 Chapter 3 of Dr. Thorn by Antony Trollope, and thus Dr. Thorn became settled for life in the little village of Greshamsbury, as was then the won't with many country practitioners, and as should be the won't with them all, if they consulted their own dignity a little less, and the comforts of their customers somewhat more, he added the business of a dispensing apothecary to that of physician. In doing so he was, of course, much reviled. Many people around him declared that he could not truly be a doctor, or at any rate a doctor to be so called, and his brethren in the art living around him, though they knew that his diplomas, degrees, and certificates were all en règle, rather countenanced the report. There was much about this newcomer which did not endear him to his own profession. In the first place he was a newcomer, and as such was, of course, to be regarded by other doctors as being the tall. Greshamsbury was only fifteen miles from Varchester, where there was a regular depot of medical skill, and but eight from Silverbridge, where a properly established physician had been in residence for the last forty years. Dr. Thorn's predecessor at Greshamsbury had been a humble-minded general practitioner, who did with a due respect for the physicians of the county, and he, though he had been allowed to physics the servants, and sometimes the children of Greshamsbury, had never had the presumption to put himself on a par with his betters. Then also Dr. Thorn, though a graduated physician, though entitled beyond all dispute to call himself a doctor, according to all the laws of all the colleges, made it known to the East Barsicher world, very soon after he had seated himself at Greshamsbury, that his rate of pay was to be seven and six cents a visit, within a circuit of five miles, with a proportionally increased charge at proportionally increased distances. Now there was something low, mean, unprofessional and democratic in this, so at least said the children of East Culepius gathered together in conclave at Barchester. In the first place it showed that this Thorn was always thinking of his money, like an apothecary as he was, whereas it would have behoved him as a physician had he had the feelings of a physician under his hat to have regarded his own pursuits in a purely philosophical spirit, and to have taken any gain which might have accrued as an accidental adjunct to his station in life. A physician should take his fee without letting his left hand know what his right hand was doing. It should be taken without a thought, without a look, without a move of the facial muscles. The true physician should hardly be aware that the last friendly grasp of the hand had been made more precious by the touch of gold, whereas that fellow Thorn would lug out half a crown from his britch's pocket and give it in change for a tensioning peace. And then it was clear that this man had no appreciation of the dignity of a learned profession. He might constantly be seen compounding medicines in the shop at the left hand of his front door, not making experiments philosophically in materia medica for the benefit of coming ages, which if he did he should have done in the seclusion of his study far from profane eyes, but positively putting together common powders for rural bowels, or spreading vulgar ointments for agricultural ailments. A man of this sort was not fit society for Dr. Phil Grave of Rochester. That must be admitted, and yet he had been found to be fit society for the old squire of Greshamsbury, whose shoe-ribbons Dr. Phil Grave would not have objected to tie, so high did the old squire stand in the county just previous to his death, but the spirit of the lady Arabella was known by the medical profession of Barsicher, and when that good man died it was felt that Thorn's short tenure of Greshamsbury favour was already over. The Barsicher regulars were however doomed to disappointment. Our doctor had already contrived to endear himself to the heir, and though there was not even then much personal love between him and the lady Arabella, he kept his place at the great house unmoved, not only in the nursery and in the bedrooms, but also at the squire's dining-table. Now there was in this it must be admitted quite enough to make him unpopular with his brethren, and this feeling was soon shown in a marked and dignified manner. Dr. Phil Grave, who had certainly the most respectable professional connection in the county, who had a reputation to maintain, and who was accustomed to meet, on almost equal terms, the great medical baronets from the metropolis, at the houses of the nobility, Dr. Phil Grave declined to meet Dr. Thorn in consultation. He exceedingly regretted, he said, most exceedingly, the necessity which he felt of doing so. He had never before had to perform so painful a duty, but, as a duty which he owed to his profession, he must perform it. With every feeling of respect for Lady Dash, a sick guest at Greshamsbury, and for Mr. Gresham, he must decline to attend in conjunction with Dr. Thorn. If his services could be made available under any other circumstances, he would go to Greshamsbury as fast as post-horses could carry him. Then, indeed, there was war in Barsicher. If there was on Dr. Thorn's cranium one bump more developed than another, it was that of combativeness, not that the doctor was a bully, or even pugnacious in the usual sense of the word. He had no disposition to provoke a fight, no propense love of quarrelling, but there was that in him which would allow him to yield to no attack. Neither in argument, nor in contest, would he ever allow himself to be wrong, never at least to anyone but to himself, and on behalf of his special hobbies, he was ready to meet the world at large. It will therefore be understood that when such a gauntlet was thus thrown in his very teeth by Dr. Phil Grave, he was not slow to take it up. He addressed a letter to the Barsicher conservative standard, in which he attacked Dr. Phil Grave with some considerable acerbity. Dr. Phil Grave responded in four lines, saying that on mature consideration he had made up his mind not to notice any remarks that might be made on him by Dr. Thorn in the public press. The Greshamsbury doctor then wrote another letter, more witty and much more severe than the last, and as this was copied into the Bristol, Exeter and Gloucester papers, Dr. Phil Grave found it very difficult to maintain the magnanimity of his reticence. It is sometimes becoming enough for a man to wrap himself in the dignified toga of silence, and proclaim himself indifferent to public attacks. But it is a sort of dignity, which it is very difficult to maintain. As well might a man, when stung to madness by wasps, endeavor to sit in his chair without moving a muscle, as endure with patience, and without reply, the courtesies of a newspaper opponent. Dr. Thorn wrote a third letter, which was too much for medical flesh and blood to bear. Dr. Phil Grave answered it, not indeed in his own name, but in that of a brother doctor, and then the war raged merrily. It is hardly too much to say that Dr. Phil Grave never knew another happy hour. Had he dreamt of what materials was made that young compounder of doses at Gresham's Bree, he would have met him in consultation morning, noon, and night, without objection. But having begun the war, he was constrained to go on with it. His brethren would allow him no alternative. Thus he was continually being brought up to the fight, as a prize-fighter may be seen to be, who is carried up round after round, without any hope on his own part, and who in each round drops to the ground before the very wind of his opponent's blows. But Dr. Phil Grave, though thus weak himself, was backed in practice and in countenance by nearly all his brethren in the county, the guinea fie, the principle of giving advice, and of selling no medicine, the great resolve to keep a distinct barrier between the physician and the apothecary, and above all the hatred of the contamination of a bill, were strong in the medical mind of Varsitia. Dr. Thorn had the provincial medical world against him, and so he appealed to the metropolis. The Lancet took the matter up in his favour, but the Journal of Medical Science was against him. The weekly shirurgian noted for its medical democracy upheld him as a medical prophet. But the scalping knife, a monthly periodical got up in dead opposition to the Lancet, showed him no mercy. So the war went on, and our doctor, to a certain extent, became a noted character. He had moreover other difficulties to encounter in his professional career. It was something in his favour that he understood his business, something that he was willing to labour at it with energy, and resolved to labour at it conscientiously. He had also other gifts, such as conversational brilliancy, an aptitude for true good fellowship, firmness in friendship, and general honesty of disposition, which stood him instead as he advanced in life. But at his first starting, much that belonged to himself personally was against him. Let him enter what house he would. He entered it with a conviction, often expressed to himself, that he was equal as a man to the proprietor, equal as a human being to the proprietress. To age he would allow deference, and to special recognised talent, at least so he said. To rank also he would pay that respect which was its clear and recognised prerogative. He would let a lord walk out of a room before him, if he did not happen to forget it. In speaking to a duke, he would address him as his grace, and he would in no way assume a familiarity with bigger men than himself, allowing to the bigger man the privilege of making the first advances. But beyond this he would admit that no man should walk the earth with his head higher than his own. He did not talk of these things much. He offended no rank by boasts of his own equality. He did not absolutely tell the earlder Corsi in words that the privilege of dining at Corsi Castle was to him no greater than the privilege of dining at Corsi Parsonage. But there was that in his manner that told it. The feeling in itself was perhaps good, and was certainly much justified by the manner in which he bore himself to those below him in rank. But there was folly in the resolution to run counter to the world's recognised rules on such matters, and much absurdity in his mode of doing so, seeing that at heart he was a thorough conservative. It is hardly too much to say that he naturally hated a lord at first sight. But nevertheless he would have expended his means, his blood and spirit, in fighting for the upper house of Parliament. Such a disposition, until it was thoroughly understood, did not tend to ingratiate him with the wives of the country gentlemen among whom he had to look for practice. And then also there was not much in his individual manner to recommend him to the favour of ladies. He was brusque, authoritative, given to contradiction, rough, though never dirty in his personal belongings, and inclined to indulge in a sort of quiet railery, which sometimes was not thoroughly understood. People did not always know whether he was laughing at them or with them, and some people were perhaps inclined to think that a doctor should not laugh at all when called in to act doctorially. When he was known, indeed, when the core of the fruit had been reached, when the huge proportions of that loving, trusting heart had been learnt, and understood, and appreciated, when that honesty had been recognised, that manly and almost womanly tenderness had been felt. Then indeed the doctor was acknowledged to be adequate in his profession. To trifling ailments he was too often brusque. Seeing that he accepted money for the cure of such, he should, we may say, have cured them without an offensive manner. So far he is without defence. But to real suffering no one found him brusque, no patient lying painfully on a bed of sickness ever thought him rough. Another misfortune was that he was a bachelor. Ladies think, and I for one think that ladies are quite right in so thinking, that doctors should be married men. All the world feels that a man, when married, acquires some of the attributes of an old woman. He becomes, to a certain extent, a motherly sort of being. He acquires a converse sense with women's ways and women's wants, and loses the wilder and offensive sparks of his virility. It must be easier to talk to such a one about Matilda's stomach, and the growing pains in Fanny's legs, than to a young bachelor. This impediment also stood much in Dr. Thorn's way during his first years at Gresham's Bree. But his wants were not at first great, and though his ambition was perhaps high, it was not of an impatient nature. The world was his oyster, but circumstances as he was, he knew that it was not for him to open it with his lancet all at once. He had bread to earn, which he must earn wearily. He had a character to make, which must come slowly. It satisfied his soul that, in addition to his immortal hopes, he had a possible future in this world, to which he could look forward with clear eyes, and advance with a heart that would know no fainting. On his first arrival at Gresham's Bree, he had been put by the squire into a house which he still occupied when that squire's grandson came of age. There were two decent, commodious private houses in the village, always accepting the rectory, which stood grandly in its own grounds, and therefore was considered as ranking above the village residences. Of these two, Dr. Thorn had the smaller. They stood exactly at the angle before described, on the outer side of it, and at right angles to each other. They both possessed good stables and ample gardens, and it may be as well to specify that Mr. Umbilby, the agent and lawyer to the estate, occupied the larger one. Here Dr. Thorn lived for eleven or twelve years all alone, and then for ten or eleven more with his niece, Mary Thorn. Mary was thirteen when she came to take up permanent abode as mistress of the establishment, or at any rate to act as the only mistress which the establishment possessed. This advent greatly changed the tenor of the doctor's ways. He had been before pure bachelor. Not a room in his house had been comfortably furnished. He at first commenced in a makeshift sort of way, because he had not at his command the means of commencing otherwise, and he had gone on in the same fashion, because the exact time had never come at which it was imperative in him to set his house in order. He had had no fixed hour for his meals, no fixed place for his books, no fixed wardrobe for his clothes. He had a few bottles of good wine in his cellar, and occasionally asked a brother bachelor to take a chop with him. But beyond this he had touched very little on the cares of housekeeping. A slop bowl full of strong tea, together with bread and butter and eggs, was produced for him in the morning, and he expected that at whatever hour he might arrive in the evening some food should be presented to him, wherewith to satisfy the cravings of nature. If in addition to this he had another slop bowl of tea in the evening, he got all that he ever required, or all at least that he ever demanded. But when Mary came, or rather when she was about to come, things were altogether changed at the doctors. People had hitherto wondered, and especially Mrs. Umbleby, how a gentleman like Dr. Thorn could continue to live in so suddenly a manner, and how people again wondered, and again especially Mrs. Umbleby, how the doctor could possibly think it necessary to put such a lot of furniture into our house, because a little chit of a girl of twelve years of age was coming to live with him. Mrs. Umbleby had great scope for her wonder. The doctor made a thorough revolution in his household, and furnished his house from the ground to the roof completely. He painted, for the first time since the commencement of his tenancy, he papered, he carpeted and curtained, and mirrored, and linened, and blanketed, as though a Mrs. Thorn with a good fortune were coming home to-morrow, and all for a girl of twelve years old. And how, said Mrs. Umbleby to her friend Miss Gushing, how did he find out what to buy, as though the doctor had been brought up like a wild beast, ignorant of the nature of tables and chairs, and with no more developed ideas of drawing-room drapery than an hippopotamus. To the utter amazement of Mrs. Umbleby and Miss Gushing, the doctor did it all very well. He said nothing about it to any one. He never did say much about such things, but he furnished his house well and discreetly, and when Mary Thorn came home from her school at Bath, to which she had been taken some six years previously, she found herself called upon to be the presiding genius of a perfect paradise. It has been said that the doctor had managed to endear himself to the new squire before the old squire's death, and that therefore the change at Gresham's brie had had no professional ill-effects upon him. Such was the case at the time, but nevertheless all did not go smoothly in the Gresham's brie medical department. There was six or seven years difference in age between Mr. Gresham and the doctor, and moreover Mr. Gresham was young for his age and the doctor old. But nevertheless there was a very close attachment between them early in life. This was never thoroughly sundered, and backed by this the doctor did maintain himself for some years before the fire of Lady Arabella's artillery, but drops falling if they fall constantly, will bore through a stone. Dr. Thorn's pretensions mixed with his subversive professional democratic tendencies. His seven and six many visits, added to his utter disregard of Lady Arabella's airs, were too much for her spirit. He brought Frank through his first troubles, and that at first ingratiated her. He was equally successful with the early dietary of Augusta and Beatrice, but as his success was obtained in direct opposition to the Corsi Castle nursery principles, this hardly did much in his favour. When the third daughter was born, he at once declared that she was a very weakly flower, and sternly forbade the mother to go to London. The mother, loving her babe, obeyed, but did not the less hate the doctor for the order, which she firmly believed was given at the instance and express dictation of Mr. Gresham. Then another little girl came into the world, and the doctor was more imperative than ever as to the nursery rules and the excellence of country air. Quarrels were thus engendered, and Lady Arabella was taught to believe that this doctor of her husbands was, after all, no Solomon. In her husband's absence, she sent for Dr. Philgrave, giving very express intimation that he would not have to wound either his eyes or dignity by encountering his enemy, and she found Dr. Philgrave a great comfort to her. Then Dr. Thorn gave Mr. Gresham to understand that under such circumstances he could not visit professionally at Greshamsbury any longer. The poor squire saw that there was no help for it, and though he still maintained his friendly connection with his neighbour, the seven and sixpony visits were at an end. Dr. Philgrave from Barchester, and the gentleman at Silverbridge, divided the responsibility between them, and the nursery principles of Coercy Castle were again in vogue at Greshamsbury. So things went on for years, and those years were years of sorrow. We must not ascribe to our doctor's enemies the sufferings and sickness and deaths that occurred. The four frail little ones that died would probably have been taken had Lady Arabella been more tolerant of Dr. Thorn, but the fact was that they did die, and that the mother's heart then got the better of the woman's pride, and Lady Arabella humbled herself before Dr. Thorn. She humbled herself, or would have done so had the doctor permitted her, but he, with his eyes full of tears, stopped the utterance of her apology, took her two hands in his, pressed them warmly, and assured her that his joy in returning would be great for the love that he bore to all that belonged to Greshamsbury. And so the seven and sixpony visits were recommenced, and the great triumph of Dr. Philgrave came to an end. Great was the joy in the Greshamsbury nursery when the second change took place. Among the doctor's attributes, not hitherto mentioned, was an aptitude for the society of children. He delighted to talk to children, and to play with them. He would carry them on his back three or four at a time, roll with them on the ground, race with them in the garden, invent games for them, contrive amusements in circumstances which seemed quite adverse to all manner of delight. And above all, his physics was not nearly so nasty as that which came from Silverbridge. He had a great theory as to the happiness of children, and though he was not disposed altogether to throw over the precepts of Solomon, always bargaining that he should under no circumstances be himself the executioner, he argued that the principal duty which a parent owed to a child was to make him happy. Not only was the man to be made happy, the future man, if that might be possible, but the existing boy was to be treated with equal favour, and his happiness, so said the doctor, was of much easier attainment. Why struggle after future advantage at the expense of present pain, seeing that the results were so very doubtful? Many an opponent of the doctor had thought to catch him on the hip when so singular a doctrine was broached, but they were not always successful. What, said his sensible enemies, is Johnny not to be taught to read because he does not like it? Johnny must read by all means, would the doctor answer, but is it necessary that he should not like it? If the preceptor have it in him, may not Johnny learn not only to read, but to like to learn to read. But, would say his enemies, children must be controlled, and so must men also, would say the doctor. I must not steal your peaches, nor make love to your wife, nor libel your character. Much as I might wish through my natural depravity to indulge in such vices, I am debarred from them without pain, and I may almost say without unhappiness. And so the argument went on, neither party convincing the other, but in the meantime the children of the neighbourhood became very fond of Dr. Thorn. Dr. Thorn and the squire were still fast friends, but circumstances had occurred, spreading themselves now over a period of many years, which almost made the poor squire uneasy in the doctor's company. Mr. Gresham owed a large sum of money, and he had moreover already sold a portion of his property. Unfortunately it had been the pride of the Greshams that their acres had descended from one to another without an entail, so that each possessor of Gresham's free had had the full power to dispose of the property as he pleased. Any doubt as to its going to the mail-air had never his or two been felt. It had occasionally been encumbered by charges for younger children, but these charges had been liquidated, and the property had come down without any burden to the present squire. Now a portion of this had been sold, and it had been sold to a certain degree through the agency of Dr. Thorn. This made the squire an unhappy man. No man loved his family name and honour, his old family blazen and standing more thoroughly than he did. He was every wit of Gresham at heart, but his spirit had been weaker than that of his forefathers, and in his days for the first time the Greshams were to go to the wall. Ten years before the beginning of our story it had been necessary to raise a large sum of money to meet and pay off pressing liabilities, and it was found that this could be done with more material advantage by selling a portion of the property than in any other way. A portion of it, about a third of the whole in value, was accordingly sold. Foxall Hill lay half way between Gresham's Bree and Barchester, and was known as having the best partridge shooting in the county, as having on it also a celebrated fox cover, Foxall Gorse, held in very high repute by Barchester Sportsman. There was no residence on the immediate estate, and it was altogether divided from the remainder of the Gresham's Bree property. This, with many inward and outward groans, Mr. Gresham permitted to be sold. It was sold, and sold well by private contract to a native of Barchester, who, having risen from the world's ranks, had made for himself great wealth. Somewhat of this man's character must hereafter be told. It will suffice to say that he relied for advice in money matters upon Dr. Thorn, and that at Dr. Thorn's suggestion he had purchased Foxall Hill, partridge shooting and gorse cover all included. He had not only bought Foxall Hill, but had subsequently lent the squire large sums of money on mortgage, in all which transactions the doctor had taken part. It had therefore come to pass that Mr. Gresham was not unfrequently called upon to discuss his money affairs with Dr. Thorn, and occasionally to submit to lectures and advice, which might perhaps as well have been omitted. So much for Dr. Thorn. A few words must still be said about Miss Mary before we rush into our story. The crust will then have been broken, and the pie will be open to the guests. Little Miss Mary was kept at a farmhouse till she was six. She was then sent to school at Bath, and transplanted to the doctor's newly furnished house a little more than six years after that. It must not be supposed that he had lost sight of his charge during her earlier years. He was much too well aware of the nature of the promise which he had made to the departing mother to do that. He had constantly visited his little niece, and long before the first twelve years of her life were over, had lost all consciousness of his promise, and of his duty to the mother, in the stronger ties of downright personal love for the only creature that belonged to him. When Mary came home, the doctor was like a child in his glee. He prepared surprises for her with as much forethought and trouble as though he were contriving minds to blow up an enemy. He took her first into the shop, and then into the kitchen, thence to the dining-rooms, after that to his and her bedrooms, and so on till he came to the full glory of the new drawing-room, enhancing the pleasure by little jokes, and telling her that he should never dare to come into the last paradise without her permission, and not then till he had taken off his boots. Child as she was, she understood the joke, and carried it on like a little queen, and so they soon became the firmest of friends. But though Mary was a queen, it was still necessary that she should be educated. Those were the earlier days in which Lady Arabella had humbled herself, and to show her humility she invited Mary to share the music lessons of Augusta and Beatrice at the Great House. A music-master from Barchester came over three times a week, and remained for three hours, and if the doctor chose to send his girl over, she could pick up what was going on without doing any harm. So said the Lady Arabella. The doctor, with many thanks and with no hesitation, accepted the offer, merely adding that he had perhaps better settled separately with Signor Cantabile, the music-master. He was very much obliged to Lady Arabella for giving his little girl permission to join her lessons to those of the Miss Greshams. It need hardly be said that the Lady Arabella was on fire at once. Settle with Signor Cantabile. No, indeed, she would do that. There must be no expense whatever incurred in such an arrangement on Miss Thorn's account. But here, as in most things, the doctor carried his point. It being the time of the Lady's humility, she could not make as good a fight as she would otherwise have done, and thus she found to her great disgust that Mary Thorn was learning music in her schoolroom on equal terms as regarded payment with her own daughters. The arrangement, having been made, could not be broken, especially as the young Lady in no wise made herself disagreeable, and more especially as the Miss Greshams themselves were very fond of her. And so Mary Thorn learned music at Greshamsbury, and with her music she learned other things also, how to behave herself among girls of her own age, how to speak and talk as other young ladies do, how to dress herself, and how to move and walk, all which she, being quick to learn, learned without trouble at the great house. Something also she learned of French. Seeing that the Greshamsbury French governess was always in the room. And then, some few years later, there came a rector and a rector's sister, and with the latter Mary studied German and French also. From the doctor himself she learnt much, the choice namely of English books for her own reading, and habits of thought somewhat akin to his own, though modified by the feminine softness of her individual mind. And so Mary Thorn grew up and was educated. Of her personal appearance it certainly is my business as an author to say something. She is my heroine, and as such must necessarily be very beautiful, but in truth her mind and inequalities are more clearly distinct to my brain than her outward form and features. I know that she was far from being tall, and far from being showy, that her feet and hands were small and delicate, that her eyes were bright when looked at, but not brilliant so as to make their brilliancy palpably visible to all around her. Her hair was dark brown, and worn very plainly brushed from her forehead. Her lips were thin, and her mouth perhaps in general inexpressive, but when she was eager in conversation it would show itself to be animated with curves of wondrous energy, and quiet as she was in manner, sober and demure as was her usual settled appearance, she could talk, when the fit came on her, with an energy which in truth surprised those who did not know her, I and sometimes those who did. Energy, nay, it was occasionally a concentration of passion, which left her, for the moment, perfectly unconscious of all other cares, but solicitude for that subject which she might then be advocating. All her friends, including the doctor, had at times been made unhappy by this vehemence of character, but yet it was to that very vehemence that she owed it that all her friends so loved her. It had once nearly banished her in early years from the Greshamsbury schoolroom, and yet it ended in making her claim to remain there so strong that Lady Arabella could no longer oppose it, even when she had the wish to do so. A new French governess had lately come to Greshamsbury, and was, or was to be, a great pet with Lady Arabella, having all the great gifts with which a governess can be endowed, and being also a protégé from the castle. The castle, in Greshamsbury parlance, always meant that of coursey. Soon after this, a valued little locket belonging to Augusta Gresham was missing. The French governess had objected to its being worn in the schoolroom, and it had been sent up to the bedroom by a young servant girl, the daughter of a small farmer on the estate. The locket was missing, and after a while a considerable noise in the matter having been made, was found by the diligence of the governess, somewhere among the belongings of the English servant. Great was the anger of Lady Arabella! Loud were the protestations of the girl! Mute the woe of her father! Piteous the tears of her mother! Inexorable the judgment of the Greshamsbury world! But something occurred, it matters now not what, to separate Mary Thorn in opinion from that world at large. Out she then spoke, and to her face accused the governess of the robbery. For two days Mary was in disgrace almost as deep as that of the farmer's daughter. But she was neither quiet nor dumb in her disgrace. When Lady Arabella would not hear her, she went to Mr. Gresham. She forced her uncle to move in the matter. She gained over to her side, one by one, the potentates of the parish, and ended by bringing Mancelle Larin down on her knees with a confession of the facts. From that time Mary Thorn was dear to the tenantry of Greshamsbury, and specially dear at one small household, where a rough-spoken father of a family was often heard to declare that for Miss Mary Thorn he'd face man or magistrate, Duke or Devil. And so Mary Thorn grew up under the doctor's eye, and at the beginning of our tale she was one of the guests assembled at Greshamsbury on the coming of age of the heir. She herself, having then arrived at the same period of her life. End of Chapter 3. Recording by Nick Whitley, Pearlie, United Kingdom. Chapter 4. Lessons from Coorsie Castle. It was the first of July, young Frank Gresham's birthday, and the London season was not yet over. Nevertheless Lady De Coorsie had managed to get down into the country to grace the coming of age of the heir, bringing with her all the ladies Amelia, Ruzina, Margareta, and Alexandrina, together with such of the honourable Johns and Georges as could be collected for the occasion. The Lady Arabella had contrived this year to spend ten weeks in town, which by a little stretching she made to pass for the season, and had managed moreover at last to re-furnish, not ingloriously, the Portman Square drawing-room. She had gone up to London under the pretext imperatively urged of Augusta's teeth. Young Lady's teeth are not unfrequently of value in this way, and having received authority for a new carpet, which was really much wanted, had made such dexterous use of that sanction as to run up an upholsterer's bill of six or seven hundred pounds. She had, of course, had her carriage and horses. The girls, of course, had gone out. It had been positively necessary to have a few friends in Portman Square, and altogether the ten weeks had not been unpleasant, and not inexpensive. For a few confidential minutes before dinner, Lady de Coursy and her sister-in-law sat together in the latter's dressing-room, discussing the unreasonableness of the squire, who had expressed himself with more than ordinary bitterness as to the folly. He had probably used some stronger word of these London proceedings. Heavens! said the Countess, with much eager animation. What can the man expect? What does he wish you to do? He would like to sell the house in London and bury us all here for ever. Mind, I was there only for ten weeks. Barely time for the girls to get their teeth properly looked at. But, Annabella, what does he say? Lady de Coursy was very anxious to learn the exact truth of the matter, and ascertain, if she could, whether Mr. Gresham was really as poor as he pretended to be. Why, he said yesterday that he would have no more going to town at all, that he was barely able to pay the claims made on him and keep up the house here, and that he would not—'would not what?' asked the Countess. Why, he said that he would not utterly ruin poor Frank. Ruin Frank? That's what he said. But surely, Annabella, it is not so bad as that. What possible reason can there be for him to be in debt? He is always talking of those elections. But, my dear, Boxall Hill paid all that off. Of course, Frank will not have such an income as there was when you married into the family. We all know that. And who will he have to thank for his father? But Boxall Hill paid all those debts. And why should there be any difficulty now? It was those nasty dogs, Rosina, said the Lady Annabella, almost in tears. Well, I, for one, never approved of the hounds coming to Gresham's Brick. When a man has once involved his property, he should not incur any expenses that are not absolutely necessary. That is a golden rule which Mr. Gresham ought to have remembered. Indeed, I put it to him nearly in those very words. But Mr. Gresham never did, and never will receive with common civility anything that comes from me. I know, Rosina, he never did. And yet where would he have been but for the Decorses? So exclaimed in her gratitude the Lady Annabella. To speak the truth, however, but for the Decorses, Mr. Gresham might have been at this moment on the top of Boxall Hill, monarch of all he surveyed. As I was saying, continued the Countess, I never approved of the hounds coming to Gresham's Brick. But yet, my dear, the hounds can't have eaten up everything. A man with ten thousand a year ought to be able to keep hounds, particularly as he had a subscription. He says the subscription was little or nothing. That's nonsense, my dear. Now, Arabella, what does he do with his money? That's the question. Does he gamble? Well, said Lady Annabella, very slowly, I don't think he does. If the squire did gamble, he must have done it very slyly, for he rarely went away from Gresham's Brick. And certainly very few men looking like gamblers were in the habit of coming thither as guests. I don't think he does gamble. Lady Arabella put her emphasis on the word gamble, as though her husband, if he might perhaps be charitably acquitted of that vice, was certainly guilty of every other known in the civilised world. I know he used, said Lady Decorsi, looking very wise and rather suspicious. She certainly had sufficient domestic reasons for disliking the propensity. I know he used, and when a man begins he is hardly ever cured. Well, if he does, I don't know it, said the Lady Arabella. The money, my dear, must go somewhere. What excuse does he give when you tell him you want this and that, all the common necessaries of life, that you have always been used to, too? He gives no excuse. Sometimes he says the family is so large. Nonsense! Girls cost nothing. There's only Frank, and he can't have cost anything yet. Can he be saving money to buy back Boxall Hill? Oh, no, said the Lady Arabella quickly. He is not saving anything. He never did and never will save, though he is so stingy to me. He is hard-pushed for money. I know that. Then where has it gone? said the Countess Decorsi with a look of stern decision. Heaven only knows. Now Augusta is to be married. I must, of course, have a few hundred pounds. You should have heard how he groaned when I asked him for it. Heaven only knows where the money goes. And the injured wife wiped a piteous tear from her eye with her fine dress, cambrick, handkerchief. I have all the sufferings and privations of a poor man's wife, but I have none of the consolations. He has no confidence in me. He never tells me anything. He never talks to me about his affairs. If he talks to any one, it is to that horrid doctor. What? Dr. Thorn? Now the Countess Decorsi hated Dr. Thorn with a holy hatred. Yes, Dr. Thorn. I believe that he knows everything, and advises everything too. Whatever difficulties poor Gresham may have, I do believe Dr. Thorn has brought them about. I do believe it, Rosina. Well, that is surprising. Mr. Gresham, with all his faults, is a gentleman, and how he can talk about his affairs with a low apothecary like that, I for one cannot imagine. Lord Decorsi has not always been to me all that he should have been, far from it. And Lady Decorsi thought over in her mind injuries of a much graver description than any that her sister-in-law had ever suffered. But I have never known anything like that at Gorsi Castle. Surely Umblebee knows all about it, doesn't he? Not half so much as the doctor, said Lady Arabella. The Countess shook her head slowly. The idea of Mr. Gresham, a country gentleman of good estate like him, making her confident of a country doctor, was too great a shock for her nerves, and for a while she was constrained to sit silent before she could recover herself. One thing at any rate is certain, Arabella, said the Countess, as soon as she found herself again sufficiently composed to offer counsel in a properly dictatorial manner. One thing at any rate is certain. If Mr. Gresham be involved so deeply as you say, Frank has but one duty before him. He must marry money. The heir of fourteen thousand a year may indulge himself in looking for blood, as Mr. Gresham did, my dear. It must be understood that there was very little compliment in this, as the Lady Arabella had always conceived herself to be a beauty. Or for beauty, as some men do, continued the Countess thinking of the choice that the present earld a course he had made. But Frank must marry money. I hope he will understand this early. Do make him understand this before he makes a fool of himself? When a man thoroughly understands this, when he knows what his circumstances require, why the matter becomes easy to him, I hope that Frank understands that he has no alternative. In his position he must marry money. But alas, alas, Frank Gresham had already made a fool of himself. Well, my boy, I wish you joy with all my heart, said the Honourable John, slapping his cousin on the back as he walked round to the stable yard with him before dinner, to inspect a setter puppy of peculiarly fine breed which had been sent to Frank as a birthday present. I wish I were an elder son, but we can't all have that luck. Who wouldn't sooner be the younger son of an earl than the eldest son of a plain squire, said Frank, wishing to say something civil in return for his cousin's civility? I wouldn't, for one, said the Honourable John. What shall survive? There's Paul Ock as strong as a horse, and then George comes next, and the Governor's good for these twenty years, and the young man's side, as he reflected what small hope there was that all those who were nearest and dearest to him should die out of his way and leave him to the sweet enjoyment of an earl's coronet and fortune. Now you're sure of your game some day, and as you've no brothers, I suppose the Squire will let you do pretty well what you like. Besides, he's not so strong as my Governor, though he's younger. Frank had never looked at his fortune in this light before, and was so slow and green that he was not much delighted at the prospect, now that it was offered to him. He had always, however, been taught to look to his cousin's, the Decorses, as man with whom it would be very expedient that he should be intimate. He therefore showed no offence, but changed the conversation. Shall you hunt with the Barsicher this season, John? I hope you will. I shall. Well, I don't know. It's very slow. It's all tillage here, or else woodland. I rather fancy I shall go to Leicestershire when the partridge shooting is over. What sort of a lot do you mean to come out with, Frank? Frank became a little red, as he answered. Oh, I shall have two, he said. That is, the mare I have had these two years, and the horse my father gave me this morning. What? Only those two, and the mare is nothing more than a pony. She is fifteen hands, said Frank, offended. Well, Frank, I certainly would not stand that, said the Honourable John. What? Go out before the county with one untrained horse and a pony, and you the heir to Greshamsbury. I'll have him so trained before November, said Frank, that nothing in Barsicher shall stop him. Peter says, Peter, with the Greshamsbury stud groom, that he tucks up his hind legs beautifully. But who the deuce would think of going to work with one horse, or two either, if you insist on calling the old pony a huntress? I'll put you up to a trick, my lad. If you stand that, you'll stand anything. And if you don't mean to go in leading strings all your life, now is the time to show it. There's young Baker, Harry Baker, you know. He came of age last year, and he has as pretty a string of necks as anyone would wish to set eyes on. Four hunters and a hack. Now, if old Baker has four thousand a year, it's every shilling he has got. This was true, and Frank Gresham, who in the morning had been made so happy by his father's present of a horse, began to feel that hardly enough had been done for him. It was true that Mr. Baker had only four thousand a year, but it was also true that he had no other child than Harry Baker, that he had no great establishment to keep up, that he owed a shilling to no one, and also that he was a great fool in encouraging a mere boy to ape all the caprices of a man of wealth. Nevertheless, for a moment Frank Gresham did feel that, considering his position, he was being treated rather unworthily. Take the matter in your own hands, Frank, said the Honourable John, seeing the impression that he had made. Of course, the governor knows very well that you won't put up with such a stable as that. Lord bless you, I have heard that when he married my aunt, and that was when he was about your age, he had the best stud in the whole county, and then he was in Parliament before he was three and twenty. His father, you know, died when he was very young, said Frank. Yes, I know he had a stroke of luck that doesn't fall to everyone, but— Young Frank's face grew dark now, instead of red. When his cousin submitted to him the necessity of having more than two horses for his own use, he could listen to him. But when the same monitor talked of the chance of a father's death as a stroke of luck, Frank was too much disgusted to be able to pretend to pass it over with indifference. What? Was he thus to think of his father, whose face was always lighted up with pleasure when his boy came near to him, and so rarely bright at any other time? Frank had watched his father closely enough to be aware of this. He knew how his father delighted in him. He had had cause to guess that his father had many troubles, and that he strove hard to banish the memory of them when his son was with him. He loved his father truly, purely, and thoroughly, liked to be with him, and would be proud to be his confident. Could he then listen quietly while his cousin spoke of the chance of his father's death as a stroke of luck? I shouldn't think it a stroke of luck, John. I should think it the greatest misfortune in the world. It is so difficult for a young man to enumerate sententiously a principle of morality, or even an expression of ordinary good-feeling, without giving himself something of a ridiculous air, without assuming something of a mock grandeur. Oh, of course, my dear fellow! said the Honourable John, laughing. That's a matter of course. We all understand that, without saying it. Pollock, of course, would feel exactly the same about the Governor. But if the Governor were to walk, I think Pollock would console himself with the thirty thousand a year. I don't know what Pollock would do. He is always quarrelling with my uncle, I know. I only spoke of myself. I never quarrelled with my father, and I hope I never shall. All right, my lad of wax, all right! I dare say you won't be tried. But if you are, you'll find before six months or over that it's a very nice thing to master of Greshamburi. I'm sure I shouldn't find anything of the kind. Very well, so be it. You wouldn't do as young Hathily did at Hathily Court in Gloucestershire when his father kicked the bucket. You know Hathily, don't you? No, I never saw him. He is Sir Frederick now, and has all hand one of the faintest fortunes in England for a commoner. The most of it is gone now. Well, when he heard of his Governor's death, he was in Paris, but he went off to Hathily as fast as special train and post-horses would carry him, and got there just in time for the funeral. As he came back to Hathily Court from the Church, they were putting up the hatchment over the door, and Master Fred saw that the undertakers had put at the bottom Risorgam. You know what that means. Oh yes, said Frank. I'll come back again, said the Honourable John, construing the Latin for the benefit of his cousin. No, said Fred Hathily, looking up at the hatchment, and blessed if you do, old gentleman, that would be too much of a joke. I'll take care of that. So he got up at night, and he got some fellows with him, and they climbed up and painted out Risorgam, and they painted into its place Requi Escat in Pace, which means, you know, you'd a great deal better stay where you are. Now, I call that good. Fred Hathily did that as sure as, as sure as, as sure as anything. Frank could not help laughing at the story, especially at his cousin's mode of translating the undertakers' motos, and then they sauntered back from the stables into the house to dress for dinner. Dr. Thorn had come to the house somewhat before dinner-time at Mr. Gresham's request, and was now sitting with the squire in his own book-room, so-called, while Mary was talking to some of the girls upstairs. I must have ten or twelve thousand pounds. Ten at the very least, said the squire, who was sitting in his usual arm-chair close to his littered table, with his head supported on his hand, looking very unlike the father of an heir of a noble property, who had that day come of age. It was the first of July, and of course there was no fire in the great. But nevertheless the doctor was standing with his back to the fireplace, with his coat-tails over his arms, as though he were engaged, now in summer, as he so often was in winter, in talking and roasting his hind-a-person at the same time. Twelve thousand pounds. It's a very large sum of money. I said ten, said the squire. Ten thousand pounds is a very large sum of money. There is no doubt he'll let you have it. Scattered will let you have it. But I know he'll expect to have the title deeds. What? For ten thousand pounds? said the squire. There is not a registered debt against the property, but his own at Armstrong's. But his own is very large already. Armstrong's is nothing, about four and twenty thousand pounds. Yes, but he comes first, Mr. Gresham. Well, what of that? To hear you talk, one would think that there was nothing left of Gresham's bri. What's four and twenty thousand pounds? Does Scattered know what rent-roll is? Oh, yes. He knows it well enough. I wish he did not. Well, then, why does he make such a bother about a few thousand pounds? The title deeds indeed. What he means is that he must have ample security to cover what he has already advanced before he goes on. I wish to goodness you had no further need to borrow. I did think that things were settled last year. Oh, if there's any difficulty, humble me will get it for me. Yes, and what will you have to pay for it? I'd sooner pay double than be talked to in this way, said the squire angrily, and as he spoke he got up hurriedly from his chair, thrust his hands into his trousers pocket, walked quickly to the window, and immediately walking back again through himself once more into his chair. There are some things a man cannot bear, doctor, said he, beating the devils to two on the floor with one of his feet. Though God knows I ought to be patient now, for I am made to bear a good many things. You had better tell Scattered that I am obliged to him for his offer, but that I will not trouble him. The doctor, during this little outburst, had stored quite silent with his back to the fireplace and his coat-tails hanging over his arms, but though his voice said nothing, his face said much. He was very unhappy, he was greatly grieved to find that the squire was so soon again in want of money, and greatly grieved also to find that this want had made him so bitter and unjust. Mr. Gresham had attacked him, but as he was determined not to quarrel with Mr. Gresham, he refrained from answering. The squire also remained silent for a few minutes, but he was not endowed with the gift of silence, and was soon as it were compelled to speak again. Poor Frank, said he, I could yet be easy about everything if it were not for the injury I have done him. Poor Frank! The doctor advanced a few paces from off the rug, and taking his hand out of his pocket, he laid it gently on the squire's shoulder. Frank will do very well yet, said he. It is not absolutely necessary that a man should have fourteen thousand pounds a year to be happy. My father left me the property entire, and I should leave it entire to my son. But you don't understand this. The doctor did understand the feeling fully. The fact, on the other hand, was that long as he had known him, the squire did not understand the doctor. I would you could, Mr. Gresham, said the doctor, so that your mind might be happier. But that cannot be. And therefore I say again that Frank will do very well yet, although he will not inherit fourteen thousand pounds a year, and I would have you say the same thing to yourself. Ah, you don't understand it, persisted the squire. You don't know how a man feels when he—ah, well, it's no use my troubling you with what cannot be mended. I wonder whether Umblby is about the place anywhere. The doctor was again standing with his back against the chimney-piece, and with his hands in his pockets. You did not see Umblby as you came in, again asked the squire. No, I did not. And if you will take my advice, you will not see him now, at any rate with reference to this money. I tell you I must get it from someone. You say Scatchard won't let me have it. No, Mr. Gresham. I did not say that. Well, you said what was as bad. Augusta is to be married in September, and the money must be had. I have agreed to give Moffat six thousand pounds, and he is to have the money down in hard cash. Six thousand pounds, said the doctor. Well, I suppose that is not more than your daughter should have. But then five times six are thirty. Thirty thousand pounds will be a large sum to make up. The father thought to himself that his younger girls were but children, and that the trouble of arranging their marriage portions might well be postponed a while, sufficient for the day as the evil thereof. That Moffat is a griping, hungry fellow, said the squire. I suppose Augusta likes him, and as regards money it is a good match. If Miss Gresham loves him, that is everything. I am not in love with him myself, but then I am not a young lady. The Dacourcy's are very fond of him. Lady Dacourcy says that he is a perfect gentleman, and thought very much of in London. Oh, if Lady Dacourcy says that, of course it's all right, said the doctor, with a quiet sarcasm that was altogether thrown away on the squire. The squire did not like any of the Dacourcy's, especially he did not like Lady Dacourcy, but still he was accessible to a certain amount of gratification in the near connection which he had with the Earl and Countess, and when he wanted to support his family greatness would sometimes weakly fall upon the grandeur of Coursy Castle. It was only when talking to his wife that he invariably snubbed the pretensions of his noble relatives. The two men after this remained silent for a while, and then the doctor, renewing the subject for which he had been summoned into the book-room, remarked that as Gatchard was now in the country, he did not say was now at Boxall Hill, as he did not wish to wound the squire's ears. Perhaps he had better go and see him, and ascertain in what way this affair of the money might be arranged. There was no doubt, he said, that Gatchard would supply the sum required at a lower rate of interest than that at which it could be procured through Humblebee's means. Very well, said the squire, I'll leave it in your hands then. I think ten thousand pounds will do, and now I'll dress for dinner, and then the doctor left him. Perhaps the reader will suppose after this that the doctor had some pecuniary interest of his own in arranging the squire's loans, or at any rate he will think that the squire must have so thought. Not in the least. Neither had he any such interest, nor did the squire think that he had any. What Dr. Thorn did in this matter, the squire well knew was done for love. But the squire of Greshamsbury was a great man at Greshamsbury, and it behoved him to maintain the greatness of his squirehood when discussing his affairs with the village doctor. So much he had at any rate learnt from his contact with the Decorses and the doctor. Proud, arrogant, contradictory, headstrong as he was, why did he bear to be thus snubbed? Because he knew that the squire of Greshamsbury, when struggling with debt and poverty, required an indulgence for his weakness. Had Mr. Gresham been in easy circumstances, the doctor would by no means have stood so placidly with his hands in his pockets, and have had Mr. Unbulby thus thrown in his teeth. The doctor loved the squire, loved him as his own oldest friend, but he loved him ten times better as being in adversity than he could ever have done had things gone well at Greshamsbury in his time. While this was going on downstairs, Mary was sitting upstairs with Beatrice Gresham in the schoolroom. The old schoolroom, so called, was now a sitting-room, devoted to the use of the grown-up young ladies of the family, whereas one of the old nurseries was now the modern schoolroom. Mary well knew her way to the sanctum, and without asking any questions walked up to it when her uncle went to the squire. On entering the room she found that Augusta and the Lady Alexandrina were also there, and she hesitated for a moment at the door. Come in, Mary, said Beatrice. You know my cousin Alexandrina. Mary came in, and having shaken hands with her two friends was bowing to the lady, when the lady, condescended, put out her noble hand and touched Miss Thorn's fingers. Beatrice was Mary's friend, and many heart-burnings, and much mental solicitude did that young lady give to her mother, by indulging in such a friendship. But Beatrice, with some faults, was true at heart, and she persisted in loving Mary Thorn in spite of the hints which her mother so frequently gave as to the impropriety of such an affection. Nor had Augusta any objection to the society of Miss Thorn. Augusta was a strong-minded girl with much of the decorcy arrogance, but quite as well inclined to show it in opposition to her mother, as in any other form. To her alone in the house did Lady Arabella show much deference. She was now going to make a suitable match with a man of large fortune, who had been procured for her as an eligible party, by her aunt, the Countess. She did not pretend, had never pretended, that she loved Mr. Moffat. But she knew, she said, that in the present state of her father's affairs such a match was expedient. Mr. Moffat was a young man of very large fortune in Parliament, inclined to business, and in every way recommendable. He was not a man of birth to be sure that was to be lamented. In confessing that Mr. Moffat was not a man of birth, Augusta did not go so far as to admit that he was the son of a tailor. Such, however, was the rigid truth in this matter. He was not a man of birth that was to be lamented. But in the present state of affairs at Greshamsbury, she understood well that it was her duty to postpone her own feelings in some respect. Mr. Moffat would bring fortune. She would bring blood and connection. And as she so said, her bosom glowed with strong pride to think that she would be able to contribute so much more towards the proposed future partnership than her husband would do. T'was thus that Miss Greshams spoke of her match to her dear friends, her cousins that accurses, for instance, to Miss Oriole, her sister Beatrice, and even to Mary Thorn. She had no enthusiasm, she admitted, but she thought she had good judgment. She thought she had shown good judgment in accepting Mr. Moffat's offer, though she did not pretend to any romance of affection. And having so said, she went to work with considerable mental satisfaction, choosing furniture, carriages, and clothes, not extravagantly as her mother would have done, not in deference to sterner dictates of the latest fashion, as her aunt would have done, with none of the girlish glee in new purchases which Beatrice would have felt, but with sound judgment. She bought things that were rich, for her husband was to be rich, and she meant to avail herself of his wealth. She bought things that were fashionable, for she meant to live in the fashionable world, but she bought what was good and strong and lasting, and worth its money. Augusto Gresham had perceived early in life that she could not obtain success either as an heiress or as a beauty, nor could she shine as a wit. She therefore fell back on such qualities as she had, and determined to win the world as a strong-minded, useful woman, that which she had of her own was blood, having that she would in all ways do what in her lay to enhance its value. Had she not possessed it, it would to her mind have been the vainest of pretenses. When Mary came in, the wedding preparations were being discussed. The number and names of the bridesmaids were being settled, the dresses were on the tappie, the invitations to be given were talked over. Sensible as Augusto was, she was not above such feminine cares. She was indeed rather anxious that the wedding should go off well. She was a little ashamed of her tailor's son, and therefore anxious that things should be as brilliant as possible. The bridesmaids' names had just been written on a card as Mary entered the room. There were the ladies Amelia, Rosina, Margareta, and Alexandrina, of course at the head of it. Then came Beatrice and the twins. Then Miss Oriole, who though only a parson's sister, was a person of note, birth, and fortune. After this there had been here a great discussion whether or not there should be any more. If there were to be one more, there must be two. Now Miss Moffat had expressed a direct wish, and Augusto, though she would much rather have done without her, hardly knew how to refuse. Alexandrina, we hope we may be allowed to drop the lady for the sake of brevity, for the present scene only, was dead against such an unreasonable request. We none of us know her, you know, and it would not be comfortable. Beatrice strongly advocated the future sister-in-law's acceptance into the bethy. She had her own reasons. She was pained that Mary Thorn should not be among the number, and if Miss Moffat were accepted, perhaps Mary might be brought in as her colleague. If you have Miss Moffat, said Alexandrina, you must have dear Pussy, too, and I really think that Pussy is too young. It will be troublesome. Pussy was the youngest Miss Gresham, who was now only eight years old, and whose real name was Nina. Augusto, said Beatrice, speaking with some slight hesitation, some soupson of doubt, before the high authority of her noble cousin, if you do have Miss Moffat, would you mind asking Mary Thorn to join her? I think Mary would like it, because you see patients' orial is to be one, and we have known Mary much longer than we have known patients. Then out and spake the lady Alexandrina. Beatrice, dear, if you think of what you are asking, I am sure you will see that it would not do, would not do at all. Miss Thorn is a very nice girl, I am sure, and indeed what little I have seen of her I highly approve. But after all, who is she? Mama, I know, thinks that Aunt Arabella has been wrong to let her be here so much, but Beatrice became rather red in the face, and in spite of the dignity of her cousin was preparing to defend her friend. Mind, I am not saying a word against Miss Thorn. If I am married before her, she shall be one of my bridesmaids, said Beatrice. That will probably depend on circumstances, said the lady Alexandrina. I find that I cannot bring my courteous pen to drop the title. But Augusta is very peculiarly situated. Mr. Moffat is, you see, not of the very highest birth, and therefore she should take care that on her side every one about her is well-born. Then you cannot have Miss Moffat, said Beatrice. No, I would not if I could help it, said the cousin. But the Thorns are as good a family as the Greshams, said Beatrice. She had not quite the courage to say as good as the Decourses. I dare say they are, and if this was Miss Thorn of Alla Thorn, Augusta probably would not object to her. But can you tell me who Miss Mary Thorn is? She is Dr. Thorn's niece. You mean that she is called so. But do you know who her father was, or who her mother was? I, for one, must own I do not. Mama, I believe, does, but at this moment the door opened gently and Mary Thorn entered the room. It may easily be conceived that while Mary was making her salutations, the three other young ladies would a little cast her back. The Lady Alexandrina, however, quickly recovered herself, and by her inimitable presence of mind, and facile grace of manner, soon put the matter on a proper footing. We were discussing Miss Gresham's marriage, said she. I am sure I may mention to an acquaintance of so longstanding, as Miss Thorn, that the first of September has been now fixed for the wedding. Miss Gresham, acquaintance of so longstanding, why Mary and Augusta of Gresham had for years, we will hardly say now for how many, past their mornings together in the same school-room, had quarrelled, had squabbled, and caressed and kissed, and been all but as sisters to each other. A quaintance indeed! Beatrice felt that her ears were tingling, and even Augusta was a little ashamed. Mary, however, knew that the cold words had come from a decorcy, and not from aggression, and did not therefore resent them. So it settled Augusta, is it, said she, the first of September. I wish you joy with all my heart, and coming round she put her arm over Augusta's shoulder, and kissed her. The Lady Alexandrina could not but think that the doctor's niece uttered her congratulations very much, as though she was speaking to an equal, very much as though she had a father and mother of her own. You will have delicious weather, continued Mary. September and the beginning of October is the nicest time of the year. If I were going honeymooning, it is just the time of year I would choose. I wish you were, Mary, said Beatrice. So do not I, dear, till I have found some decent sort of a body to honeymoon along with me. I won't stir out of Greshamsbury till I have sent you off before me at any rate. And where will you go, Augusta? We have not settled that, said Augusta. Mr. Moffat talks of Paris. Whoever heard of going to Paris in September, said the Lady Alexandrina, or whoever heard of the gentleman having anything to say on the matter, said the doctor's niece. Of course, Mr. Moffat will go wherever you are pleased to take him. The Lady Alexandrina was not pleased to find how completely the doctor's niece took upon herself to talk and sit, and act at Greshamsbury, as though she was on a par with the young ladies of the family. That Beatrice should have allowed this would not have surprised her. But it was to be expected that Augusta would have shown better judgment. These things require some tact in their management, some delicacy when high interests are at stake, said she. I agree with Miss Thorn in thinking that in ordinary circumstances, with ordinary people, perhaps the Lady should have her way. Rank, however, has its drawbacks, Miss Thorn, as well as its privileges. I should not object to the drawbacks, said the doctor's niece, presuming them to be of some use. But I fear I might fail in getting on so well with the privileges. The Lady Alexandrina looked at her, as though not fully aware whether she intended to be pert. In truth, the Lady Alexandrina was rather in the dark on the subject. It was almost impossible. It was incredible that a fatherless, motherless doctor's niece should be pert to an Earl's daughter at Greshamsbury, deign that that Earl's daughter was the cousin of the Miss Greshams. And yet the Lady Alexandrina hardly knew what other construction to put on the words she had just heard. It was at any rate clear to her that it was not becoming that she should just then stay any longer in that room. Whether she intended to be pert or not, Miss Mary Thorn was, to say the least, very free. The decorcy ladies knew what was due to them. No lady's better. And therefore the Lady Alexandrina made up her mind at once to go to her own bedroom. Augusta, she said, rising slowly from her chair with much stately composure, it is nearly time to dress. Will you come with me? We have a great deal to settle, you know. So she swam out of the room. And Augusta, telling Mary that she would see her again at dinner, swam, no, tried to swim after her. Miss Gresham had had great advantages, but she had not been absolutely brought up at Corsi Castle, and could not as yet quite assume the Corsi style of swimming. There, said Mary, as the door closed behind the rustling Muslims of the ladies, there I have made an enemy for ever. Perhaps, too, that's satisfactory. And why have you done it, Mary? When I am fighting your battles behind your back, why do you come and upset it all by making the whole family of the decorces dislike you? In such a matter as that they'll all go together. I am sure they will, said Mary, whether they would be equally unanimous in a case of love and charity, that indeed is another question. But why should you try to make my cousin angry? You that ought to have so much sense. Don't you remember what you were saying yourself the other day of the absurdity of combating pretenses which the world sanctions? I do, Trichy. I do. Don't scold me now. It is so much easier to preach than to practice. I do so wish I was a clergyman. But you have done so much harm, Mary. Have I, said Mary, kneeling down on the ground at her friend's feet? If I humble myself very low, if I kneel through the whole evening in a corner, if I put my neck down and let all your cousins trample on it, and then your aunt, would not that make atonement? I would not object to wearing sackcloth either, and I'd eat a little ashes, or at any rate I'd dry. I know you're clever, Mary, but still I think you're a fool. I do indeed. I am a fool, Trichy. I do confess it, and am not a bit clever. But don't scold me. You see how humble I am. Not only humble, but humble, which I look upon to be the comparative, or indeed superlative degree, or perhaps there are four degrees, humble, humble, stumble, tumble. And then, when one is absolutely in the dirt at their feet, perhaps these big people won't wish one to stoop any further. Oh, Mary, and oh, Trichy, you don't mean to say I may speak out before you. There, perhaps you'd like to put your foot on my neck. And then she put her head down to the footstool and kissed Beatrice's feet. I'd like, if I dared, to put my hand on your cheek and give you a good slap for being such a goose. Do, do, Trichy. You shall tread on me, or slap me, or kiss me, whichever you like. I can't tell you how vexed I am, said Beatrice. I wanted to arrange something. Arrange something? What? Arrange what? I love arranging. I fancy myself qualified to be an arranger general in female matters. I mean pots and pans and such like. Of course I don't allude to extraordinary people and extraordinary circumstances that require tact and delicacy and drawbacks and that sort of thing. Very well, Mary, but it's not very well. It's very bad, if you look like that. Well, my pet, there I won't. I won't allude to the noble blood of your noble relatives, either in joke or in earnest. What is it you want to arrange, Trichy? I want you to be one of Augusta's bridesmaids. Good heavens, Beatrice, are you mad? What put me, even for a morning, into the same category or finery as the noble blood from Corsi Castle? Patience is to be one, but that is no reason why impatience should be another, and I should be very impatient under such honours. No, Trichy, joking apart. Do not think of it. Even if Augusta wished it, I should refuse. I should be obliged to refuse. I, too, suffer from pride. A pride quite as unpardonable as that of others. I could not stand with your four Lady-Cousins behind your sister at the altar. In such a galaxy they would be the stars, and I, why, Mary, all the world knows that you are prettier than any of them. I am all the world's very humble servant. But, Trichy, I should not object if I were as ugly as the veiled prophet, and they all as beautiful as Zulaika. The glory of that galaxy will be held to depend not on its beauty, but on its birth. You know how they would look at me, how they would scorn me, and there, in church at the altar, with all that is solemn round us, I could not return their scorn, as I might do elsewhere. In a room I am not a bit afraid of them all, and Mary was again allowing herself to be absorbed by that feeling of indomitable pride, of antagonism to the pride of others, which she herself in her cooler moments was the first to blame. You often say, Mary, that that sort of arrogance should be despised, and passed over without notice. So it should, Trichy. I tell you that, as the clergyman tells you to hate riches, but though the clergyman tells you so, he is not the less anxious to be rich himself. I particularly wish you to be one of Augusta's bridesmaids, and I particularly wish to decline the honor. Which honor has not been, and will not be, often to me. No, Trichy, I will not be Augusta's bridesmaid, but—but—but—but what, dearest? But Trichy, when someone else is married, when the new wing has been built to a house that you know of, now, Mary, hold your tongue, or you know you'll make me angry. I do so like to see you angry. And when that time comes, when that wedding does take place, then I will be a bridesmaid, Trichy. Yes, even though I am not invited. Yes, though all the decoracies in Barciccio should tread upon me and obliterate me, though I should be as dust among the stars, though I should creep up in Calico among their satins and lace, I will nevertheless be there, close, close to the bride, to hold something for her, to touch her dress, to feel that I am near to her, to—to—to—and she threw her arms round her companion, and kissed her over and over again. No, Trichy, I won't be Augusta's bridesmaid. I'll bide my time for bridesmaiding. What protestations Beatrice made against the probability of such an event as foreshadowed in her friend's promise, we will not repeat. The afternoon was advancing, and the ladies also had to dress for dinner, to do honour to the young heir.