. For them there was no rest till this great disgrace should be wiped out and atoned for. Men they were of that caliber that the slightest reflection on them of such a stigma seemed to themselves to blacken their own character. They could not break bread with satisfaction till Mr. Romer was recalled. He was recalled, and, of course, ruined, and the minds of those just men were then at peace. To any honorable gentleman who really felt his brows effused with a patriotic blush, as he thought of his country dishonored by Mr. Romer's presence at Hong Kong, to any such gentleman if any such there were, let all honor be given, even though the intensity of his purity may create amazement to our less finely organized souls. But if no such blush effused the brow of any honorable gentleman, if Mr. Romer was recalled from quite other feelings, what then, in lieu of honor, shall we allot to those honorable gentlemen who were the most concerned? Sir Roger, however, lost his seat, and, after three months of the joys of legislation, found himself reduced by a terrible blow to the low level of private life. And the blow to him was very heavy. Men but seldom tell the truth of what is in them, even to their dearest friends. They are ashamed of having feelings, or rather of showing that they are troubled by any intensity of feeling. It is the practice of the time to treat all pursuits as though they were only half important to us, as though in what we desire we were only half in earnest. To be visibly eager seems childish, and is always bad policy. And men therefore nowadays, though they strive as hard as ever in the service of ambition, harder than ever in that of mammon, usually do so with the pleasant smile on, as though after all they were but amusing themselves with the little matter in hand. Perhaps it had been so with Sir Roger in those electioneering days when he was looking for votes. At any rate he had spoken of his seat in Parliament as but a doubtful good. He was willing indeed to stand having been asked, but the thing would interfere wonderfully with his business. And then what did he know about Parliament? Nothing on earth. It was the maddest scheme, but nevertheless he was not going to hang back when called upon. He had always been rough and ready when wanted, and there he was now ready as ever, and rough enough too, God knows. It was thus that he had spoken of his coming parliamentary honours, and men had generally taken him at his word. He had been returned, and this success had been hailed as a great thing for the cause and class to which he belonged. But men did not know that his inner heart was swelling with triumph, and that his bosom could hardly contain his pride as he reflected that the poor barchester stone mason was now the representative in Parliament of his native city. And so when his seat was attacked he still laughed and joked. They were welcome to it for him, he said. He could keep it or want it, and of the two perhaps the want of it would come most convenient to him. He did not exactly think that he had bribed any one, but if the big wigs chose to say so it was all one to him, he was rough and ready now as ever, etc., etc., etc. But when the struggle came it was to him a fearful one, not the less fearful, because there was no one, no, not one friend in all the world to whom he could open his mind and speak out honestly what was in his heart. To Dr. Thorn he might perhaps have done so had his intercourse with the doctor been sufficiently frequent. But it was only now and again when he was ill or when his squire wanted to borrow money that he saw Dr. Thorn. He had plenty of friends, heaps of friends in the parliamentary sense, friends who talked about him and lauded him at public meetings, who shook hands with him on platforms and drank his health at dinner. But he had no friend who could sit with him over his own hearth and true friendship and listen to and sympathize with and moderate the sighings of the inner man. For him there was no sympathy, no tenderness of love, no retreat save into himself from the loud brass band of the outer world. The blow hit him terribly hard. It did not come altogether unexpectedly, and yet when it did come it was all but unendurable. He had made so much of the power of walking into that august chamber, and sitting shoulder to shoulder in legislative equality with the sons of dukes and the curled darlings of the nation. Money had given him nothing, nothing but the mere feeling of brute power, with his three hundred thousand pounds he had felt himself to be no more palpably near to the goal of his ambition than when he had chipped stones for three shillings and six months a day. But when he was led up and introduced at that table, when he shook the old Premier's hand on the floor of the House of Commons, when he heard the honorable member for Barchester alluded to engrave debate as the greatest living authority on railway matters, then, indeed, he felt that he had achieved something. But now this cup was ravished from his lips almost before it was tasted. When he was first told as the certainty, the decision of the committee was against him, he bore up against misfortune like a man. He laughed heartily and declared himself well rid of a very profitless profession, cut some little joke about Mr. Moffat and his thrashing, and left on those around him an impression that he was a man so constituted, so strong in his own resolves, so steadily pursuant of his own work that no little contentions of this kind could affect him. Men admired his easy laughter, as shuffling his half-crowns with both his hands in his trouser-pockets, he declared that Mrs. Romer and Reddy Palm were the best friends he had known for this many a day. But not the less did he walk out from the room in which he was standing a broken-hearted man. Hope could not boy him up as she may do other ex-members and similarly disagreeable circumstances. He could not afford to look forward to what further favours Parliamentary future might have in store for him after a lapse of five or six years. Five or six years? Why, his life was not worth four years' purchase. Of that he was perfectly aware. He could not now live without the stimulus of Brandy, and yet, while he took it, he knew that he was killing himself. Death he did not fear, but he would feign have wished, after his life of labour, to have lived while he yet could live in the blaze of that high world to which for a moment he had attained. He laughed loud and cheerily as he left his Parliamentary friends, and putting himself into the train went down to Boxall Hill. He laughed loud and cheerily, but he never laughed again. It had not been his habit to laugh much at Boxall Hill. It was there he kept his wife and Mr. Witterbones and the Brandy bottle behind his pillow. He had not often there found it necessary to assume that loud and cheery laugh. On this occasion he was apparently well in health when he got home, but both Lady Scatchard and Mr. Witterbones found him more than ordinarily cross. He made an affectation at sitting very hard to business, and even talked of going abroad to look at some of his foreign contracts. But even Witterbones found that his patron did not work as he had been wont to do, and at last with some misgivings he told Lady Scatchard that he feared that everything was not right. He's always at it, my lady, always, said Mr. Witterbones. Is he, said Lady Scatchard, well understanding what Mr. Witterbones allusion meant. Always, my lady, I never saw it nothing like it. Now there's me. I can always go my half-hour when I've had my drop. But he, why he don't go ten minutes, not now. This was not cheerful to Lady Scatchard, but what was the poor woman to do? When she spoke to him on any subject he only snarled at her. And now that the heavy fit was on him she did not even dare to mention the subject of his drinking. She had never known him so savage in his humour as he was now, so bearish in his habits, so little inclined to humanity, so determined to rush headlong down with his head between his legs into the bottomless abyss. She thought of sending for Dr. Thorn, but she did not know under what guise to send for him, whether as doctor or as friend. Under neither would he now be welcome. And she well knew that Sir Roger was not the man to accept in good part either a doctor or a friend who might be unwelcome. She knew that this husband of hers, this man who with all his faults was the best of her friends, whom of all she loved best, she knew that he was killing himself, and yet she could do nothing. Sir Roger was his own master, and if kill himself he would, kill himself he must. And kill himself he did. Not indeed by one sudden blow. He did not take one huge dose of his consuming poison and then fall dead upon the floor. It would perhaps have been better for himself, and better for those around him had he done so. No, the doctors had time to congregate around his bed. Lady Scatchard was allowed a period of nurse-tending. The sick man was able to say his last few words and bid adieu to his portion of the lower world with dying decency. As these last words will have some lasting effect upon the surviving personages of our story, the reader must be content to stand for a short while by the side of Sir Roger's sick bed and help us to bid him God's speed on the journey which lies before him.