 Chapter 43 of Dr. Thorn by Antony Trollop. This Librivox recording is in the public domain, recording by Nick Whitley, Perley, United Kingdom. Chapter 43 The Race of Scatchard Becomes Extinct It will not be imagined, at any rate by feminine readers, that Mary's letter was written off at once, without alterations and changes, for the necessity for a fair copy. Readers from one young lady to another are doubtless written in this manner, and even with them it might sometimes be better, if more patients had been taken. But with Mary's first letter to her lover, her first love letter, if love letter it can be called, much more care was used. It was copied and re-copied, and when she returned from posting it, it was read and re-read. It is very cold, she said to herself. He will think I have no heart, that I have never loved him, and then she all but resolved to run down to the baker's wife and get back her letter, that she might alter it. But it will be better so, she said again, if I touched his feelings now, he would never bring himself to leave me. It is right that I should be cold to him. I should be false to myself if I tried to move his love, I who have nothing to give him in return for it. And so she made no further visit to the post-office, and the letter went on its way. We will now follow its fortunes for a short while, and explain how it was that Mary received no answer for a week. A week it may well be imagined of terrible suspense to her. When she took it to the post-office, she doubtless thought that the baker's wife had nothing to do but to send it up to the house at Greshamsbury, and that Frank would receive it that evening, or at latest, early on the following morning, but this was by no means so. The epistle was posted on a Friday afternoon, and it behoved the baker's wife to send it into Silverbridge, Silverbridge being the poster-town, so that all due formalities as ordered by the Queen's government might there be perfected. Now unfortunately the post-boy had taken his departure before Mary reached the shop, and it was not, therefore, dispatched till Saturday. Sunday was always a D.A.'s known with the Greshamsbury Mercury, and consequently Frank's letter was not delivered at the house till Monday morning, at which time Mary had for two long days been waiting with weary heart for the expected answer. Now Frank had on that morning gone up to London by the early train, with his future brother-in-law, Mr. Oriel. In order to accomplish this, they had left Greshamsbury for Barchester, exactly as the post-boy was leaving Silverbridge for Greshamsbury. I should like to wait for my letters, Mr. Oriel had said, when the journey was being discussed. Nonsense! Frank had answered, who ever got a letter that was worth waiting for, and so Mary was doomed to a week of misery. When the post-bag arrived at the house on Monday morning, it was opened as usual by the squire himself at the breakfast-table. Here is a letter for Frank," said he, boasted in the village. You had better send it to him. And he threw the letter across the table to Beatrice. It's from Mary," said Beatrice out loud, taking the letter up and examining the address, and having said so, she repented what she had done as she looked first at her father and then at her mother. A cloud came over the squire's brow, as for a minute he went on turning over the letters and newspapers. Oh, from Mary Thorn, is it," he said. Well, you had better send it to him. Frank said that if any letters came they were to be kept, said his sister Sophie. He told me so particularly. I don't think he likes having letters sent after him. You had better send that one," said the squire. Mr. Oriel is to have all his letters addressed to Longs Hotel Bond Street, and this one can very well be sent with them, said Beatrice, who knew all about it, and intended herself to make a free use of the address. Yes, you had better send it," said the squire, and then nothing further was said at the table. But Lady Arabella, though she said nothing, had not failed to mark what had passed. Had she asked for the letter before the squire, he would probably have taken possession of it himself. But as soon as she was alone with Beatrice, she did demand it. She'll be rating to Frank myself, she said, and will send it to him. And so Beatrice, with a heavy heart, gave it up. The letter lay before Lady Arabella's eyes all that day, and many a wistful glance was cast at it. She turned it over and over, and much she desired to know its contents. But she did not dare to break the seal of her son's letter. All that day it lay upon her desk, and all the next, for she could hardly bring herself to part with it. But on the Wednesday it was sent, sent with these lines from herself. Dearest, dearest Frank, I send you a letter which is come by the post from Mary Thorn. I do not know what it may contain, but before you correspond with her, pray, pray think of what I said to you, for May's sake, for your father's, for your own, pray think of it. That was all, but it was enough to make her word to Beatrice true. She did send it to Frank, enclosed in a letter from herself. We must reserve to the next chapter what had taken place between Frank and his mother, but for the present we will return to the doctor's house. Mary said not a word to him about the letter, but keeping silent on the subject she felt wretchedly estranged from him. Is anything the matter, Mary? he said to her on the Sunday afternoon. No, uncle, she answered, turning away her head to hide her tears. Ah, but there is something. What is it, dearest? Nothing. That is nothing that one can talk about. What, Mary, be unhappy and not to talk about it to me. That's something new, is it not? One has presentiments sometimes, and is unhappy without knowing why. Besides, you know. I know. What do I know? Do I know anything that will make my pet happier? And he took her in his arms, as they sat together on the sofa. Her tears were now falling fast, and she no longer made an effort to hide them. Speak to me, Mary. This is more than a presentiment. What is it? Oh, uncle, come, love, speak to me. Tell me why you are grieving. Oh, uncle, why have you not spoken to me? Why have you not told me what to do? Why have you not advised me? Why are you always so silent? Silent about what? You know, uncle. You know, silent about him, silent about Frank. Why, indeed, what was he to say to this? It was true that he had never counseled her, never shown her what course she should take, had never even spoken to her about her lover. And it was equally true that he was not now prepared to do so, even in answer to such an appeal as this. He had a hope, a strong hope, more than a hope, that Mary's love would yet be happy, that he could not express or explain his hope, nor could he even acknowledge to himself a wish that would seem to be based on the death of him whose life he was bound, if possible, to preserve. My love, he said, it is a matter in which you must judge for yourself. Did I doubt your conduct? I should interfere, but I do not. Conduct is conduct everything. One may conduct oneself excellently and yet break one's heart. This was too much for the doctor. His sternness and firmness instantly deserted him. Mary, he said, I will do anything that you would have me. If you wish it, I will make arrangements for leaving this place at once. Oh, no, she said, plentifully, when you tell me of a broken heart, you almost break my own. Come to me, darling, do not leave me so. I will say all that I can say. I have thought, do still think, that circumstances will admit of your marriage with Frank, if you both love each other, and can both be patient. You think so? said she, unconsciously sliding her hand into his, as though to thank him by its pressure for the comfort he was giving her. I do think so, now more than ever, but I only think so. I have been unable to assure you. There, darling, I must not say more, only that I cannot bear to see you grieving. I would not have said this. And then he left her, and nothing more was spoken on the subject. If you can be patient, why a patient of ten years would be as nothing to her, could she but live with the knowledge that she was first in his estimation, dearest in his heart? Could it be also granted to her to feel that she was regarded as his equal? She could be patient forever. What more did she want than to know and feel this? Patient indeed. But what could these circumstances be to which our uncle had eluded? I do think that circumstances will admit of your marriage. Such was his opinion, and she had never known him to be wrong. Circumstances? What circumstances? Did he perhaps mean that Mr. Gresham's affairs were not so bad as they had been thought to be? If so, that alone would hardly alter the matter. For what could she give in return? I would give him the world for one word of love, she said to herself, and never think that he was my debtor. How beggarly the heart must be that speculates on such gifts as those. But there was her uncle's opinion. He still thought that they might be married. Oh, why had she sent her letter? And why had she made it so cold? With such a letter as that before him, Frank could not do other than consent to her proposal. And then why did he not at least answer it? On the Sunday afternoon there arrived at Gresham's Brie a man and a horse from Boxall Hill, bearing a letter from Lady Scatchard to Dr. Thorn, earnestly requesting the doctor's immediate attendance. I fear everything is over with poor Louis, wrote the unhappy mother. It has been very dreadful. Do come to me. I have no other friend, and I am nearly worn through with it. The man from the city, she meant Dr. Philbrave, comes every day, and I dare say is all very well. But he has never done much good. He has not had spirit enough to keep the bottle from him, and it was that and that only that most behoved to be done. I doubt you won't find him in this world when you arrive here. Dr. Thorn started immediately, even though he might have to meet Dr. Philbrave. He could not hesitate, for he went not as a doctor to the dying man, but as the trustee under Sir Roger's will. Moreover, as Lady Scatchard had said, he was her only friend, and he could not desert her at such a moment for an army of Philgraves. He told Mary he should not return that night, and taking with him a small saddle-bag, he started at once for Boxall Hill. As he rode up to the hall door, Dr. Philgrave was getting into his carriage. They had never met so as to speak to each other since that memorable day, when they had their famous passage of arms, in the hall of that very house before which they now stored. But at the present moment neither of them was disposed to renew the fight. What news of your patient, Dr. Philbrave, said our doctor, still seated on his sweating horse, and putting his hand likely to his hat. Dr. Philgrave could not refrain from one moment of supercilious disdain. He gave one little chuck to his head, one little twist to his neck, one little squeeze to his lips, and then the man within him overcame the doctor. Saint Louis is no more, he said. God's will be done, said Dr. Thorn. His death is a release, for his last days have been very frightful. Your coming, Dr. Thorn, will be a comfort to Lady Scatchard, and then Dr. Philgrave, thinking that even the present circumstances required no further condescension, ensconced himself in the carriage. His last days have been very dreadful. Army, poor fellow. Dr. Philgrave, before you go, allow me to say this. I am quite aware that when he fell into your hands, no medical skill in the world could save him. Dr. Philgrave bowed low from the carriage, and after this unwonted exchange of courtesies, the two doctors parted, not to meet again. At any rate, in the pages of this novel, of Dr. Philgrave let it now be said that he grows in dignity as he grows in years, and that he is universally regarded as one of the celebrities of the city of Barchester. Lady Scatchard was found sitting alone in her little room on the ground floor. Even Hannah was not with her, for Hannah was now occupied upstairs. When the doctor entered the room, which he did unannounced, he found her seated on a chair, with her back against one of the presses, her hands clasped together over her knees, gazing into vacancy. She did not ever hear him or see him as he approached, and his hand had slightly touched her shoulder before she knew that she was not alone. Then she looked up at him with a face so full of sorrow, so worn with suffering, that his own heart was wracked to see her. It is all over, my friend, said he. It is better so, much better so. She seemed at first hardly to understand him, but still regarding him with that one face shook her head slowly and sadly. One might have thought that she was twenty years older than when Dr. Thorn last saw her. He drew a chair to her side, and sitting by her took her hand in his. It is better so, Lady Scatchard. Better so, he repeated, the poor lad's doom had been spoken, and it is well for him, and for you, that it should be over. They are both gone now, said she, speaking very low. Both gone now. O doctor, to be left alone here, all alone! He said some few words, trying to comfort her. But who can comfort a widow bereaved of her child? Who can console a heart that has lost all that it possessed? Sir Roger had not been to her a tender husband, but still he had been the husband of her love. Sir Louis had not been to her an affectionate son, but still he had been her child, her only child. Now they were both gone. Who can wonder that the world should be a blank to her? Still the doctor spoke soothing words, and still he held her hand. He knew that his words could not console her, but the sounds of his kindness, at such desolate moments, are to such minds as hers some alleviation of grief. She hardly answered him, but sat there, staring out before her, leaving her hand passively to him, and swaying her head backwards and forwards, as though her grief were too heavy to be borne. At last her eye rested on an article which stood upon the table, and she started up impetuously from her chair. She did this so suddenly that the doctor's hand fell beside him, before he knew that she had risen. The table was covered with all those implements which become so frequent about a house when severe illness is an inhabitant there. There were little boxes and apothecaries' bottles, cups and saucers standing separate, and bowls in which messes have been prepared, with the hope of suiting a sick man's failing appetite. There was a small saucepan standing on a plate, a curiously shaped glass utensil left by the doctor, and sundry pieces of flannel which had been used in rubbing the sufferer's limbs. But in the middle of the debris stood one black bottle, with head erect, unsuited to the companionship in which it was found. There, she said, rising up and seizing this in a manner that would have been ridiculous, had it not been so truly tragic, there! That has robbed me of everything, of all that I ever possessed. Husband and child of the father and son, that has swallowed them both, murdered them both. Oh, doctor, that such a thing as that should cause such bitter sorrow! I have hated it always, but now, oh, woe is me, weary me! And then she let the bottle drop from her hand, as though it were too heavy for her. This comes of their baronighting, she continued. If they had let him alone, he would have been here now. And so would the other one. Why did they do it? Why did they do it? Ah, doctor, people such as us should never meddle with them above us. See what has come of it. See what has come of it. The doctor could not remain with her long, as it was necessary that he should take upon himself the direction of the household, and give orders for the funeral. First of all, he had to undergo the sad duty of seeing the corpse of the deceased baronette. This, at any rate, may be spared to my readers. It was found to be necessary that the interment should be made very quickly, as the body was already nearly destroyed by alcohol. Having done all this, and sent back his horse to Greshensbury, with directions that clothes for a journey might be sent to him, and a notice that he should not be home for some days, he again returned to Lady Scatchard. Of course he could not but think much of the immense property, which was now for a short time altogether in his own hands. His resolution was soon made, to go at once to London, and consult the best lawyer he could find, or the best dozen lawyers should such be necessary, as to the validity of Mary's claims. This must be done before he said a word to her, or to any of the Gresham family. But it must be done instantly, so that all suspense might be at an end as soon as possible. He must, of course, remain with Lady Scatchard till the funeral should be over, but when that office should be complete he would start instantly for London. In resolving to tell no one, as to Mary's fortune, till after he had fortified himself with legal warranty, he made one exception. He thought it rational that he should explain to Lady Scatchard who was now the heir under her husband's will, and he was the more inclined to do so from feeling that the news would probably be gratifying to her. With this view he had once or twice endeavored to induce her to talk about the property, but she had been unwilling to do so. She seemed to dislike all allusions to it, and it was not till she had incidentally mentioned the fact that she would have to look for a home, that he was able to fix her to the subject. This was on the evening before the funeral, on the afternoon of which day he intended to proceed to London. It may probably be arranged that you may continue to live here, said the doctor. I don't wish it at all, said she rather sharply. I don't wish to have any arrangements made. I would not be indebted to any of them for anything. Oh, dear, if money could make it all right I should have enough of that. Indebted to whom, Lady Scatchard? Who do you think will be the owner of Boxall Hill? Indeed, then, Dr. Thorn, I don't much care. Unless it be yourself, it won't be any friend of mine, or anyone I shall care to make a friend of. It isn't so easy for an old woman like me to make new friends. Well, it certainly won't belong to me. I wish it did, with all my heart. But even then I would not live here. I have had too many troubles here to wish to see more. That shall be just as you like, Lady Scatchard, but you will be surprised to hear that the place will, at least I think it will, belong to a friend of yours, to one to whom you have been very kind. And who is he, doctor? Won't it go to some of those Americans? I am sure I never did anything kind to them. Though indeed I did love poor Mary Scatchard, but that's years upon years ago. And she is dead and gone now. Well, I begrudge nothing to Mary's children. As I have none of my own, it is right they should have the money. It has not made me happy. I hope it may do so to them. The property will, I think, go to Mary Scatchard's eldest child. It is she whom you have known as Mary Thorn, doctor. And then, Lady Scatchard, as she made the exclamation, put both her hands down to hold her chair, as though she feared the weight of her surprise would topple her off her seat. Yes, Mary Thorn, my Mary, to whom you have been so good, who loves you so well, she, I believe, will be Sir Roger's heiress. And it was so that Sir Roger intended on his deathbed in the event of poor Louis's life being cut short. If this be so, will you be ashamed to stay here as the guest of Mary Thorn? She has not been ashamed to be your guest. But Lady Scatchard was now too much interested in the general tenor of the news which she had heard, to care much about the house which she was to inhabit in future. Mary Thorn, the heiress of Foxall Hill. Mary Thorn, the still-living child of that poor creature, would so nearly died when they were all afflicted with their early grief. Well, there was consolation. There was comfort in this. There were but three people left in the world that she could love. Her foster child, Frank Grasham, Mary Thorn, and the doctor. If the money went to Mary, it would, of course, go to Frank, for she now knew that they loved each other, and if it went to them, would not the doctor have his share also? That share, if he might want, could she have governed the matter? She would have given it all to Frank, and now it would be as well bestowed. Yes, there was consolation in this. They both sat up more than half the night, talking over it, and giving and receiving explanations. If only the counsel of lawyers would not be adverse. That was now the point of suspense. The doctor, before he left her, bade her hold her peace, and say nothing of Mary's fortune to any one, till her rights had been absolutely acknowledged. It will be nothing not to have it, said the doctor. But it would be very bad to hear it was hers, and then, to lose it. On the next morning, Dr. Thorn deposited the remains of Salui in the vault prepared for the family in the parish church. He laid the son, where a few months ago he had laid the father. And so the title of Scatchard became extinct. Their race of honour had not been long. After the funeral, the doctor hurried up to London, and there we will leave him. End of Chapter 43, Recording by Nick Whitley, Pearlie, United Kingdom Chapter 44, Saturday evening and Sunday morning We must now go back a little, and describe how Frank had been sent off on special business to London. The household at Greshamsbury was at this time in but a doleful state. It seemed to be pervaded from the squire down to the scullery-made, with a feeling that things were not going well. And men and women, in spite of Beatrice's coming marriage, were grim visaged and dolerous. Mr. Mortimer Gaysby, rejected though he had been, still went and came, talking much to the squire, much also to her ladyship, as to the ill-doings which were in the course of projection by Sir Louis. And Frank went about the house with clouded brow, as though finally resolved to neglect his one great duty. Poor Beatrice was robbed of half her joy. Over and over again, her brother asked her whether she had yet seen Mary, and she was obliged as often to answer that she had not. Indeed, she did not dare to visit her friend, for it was hardly possible that they should sympathise with each other. Mary was to say the least stubborn in her pride, and Beatrice, though she could forgive her friend for loving her brother, could not forgive the obstinacy with which Mary persisted in a course which, as Beatrice thought, she herself knew to be wrong. And then Mr. Gaysby came down from town, with an intimation that it behoved the squire himself to go up, that he might see certain learned pundits, and be badgered in his own person at various dingy, dismal chambers in Lincoln's infields, the temple, and graze in lane. It was an invitation exactly of that sort, which a good many years ago was given to a certain duck. Will you, will you, will you, will you, come and be killed? Although Mr. Gaysby urged the matter with such eloquence, the squire remained steady to his objection, and swam obstinately about his Gresham's prepond in any direction save that which seemed to lead towards London. This occurred on the very evening of that Friday, which had witnessed the Lady Arabella's last visit to Dr. Thorn's house. The question of the squire's necessary journey to the great fountains of justice was, of course, discussed between Lady Arabella and Mr. Gaysby, and it occurred to the former, full as she was, of Frank's iniquity and of Mary's obstinacy, that if Frank were sent up in lieu of his father, it would separate them, at least for a while. If she could only get Frank away without seeing his love, she may yet so work upon him bare means of the message which Mary had sent as to postpone, if not break off, this hateful match. It was inconceivable that a youth of twenty-three, and such a youth as Frank, should be obstinately constant to a girl possessed of no great beauty, so argued Lady Arabella to herself, and who had neither wealth, birth, nor fashion to recommend her. And thus it was at last settled, the squire being a willing party to the agreement, that Frank should go up and be badgered in lieu of his father. At his age it was possible to make it appear a thing desirable, if not necessary, on account of the importance conveyed, to sit day after day in the chambers of Messers slow and by-the-wile, and hear musty law-talk and finger-dusty law-parchments. The squire had made many visits to Messers slow and by-the-wile, and he knew better. Frank had not hitherto been there on his own bottom, and thus he fell easily into the trap. Mr. Oriole was also going to London, and this was another reason for sending Frank. Mr. Oriole had business of great importance, which it was quite necessary that he should execute before his marriage. How much of this business consisted in going to his tailor, buying a wedding-ring, and purchasing some other more costly present for Beatrice, we need not here inquire. But Mr. Oriole was quite on Lady Arabella's side with reference to this mad engagement, and as Frank and he were now fast friends, some good might be done in that way. If we all caution him against it, he can hardly withstand us all, said Lady Arabella to herself. The matter was broached to Frank on the Saturday evening, and settled between them all the same night. Nothing, of course, was at that moment said about Mary, but Lady Arabella was too full of the subject to let him go to London without telling him that Mary was ready to recede, if only he would allow her to do so. About eleven o'clock Frank was sitting in his own room, conning over the difficulties of the situation, thinking of his father's troubles, and his own position, when he was roused from his reverie by a slight tap at the door. "'Come in,' said he, somewhat loudly. He thought it was one of his sisters, who were apt to visit him at all hours, and for all manner of reasons, and he, though he was usually gentle to them, was not at present exactly in a humour to be disturbed. The door gently opened, and he saw his mother standing, hesitating in the passage. "'Can I come in, Frank?' said she. "'Oh, yes, mother, by all means.' And then, with some surprise marked in his countenance, he prepared a seat for her. Such a visit as this from Lady Arabella was very unusual, so much so that he had probably not seen her in his own room, since the day when he first left school. He had nothing, however, to be ashamed of, nothing to conceal, unless it were an open letter from Miss Dunstable, which he had in his hand when she entered, and which he somewhat hurriedly thrust into his pocket. "'A wanted to say a few words to you, Frank, before you start for London about this business,' Frank signified by a gesture that he was quite ready to listen to her. "'I am so glad to see your father putting the matter into your hands. You are younger than he is, and then I don't know why, but somehow your father has never been a good man of business. Everything has gone wrong with him. "'Oh, mother, do not say anything against him.' "'No, Frank, I will not. I do not wish it. Things have been unfortunate, certainly. Ah, me, a little thought when I married. But I don't mean to complain. I have excellent children, and I ought to be thankful for that.' Frank began to fear that no good could be coming, when his mother spoke in that strain. "'I will do the best I can,' said he, up in town. "'I can't help thinking myself that Mr. Gaysby might have done as well, but oh, dear, no. By no means. In such cases the principal must show himself. He says, it is right you should know how matters stand. Who is so much interested in it as you are? Poor Frank, I so often feel for you when I think how the property has dwindled. Pray do not mind me, mother. Why should you talk of it as my matter, while my father is not yet forty-five? His life, so to speak, is as good as mine. I can do very well without it. All I want is to be allowed to settle to something.' "'You mean a profession?' "'Yes, something of that sort. They are so slow, dear Frank. You, who speak French so well, I should think my brother may get you in as attaché to some embassy. That wouldn't suit me at all,' said Frank. "'Well, we'll talk about that some other time. But I came about something else, and I do hope you will hear me. Frank's brow again grew black, for he knew that his mother was about to say something which it would be disagreeable for him to hear. A was with Mary yesterday.' "'Well, mother, don't be angry with me, Frank. You can't but know that the fate of an only son must be a subject of anxiety to a mother. Ah, how singularly altered was Lady Arabella's tone, since first she had taken upon herself to discuss the marriage prospects of her son. Then how autocratic had she been, as she sent him away, bidding him with full command to throw himself into the golden embraces of misdonstable. But now, how humble, as she came suppliently to his room, craving that she might have leave to whisper into his ears a mother's anxious fears. Frank had laughed at her stern behests, though he had half obeyed them. But he was touched to the heart by her humility. He drew his chair nearer to her, and took her by the hand. But she, disengaging hers, parted the hair from off his forehead, and kissed his brow. "'Oh, Frank,' she said, "'I have been so proud of you. I am still so proud of you. It will send me to my grave, if I see you sink below your proper position. Not that it will be your fault. I am sure it will not be your fault. Only, circumstance as you are, you should be doubly, trebly careful. If your father had not do not speak against my father, no, Frank, it will not. No, it will not. Not another word. And no, Frank.' Before we go on, we must say one word further as to Lady Arabella's character. It will probably be said that she was a consummate hypocrite, but at the present moment she was not hypocritical. She did love her son, was anxious, very, very anxious for him, was proud of him, and almost admired the very obstinacy which so vexed her to her inmost soul. No grief would be to her so great, as that of seeing him sink below what she conceived to be his position. She was as genuinely motherly in wishing that he should marry money, as another woman might be in wishing to see her son a bishop, or as the Spartan matron, who preferred that her offspring should return on his shield to hearing that he had come back whole in limb but tainted in honour. When Frank spoke of a profession, she instantly thought of what Lord Dekoursy might do for him. If he would not marry money, he might at any rate be an attache at an embassy. A profession, hard work as a doctor or as an engineer, would, according to her ideas, degrade him, cause him to sink below his proper position, but to dangle at a foreign court, to make small talk at the evening parties of a lady ambassadors, and occasionally perhaps to write demi-official notes containing demi-official tittle-tattle, this would be in proper accordance with the high honour of a Gresham of Greshamsbury. We may not admire the direction taken by Lady Arabella's energy on behalf of her son, but that energy was not hypocritical. And near Frank, she looked wistfully into his face as she addressed him, as though half afraid to go on and begging that he would receive with complacence whatever she found herself forced to say. Well, mother, A was with Mary yesterday. Yes, yes, what then? I know what your feelings are with regard to her. No, Frank, you wrong me. A have no feelings against her. None, indeed, none, but this, that she is not fit to be your waif. I think her fit. Ah, yes, but how fit? Think of your position, Frank, and what means you have of keeping her. Think what you are, your father's only son, the heir to Greshamsbury. If Greshamsbury be ever again more than a name, it is you that must redeem it. Of all men living, you are the least able to marry a girl like Mary Thorn. Mother, I will not sell myself for what you call my position. Who asks you? They do not ask you. Nobody asks you. They do not want you to marry anyone. I did think once, but let that pass. You are now twenty-three. In ten years' time, you will still be a young man. They only ask you to wait. If you marry now, that is, marry such a girl as Mary Thorn. Such a girl? Where shall I find such another? Amin is regards many, Frank. You know Amin it. How are you to live? Where are you to go? And then her birth. Oh, Frank, Frank, birth! I hate such pretence. What was, but I won't talk about it. Mother, I tell you my word is pledged, and on no account will I be induced to break it. Ah, that's just it. That's just the point. Now, Frank, listen to me. Pray listen to me patiently for one minute. I do not ask much of you. Frank promised that he would listen patiently, but he looked anything but patient as he said so. I have seen Mary, as it was certainly my duty to do. You cannot be angry with me for that. Who said that I was angry, mother? Well, I have seen her, and I must own that though she was not disposed to be courteous to me personally, she said much that marked her excellent good sense. But the gist of it was this, that as she had made you a promise, nothing should turn her from that promise but your permission. And do you think, wait a moment, Frank, and listen to me. She confessed that this marriage was one which would necessarily bring distress on all your family, that it was one which would probably be ruinous to yourself, that it was a match which could not be approved of. She did indeed, she confessed all that. A have nothing, she said. Those were her own words. A have nothing to say in favour of this engagement except that he wishes it. That is what she thinks of it herself. His wishes are not a reason, but a law, she said. And mother, would you have me desert such a girl as that? It is not deserting, Frank. It would not be deserting. You would be doing that which she herself approves of. She feels the impropriety of going on, but she cannot draw back because of her promise to you. She thinks that she cannot do it, even though she wishes it. Wishes it? Oh, mother! A do believe she does, because she has sense to feel the truth of all that your friends say. Oh, Frank, it will go on my knees to you if you will listen to me. Oh, mother, mother, mother! You should think twice, Frank, before you refuse the only request your mother ever made you. And where do I ask you? Where do I come to you thus? Is it for my own sake? Oh, my boy, my darling boy, will you lose everything in life, because you love the child with whom you have played as a child? Whose fault is it that we were together as children? She is now more than a child. I look on her already as my wife, but she is not your way, Frank, and she knows that she ought not to be. It is only because you hold her to it that she consents to be so. Do you mean to say that she does not love me? Lady Arabella would probably have said this also had she dared, but she felt that in doing so she would be going too far. It was useless for her to say anything that would be utterly contradicted by an appeal to marry herself. No, Frank, I do not mean to say that you do not love her. What I do mean is this, that it is not becoming in you to give up everything, not only yourself, but all your family for such a love as this, and that she, Mary herself, acknowledges this. Everyone is of the same opinion. Ask your father. He need not say that he would agree with you about everything, if he could. I will not say the Decorses. Oh, the Decorses! Yes, they are my relations, a know-that. Lady Arabella could not quite drop the tone of bitterness, which was natural to her in saying this. But ask your sisters. Ask Mr. Aureal whom you esteem so much. Ask your friend, Harry Baker. Frank sat silent for a moment or two, while his mother, with a look almost of agony, gazed into his face. I will ask no one, at last he said. Oh, my boy, my boy! No one but myself can know my own heart, and you will sacrifice all to such a love as that, all. Her also whom you say that you so love, what happiness can you give her as your wife? Oh, Frank, is that the only answer you will make, your mother on her knees. Oh, mother, mother! No, Frank, I will not let you ruin yourself. I will not let you destroy yourself. Promise this, at least, that you will think of what I have said. Think of it. I do think of it. Ah, but think of it in earnest. You will be absent now in London. You will have the business of the estate to manage. You will have heavy cares upon your hands. Think of it as a man, and not as a boy. I will see her to-morrow before I go. No, Frank, no. Grant me that trifle at any rate. Think upon this without seeing her. Do not proclaim yourself so weak that you cannot trust yourself to think over what your mother says to you without asking her leave. Though you be in love, do not be childish with it. What I have told you as coming from her is true word for word. If it were not, you would soon learn so. Think now of what I have said. End of what she says. And when you come back from London, then you can decide. To so much, Frank consented after some further parley, namely, that he would proceed to London on the following Monday morning without again seeing Mary, and in the meantime she was waiting with sore heart for his answer to that letter that was lying, and was still to lie for so many hours in the safe protection of the Silverbridge Postmistress. It may seem strange, but in truth his mother's eloquence had more effect on Frank than that of his father, and yet with his father he had always sympathized, that his mother had been energetic, whereas his father, if not Luke Warm, had at any rate been timid. I will ask no one, Frank had said, in the strong determination of his heart, and yet the words were hardly out of his mouth before he but thought himself that he would talk the thing over with Harry Baker. Not, said he to himself, that I have any doubt. I have no doubt, but I hate to have all the world against me. My mother wishes me to ask Harry Baker. Harry is a good fellow, and I will ask him. And with this resolve he betook himself to bed. The following day was Sunday. After breakfast Frank went with the family to church, as was usual, and there, as usual, he saw Mary and Dr. Thorn's pew. She, as she looked at him, could not but wonder why he had not answered the letter, which was still at Silverbridge, and he endeavored to read in her face whether it was true, as his mother had told him, that she was quite ready to give him up. The prayers of both of them were disturbed, as is so often the case with the prayers of other anxious people. There was a separate door opening from the Greshamsbury pew out into the Greshamsbury grounds, so that the family were not forced into unseemly community with the village multitude, in going to and from their prayers, for the front door of the church led out into a road which had no connection with the private path. It was not unusual with Frank and his father to go round, after the service, to the chief entrance, so that they might speak to their neighbours, and get rid of some of the exclusiveness which was intended for them. On this morning the squire did so, but Frank walked home with his mother and sisters, so that Mary saw no more of him. I have said that he walked home with his mother and his sisters, but he rather followed in their path. He was not inclined to talk much, at least not to them, and he continued asking himself the question whether it could be possible that he was wrong in remaining true to his promise. Could it be that he owed more to his father and his mother and what they chose to call his position than he did to Mary? After church Mr. Gays betrayed to get hold of him, for there was much still to be said, and many hints to be given as to how Frank should speak, and more especially as to how he should hold his tongue among the learned pundits in and about chance-read lane, you must be very wide awake with messes slow and bad a while, said Mr. Gaysby, but Frank would not hearken to him just at that moment. He was going to ride over to Harry Baker, so he put Mr. Gaysby off till the half-hour before dinner, or else the half-hour after tea. On the previous day he had received a letter from Miss Dunstable, which he had hitherto read but once. His mother had interrupted him, as he was about to refer to it, and now, as his father's nag was being saddled, he was still prudent in saving the Black Horse. He again took it out. Miss Dunstable had written in an excellent humour, she was in great distress about the oil of Lebanon, she said. I have been trying to get a purchaser for the last two years, but my lawyer won't let me sell it, because the would-be purchases offer a thousand pounds or so less than the value. I would give ten to be rid of the bore, but I am as little able to act myself as Sancho was in his government, the oil of Lebanon. Did you hear anything of it when you were in those parts? I thought of changing the name to London particular, but my lawyer says the brewers would bring an action against me. I was going down to your neighbourhood, to your friend the Dukes at least, but I am prevented by my poor doctor, who is so weak that I must take him to Malvern. It is a great bore, but I have the satisfaction that I do my duty by him. Your cousin George is to be married at last, so I hear at least. He loves wisely, if not well, for his widow has the name of being prudent, and fairly well to do in the world. She has got over the caprices of her youth. Dear Aunt T'Corsi will be so delighted. I might perhaps have met her at Gatherham Castle. I do so regret it. Mr Moffat has turned up again. We all thought you had finally extinguished him. He left a card the other day, and I have told the servant always to say that I am at home, and that you are with me. He is going to stand for some borough in the west of Ireland. He is used to shillelis by this time. By the by, I have a cadeau for a friend of yours. I won't tell you what it is, nor permit you to communicate the fact, but when you tell me that in sending it I may fairly congratulate her on having so devoted a slave as you, it shall be sent. If you have nothing better to do at present, do come and see my invalid at Malvern. Perhaps you might have a mind to treat for the oil of Lebanon. I'll give you all the assistance I can in cheating my lawyers. There was not much about Mary in this, but still the little that was said made him again declare that neither father nor mother should move him from his resolution. I will write to her and say that she may send her present when she pleases, or I will run down to Malvern for a day. It will do me good to see her. And so resolved he rode away to Mill Hill, thinking as he went how he would put the matter to Harry Baker. Harry was at home, but we need not describe the whole interview. Had Frank been asked beforehand, he would have declared that on no possible subject could he have had the slightest hesitation in asking Harry any question, or communicating to him any tidings. But when the time came, he found that he did hesitate much. He did not want to ask his friend if he should be wise to marry Mary Thorn. Wise or not, he was determined to do that. But he wished to be quite sure that his mother was wrong in saying that all the world would dissuade him from it. Mistunstable at any rate did not do so. At last seated on a stile at the back of the Mill Hill stables, while Harry stood close before him with both his hands in his pockets, he did get his story told. It was by no means the first time that Harry Baker had heard about Mary Thorn, and he was not therefore so surprised, as he might have been, had the affair been new to him. And thus, standing there in the position we have described, did Mr Baker Jr. give utterance to such wisdom as was in him on this subject. You see, Frank, there are two sides to every question, and as I take it, fellows are so apt to go wrong, because they are so fond of one side, they won't look at the other. There's no doubt about it. Lady Arabella is a very clever woman, and knows what's what. And there's no doubt about this, either, that you have a very ticklish and of cards to play. I'll play it straightforward. That's my game, said Frank. Well, and good, my dear fellow. That's the best game always. But what is straightforward? Between you and me I fear there's no doubt that your father's property has got into a juice of a mess. I don't see that that has anything to do with it. Yes, but it has. If the estate was all right, and your father could give you a thousand a year to live on without feeling it, and if your eldest child would be cock-sure of Greshamsbury, it might be very well that you should please yourself as to marrying at once. But that's not the case. And yet Greshamsbury is too good a card to be flung away. I could fling it away to-morrow, said Frank. Ah, you think so, said Harry, the wise. But if you were to hear to-morrow that Sir Louis Scatchard were master of the whole place, and be dashed to him, you would feel very uncomfortable. Had Harry known how near Sir Louis was to his last struggle, he would not have spoken of him in this manner. That's all very fine talk, but it won't bear wear and tear. You do care for Greshamsbury. If you were the fellow I take you to be, care for it very much. And you care too for your father being Gresham of Greshamsbury. This won't affect my father at all. Ah, but it will affect him very much. If you were to marry Miss Thorn to-morrow, there would at once be an end to any hope of your saving the property. And do you mean to say I'm to be a liar to her for such reasons as that? Why, Harry, I should be as bad as Moffat. Only it would be ten times more cowardly, as she has no brother. I must differ from you there altogether. But, mind, I don't mean to say anything. Tell me that you have made up your mind to marry her, and I'll stick to you through thick and thin. But if you ask my advice, why, I must give it. It is quite a different affair to that of Moffat's. He had lots of tin, everything he could want. And there could be no reason why he should not marry, except that he was a snob, of whom your sister was well-quit. But this is very different. If I as your friend were to put it to Miss Thorn, what do you think she would say herself? She would say whatever she thought best for me. Exactly. Because she is a Trump. And I say the same. There can be no doubt about it, Frank, my boy. Such a marriage would be very foolish for you both. Very foolish. Nobody can admire Miss Thorn more than I do. But you oughtn't to be a marrying man for the next ten years, unless you get a fortune, if you tell her the truth. And if she's a girl I take her to be, she'll not accuse you of being false. She'll peak for a while. And so will you, old chap. But others have had to do that before you. They have got over it. And so will you. Such was the spoken wisdom of Harry Baker. And who can say that he was wrong? Frank sat a while on his rustle-seat, pairing his nails with his pen-knife, and then, looking up, he thus thanked his friend. I'm sure you mean well, Harry. And I'm much obliged to you. I dare say you're right, too. But somehow it doesn't come home to me. And what is more, after what has passed, I could not tell her that I wished to part from her. I could not do it. And besides, I have that sort of feeling that if I heard she was to marry anyone else, I am sure I should blow his brains out, either his or my own. Well, Frank, you may count on me for anything, except the last proposition. And so they shook hands. And Frank rode back to Greshamsbury. CHAPTER 45 LORE BUSINESS IN LONDON On the Monday morning, at six o'clock, Mr. Oriole and Frank started together. But early as it was, Beatrice was up to give them a cup of coffee, Mr. Oriole having slept that night in the house. Whether Frank would have received his coffee from his sister's fair hands, had not Mr. Oriole being there, may be doubted. He, however, loudly asserted that he should not have done so, when she laid claim to great merit for rising in his behalf. Mr. Oriole had been specially instigated by Lady Arabella to use the opportunity of their joint journey for pointing out to Frank the iniquity as well as madness of the course he was pursuing. And he had promised to obey her ladyship's behests. But Mr. Oriole was perhaps not an enterprising man, and was certainly not a presumptuous one. He did intend to do as he was bid. But when he began with the object of leading up to the subject of Frank's engagement, he always softened down into some much easier enthusiasm in the matter of his own engagement with Beatrice. He had not that perspicuous, but not oversensitive strengths of mind, which had enabled Harry Baker to express his opinion out at once, and boldly as he did it, yet to do so without offence. Four times before the train arrived in London he made some little attempt, but four times he failed. As the subject was matrimony, it was his easiest course to begin about himself. But he never could get any further. No man was ever more fortunate in a wife than air shall be, he said, with a soft euphuistic self-complacency, which would have been silly had it been adopted to any other person than the bride's brother. His intention, however, was very good, for he meant to show that in his case marriage was prudent and wise because his case differed so widely from that of Frank. Yes, said Frank, she is an excellent good girl. He had said it three times before, and was not very energetic. Yes, and so exactly suited to me, indeed all that I could have dreamt of, how very well she looked this morning. Some girls only look well at night. I should not like that at all. You mustn't expect her to look like that always at six o'clock a.m., said Frank, laughing. Young ladies only take that trouble on very particular occasions. She wouldn't have come down like that if my father or I had been going alone. No, and she won't do so for you in a couple of years' time. Oh, but she's always nice. I have seen her at home as much, almost, as you could do, and then she's so sincerely religious. Oh, yes, of course. That is, I am sure she is, said Frank, looking solemn, as became him. She's made to be a clergyman's wife. Well, so it seems, said Frank. A married life is, I'm sure, the happiest in the world if people are only in a position to marry, said Mr. Oriel, gradually drawing near to the accomplishment of his design. Yes, quite so. Do you know, Oriel, I never was so sleepy in my life. But with all that fuss of gazebees and one thing and another, I could not get to bed till one o'clock, and then I couldn't sleep. I'll take a snooze now, if you won't think it uncivil. And then, putting his feet upon the opposite seat, he settled himself comfortably to his rest. And so, Mr. Oriel's last attempt for lecturing Frank in the railway carriage faded away and was annihilated. By twelve o'clock, Frank was with Messas Slow and Bidowile. Mr. Bidowile was engaged at the moment, but he found the managing chance reclark to be a very chatty gentleman. Judging from what he saw, he would have said that the work to be done at Messas Slow and Bidowile's was not very heavy. A singular man, that's a lowee, said the chance reclark. Yes, very singular, said Frank. Excellent security, excellent, no better, and yet he will foreclose. But you see, he has no power himself. But the question is, can the trustee refuse? Then again, trustees are so circumscribed nowadays that they are afraid to do anything. There has been so much said lately, Mr. Gresham, that a man doesn't know where he is, or what he is doing. Nobody trusts anybody. There have been such terrible things that we can't wonder at it. Only think of the case of those hills. How can anyone expect that anyone else will ever trust a lawyer again after that? But that's Mr. Bidowile's bell. How can anyone expect it? He will see you now, I daresay, Mr. Gresham. So it turned out, and Frank was ushered into the presence of Mr. Bidowile. He had got his lesson by heart, and was going to rush into the middle of his subject. Such a course, however, was not in accordance with Mr. Bidowile's usual practice. Mr. Bidowile got up from his large wooden-seated Windsor chair, and with a soft smile, in which, however, was mingled some slight dash of the attorney's acuteness, put out his hand to his young client. Not indeed as though he were going to shake hands with him, but as though the hand were some ripe fruit all but falling, which his visitor might take and pluck if he thought proper. Frank took hold of the hand, which returned him no pressure, and then let it go again, not making any attempt to gather the fruit. I have come up to town, Mr. Bidowile, about this mortgage, commenced Frank. Mortgage, or sit down, Mr. Gresham, sit down. I hope your father is quite well. Quite well, thank you. I have a great regard for your father, so I had for your grandfather a very good man indeed. You perhaps don't remember him, Mr. Gresham. He died when I was only a year old. Oh, yes, no, you of course can't remember him. But I do. Well, he used to be very fond of some port wine I had. I think it was eleven. And if I don't mistake, I have a bottle or two of it yet. But it is not worth drinking now. Port wine, you know, won't keep beyond a certain time. That was very good wine. I don't exactly remember what it stood me a dozen then, but such wine can't be had now. As for the Madeira, you know there's an end of that. Do you drink Madeira, Mr. Gresham? No, said Frank, not very often. I'm sorry for that, but it's a fine wine. But then there's none of it left, you know. I have a few dozen. I'm told they're growing pumpkins where the vineyards were. I wonder what they do with all the pumpkins they grow in Switzerland. You've been in Switzerland, Mr. Gresham? Frank said he had been in Switzerland. It's a beautiful country. My girls made me go there last year. They said it would do me good. But then, you know, they wanted to see it themselves. However, I believe I shall go again this autumn. That is, to Aix, or some of those places, just for three weeks. I can't spare any more time, Mr. Gresham. Do you like that dining that the tarbles don't? Pretty well sometimes. One would get tired of it, eh? But they gave us capital dinners at Zurich. I don't think much of their soup. But they had fish, and about seven kinds of meats and poultry, and three or four puddings and things of that sort. Upon my word, I thought we did very well, and so did my girls, too. You see, a great many ladies travelling now. Yes, said Frank. A great many. Upon my word, I think they are right. That is, if they can afford time. I can't afford time. I'm here every day till five, Mr. Gresham. Then I go out and dine in Fleet Street, and then back to work till nine. Dear me, that's very hard. Well, yes, it is hard work. My boys don't like it, but I manage it somehow. I get down to my little place in the country on Saturday. I shall be most happy to see you there next Saturday. Frank, thinking it would be outrageous on his part to take up much of the time of the gentleman, who was constrained to work so unreasonably hard, began again to talk about his mortgages, and in so doing had to mention the name of Mr. Yates Humblebee. Ah, poor Humblebee, said Mr. Bidowile. What is he doing now? I am quite sure your father was right, or he wouldn't have done it. But I used to think that Humblebee was a decent sort of man enough. Not so grand, you know, as your gazebees and gumtions, eh, Mr. Gresham? They do say young gazebe is thinking of getting into Parliament. Let me see. Humblebee married. Who was it, he married? That was the way your father got hold of him. Not your father, but your grandfather. I used to know all about it. Well, I was sorry for Humblebee. He has got something, I suppose, eh? Frank said that he believed Mr. Yates Humblebee had something wherewith to keep the wolf from the door. Oh, you have got gazebe down there now. Gumtion, gazebe, and gazebe. Very good people, I'm sure. Only perhaps they have a little too much on hand to do your father justice. But about Salouie, Mr. Bidowile. Well, about Salouie. A very bad sort of fellow, isn't he? Drink, say. I knew his father a little. He was a rough diamond, too. I was once down in North Amptonshire about some railway business. Let me see. I almost forget whether I was with him or against him. But I know he made sixty thousand pounds by one hour's work. Sixty thousand pounds. And then he got so mad with drinking that we all thought. And so Mr. Bidowile went on for two hours, and Frank found no opportunity of saying one word about the business which had brought him up to town. What wonder that such a man as this should be obliged to stay at his office every night till nine o'clock? During these two hours a clock had come in three or four times, whispering something to the lawyer, who on the last of such occasions turned to Frank, saying, Well, perhaps that will do for today. If you'll manage to call tomorrow, say about two, I will have the whole thing looked up. Or perhaps Wednesday, or Thursday, would suit you better. Frank, declaring that the morrow would suit him very well, took his departure, wondering much at the manner in which business was done at the house of Messess Slow and Bidowile. When he called the next day, the office seemed to be rather disturbed, and he was shown quickly into Mr. Bidowile's room. Have you heard this? said that gentleman, putting a telegram into his hands. It contained tidings of the death of Sir Louis Scatchard. Frank immediately knew that these tidings must be of importance to his father, but he had no idea how vitally they concerned his own more immediate interests. Dr. Thorne will be up in town on Thursday evening after the funeral, said the talkative clerk. And nothing, of course, can be done till he comes, said Mr. Bidowile. And so Frank, pondering on the mutability of human affairs, again took his departure. He could do nothing now but wait for Dr. Thorne's arrival, and so he amused himself in the interval by running down to Malvern, and treating with mistrustable in person for the oil of Lebanon. He went down on the Wednesday, and thus failed to receive on the Thursday morning Mary's letter, which reached London on that day. He returned, however, on the Friday, and then got it, and perhaps it was well for Mary's happiness that he had seen mistrustable in the interval. I don't care what your mother says, said she with emphasis. I don't care for any Harry. Whether it be Harry Baker or old Harry himself, you made her a promise, and you are bound to keep it. If not on one day, then on another. What, because you cannot draw back yourself, get out of it by inducing her to do so? Aunt D'Courcy herself could not improve upon that. Fortified in this manner, he returned to town on the Friday morning, and then got Mary's letter. Frank also got a note from Dr. Thorn, stating that he had taken up his temporary domicile at the Grey's Inn coffee-house, so as to be near the lawyers. It has been suggested that the modern English writers of fiction should among them keep a barrister in order that they may be set right on such legal points as will arise in their little narratives, and thus avoid that exposure of their own ignorance of the laws, which nowalas they too often make. The idea is worthy of consideration, and I can only say that if such an arrangement can be made, and if a counsellor adequately skillful can be found to accept the office, I shall be happy to subscribe my quota. It would be but a modest tribute towards the cost. But as the suggestion has not yet been carried out, and as there is at present no learned gentleman whose duty would induce him to set me right, I can only plead for mercy if I be wrong in allotting all Sir Roger's vast possessions in perpetuity to Miss Thorn, alleging also in excuse that the course of my narrative absolutely demands that she shall be ultimately recognised as Sir Roger's undoubted heiress, such, after a not immoderate delay, was the opinion expressed to Dr. Thorn by his law advisers, and such in fact turned out to be the case. I will leave the matter so, hoping that my very absence of defence may serve to protect me from severe attack, if under such a will as that described as having been made by Sir Roger, Mary would not have been the heiress, that will must have been described wrongly. But it was not quite at once that those tidings made themselves absolutely certain to Dr. Thorn's mind, nor was he able to express any such opinion when he first met Frank in London. At that time Mary's letter was in Frank's pocket, and Frank, though his real business appertained much more to the fact of Sir Louis's death, and the effect that would immediately have on his father's affairs, was much more full of what so much more nearly concerned himself. I will show it Dr. Thorn himself, said he, and ask him what he thinks. Dr. Thorn was stretched fast asleep on the comfortless horsehair sofa in the dingy sitting-room at the Grey's Inn coffee-house, when Frank found him. The funeral, and his journey to London, and the lawyers, had together conquered his energies, and he lay and snored with nose upright, while heavy London summer flies settled on his head and face, and robbed his slumbers of half their charms. I beg your pardon, said he, jumping up as though he had been detected in some disgraceful act. Upon my word, Frank, I beg your pardon. But, well, my dear fellow, all well at Gresham's re-et. And as he shook himself, he made a lunge at one uncommonly disagreeable fly that had been at him for the last ten minutes. It is hardly necessary to say that he missed his enemy. I should have been with you before, Dr., but I was down at Malvern. At Malvernay? Ah, so Oriole told me. The death of poor Sir Louis was very sudden, was it not? Very. Poor fellow. Poor fellow. His fate has for some time been past hope. It is a madness, Frank. The worst of madness. Only think of it. Father and son. And such a career as the father had. Such a career as the son might have had. It has been very quickly run, said Frank. May it be all forgiven him. I sometimes cannot but believe in a special providence. That poor fellow was not able. Never would have been able to make proper use of the means which Fortune had given him. I hope they may fall into better hands. There is no use in denying it. His death will be an immense relief to me. And a relief also to your father. All this law business will now, of course, be stopped. As for me, I hope I may never be a trustee again. Frank had put his hand four or five times into his breast pocket, and had, as often, taken out and put back again Mary's letter, before he could find himself able to bring Dr. Thorn to the subject. At last there was a lull in the purely legal discussion, caused by the doctor intimating that he supposed Frank would now soon return to Greshamsbury. Yes, I shall go to-morrow morning. What, so soon as that? I counted on having you one day in London with me. No, I shall go to-morrow. I am not fit for company for any one, nor am I fit for anything. Read that, doctor. It's no use putting it off any longer. I must get you to talk this over with me. Just read that, and tell me what you think about it. It was written a week ago when I was there, but somehow I have only got it to-day. And putting the letter into the doctor's hands, he turned away to the window, and looked out among the hoben omnibuses. Dr. Thorn took the letter and read it. Mary, after she had written it, had bewailed to herself that the letter was cold, but it had not seemed cold to her lover, nor did it appear so to her uncle. When Frank turned round from the window, the doctor's handkerchief was up to his eyes, who, in order to hide the tears that were there, was obliged to go through a rather violent process of blowing his nose. Well, he said, as he gave back the letter to Frank, well, what did well mean? Was it well? Or would it be well were he, Frank, to comply with the suggestion made to him by Mary? It is impossible, he said, that matters should go on like that. Think of what her sufferings must have been before she wrote that. I am sure she loves me. I think she does, said the doctor, and it is out of the question that she should be sacrificed, nor will I consent to sacrifice my own happiness. I am quite willing to work for my bread, and I am sure that I am able. I will not submit to Dr. Watanser. Do you think I ought to give to that letter? There can be no person so anxious for her happiness as you are, except myself. And, as he asked the question, he again put into the doctor's hand almost unconsciously the letter which he had still been holding in his own. The doctor turned it over and over, and then opened it again. What answer ought I to make to it? demanded Frank with energy. You see, Frank, I have never interfered in this matter. Otherwise than to tell you the whole truth about Mary's birth. Oh, but you must interfere. You should say what you think. Circumstanced as you are now. That is, just at the present moment, you could hardly marry immediately. Why not let me take a farm? My father could at any rate manage a couple of thousand pounds or so for me to stock it. That would not be asking much. If he could not give it me, I would not scruple to borrow so much elsewhere. And Frank bethought him of all misdonstables offers. Oh, yes, that could be managed. Then why not marry immediately, say in six months or so? I am not unreasonable, though heaven knows I have been kept in suspense long enough. As for her, I am sure she must be suffering frightfully. You know her best, and therefore I ask you what answer I ought to make. As for myself, I have made up my own mind. I am not a child, nor will I let them treat me as such. Frank, as he spoke, was walking rapidly about the room, and he brought out his different positions one after the other with a little pause while waiting for the doctor's answer. The doctor was sitting, with the letter still in his hands, on the head of the sofa. Turning over in his mind the apparent absurdity of Frank's desire to borrow two thousand pounds for a farm, when in all human probability he might in a few months be in possession of almost any sum he should choose to name. And yet he would not tell him of Sir Roger's will. If it should turn out to be all wrong, said he to himself, do you wish me to give her up? said Frank at last. Oh, how can I wish it? How can I expect a better match for her? Besides Frank, I love no man in the world so well as I do you. Then you will help me? What? Against your father? Against? No, not against anybody. But will you tell Mary that she has your consent? I think she knows that. But you have never said anything to her. Look here, Frank, you ask me for my advice, and I will give it you. Go home, though indeed I would rather you went anywhere else. No, I must go home, and I must see her. Very well. Go home. As for seeing Mary, I think you had better put it off for a fortnight. Quite impossible. Well, that's my advice. But at any rate, make up your mind to nothing for a fortnight. Wait for one fortnight, and I then will tell you plainly, you and her too, what I think you ought to do. At the end of a fortnight, come to me, and tell the squire that I will take it as a great kindness if he will come with you. She has suffered terribly, terribly, and it is necessary that something should be settled. But a fortnight more can make no great difference. And the letter? Oh, there's the letter. But what shall I say? Of course I shall write to-night. Tell her to wait a fortnight. And Frank, mind you, bring your father with you. Frank could draw nothing further from his friend, save constant repetitions of this charge to him to wait a fortnight. Just one other fortnight. Well, I will come to you at any rate, said Frank, and if possible I will bring my father. But I shall write to Mary to-night. On the Saturday morning Mary, who was then nearly broken-hearted, at her lover's silence, received a short note. My own Mary, I shall be home to-morrow. I will by no means release you from your promise. Of course you will perceive that I only got your letter to-day, your own dearest Frank. PS, you will have to call me so hundreds and hundreds of times yet, short as it was, this sufficed Mary. It is one thing for a young lady to make prudent heart-breaking suggestions, but quite another to have them accepted. She did call him dearest Frank, even on that one day, almost as often as he had desired her. End of chapter 45, recording by Nick Whitley, Hurley, United Kingdom