Doctor Thorne by Anthony Trollope (page 6)

His sister and one of his cousins were in the room, but his aunt, who was quite on the alert, soon got them out of it, and Frank and Miss Dunstable were alone.

‘So all our fun and all our laughter is come to an end,’ said she, beginning the conversation. ‘I don’t know how you feel, but for myself I really am a little melancholy at the idea of parting;’ and she looked up at him with her laughing black eyes, as though she never had, and never could have a care in the world.

‘Melancholy! oh, yes; you look so,’ said Frank, who really did feel somewhat lackadaisically sentimental.

‘But how thoroughly glad the countess must be that we are both going,’ continued she. ‘I declare we have treated her most infamously. Ever since we’ve been here we’ve had the amusement to ourselves. I’ve sometimes thought she would turn me out of the house.’

‘I wish with all my heart she had.’

‘Oh, you cruel barbarian! why on earth should you wish that?’

‘That I might have joined you in your exile. I hate Courcy Castle, and should have rejoiced to leave–and–and–‘

‘And what?’

‘And I love Miss Dunstable, and should have doubly, trebly rejoiced to leave it with her.’

Frank’s voice quivered a little as he made this gallant profession; but still Miss Dunstable only laughed the louder. ‘Upon my word, of all my knights you are by far the best behaved,’ said she, ‘and say much the prettiest things.’ Frank became rather red in the face, and felt that he did so. Miss Dunstable was treating him like a boy. While she pretended to be so fond of him she was only laughing at him, and corresponding the while with his cousin George. Now Frank Gresham already entertained a sort of contempt for his cousin, which increased the bitterness of his feelings. Could it really be possible that George had succeeded while he had utterly failed; that his stupid cousin had touched the heart of the heiress while she was playing with him as with a boy?

‘Of all your knights! Is that the way you talk to me when we are going to part? When was it, Miss Dunstable, that George de Courcy became one of them?’

Miss Dunstable for a while looked serious enough. ‘What makes you ask that?’ said she. ‘What makes you inquire about Mr de Courcy?’

‘Oh, I have eyes, you know, and can’t help seeing. Not that I see, or have seen anything that I could possibly help.’

‘And what have you seen, Mr Gresham?’

‘Why, I know you have been writing to him.’

‘Did he tell you so?’

‘No; he did not tell me; but I know it.’

For a moment she sat silent, and then her face again resumed its usual happy smile. ‘Come, Mr Gresham, you are not going to quarrel with me, I hope, even if I did write a letter to your cousin. Why should I not write to him? I correspond with all manner of people. I’ll write to you some of these days if you’ll let me, and will promise to answer my letters.’

Frank threw himself back on the sofa on which he was sitting, and, in doing so, brought himself somewhat nearer to his companion than he had been; he then drew his hand slowly across his forehead, pushing back his thick hair, and as he did so he sighed somewhat plaintively.

‘I do not care,’ said he, ‘for the privilege of correspondence on such terms. If my cousin George is to be a correspondent of yours also, I will give up my claim.’

And then he sighed again, so that it was piteous to hear him. He was certainly an arrant puppy, and an egregious ass into the bargain; but then, it must be remembered in his favour that he was only twenty-one, and that much had been done to spoil him. Miss Dunstable did remember this, and therefore abstained from laughing at him.

‘Why, Mr Gresham, what on earth do you mean? In all human probability I shall never write another line to Mr de Courcy; but, if I did, what possible harm could it do you?’

‘Oh, Miss Dunstable! you do not in the least understand what my feelings are.’

‘Don’t I? Then I hope I never shall. I thought I did. I thought they were the feelings of a good, true-hearted friend; feelings that I could sometimes look back upon with pleasure as being honest when so much that one meets is false. I have become very fond of you, Mr Gresham, and I should be sorry to think that I did not understand your feelings.’

This was almost worse and worse. Young ladies like Miss Dunstable–for she was still to be numbered in the category of young ladies–do not usually tell young gentlemen that they are very fond of them. To boys and girls they may make such a declaration. Now Frank Gresham regarded himself as one who had already fought his battles, and fought them not without glory; he could not therefore endure to be thus openly told by Miss Dunstable that she was very fond of him.

‘Fond of me, Miss Dunstable! I wish you were.’

‘So I am–very.’

‘You little know how fond I am of you, Miss Dunstable,’ and he put out his hand to take hold of hers. She then lifted up her own, and slapped him lightly on the knuckles.

‘And what can you have say to Miss Dunstable that can make it necessary that you should pinch her hand? I tell you fairly, Mr Gresham, if you make a fool of yourself, I shall come to a conclusion that you are all fools, and that it is hopeless to look out for any one worth caring for.’

Such advice as this, so kindly given, so wisely meant, so clearly intelligible he should have taken and understood, young as he was. But even yet he did not do so.

‘A fool of myself! Yes; I suppose I must be a fool if I have so much regard for Miss Dunstable as to make it painful for me to know that I am to see her no more: a fool: yes, of course I am a fool–a man is always a fool when he loves.’

Miss Dunstable could not pretend to doubt his meaning any longer; and was determined to stop him, let it cost what it would. She now put out her hand, not over white, and, as Frank soon perceived, gifted with a very fair allowance of strength.

‘Now, Mr Gresham,’ said she, ‘before you go any further you shall listen to me. Will you listen to me for a moment without interrupting me?’

Frank was of course obliged to promise that he would do so.

‘You are going–or rather you were going, for I shall stop you–to make a profession of love.’

‘A profession!’ said Frank making a slight unsuccessful effort to get his hand free.

‘Yes; a profession–a false profession, Mr Gresham,–a false profession– a false profession. Look into your heart–into your heart of hearts. I know you at any rate have a heart; look into it closely. Mr Gresham, you know you do not love me; not as a man should love the woman he swears to love.’

Frank was taken aback. So appealed to he found that he could not any longer say that he did love her. He could only look into her face with all his eyes, and sit there listening to her.

‘How is it possible that you should love me? I am Heaven knows how many years your senior. I am neither young nor beautiful, nor have I been brought up as she should be whom you in time will really love and make your wife. I have nothing that should make you love me; but–but I am rich.’

‘It is not that,’ said Frank, stoutly, feeling himself imperatively called upon to utter something in his own defence.

‘Ah, Mr Gresham, I fear it is that. For what other reason can you have laid your plans to talk in this way to such a woman as I am?’

‘I have laid no plans,’ said Frank, now getting his hand to himself. ‘At any rate, you wrong me there, Miss Dunstable.’

‘I like you so well–nay, love you, if a woman may talk of love in the way of friendship–that if money, money alone would make you happy, you should have it heaped on you. If you want it, Mr Gresham, you shall have it.’

‘I have never thought of your money,’ said Frank, surlily.

‘But it grieves me,’ continued she, ‘it does grieve me, to think that you, you, you–so young and gay, so bright–that you should have looked for it in this way. From others I have taken it just as the wind that whistles;’ and now two big slow tears escaped from her eyes, and would have rolled down her rosy cheeks were it not that she brushed them off with the back of her hand.

‘You have utterly mistaken me, Miss Dunstable,’ said Frank.

‘If I have, I will humbly beg your pardon,’ said she, ‘but–but–but–‘

Frank had nothing further to say in his own defence. He had not wanted Miss Dunstable’s money–that was true; but he could not deny that he had been about to talk that absolute nonsense of which she spoke with so much scorn.

‘You would almost make me think that there are none honest in this fashionable world of yours. I well know why Lady de Courcy has had me here: how could I help knowing it? She has been so foolish in her plans that ten times a day she has told me her own secret. But I have said to myself twenty times, that if she were crafty, you were honest.’

‘And am I dishonest?’

‘I have laughed in my sleeve to see how she played her game, and to hear others around playing theirs; all of them thinking that they could get the money of the poor fool who had come at their beck and call; but I was able to laugh at them as long as I thought that I had one true friend to laugh with me. But one cannot laugh with all the world against one.’

‘I am not against you, Miss Dunstable.’

‘Sell yourself for money! why, if I were a man I would not sell one jot of liberty for mountains of gold. What! tie myself in the heyday of my youth to a person I could never love, for a price! perjure myself, destroy myself–and not only myself, but her also, in order that I might live idly! Oh, heavens! Mr Gresham! can it be that the words of such a woman as your aunt have sunk so deeply in your heart; have blackened you so foully as this? Have you forgotten your soul, your spirit, your man’s energy, the treasure of your heart? And you, so young! For shame, Mr Gresham! for shame–for shame.’

Frank found the task before him by no means an easy one. He had to make Miss Dunstable understand that he had never had the slightest idea of marrying her, and that he had made love to her merely with the object of keeping his hand in for the work as it were; with that object, and the other equally laudable one of interfering with his cousin George.

And yet there was nothing for him but to get through this task as best he might. He was goaded to it by the accusations which Miss Dunstable brought against him; and he began to feel, that though her invective against him might be bitter when he had told the truth, they could not be so bitter as those she now kept hinting at under her mistaken impression as to his views. He had never had any strong propensity for money-hunting; but now that offence appeared in his eyes abominable, unmanly, and disgusting. Any imputation would be better than that.

‘Miss Dunstable, I never for a moment thought of doing what you accuse me of; on my honour, I never did. I have been very foolish–very wrong–idiotic, I believe; but I have never intended that.’

‘Then, Mr Gresham, what did you intend?’

This was rather a difficult question to answer; and Frank was not very quick in attempting it. ‘I know you will not forgive me,’ he said at last; ‘and, indeed, I do not see how you can. I don’t know how it came about; but this is certain, Miss Dunstable; I have never for a moment thought about your fortune; that is, thought about it in the way of coveting it.’

‘You never thought of making me your wife, then?’

‘Never,’ said Frank, looking boldly into her face.

‘You never intended really to propose to go with me to the altar, and then make yourself rich by one great perjury?’

‘Never for a moment,’ said he.

‘You have never gloated over me as the bird of prey gloats over the poor beast that is soon to become carrion beneath its claws? You have not counted me out as equal to so much land, and calculated on me as a balance at your banker’s? Ah, Mr Gresham,’ she continued, seeing that he stared as though struck almost with awe by her strong language; ‘you little guess what a woman situated as I am has to suffer.’

‘I have behaved badly to you, Miss Dunstable, and I beg your pardon; but I have never thought of your money.’

‘Then we will be friends again, Mr Gresham, won’t we? It is so nice to have a friend like you. There, I think I understand it now; you need not tell me.’

‘It was half by way of making a fool of my aunt,’ said Frank, in an apologetic tone.

‘There is merit in that, at any rate,’ said Miss Dunstable. ‘I understand it all now; you thought to make a fool of me in real earnest. Well, I can forgive that; at any rate it is not mean.’

It may be, that Miss Dunstable did not feel much acute anger at finding that this young man had addressed her with words of love in the course of an ordinary flirtation, although that flirtation had been unmeaning and silly. This was not the offence against which her heart and breast had found peculiar cause to arm itself; this was not the injury from which she had hitherto experienced suffering.

At any rate, she and Frank again became friends, and, before the evening was over, they perfectly understood each other. Twice during this long tete-a-tete Lady de Courcy came into the room to see how things were going on, and twice she went out almost unnoticed. It was quite clear to her that something uncommon had taken place, was taking place, or would take place; and that should this be for weal or for woe, no good could not come from her interference. On each occasion, therefore, she smiled sweetly on the pair of turtle-doves, and glided out of the room as quietly as she had glided into it.

But at last it became necessary to remove them; for the world had gone to bed. Frank, in the meantime, had told to Miss Dunstable all his love for Mary Thorne, and Miss Dunstable had enjoined him to be true to his vows. To her eyes there was something of heavenly beauty in young, true love–of beauty that was heavenly because it had been unknown to her.

‘Mind you let me hear, Mr Gresham,’ said she. ‘Mind you do; and, Mr Gresham, never, never forget her for one moment; not for one moment, Mr Gresham.’

Frank was about to swear that he never would–again, when the countess, for the third time, sailed into the room.

‘Young people,’ said she, ‘do you know what o’clock it is?’

‘Dear me, Lady de Courcy, I declare it is past twelve; I really am ashamed of myself. How glad you will be to get rid of me to-morrow!’

‘No, no, indeed we shan’t; shall we, Frank?’ and so Miss Dunstable passed out.

Then once again the aunt tapped her nephew with her fan. It was the last time in her life that she did so. He looked up in her face, and his look was enough to tell her that the acres of Greshamsbury were not to be reclaimed by the ointment of Lebanon.

Nothing further on the subject was said. On the following morning Miss Dunstable took her departure, not much heeding the rather cold words of farewell which her hostess gave her; and on the following day Frank started for Greshamsbury.

CHAPTER XXI

MR MOFFAT FALLS INTO TROUBLE

We will now, with the reader’s kind permission, skip over some months in our narrative. Frank returned from Courcy Castle to Greshamsbury, and having communicated to his mother–much in the same manner as he had to the countess–the fact that his mission had been unsuccessful, he went up after a day or two to Cambridge. During his short stay at Greshamsbury he did not even catch a glimpse of Mary. He asked for her, of course, and was told that it was not likely that she would be at the house just at present. He called at the doctor’s, but she was denied to him there; ‘she was out,’ Janet said,–‘probably with Miss Oriel.’ He went to the parsonage and found Miss Oriel at home; but Mary had not been seen that morning. He then returned to the house; and, having come to the conclusion that she had not thus vanished into air, otherwise than by preconcerted arrangement, he boldly taxed Beatrice on the subject.

Beatrice looked very demure; declared that no one in the house had quarrelled with Mary; confessed that it had been thought prudent that she should for a while stay away from Greshamsbury; and, of course, ended by telling her brother everything, including all the scenes that had passed between Mary and herself.

‘It is out of the question your thinking of marrying her, Frank,’ said she. ‘You must know that nobody feels it more strongly than poor Mary herself;’ and Beatrice looked the very personification of domestic prudence.

‘I know nothing of the kind,’ said he, with the headlong imperative air that was usual with him in discussing matters with his sisters. ‘I know nothing of the kind. Of course I cannot say what Mary’s feelings may be: a pretty life she must have had of it among you. But you may be sure of this, Beatrice, and so may my mother, that nothing on earth shall make me give her up–nothing.’ And Frank, as he made this protestation, strengthened his own resolution by thinking of all the counsel that Miss Dunstable had given him.

The brother and sister could hardly agree, as Beatrice was dead against the match. Not that she would not have liked Mary Thorne for a sister-in-law, but that she shared to a certain degree the feeling which was now common to all the Greshams–that Frank must marry money. It seemed, at any rate, to be imperative that he should either do that or not marry at all. Poor Beatrice was not very mercenary in her views: she had no wish to sacrifice her brother to any Miss Dunstable; but yet she felt, as they all felt–Mary Thorne included–that such as a match as that, of the young heir with the doctor’s niece, was not to be thought of;–not to be spoken of as a thing that was in any way possible. Therefore, Beatrice, though she was Mary’s great friend, though she was her brother’s favourite sister, could give Frank no encouragement. Poor Frank! circumstances had made but one bride possible to him: he must marry money.

His mother said nothing to him on the subject: when she learnt that the affair with Miss Dunstable was not to come off, she merely remarked that it would perhaps be best for him to return to Cambridge as soon as possible. Had she spoken her mind out, she would probably have also advised him to remain there as long as possible. The countess had not omitted to write to her when Frank had left Courcy Castle; and the countess’s letter certainly made the anxious mother think that her son’s education had hardly yet been completed. With this secondary object, but with that of keeping him out of the way of Mary Thorne in the first place, Lady Arabella was now quite satisfied that her son should enjoy such advantages as an education completed at the university might give him.

With his father Frank had a long conversation; but, alas! the gist of his father’s conversation was this, that it behoved him, Frank, to marry money. The father, however, did not put it to him in the cold, callous way in which his lady-aunt had done, and his lady-mother. He did not bid him go and sell himself to the first female he could find possessed of wealth. It was with inward self-reproaches, and true grief of spirit, that the father told the son that it was not possible for him to do as those who may do who are born really rich, or really poor.

‘If you marry a girl without a fortune, Frank, how are you to live?’ the father asked, after having confessed how deep he himself had injured his own heir.

‘I don’t care about money, sir,’ said Frank. ‘I shall be just as happy if Boxall Hill had never been sold. I don’t care a straw about that sort of thing.’

‘Ah! my boy; but you will care: you will soon find that you do care.’

‘Let me go into some profession. Let me go to the Bar. I am sure I could earn my own living. Earn it! of course I could, why not I as well as others? I should like of all things to be a barrister.’

There was much more of the same kind, in which Frank said all that he could think of to lessen his father’s regrets. In their conversation not a word was spoken about Mary Thorne. Frank was not aware whether or no his father had been told of the great family danger which was dreaded in that quarter. That he had been told, we may surmise, as Lady Arabella was not wont to confine the family dangers to her own bosom. Moreover, Mary’s presence had, of course, been missed. The truth was, that the squire had been told, with great bitterness, of what had come to pass, and all the evil had been laid at his door. He it had been who hand encouraged Mary to be regarded almost as a daughter of the house of Greshamsbury: he it was who taught that odious doctor–odious on all but his aptitude for good doctoring–to think himself a fit match for the aristocracy of the county. It had been his fault, this great necessity that Frank should marry money; and now it was his fault that Frank was absolutely talking of marrying a pauper.

By no means in quiescence did the squire hear these charges brought against him. The Lady Arabella, in each attack, got quite as much as she gave, and, at last, was driven to retreat in a state of headache, which she declared to be chronic; and which, so she assured her daughter Augusta, must prevent her from having any more lengthened conversations with her lord–at any rate for the next three months. But though the squire may be said to have come off on the whole as the victor in these combats, they did not perhaps have, on that account, the less effect upon him. He knew it was true that he had done much towards ruining his son; and he also could think of no other remedy than matrimony. It was Frank’s doom, pronounced even by the voice of his father, that he must marry money.

And so, Frank went off again to Cambridge, feeling himself, as he went, to be a much lesser man in Greshamsbury estimation than he had been some two months earlier, when his birthday had been celebrated. Once during his short stay at Greshamsbury he had seen the doctor; but the meeting had been anything but pleasant. He had been afraid to ask after Mary; and the doctor had been too diffident of himself to speak of her. They had met casually on the road, and, though each in his heart loved the other, the meeting had been anything but pleasant.

And so Frank went to Cambridge; and, as he did so, he stoutly resolved that nothing should make him untrue to Mary Thorne. ‘Beatrice,’ said he, on the morning he went away, when she came into his room to superintend his packing–‘Beatrice, if she ever talks about me–‘

‘Oh, Frank, my darling Frank, don’t think of it–it is madness; she knows it is madness.’

‘Never mind; if she ever talks about me, tell her that the last word I said was, that I would never forget her. She can do as she likes.’

Beatrice made no promise, never hinted that she would give the message; but it may be taken for granted that she had not been long in company with Mary Thorne before she did give it.

And then there were other troubles at Greshamsbury. It had been decided that Augusta’s marriage was to take place in September; but Mr Moffat had, unfortunately, been obliged to postpone the happy day. He himself had told Augusta–not, of course, without protestations as to his regret–and had written to this effect to Mr Gresham, ‘Electioneering matters, and other troubles had,’ he said, ‘made this peculiarly painful postponement absolutely necessary.’

Augusta seemed to bear her misfortune with more equanimity than is, we believe, usual with young ladies under such circumstances. She spoke of it to her mother in a very matter-of-fact way, and seemed almost contented at the idea of remaining at Greshamsbury till February; which was the time now named for the marriage. But Lady Arabella was not equally well satisfied, nor was the squire.

‘I half believe that fellow is not honest,’ he had once said out loud before Frank, and this set Frank a-thinking of what dishonesty in the matter it was probable that Mr Moffat might be guilty, and what would be the fitting punishment for such a crime. Nor did he think on the subject in vain; especially after a conference on the matter which he had with his friend Harry Baker. This conference took place during the Christmas vacation.

It should be mentioned, that the time spent by Frank at Courcy Castle had not done much to assist him in his views as to an early degree, and that it had at last been settled that he should stay up at Cambridge another year. When he came home at Christmas he found that the house was not peculiarly lively. Mary was absent on a visit with Miss Oriel. Both these young ladies were staying with Miss Oriel’s aunt, in the neighbourhood of London; and Frank soon learnt that there was no chance that either of them would be home before his return. No message had been left for him by Mary–none at least had been left with Beatrice; and he began in his heart to accuse her of coldness and perfidy;–not, certainly, with much justice, seeing that she had never given him the slightest encouragement.

The absence of Patience Oriel added to the dullness of the place. It was certainly hard upon Frank that all the attraction of the village should be removed to make way and prepare for his return–harder, perhaps, on them; for, to tell the truth, Miss Oriel’s visit had been entirely planned to enable her to give Mary a comfortable way of leaving Greshamsbury during the time that Frank should remain at home. Frank thought himself cruelly used. But what did Mr Oriel think when doomed to eat his Christmas pudding alone, because the young squire would be unreasonable in his love? What did the doctor think, as he sat solitary by his deserted hearth–the doctor, who no longer permitted himself to enjoy the comforts of the Greshamsbury dining-table? Frank hinted and grumbled; talked to Beatrice of the determined constancy of his love, and occasionally consoled himself by a stray smile from some of the neighbouring belles. The black horse was made perfect; the old grey pony was by no means discarded; and much that was satisfactory was done in the sporting line. But still the house was dull, and Frank felt that he was the cause of its being so. Of the doctor he saw but little: he never came to Greshamsbury, unless to see Lady Arabella as doctor, or to be closeted with the squire. There were no special evenings with him; no animated confabulations at the doctor’s house; no discourses between them, as there was wont to be, about the merits of the different covers, and the capacities of the different hounds. These were dull days on the whole for Frank; and sad enough, we may say, for our friend the doctor.

In February Frank again went back to college; having settled with Harry Baker certain affairs which weighed on his mind. He went back to Cambridge, promising to be home on the twentieth of the month, so as to be present at his sister’s wedding. A cold and chilling time had been named for these hymeneal joys, but one not altogether unsuited to the feelings of the happy pair. February is certainly not a warm month; but with the rich it is generally a cosy, comfortable time. Good fires, winter cheer, groaning tables, and warm blankets, make a fictitious summer, which, to some tastes, is more delightful than the long days and the hot sun. And some marriages are especially winter matches. They depend for their charm on the same substantial attractions: instead of heart beating to heart in sympathetic unison, purse chinks to purse. The rich new furniture of the new abode is looked to instead of the rapture of a pure embrace. The new carriage is depended on rather than the new heart’s companion; and the first bright gloss, prepared by the upholsterer’s hands, stands in lieu of the rosy tints which young love lends to his true votaries.

Mr Moffat had not spent his Christmas at Greshamsbury. That eternal election petition, those eternal lawyers, the eternal care of his well-managed wealth, forbade him the enjoyment of any such pleasures. He could not come to Greshamsbury for Christmas, nor yet for the festivities of the new year; but now and then he wrote prettily worded notes, sending occasionally a silver-gilt pencil-case, or a small brooch, and informed Lady Arabella that he looked forward to the twentieth of February with great satisfaction. But, in the meanwhile, the squire became anxious, and at last went up to London; and Frank, who was at Cambridge, bought the heaviest-cutting whip to be found in that town, and wrote a confidential letter to Harry Baker.

Poor Mr Moffat! It is well known that none but the brave deserve the fair; but thou, without much excuse for bravery, had secured for thyself one who, at any rate, was fair enough for thee. Would it not have been well hadst thou looked to thyself to see what real bravery might be in thee, before thou hadst prepared to desert this fair one thou hadst already won? That last achievement, one may say, did require some special courage.

Poor Mr Moffat! It is wonderful that as he sat in that gig, going to Gatherum Castle, planning how he would be off with Miss Gresham and afterwards on with Miss Dunstable, it is wonderful that he should not then have cast his eye behind him, and looked at that stalwart pair of shoulders which were so close to his own back. As he afterwards pondered on his scheme while sipping the duke’s claret, it is odd that he should not have observed the fiery pride of purpose and power of wrath which was so plainly written on that young man’s brow: or, when he matured, and finished, and carried out his purpose, that he did not think of that keen grasp which had already squeezed his own hand with somewhat too warm a vigour, even in the way of friendship.

Poor Mr Moffat! it is probable that he forgot to think of Frank at all as connected with his promised bride; it is probable that he looked forward only to the squire’s violence and the enmity of the house of Courcy; and that he found from enquiry at his heart’s pulses, that he was man enough to meet these. Could he have guessed what a whip Frank Gresham would have bought at Cambridge–could he have divined what a letter would have been written to Harry Baker–it is probable, nay, we think we may say certain, that Miss Gresham would have become Mrs Moffat.

Miss Gresham, however, never did become Mrs Moffat. About two days after Frank’s departure for Cambridge–it is just possible that Mr Moffat was so prudent as to make himself aware of the fact–but just two days after Frank’s departure, a very long, elaborate, and clearly explanatory letter was received at Greshamsbury. Mr Moffat was quite sure that Miss Gresham and her very excellent parents would do him the justice to believe that he was not actuated, &c, &c, &c. The long and the short of this was, that Mr Moffat signified his intention of breaking off the match without offering any intelligible reason.

Augusta again bore her disappointment well: not, indeed, without sorrow and heartache, and inward, hidden tears; but still well. She neither raved, nor fainted, nor walked about by moonlight alone. She wrote no poetry, and never once thought of suicide. When, indeed, she remembered the rosy-tinted lining, the unfathomable softness of that Long-acre carriage, her spirit did for one moment give way; but, on the whole, she bore it as a strong-minded woman and a De Courcy should do.

But both Lady Arabella and the squire were greatly vexed. The former had made the match, and the latter, having consented to it, had incurred deeper responsibilities to enable him to bring it about. The money which was to have been given to Mr Moffat was still to the fore; but alas! how much, how much that he could ill spare, had been thrown away in bridal preparations! It is, moreover, an unpleasant thing for a gentleman to have his daughter jilted; perhaps peculiarly so to have her jilted by a tailor’s son.

Lady Arabella’s woe was really piteous. It seemed to her as though cruel fate were heaping misery after misery upon the wretched house of Greshamsbury. A few weeks since things were going so well with her! Frank then was still all but the accepted husband of almost untold wealth–so, at least, she was informed by her sister-in-law–whereas, Augusta, was the accepted wife of wealth, not indeed untold, but of dimensions quite sufficiently respectable to cause much joy in the telling. Where now were her golden hopes? Where now the splendid future of her poor duped children? Augusta was left to pine alone; and Frank, in a still worse plight, insisted on maintaining his love for a bastard and a pauper.

For Frank’s affairs she had received some poor consolation by laying all the blame on the squire’s shoulders. What she had then said was now repaid to her with interest; for not only had she been the maker of Augusta’s match, but she had boasted of the deed with all a mother’s pride.

It was from Beatrice that Frank had obtained his tidings. This last resolve on the part of Mr Moffat had not altogether been unsuspected by some of the Greshams, though altogether unsuspected by the Lady Arabella. Frank had spoken of it as a possibility to Beatrice, and was not quite unprepared when the information reached him. He consequently bought his cutting-whip, and wrote his confidential letter to Harry Baker.

On the following day Frank and Harry might have been seen, with their heads nearly close together, leaning over one of the tables in the large breakfast-room at the Tavistock Hotel in Covent Garden. The ominous whip, to the handle of which Frank had already made his hand well accustomed, was lying on the table between them; and ever and anon Harry Baker would take it up and feel its weight approvingly. Oh, Mr Moffat! poor Mr Moffat! go not out into the fashionable world to-day; above all, go not to that club of thine in Pall Mall; but, oh! especially go not there, as is thy wont to do, at three o’clock in the afternoon!

With much care did those two young generals lay their plans of attack. Let it not for a moment be thought that it was ever in the minds of either of them that two men should attack one. But it was thought that Mr Moffat might be rather coy in coming out from his seclusion to meet the proffered hand of his once intended brother-in-law when he should see that hand armed with a heavy whip. Baker, therefore, was content to act as a decoy duck, and remarked that he might no doubt make himself useful in restraining the public mercy, and, probably, in controlling the interference of policemen.

‘It will be deuced hard if I can’t get five or six shies at him,’ said Frank, again clutching his weapon almost spasmodically. Oh, Mr Moffat! five or six shies with such a whip, and such an arm! For myself, I would sooner join the second Balaclava gallop than encounter it.

At ten minutes before four these two heroes might be seen walking up Pall Mall, towards the —- Club. Young Baker walked with an eager disengaged air. Mr Moffat did not know his appearance; he had, therefore, no anxiety to pass along unnoticed. But Frank had in some mysterious way drawn his hat very far over his forehead, and had buttoned his shooting-coat up round his chin. Harry had recommended to him a great-coat, in order that he might the better conceal his face; but Frank had found the great-coat was an encumbrance to his arm. He put it on, and when thus clothed he had tried the whip, he found that he cut the air with much less potency than in the lighter garment. He contented himself, therefore, with looking down on the pavement as he walked along, letting the long point of the whip stick up from his pocket, and flattering himself that even Mr Moffat would not recognise him at the first glance. Poor Mr Moffat! If he had but had the chance!

And now, having arrived at the front of the club, the two friends for a moment separate: Frank remains standing on the pavement, under the shade of the high stone area-railing, while Harry jauntily skips up three steps at a time, and with a very civil word of inquiry of the hall porter, sends his card to Mr Moffat–

‘MR HARRY BAKER’

Mr Moffat, never having heard of such a gentleman in his life, unwittingly comes out into the hall, and Harry, with the sweetest smile, addresses him.

Now the plan of the campaign had been settled in this wise: Baker was to send into the club for Mr Moffat, and invite that gentleman down into the street. It was probable that the invitation might be declined; and it had been calculated in such case the two gentlemen would retire for parley into the strangers’ room, which was known to be immediately opposite the hall door. Frank was to keep his eye on the portals, and if he found that Mr Moffat did not appear as readily as might be desired, he also was to ascend the steps and hurry into the strangers’ room. Then, whether he met Mr Moffat there or elsewhere, or wherever, he might meet him, he was to greet him with all the friendly vigour in his power, while Harry disposed of the club porters.

But fortune, who ever favours the brave, specially favoured Frank Gresham on this occasion. Just as Harry Baker had put his card into the servant’s hand, Mr Moffat, with his hat on, prepared for the street, appeared in the hall; Mr Baker addressed him with his sweetest smile, and begged the pleasure of saying a word or two as they descended into the street. Had not Mr Moffat been going thither it would have been very improbable that he should have done so at Harry’s instance. But, as it was, he merely looked rather solemn at his visitor–it was his wont to look solemn–and continued the descent of the steps.

Frank, his heart leaping the while, saw his prey, and retreated two steps behind the area-railing, the dread weapon already well poised in his hand. Oh! Mr Moffat! Mr Moffat! if there be any goddess to interfere in thy favour, let her come forward now without delay; let her now bear thee off on a cloud if there be one to whom thou art sufficiently dear! But there is no such goddess.

Harry smiled blandly till they were well on the pavement, saying some nothing, and keeping the victim’s face averted from the avenging angel; and then, when the raised hand was sufficiently nigh, he withdrew two steps towards the nearest lamp-post. Not for him was the honour of the interview;–unless, indeed, succouring policemen might give occasion for some gleam of glory.

But succouring policemen were no more to be come by than goddesses. Where were ye, men, when that savage whip fell about the ears of the poor ex-legislator? In Scotland Yard, sitting dozing on your benches, or talking soft nothings to the housemaids round the corner; for ye were not walking on your beats, nor standing at coign of vantage, to watch the tumults of the day. Had Sir Richard himself been on the spot Frank Gresham would still, we may say, have had his five shies at that unfortunate one.

When Harry Baker quickly seceded from the way, Mr Moffat at once saw the fate before him. His hair doubtless stood on end, and his voice refused to give the loud screech with which he sought to invoke the club. An ashy paleness suffused his cheeks, and his tottering steps were unable to bear him away in flight. Once, and twice, the cutting whip came well down across his back. Had he been wise enough to stand still and take his thrashing in that attitude, it would have been well for him. But men so circumstanced have never such prudence. After two blows he made a dash at the steps, thinking to get back into the club; but Harry, who had by no means reclined in idleness against the lamp-post, here stopped him: ‘You had better go back into the street,’ said Harry; ‘indeed you had,’ giving him a shove from off the second step.

Then of course Frank could do no other than hit him anywhere. When a gentleman is dancing about with much energy it is hardly possible to strike him fairly on his back. The blows, therefore, came now on his legs and now on his head; and Frank unfortunately got more than his five or six shies before he was interrupted.

The interruption however came, all too soon for Frank’s idea of justice. Though there be no policeman to take part in a London row, there are always others ready enough to do so; amateur policemen, who generally sympathize with the wrong side, and, in nine cases out of ten, expend their generous energy in protecting thieves and pickpockets. When it was seen with what tremendous ardour that dread weapon fell about the ears of the poor undefended gentleman, interference was at last, in spite of Harry Baker’s best endeavours, and loudest protestations.

‘Do not interrupt them, sir,’ said he; ‘pray do not. It is a family affair, and they will neither of them like it.’

In the teeth, however, of these assurances, rude people did interfere, and after some nine or ten shies Frank found himself encompassed by the arms, and encumbered by the weight of a very stout gentleman, who hung affectionately about his neck and shoulders; whereas, Mr Moffat was already sitting in a state of syncope on the good-natured knees of a fishmonger’s apprentice.

Frank was thoroughly out of breath: nothing came from his lips but half-muttered expletives and unintelligible denunciations of the iniquity of his foe. But still he struggled to be at him again. We all know how dangerous is the taste of blood; now cruelly it will become a custom even with the most tender-hearted. Frank felt that he had hardly fleshed his virgin lash: he thought, almost with despair, that he had not yet at all succeeded as became a man and a brother; his memory told him of but one or two of the slightest touches that had gone well home to the offender. He made a desperate effort to throw off that incubus round his neck and rush again to the combat.

‘Harry–Harry; don’t let him go–don’t let him go,’ he barely articulated.

‘Do you want to murder the man, sir; to murder him?’ said the stout gentleman over his shoulder, speaking solemnly into his very ear.

‘I don’t care,’ said Frank, struggling manfully but uselessly. ‘Let me out, I say; I don’t care–don’t let him go, Harry, whatever you do.’

‘He has got it prettily tidily,’ said Harry; ‘I think that will perhaps do for the present.’

By this time there was a considerable concourse. The club steps were crowded with members; among whom there were many of Mr Moffat’s acquaintance. Policemen now flocked up, and the question arose as to what should be done with the originators of the affray. Frank and Harry found that they were to consider themselves under a gentle arrest, and Mr Moffat, in a fainting state, was carried into the interior of the club.

Frank, in his innocence, had intended to have celebrated this little affair when it was over by a light repast and a bottle of claret with his friend, and then to have gone back to Cambridge by the mail train. He found, however, that his schemes in this respect were frustrated. He had to get bail to attend at Marlborough Street police-office should he be wanted within the next two or three days; and was given to understand that he would be under the eye of the police, at any rate until Mr Moffat should be out of danger.

‘Out of danger!’ said Frank to his friend with a startled look. ‘Why I hardly got at him.’ Nevertheless, they did have their slight repast, and also their bottle of claret.

On the second morning after this occurrence, Frank was again sitting in that public room at the Tavistock, and Harry was again sitting opposite to him. The whip was not now so conspicuously produced between them, having been carefully packed up and put away among Frank’s other travelling properties. They were so sitting, rather glum, when the door swung open, and a heavy quick step was heard advancing towards them. It was the squire; whose arrival there had been momentarily expected.

‘Frank,’ said he–‘Frank, what on earth is all this?’ and as he spoke he stretched out both hands, the right to his son and the left to his friend.

‘He has given a blackguard a licking, that is all,’ said Harry.

Frank felt that his hand was held with a peculiarly warm grasp; and he could not but think that his father’s face, raised though his eyebrows were–though there was on it an intended expression of amazement and, perhaps, regret–nevertheless he could not but think that his father’s face looked kindly at him.

‘God bless my soul, my dear boy! what have you done to the man?’

‘He’s not a ha’porth the worse, sir,’ said Frank, still holding his father’s hand.

‘Oh, isn’t he!’ said Harry, shrugging his shoulders. ‘He must be made of some very strong article then.’

‘But my dear boys, I hope there’s no danger. I hope there’s no danger.’

‘Danger!’ said Frank, who could not yet induce himself to believe that he had been allowed a fair chance with Mr Moffat.

‘Oh, Frank! Frank! how could you be so rash? In the middle of Pall Mall, too. Well! well! well! All the women down at Greshamsbury will have it that you have killed him.’

‘I almost wish I had,’ said Frank.

‘Oh, Frank! Frank! But now tell me–‘

And then the father sat well pleased while he heard, chiefly from Harry Baker, the full story of his son’s prowess. And then they did not separate without another slight repast and another bottle of claret.

Mr Moffat retired to the country for a while, and then went abroad; having doubtless learnt that the petition was not likely to give him a seat for the city of Barchester. And this was the end of the wooing with Miss Gresham.

CHAPTER XXII

SIR ROGER IS UNSEATED

After this, little occurred at Greshamsbury, or among Greshamsbury people, which it will be necessary for us to record. Some notice was, of course, taking of Frank’s prolonged absence from his college; and tidings, perhaps exaggerated tidings, of what had happened at Pall Mall were not slow to reach the High Street of Cambridge. But that affair was gradually hushed up; and Frank went on with his studies.

He went back to his studies: it then being an understood arrangement between him and his father that he should not return to Greshamsbury till the summer vacation. On this occasion, the squire and Lady Arabella had, strange to say, been of the same mind. They both wished to keep their son away from Miss Thorne; and both calculated, that at his age and with his disposition, it was not probable that any passion would last out a six month absence. ‘And when that summer comes it will be an excellent opportunity for us to go abroad,’ said Lady Arabella. ‘Poor Augusta will require some change to renovate her spirits.’

To this last proposition the squire did not assent. It was, however, allowed to pass over; and this much was fixed, that Frank was not to return till midsummer.

It will be remembered that Sir Roger Scatcherd had been elected as sitting member for the city of Barchester; but it will also be remembered that a petition against his return was threatened. Had the petition depended solely on Mr Moffat, Sir Roger’s seat no doubt would have been saved by Frank Gresham’s cutting whip. But such was not the case. Mr Moffat had been put forward by the De Courcy interest; and that noble family with its dependants was not to go to the wall because Mr Moffat had had a thrashing. No; the petition was to go on; and Mr Nearthewinde declared, that no petition in his hands had half so good a chance of success. ‘Chance, no, but certainty,’ said Mr Nearthewinde; for Mr Nearthewinde had learnt something with reference to that honest publican and the payment of his little bill.

The petition was presented and duly backed; the recognisances were signed, and all the proper formalities formally executed; and Sir Roger found that his seat was in jeopardy. His return had been a great triumph to him; and, unfortunately, he had celebrated that triumph as he had been in the habit of celebrating most of the very triumphant occasions of his life. Though he was than hardly yet recovered from the effects of his last attack, he indulged in another violent drinking bout; and, strange to say, did so without any immediate visible bad effects.

In February he took his seat amidst the warm congratulations of all men of his own class, and early in the month of April his case came on for trial. Every kind of electioneering sin known to the electioneering world was brought to his charge; he was accused of falseness, dishonesty, and bribery of every sort: he had, it was said in the paper of indictment, bought votes, obtained them by treating, carried them off by violence, conquered them by strong drink, polled them twice over, counted those of dead men, stolen them, forged them, and created them by every possible, fictitious contrivance: there was no description of wickedness appertaining to the task of procuring votes of which Sir Roger had not been guilty, either by himself or by his agents. He was quite horror-struck at the list of his own enormities. But he was somewhat comforted when Mr Closerstil told him that the meaning of it all was that Mr Romer, the barrister, had paid a former bill due to Mr Reddypalm, the publican.

‘I fear he was indiscreet, Sir Roger; I really fear he was. Those young mean always are. Being energetic, they work like horses; but what’s the use of energy without discretion, Sir Roger?’

‘But, Mr Closerstil, I knew nothing of it from first to last.’

‘The agency can be proved, Sir Roger,’ said Mr Closerstil, shaking his head. And then there was nothing further to be said on the matter.

In these days of snow-white purity all political delinquency is abominable in the eyes of British politicians; but no delinquency is so abominable than the venality at elections. The sin of bribery is damnable. It is the one sin for which, in the House of Commons, there can be no forgiveness. When discovered, it should render the culprit liable to political death, without hope of pardon. It is treason against a higher throne than that on which the Queen sits. It is a heresy which requires an auto-da-fe. It is a pollution to the whole House, which can only be cleansed by a great sacrifice. Anathema maranatha! out with it from amongst us, even though half of our heart’s blood be poured from the conflict! Out with it, and for ever!

Such is the language of patriotic members with regard to bribery; and doubtless, if sincere, they are in the right. It is a bad thing, certainly, that a rich man should buy votes; bad also that a poor man should sell them. By all means let us repudiate such a system with heartfelt disgust.

With heartfelt disgust, if we can do so, by all means; but not with disgust pretended only and not felt in the heart at all. The laws against bribery at elections are now so stringent that an unfortunate candidate may easily become guilty, even though actuated by the purest intentions. But not the less on that account does any gentleman, ambitious of the honour of serving his country in Parliament, think it necessary as a preliminary measure to provide a round sum of money at his banker’s. A candidate must pay for no treating, no refreshments, no band of music; he must give neither ribbons to the girls nor ale to the men. If a huzza be uttered in his favour, it is at his peril; it may be necessary for him to prove before a committee that it was the spontaneous result of British feeling in his favour, and not the purchased result of British beer. He cannot safely ask any one to share his hotel dinner. Bribery hides itself now in the most impalpable shapes, and may be effected by the offer of a glass of sherry. But not the less on this account does a poor man find that he is quite unable to overcome the difficulties of a contested election.

We strain at our gnats with a vengeance, but we swallow our camels with ease. For what purpose is it that we employ those peculiarly safe men of business–Messrs Nearthewinde and Closerstil–when we wish to win our path through all obstacles into that sacred recess? Alas! the money is still necessary, is still prepared, or at any rate, expended. The poor candidate of course knows nothing of the matter till the attorney’s bill is laid before him, when all danger of petitions has passed away. He little dreamed till then, not he, that there had been banquetings and junketings, secret doings and deep drinkings at his expense. Poor candidate! Poor member! Who was so ignorant as he! ‘Tis true he has paid bills before; but ’tis equally true that he specially begged his managing friend Mr Nearthewinde, to be very careful that all was done according to law! He pays the bill, however, and on the next election will again employ Mr Nearthewinde.

Now and again, at rare intervals, some glimpse into the inner sanctuary does reach the eyes of ordinary mortal men without; some slight accidental peep into those mysteries from when all corruption has been so thoroughly expelled; and then, how delightfully refreshing is the sight, when, perhaps, some ex-member, hurled from his paradise like a fallen peri, reveals the secret of that pure heaven, and, in the agony of his despair, tells us all that it cost him to sit for–through those few halcyon years!

But Mr Nearthewinde is a safe man, and easy to be employed with but little danger. All these stringent bribery laws only enhance the value of such very safe men as Mr Nearthewinde. To him, stringent laws against bribery are the strongest assurance of valuable employment. Were these laws of a nature to be evaded with ease, any indifferent attorney might manage a candidate’s affairs and enable him to take his seat with security.

It would have been well for Sir Roger if he had trusted solely to Mr Closerstil; well also for Mr Romer had he never fished in those troubled waters. In due process of time the hearing of the petition came on, and then who so happy, sitting at his ease in the London inn, blowing his cloud from a long pipe, with measureless content, as Mr Reddypalm? Mr Reddypalm was the one great man of the contest. All depended on Mr Reddypalm; and well he did his duty.

The result of the petition was declared by the committee to be read as follows:–that Sir Roger’s election was null and void–that Sir Roger had, by his agent, been guilty of bribery in obtaining a vote, by the payment of a bill alleged to have been previously refused payment–this is always a matter of course;–but that Sir Roger’s agent, Mr Romer, had been willingly guilty of bribery with reference to the transaction above declared. Poor Sir Roger! Poor Mr Romer.

Poor Mr Romer indeed! His fate was perhaps as sad as well might be, and as foul a blot to the purism of these very pure times in which we live. Not long after those days, it so happening that some considerable amount of youthful energy and quidnunc ability were required to set litigation afloat at Hong Kong, Mr Romer was sent thither as the fittest man for such work, with rich assurance of future guerdon. Who are so happy then as Mr Romer! But even among the pure there is room for envy and detraction. Mr Romer had not yet ceased to wonder at new worlds, as he skimmed among the islands of that southern ocean, before the edict had gone forth for his return. There were men sitting in that huge court of Parliament on whose breasts it lay as an intolerable burden, that England should be represented among the antipodes by one who had tampered with the purity of the franchise. For them there was no rest till this great disgrace should be wiped out and atoned for. Men they were of that calibre, that the slightest reflection on them of such a stigma seemed to themselves to blacken their own character. They could not break bread with satisfaction till Mr Romer was recalled. He was recalled, and of course ruined–and the minds of those just men were then at peace.

To any honourable gentleman who really felt his brow suffused with a patriotic blush, as he thought of his country dishonoured by Mr Romer’s presence at Hong Kong–to any such gentleman, if any such there were, let all honour be given, even though the intensity of his purity may create amazement to our less finely organized souls. But if no such blush suffused the brow of any honourable gentleman; if Mr Romer was recalled from quite other feelings–what then in lieu of honour shall we allot to those honourable gentlemen who were most concerned?

Sir Roger, however, lost his seat, and, after three months of the joys of legislation, found himself reduced by a terrible blow to the low level of private life.

And the blow to him was very heavy. Men but seldom tell the truth of what is in them, even to their dearest friends; they are ashamed of having feelings, or rather of showing that they are troubled by any intensity of feeling. It is the practice of the time to treat all pursuits as though they were only half important to us, as though in what we desire we were only half in earnest. To be visibly eager seems childish, and is always bad policy; and men, therefore, nowadays, though they strive as hard as ever in the service of ambition–harder than ever in that of mammon–usually do so with a pleasant smile on, as though after all they were but amusing themselves with the little matter in hand.

Perhaps it had been so with Sir Roger in those electioneering days when he was looking for votes. At any rate, he had spoken of his seat in Parliament as but a doubtful good. ‘He was willing, indeed, to stand, having been asked; but the thing would interfere wonderfully with his business; and then, what did he know about Parliament? Nothing on earth: it was the maddest scheme, but nevertheless, he was not going to hang back when called upon–he had always been rough and ready when wanted–and there he was now ready as ever, and rough enough too, God knows.’

‘Twas thus that he had spoken of his coming parliamentary honours; and men had generally taken him at his word. He had been returned, and this success had been hailed as a great thing for the cause and class to which he belonged. But men did not know that his inner heart was swelling with triumph, and that his bosom could hardly contain his pride as he reflected that the poor Barchester stone-mason was now the representative of his native city. And so, when his seat was attacked, he still laughed and joked. ‘They were welcome to it for him,’ he said; ‘he could keep it or want it; and of the two, perhaps, the want of it would come most convenient to him. He did not exactly think that he had bribed any one; but if the bigwigs chose to say so, it was all one to him. He was rough and ready, now as ever,’ &c &c.

But when the struggle came, it was to him a fearful one; not the less fearful because there was no one, no, not one friend in all the world, to whom he could open his mind and speak out honestly what was in his heart. To Dr Thorne he might perhaps have done so had his intercourse with the doctor been sufficiently frequent; but it was only now and then when he was ill, or when the squire wanted to borrow money, that he saw Dr Thorne. He had plenty of friends, heaps of friends in the parliamentary sense; friends who talked about him, and lauded him at public meetings; who shook hands with him on platforms and drank his health at dinners; but he had no friends who could sit with him over his own hearth, in true friendship, and listen to, and sympathize with, and moderate the sighings of the inner man. For him there was no sympathy; no tenderness of love; no retreat, save into himself, from the loud brass band of the outer world.

The blow hit him terribly hard. It did not come altogether unexpectedly, and yet, when it did come, it was all but unendurable. He had made so much of the power of walking into that august chamber, and sitting shoulder to shoulder in legislative equality with the sons of dukes and the curled darlings of the nation. Money had given him nothing, nothing but the mere feeling of brute power: with his three hundred thousand pounds he had felt himself to be no more palpably near to the goal of his ambition than when he had chipped stones for three shillings and sixpence a day. But when he was led up and introduced at that table, when he shook the old premier’s hand on the floor of the House of Commons, when he heard the honourable member for Barchester alluded to in grave debate as the greatest living authority on railway matters, then, indeed, he felt that he had achieved something.

And now this cup was ravished from his lips, almost before it was tasted. When he was first told as a certainty that the decision of the committee was against him, he bore up against the misfortune like a man. He laughed heartily, and declared himself well rid of a very profitless profession; cut some little joke about Mr Moffat and his thrashing, and left on those around him an impression that he was a man so constituted, so strong in his own resolves, so steadily pursuant of his own work, that no little contentions of this kind could affect him. Men admired his easy laughter, as, shuffling his half-crowns with both his hands in his trouser-pockets, he declared that Messrs Romer and Reddypalm were the best friends he had known for many a day.

But not the less did he walk out from the room in which he was standing a broken-hearted man. Hope could not buoy him up as she may do other ex-members in similarly disagreeable circumstances. He could not afford to look forward to what further favours parliamentary future have in store for him after a lapse of five or six years. Five or six years! Why, his life was not worth four years’ purchase; of that he was perfectly aware: he could not now live without the stimulus of brandy; and yet, while he took it, he knew he was killing himself. Death he did not fear; but he would fain have wished, after his life of labour, to have lived, while yet he could live, in the blaze of that high world to which for a moment he had attained.

He laughed loud and cheerily as he left his parliamentary friends, and, putting himself into the train, went down to Boxall Hill. He laughed loud and cheerily; but he never laughed again. It had not been his habit to laugh much at Boxall Hill. It was there he kept his wife, and Mr Winterbones, and the brandy bottle behind his pillow. He had not often there found it necessary to assume that loud and cheery laugh.

On this occasion he was apparently well in health when he got home; but both Lady Scatcherd and Mr Winterbones found him more than ordinarily cross. He made an affectation at sitting very hard to business, and even talked of going abroad to look at some of his foreign contracts. But even Winterbones found that his patron did not work as he had been wont to do; and at last, with some misgivings, he told Lady Scatcherd that he feared that everything was not right.

‘He’s always at it, my lady, always,’ said Mr Winterbones.

‘Is he?’ said Lady Scatcherd, well understanding what Mr Winterbones’s allusion meant.

‘Always, my lady. I never saw nothing like it. Now, there’s me–I can always go my half-hour when I’ve had my drop; but he, why, he don’t go ten minutes, not now.’

This was not cheerful to Lady Scatcherd; but what was the poor woman to do? When she spoke to him on any subject he only snarled at her; and now that the heavy fit was on him, she did not dare even to mention the subject of his drinking. She had never known him so savage in his humour as he was now, so bearish in his habits, so little inclined to humanity, so determined to rush headlong down, with his head between his legs, into the bottomless abyss.

She thought of sending for Dr Thorne; but she did not know under what guise to send for him,–whether as doctor or as friend: under neither would he now be welcome; and she well knew that Sir Roger was not the man to accept in good part either a doctor or a friend who might be unwelcome. She knew that this husband of hers, this man, who, with all his faults, was the best of her friends whom she loved best–she knew that he was killing himself, and yet she could do nothing. Sir Roger was his own master, and if kill himself he would, kill himself he must.

And kill himself he did. Not indeed by one sudden blow. He did not take one huge dose of his consuming poison, and then fall dead upon the floor. It would perhaps have been better for himself, and better for those around him, had he done so. No; the doctors had time to congregate round his bed; Lady Scatcherd was allowed a period of nurse-tending; the sick man was able to say his last few words and bid his adieu to his portion of the lower world with dying decency. As these last words will have some lasting effect upon the surviving personages of our story, the reader must be content to stand for a short while by the side of Sir Roger’s sick-bed, and help us bid him God-speed on the journey which lies before him.

CHAPTER XXIII

RETROSPECTIVE

It was declared in the early pages of this work that Dr Thorne was to be our hero; but it would appear very much as though he had latterly been forgotten. Since that evening when he retired to rest without letting Mary share the grievous weight which was on his mind, we have neither seen nor heard aught of him.

It was then full midsummer, and it now early spring: and during the intervening months the doctor had not had a happy time of it. On that night, as we have before told, he took his niece to his heart; but he could not then bring himself to tell her that which it was so imperative that she should know. Like a coward, he would put off the evil hour, till the next morning, and thus robbed himself of his night’s sleep.

But when the morning came the duty could not be postponed. Lady Arabella had given him to understand that his niece would no longer be a guest at Greshamsbury; and it was quite out of the question that Mary, after this, should be allowed to put her foot within the gate of the domain without having learnt what Lady Arabella had said. So he told it before breakfast, walking round their little garden, she with her hand in his.

He was perfectly thunderstruck by the collected–nay, cool way in which she received his tidings. She turned pale, indeed; he felt also that her hand somewhat trembled in his own, and he perceived that for a moment her voice shook; but no angry word escaped her lip, nor did she even deign to repudiate the charge, which was, as it were, conveyed in Lady Arabella’s request. The doctor knew, or thought he knew–nay, he did know–that Mary was wholly blameless in the matter: that she had at least given no encouragement to any love on the part of the young heir; but, nevertheless, he had expected that she would avouch her own innocence. This, however, she by no means did.

‘Lady Arabella is quite right,’ she said, ‘quite right; if she has any fear of that kind, she cannot be too careful.’

‘She is a selfish, proud woman,’ said the doctor; ‘quite indifferent to the feelings of others; quite careless how deeply she may hurt her neighbours, if, in doing so, she may possibly benefit herself.’

‘She will not hurt me, uncle, nor yet you. I can live without going to Greshamsbury.’

‘But it is not to be endured that she should dare to cast an imputation on my darling.’

‘On me, uncle? She casts no imputation on me. Frank has been foolish: I have said nothing of it, for it was not worth while to trouble you. But as Lady Arabella chooses to interfere, I have no right to blame her. He has said what he should not have said; he has been foolish. Uncle, you know I could not prevent it.’

‘Let her send him away then, not you; let her banish him.’

‘Uncle, he is her son. A mother can hardly send her son away so easily: could you send me away, uncle?’

He merely answered her by twining his arm round her waist and pressing her to his side. He was well sure that she was badly treated; and yet now that she so unaccountably took Lady Arabella’s part, he hardly knew how to make this out plainly to be the case.

‘Besides, uncle, Greshamsbury is in a manner his own; how can he be banished from his father’s house? No, uncle; there is an end of my visits there. They shall find that I will not thrust myself in their way.’

And then Mary, with a calm brow and steady gait, went in and made the tea.

And what might be the feelings of her heart when she so sententiously told her uncle that Frank had been foolish? She was of the same age with him; as impressionable, though more powerful in hiding such impressions,–as all women should be; her heart was as warm, her blood as full of life, her innate desire for the companionship of some much-loved object as strong as his. Frank had been foolish in avowing his passion. No such folly as that could be laid at her door. But had she been proof against the other folly? Had she been able to walk heart-whole by his side, while he chatted his commonplaces about love? Yes, they are commonplaces when we read them in novels; common enough, too, to some of us when we write them; but they are by no means commonplace when first heard by a young girl in the rich, balmy fragrance of July evening stroll.

Nor are they commonplaces when so uttered for the first or second time at least, or perhaps the third. ‘Tis a pity that so heavenly a pleasure should pall upon the senses.

If it was so that Frank’s folly had been listened to with a certain amount of pleasure, Mary did not even admit so much to herself. But why should it have been otherwise? Why should she have been less prone to love than he was? Had he not everything which girls do love? which girls should love? which God created noble, beautiful, all but godlike, in order that women, all but goddesslike, might love? To love thoroughly, truly, heartily, with her whole body, soul, heart, and strength; should not that be counted for a merit in a woman? And yet we are wont to make a disgrace of it. We do so most unnaturally, most unreasonably; for we expect our daughters to get themselves married off our hands. When the period of that step comes, then love is proper enough; but up to that–before that–as regards all those preliminary passages which must, we suppose, be necessary–in all those it becomes a young lady to be icy-hearted as a river-god in winter.

‘O whistle and I’ll come to you my lad! O whistle and I’ll come to you my lad! Tho’ father and mither and a’should go mad O whistle and I’ll come to you my lad!’

This is the kind of love which a girl should feel before she puts her hand proudly in that of her lover, and consents that they two shall be made one flesh.

Mary felt no such love as this. She, too, had some inner perception of that dread destiny by which it behoved Frank Gresham to be forewarned. She, too–though she had never heard so much said in words–had an almost instinctive knowledge that his fate required him to marry money. Thinking over this in her own way, she was not slow to convince herself that it was out of the question that she should allow herself to love Frank Gresham. However well her heart might be inclined to such a feeling, it was her duty to repress it. She resolved, therefore, to do so; and she sometimes flattered herself that she had kept her resolution.

These were bad times for the doctor, and bad times for Mary too. She had declared that she could live without going to Greshamsbury; but she did not find it so easy. She had been going to Greshamsbury all her life, and it was customary with her to be there as at home. Such old customs are not broken without pain. Had she left the place it would have been far different; but, as it was, she daily passed the gates, daily saw and spoke to some of the servants, who knew her as well as they did the young ladies of the family–was in hourly contact, as it were, with Greshamsbury. It was not only that she did not go there, but that every one knew that she had suddenly discontinued doing so. Yes, she could live without going to Greshamsbury; but for some time she had but a poor life of it. She felt, nay, almost heard, that every man and woman, boy and girl in the village was telling his and her neighbour that Mary Thorne no longer went to the house because of Lady Arabella and the young squire.

But Beatrice, of course, came to her. What was she to say to Beatrice? The truth! Nay, but it is not always so easy to say the truth, even to one’s dearest friends.

‘But you’ll come up now he has gone?’ said Beatrice.

‘No, indeed,’ said Mary; ‘that would hardly be pleasant to Lady Arabella, nor to me either. No, Trichy, dearest; my visits to dear old Greshamsbury are done, done, done: perhaps in some twenty years’ time I may be walking down the lawn with your brother, and discussing the childish days–that is, always, if the then Mrs Gresham shall have invited me.’

‘How can Frank have been so wrong, so unkind, so cruel?’ said Beatrice.

This, however, was a light in which Miss Thorne did not take any pleasure, in discussing the matter. Her ideas of Frank’s fault, and unkindness and cruelty, were doubtless different from those of her sister. Such cruelty was not unnaturally excused in her eyes by many circumstances which Beatrice did not fully understand. Mary was quite ready to go hand in hand with Lady Arabella and the rest of Greshamsbury fold in putting an end, if possible, to Frank’s passion: she would give not one a right to accuse her of assisting to ruin the young heir; but she could hardly bring herself to admit that he was so very wrong–no, nor yet even so very cruel.

And then the squire came to see her, and this was a yet harder trial than the visit of Beatrice. It was so difficult for her to speak to him that she could not but wish him away; and yet, had he not come, had he altogether neglected her, she would have felt it to be unkind. She had ever been his pet, had always received kindness from him.

‘I am sorry for all this, Mary; very sorry,’ said he, standing up, and holding both her hands in his.

‘It can’t be helped, sir,’ said she, smiling.

‘I don’t know,’ said he; ‘I don’t know–it ought to be helped somehow–I am quite sure you have not been to blame.’

‘No,’ said she, very quietly, as though the position was one quite a matter of course. ‘I don’t think I have been very much to blame. There will be misfortunes sometimes when nobody is to blame.’

‘I do not quite understand it all,’ said the squire; ‘but if Frank–‘

‘Oh! we will not talk about him,’ said she, still laughing gently.

‘You can understand, Mary, how dear he must be to me; but if–‘

‘Mr Gresham, I would not for worlds be the cause of any unpleasantness between you and him.’

‘But I cannot bear to think that we have banished you, Mary.’

‘It cannot be helped. Things will all come right in time.’

‘But you will be lonely here.’

‘Oh! I shall get over all that. Here, you know, Mr Gresham, “I am monarch of all I survey”; and there is a great deal in that.’

The squire did not catch her meaning, but a glimmering of it did reach him. It was competent to Lady Arabella to banish her from Greshamsbury; it was within the sphere of the squire’s duties to prohibit his son from an imprudent match; it was for the Greshams to guard their Greshamsbury treasure as best they could within their own territories: but let them beware that they did not attack her on hers. In obedience to the first expression of their wishes, she had submitted herself to this public mark of their disapproval because she had seen at once, with her clear intellect, that they were only doing that which her conscience must approve. Without a murmur, therefore, she consented to be pointed at as the young lady who had been turned out of Greshamsbury because of the young squire. She had no help for it. But let them take care that they did not go beyond that. Outside those Greshamsbury gates she and Frank Gresham, she and Lady Arabella met on equal terms; let them each fight their own battle.

The squire kissed her forehead affectionately and took his leave, feeling somehow, that he had been excused and pitied, and made much of; whereas he had called on his young neighbour with the intention of excusing, and pitying, and making much of her. He was not quite comfortable as he left the house; but, nevertheless, he was sufficiently honest-hearted to own to himself that Mary Thorne was a fine girl. Only that it was so absolutely necessary that Frank should marry money–and only, also, that poor Mary was such a birthless foundling in the world’s esteem–only, but for these things, what a wife she would have made for that son of his!

To one person only did she talk freely on the subject, and that one was Patience Oriel; and even with her the freedom was rather of the mind than of the heart. She never said a word of her feeling with reference to Frank, but she said much of her position in the village, and of the necessity she was under to keep out of the way.

‘It is very hard,’ said Patience, ‘that the offence should be all with him, and the punishment all with you.’

‘Oh! as for that,’ said Mary, laughing, ‘I will not confess to any offence, not yet to any punishment; certainly not to any punishment.’

‘It comes to the same thing in the end.’

‘No, not so, Patience; there is always some little sting of disgrace in punishment: now I am not going to hold myself in the least disgraced.’

‘But, Mary, you must meet the Greshams sometimes.’

‘Meet them! I have not the slightest objection on earth to meet all, or any of them. They are not a whit dangerous to me, my dear. ‘Tis that I am the wild beast, and ’tis that they must avoid me,’ and then she added, after a pause–slightly blushing–‘I have not the slightest objection even to meet him if chance brings him in my way. Let them look to that. My undertaking goes no further than this, that I will not be seen within their gates.’

But the girls so far understood each other that Patience undertook, rather than promised, to give Mary what assistance she could; and, despite Mary’s bravado, she was in such a position that she much wanted the assistance of such a friend as Patience Oriel.

After an absence of some six weeks, Frank, as we have seen, returned home. Nothing was said to him, except by Beatrice, as to those new Greshamsbury arrangements; and he, when he found Mary was not at the place, went boldly to the doctor’s house to seek her. But it has been seen, also, that she discreetly kept out of his way. This she had thought fit to do when the time came, although she had been so ready with her boast that she had no objection on earth to meet him.

After that there had been the Christmas vacation, and Mary had again found discretion the better part of valour. This was doubtless disagreeable enough. She had no particular wish to spend her Christmas with Miss Oriel’s aunt instead of at her uncle’s fireside. Indeed, her Christmas festivities had hitherto been kept at Greshamsbury, the doctor and herself having a part of the family circle there assembled. This was out of the question now; and perhaps the absolute change to old Miss Oriel’s house was better for her than the lesser change to her uncle’s drawing-room. Besides, how could she have demeaned herself when she met Frank in their parish church? All this had been fully understood by Patience, and, therefore, had this Christmas visit been planned.

And then this affair of Frank and Mary Thorne ceased for a while to be talked of at Greshamsbury, for that other affair of Mr Moffat and Augusta monopolized the rural attention. Augusta, as we have said, bore it well, and sustained the public gaze without much flinching. Her period of martyrdom, however, did not last long, for soon the news arrived of Frank’s exploit in Pall Mall; and then the Greshamsburyites forgot to think much more of Augusta, being fully occupied in thinking of what Frank had done.

The tale, as it was first told, declared the Frank had followed Mr Moffat up into his club; had dragged him thence into the middle of Pall Mall, and had then slaughtered him on the spot. This was by degrees modified till a sobered fiction became generally prevalent, that Mr Moffat was lying somewhere, still alive, but with all his bones in a state of compound fracture. This adventure again brought Frank into the ascendant, and restored to Mary her former position as the Greshamsbury heroine.

‘One cannot wonder at his being very angry,’ said Beatrice, discussing the matter with Mary–very imprudently.

‘Wonder–no; the wonder would have been if he had not been angry. One might have been quite sure that he would have been angry enough.’

‘I suppose it was not absolutely right for him to beat Mr Moffat,’ said Beatrice, apologetically.

‘Not right, Trichy? I think he was very right.’

‘Not to beat him so much, Mary!’

‘Oh, I suppose a man can’t exactly stand measuring how much he does these things. I like your brother for what he has done, and I may say so frankly–though I suppose I ought to eat my tongue out before I should say such a thing, eh Trichy?’

‘I don’t know that there’s any harm in that,’ said Beatrice, demurely. ‘If you both liked each other there would be no harm in that–if that were all.’

‘Wouldn’t there?’ said Mary, in a low tone of bantering satire; ‘that is so kind, Trichy, coming from you–from one of the family, you know.’

‘You are well aware, Mary, that if I could have my wishes–‘

‘Yes: I am well aware what a paragon of goodness you are. If you could have your way I should be admitted into heaven again; shouldn’t I? Only with this proviso, that if a stray angel should ever whisper to me with bated breath, mistaking me, perchance, for one of his own class, I should be bound to close my ears to his whispering, and remind him humbly that I was only a poor mortal. You would trust me so far, wouldn’t you, Trichy?’

‘I would trust you in any way, Mary. But I think you are unkind in saying such things to me.’

‘Into whatever heaven I am admitted, I will go only on this understanding: that I am to be as good an angel as any of those around me.’

‘But, Mary dear, why do you say this to me?’

‘Because–because–because–ah me! Why, indeed, but because I have no one else to say it to. Certainly not because you have deserved it.’

‘It seems as if you were finding fault with me.’

‘And so I am; how can I do other than find fault? How can I help being sore? Trichy, you hardly realize my position; you hardly see how I am treated; how I am forced to allow myself to be treated without a sign of complaint. You don’t see it all. If you did, you would not wonder that I should be sore.’

Beatrice did not quite see it all; but she saw enough of it to know that Mary was to be pitied; so, instead of scolding her friend for being cross, she threw her arms round her and kissed her affectionately.

But the doctor all this time suffered much more than his niece did. He could not complain out loudly; he could not aver that his pet lamb had been ill treated; he could not even have the pleasure of openly quarrelling with Lady Arabella; but not the less did he feel it to be most cruel that Mary should have to live before the world as an outcast, because it had pleased Frank Gresham to fall in love with her.

But his bitterness was not chiefly against Frank. That Frank had been very foolish he could not but acknowledge; but it was a kind of folly for which the doctor was able to find excuse. For Lady Arabella’s cold propriety he could find no excuse.

With the squire he had spoken no word on the subject up to this period of which we are now writing. With her ladyship he had never spoken on it since that day when she had told him that Mary was to come no more to Greshamsbury. He never now dined or spent his evenings at Greshamsbury, and seldom was to be seen at the house, except when called in professionally. The squire, indeed, he frequently met; but he either did so in the village, or out on horseback, or at his own house.

When the doctor first heard that Sir Roger had lost his seat, and had returned to Boxall Hill, he resolved to go over and see him. But the visit was postponed from day to day, as visits are postponed which may be made any day, and he did not in fact go till summoned there somewhat peremptorily. A message was brought to him one evening to say that Sir Roger had been struck by paralysis, and that not a moment was to be lost.

‘It always happens at night,’ said Mary, who had more sympathy for the living uncle whom she did know, than for the other dying uncle whom she did not know.

‘What matters?–there–just give me my scarf. In all probability I may not be home to-night–perhaps not till late to-morrow. God bless you, Mary!’ and away the doctor went on his cold bleak ride to Boxall Hill.

‘Who is to be his heir?’ As the doctor rode along, he could not quite rid his mind of the question. The poor man now about to die had wealth enough to make many heirs. What if his heart should have softened towards his sister’s child! What if Mary should be found to be possessed of such wealth that the Greshams should be again be happy to welcome her at Greshamsbury!

The doctor was not a lover of money–and he did his best to get rid of such pernicious thoughts. But his longings, perhaps, were not so much that Mary should be rich, as that she should have the power of heaping coals of fire upon the heads of those people who had so injured her.

CHAPTER XXIV

LOUIS SCATCHERD

When Dr Thorne reached Boxall Hill he found Mr Rerechild from Barchester there before him. Poor Lady Scatcherd, when her husband was stricken by the fit, hardly knew in her dismay what adequate steps to take. She had, as a matter of course, sent for Dr Thorne; but she had thought it so grave a peril that the medical skill of no one man could suffice. It was, she knew, quite out of the question for her to invoke the aid of Dr Fillgrave, whom no earthly persuasion could have brought to Boxall Hill; and as Mr Rerechild was supposed in the Barchester world to be second–though at a long interval–to that great man, she had applied for his assistance.

Now Mr Rerechild was a follower and humble friend of Dr Fillgrave; and was wont to regard anything that came from the Barchester doctor as sure as light from the lamp of Aesculapius. He could not therefore be other than an enemy of Dr Thorne. But he was a prudent, discreet man, with a long family, averse to professional hostilities, as knowing that he could make more by medical friends than medical foes, and not at all inclined to take up any man’s cudgel to his own detriment. He had, of course, heard of that dreadful affront which had been put upon his friend, as had all the ‘medical world’–and all the medical world at least of Barsetshire; and he had often expressed sympathy with Dr Fillgrave and his abhorrence of Dr Thorne’s anti-professional practices. But now that he found himself about to be brought in contact with Dr Thorne, he reflected that the Galen of Greshamsbury was at any rate equal in reputation to him of Barchester; that the one was probably on the rise, whereas the other was already considered by some as rather antiquated; and he therefore wisely resolved that the present would be an excellent opportunity for him to make a friend of Dr Thorne.

Poor Lady Scatcherd had an inkling that Dr Fillgrave and Mr Rerechild were accustomed to row in the same boat, and she was not altogether free from fear that there might be an outbreak. She therefore took an opportunity before Dr Thorne’s arrival to deprecate any wrathful tendency.

‘Oh, Lady Scatcherd! I have the greatest respect for Dr Thorne,’ said he; ‘the greatest possible respect; a most skilful practitioner–something brusque, certainly, and perhaps a little obstinate. But what then? we have all our faults, Lady Scatcherd.’

‘Oh–yes; we all have, Mr Rerechild; that’s a certain.’

‘There’s my friend Fillgrave–Lady Scatcherd. He cannot bear anything of that sort. Now I think he’s wrong; and so I tell him.’ Mr Rerechild was in error here; for he had never yet ventured to tell Dr Fillgrave that he was wrong in anything. ‘We must bear and forbear, you know. Dr Thorne is an excellent man–in his way very excellent, Lady Scatcherd.’

This little conversation took place after Mr Rerechild’s first visit to his patient: what steps were immediately taken for the relief of the sufferer we need not describe. They were doubtless well intended, and were, perhaps, as well adapted to stave off the coming evil day as any that Dr Fillgrave, or even the great Sir Omicron Pie might have used.

And then Dr Thorne arrived.

‘Oh, doctor! doctor!’ exclaimed Lady Scatcherd, almost hanging round his neck in the hall. ‘What are we to do? What are we to do? He’s very bad.’

‘Has he spoken?’

‘No; nothing like a word: he has made one or two muttered sounds; but, poor soul, you could make nothing of it–oh, doctor! doctor! he has never been like this before.

It was easy to see where Lady Scatcherd placed any such faith as she might still have in the healing art. ‘Mr Rerechild is here and has seen him,’ she continued. ‘I thought it best to send for two, for fear of accidents. He has done something–I don’t know what. But, doctor, do tell the truth now; I look to you to tell me the truth.’

Dr Thorne went up and saw his patient; and had he literally complied with Lady Scatcherd’s request, he might have told her at once that there was no hope. As, however, he had not the heart to do this, he mystified the case as doctors so well know how to do, and told her that ‘there was cause to fear, great cause for fear; he was sorry to say, very great cause for much fear.’

Dr Thorne promised to stay the night there, and, if possible, the following night also; and then Lady Scatcherd became troubled in her mind as to what she should do with Mr Rerechild. He also declared, with much medical humanity, that, let the inconvenience be what it might, he too would stay the night. ‘The loss,’ he said, ‘of such a man as Sir Roger Scatcherd was of such paramount importance as to make other matters trivial. He would certainly not allow the whole weight to fall on the shoulders of his friend Dr Thorne: he also would stay at any rate that night by the sick man’s bedside. By the following morning some change might be expected.’

‘I say, Dr Thorne,’ said her ladyship, calling the doctor into the housekeeping-room, in which she and Hannah spent any time that they were not required upstairs; ‘just come in, doctor: you wouldn’t tell him we don’t want him no more, could you?’

‘Tell whom?’ said the doctor.

‘Why–Mr Rerechild: mightn’t he go away, do you think?’

Dr Thorne explained that Mr Rerechild might go away if he pleased; but that it would by no means be proper for one doctor to tell another to leave the house. And so Mr Rerechild was allowed to share the glories of the night.

In the meantime the patient remained speechless; but it soon became evident that Nature was using all her efforts to make one final rally. From time to time he moaned and muttered as though he was conscious, and it seemed as though he strove to speak. He gradually became awake, at any rate to suffering, and Dr Thorne began to think that the last scene would be postponed for yet a while longer.

‘Wonderful constitution–eh, Dr Thorne? wonderful!’ said Mr Rerechild.

‘Yes; he has been a strong man.’

‘Strong as a horse, Dr Thorne. Lord, what that man would have been if he had given himself a chance! You know his constitution of course.’

‘Yes; pretty well. I’ve attended him for many years.’

‘Always drinking, I suppose; always at it–eh?’

‘He has not been a temperate man, certainly.’

‘The brain, you see, clean gone–and not a particle of coating left to the stomach; and yet what a struggle he makes–an interesting case, isn’t it?’

‘It’s very sad to see such an intellect so destroyed.’

‘Very sad, very sad indeed. How Fillgrave would have liked to have seen this case. He is a very clever man, is Fillgrave–in his way, you know.’

‘I’m sure he is,’ said Dr Thorne.

‘Not that he’d make anything of a case like this now–he’s not, you know, quite–quite–perhaps not quite up to the new time of day, one might say so.’

‘He has had a very extensive provincial practice,’ said Dr Thorne.

‘Oh, very–very; and made a tidy lot of money too, has Fillgrave. He’s worth six thousand pounds, I suppose; now that’s a good deal of money to put by in a little town like Barchester.’

‘Yes, indeed.’

‘What I say to Fillgrave is–keep your eyes open; one should never be too old to learn–there’s always something new worth picking up. But no–he won’t believe that. He can’t believe that any new ideas can be worth anything. You know a man must go to the wall in that way–eh, doctor?’

And then again they were called to their patient. ‘He’s doing finely, finely,’ said Mr Rerechild to Lady Scatcherd. ‘There’s fair ground to hope he’ll rally; fair ground, is there not, doctor?’

‘Yes; he’ll rally; but how long that may last, that we can hardly say.’

‘Oh, no, certainly not, certainly not–that is not with any certainty; but still he’s doing finely, Lady Scatcherd, considering everything.’

‘How long will you give him, doctor?’ said Mr Rerechild to his new friend, when they were again alone. ‘Ten days? I dare say ten days, or from that to a fortnight.’

‘Perhaps so,’ said the doctor. ‘I should not like to say exactly to a day.’

‘No, certainly not. We cannot say exactly to a day; but I say ten days; as for anything like a recovery, that you know–‘

‘Is out of the question,’ said Dr Thorne, gravely.

‘Quite so; quite so; coating of the stomach clean gone, you know; brain destroyed: did you observe the periporollida? I never saw them so swelled before: now when the periporollida are swollen like that–‘

‘Yes, very much; it’s always the case when paralysis has been brought about by intemperance.’

‘Always, always; I have remarked that always; the periporollida in such cases are always extended; most interesting case, isn’t it? I do wish Fillgrave could have seen it. But, I believe you and Dr Fillgrave don’t quite–eh?’

‘No, not quite,’said Dr Thorne; who, as he thought of his last interview with Dr Fillgrave, and of that gentleman’s exceeding anger as he stood in the hall below, could not keep himself from smiling, sad as the occasion was.

Nothing would induce Lady Scatcherd to go to bed; but the two doctors agreed to lie down, each in a room on one side of the patient. How was it possible that anything but good should come to him, being so guarded? ‘He’s going on finely, Lady Scatcherd, quite finely,’ were the last words Mr Rerechild said as he left the room.

And then Dr Thorne, taking Lady Scatcherd’s hand and leading her out into another chamber, told her the truth.

‘Lady Scatcherd,’ said he, in his tenderest voice–and his voice could be very tender when occasion required it–‘Lady Scatcherd, do not hope; you must not hope; it would be cruel to bid you to do so.’

‘Oh, doctor! oh, doctor!’

‘My dear friend, there is no hope.’

‘Oh, Dr Thorne!’ said the wife, looking wildly up into her companion’s face, though she hardly yet realized the meaning of what he said, although her senses were half stunned by the blow.

‘Dear Lady Scatcherd, is it not better that I should tell you the truth?’

‘Oh, I suppose so; oh yes, oh yes; ah me! ah me! ah me!’ And then she began rocking herself backwards and forwards on her chair, with her apron up to her eyes.

‘Look to Him, Lady Scatcherd, who only can make such grief endurable.’

‘Yes, yes, yes; I suppose so. Ah me! ah me! But, Dr Thorne, there must be some chance–isn’t there any chance? That man says he’s going on so well.’

‘I fear there is no chance–as far as my knowledge goes there is no chance.’

‘Then why does that chattering magpie tell such lies to a woman? Ah me! ah me! oh, doctor! doctor! what shall I do? what shall I do?’ and poor Lady Scatcherd, fairly overcome by her sorrow, burst out crying like a great school-girl.

And yet what had her husband done for her that she should thus weep for him? Would not her life be much more blessed when this cause of all her troubles should be removed from her? Would she not then be a free woman instead of a slave? Might she not then expect to begin to taste the comforts of life? What had that harsh tyrant of hers done that was good or serviceable for her? Why should she thus weep for him in paroxysms of truest grief?

We hear a good deal of jolly widows; and the slanderous raillery of the world tell much of conjugal disturbances as a cure for which women will look forward to a state of widowhood with not unwilling eyes. The raillery of the world is very slanderous. In our daily jests we attribute to each other vices of which neither we, nor our neighbours, nor our friends, nor even our enemies are ever guilty. It is our favourite parlance to talk of the family troubles of Mrs Green on our right, and to tell now Mrs Young on our left is strongly suspected of having raised her hand to her lord and master. What right have we to make these charges? What have we seen in our own personal walks through life to make us believe that women are devils? There may possibly have been Xantippe here and there, but Imogenes are to be found in every bush. Lady Scatcherd, in spite of the life she had led, was one of them.

‘You should send a message up to London for Louis,’ said the doctor.

‘We did that, doctor; we did that to-day–we sent up a telegraph. Oh me! oh me! poor boy, what will he do? I shall never know what to do with him, never! never!’ And with such sorrowful wailings she sat rocking herself through the long night, every now and then comforting herself by the performance of some menial service in the sick man’s room.

Sir Roger passed the night much as he had passed the day, except that he appeared gradually to be growing nearer to a state of consciousness. On the following morning they succeeded at last in making Mr Rerechild understand that they were not desirous of keeping him longer from his Barchester practice; and at about twelve o’clock Dr Thorne also went, promising that he would return in the evening, and again pass the night at Boxall Hill.

In the course of the afternoon Sir Roger once more awoke to his senses, and when he did so his son was standing at his bedside. Louis Philippe Scatcherd–or as it may be more convenient to call him, Louis–was a young man just of the age of Frank Gresham. But there could hardly be two youths more different in their appearance. Louis, though his father and mother were both robust persons, was short and slight, and now of a sickly frame. Frank was a picture of health and strength; but, though manly in disposition, was by no means precocious either in appearance or manners. Louis Scatcherd looked as though he was four years the other’s senior. He had been sent to Eton when he was fifteen, his father being under the impression that this was the most ready and best-recognized method of making him a gentleman. Here he did not altogether fail as regarded the coveted object of his becoming the companion of gentlemen. He had more pocket-money than any other lad in the school, and was possessed of a certain effrontery which carried him ahead among boys of his own age. He gained, therefore, a degree of eclat, even among those who knew, and very frequently said to each other, that young Scatcherd was not fit to be their companion except on such open occasions as those of cricket-matches and boat-races. Boys, in this respect, are at least as exclusive as men, and understand as well the difference between an inner and outer circle. Scatcherd had many companions at school who were glad enough to go up to Maidenhead with him in his boat; but there was not one among them who would have talked to him of his sister.

Sir Roger was vastly proud of his son’s success, and did his best to stimulate it by lavish expenditure at the Christopher, whenever he could manage to run down to Eton. But this practice, though sufficiently unexceptionable to the boys, was not held in equal delight by the masters. To tell the truth, neither Sir Roger nor his son were favourites with these stern custodians. At last it was felt necessary to get rid of them both; and Louis was not long in giving them an opportunity, by getting tipsy twice in one week. On the second occasion he was sent away, and he and Sir Roger, though long talked of, were seen no more at Eton.

But the universities were still open to Louis Philippe, and before he was eighteen he was entered as a gentleman-commoner at Trinity. As he was, moreover, the eldest son of a baronet, and had almost unlimited command of money, here also he was enabled for a while to shine.

To shine! but very fitfully; and one may say almost with a ghastly glare. The very lads who had eaten his father’s dinners at Eton, and shared his four-oar at Eton, knew much better than to associate with him at Cambridge now that they had put on the toga virilis. They were still as prone as ever to fun, frolic, and devilry–perhaps more so than ever, seeing that more was in their power; but they acquired an idea that it behoved them to be somewhat circumspect as to the men with whom their pranks were perpetrated. So, in those days, Louis Scatcherd was coldly looked on by his whilom Eton friends.

But young Scatcherd did not fail to find companions at Cambridge also. There are few places indeed in which a rich man cannot buy companionship. But the set with whom he lived, were the worst of the place. They were fast, slang men, who were fast and slang, and nothing else–men who imitated grooms in more than their dress, and who looked on the customary heroes of race-courses as the highest lords of the ascendant upon earth. Among those at college young Scatcherd did shine as long as such lustre was permitted him. Here, indeed, his father, who had striven only to encourage him at Eton, did strive somewhat to control him. But that was not now easy. If he limited his son’s allowance, he only drove him to do his debauchery on credit. There were plenty to lend money to the son of a great millionaire; and so, after eighteen months’ trial of a university education, Sir Roger had no alternative but to withdraw his son from his alma mater.

What was he to do with him? Unluckily it was considered quite unnecessary to take any steps towards enabling him to earn his bread. Now nothing on earth can be more difficult than bringing up well a young man who has not to earn his own bread, and who has no recognized station among other men similarly circumstanced. Juvenile dukes, and sprouting earls, find their duties and their places as easily as embryo clergymen and sucking barristers. Provision is made for their peculiar positions: and, though they may possibly go astray, they have a fair chance given to them of running within the posts. The same may be said of such youths as Frank Gresham. There are enough of them in the community to have made it necessary that their well-being should be a matter of care and forethought. But there are but few men turned out in the world in the position of Louis Scatcherd; and, of those few, but very few enter the real battle of life under good auspices.

Poor Sir Roger though he had hardly time with all his multitudinous railways to look into this thoroughly, had a glimmering of it. When he saw his son’s pale face, and paid his wine bills, and heard of his doings in horse-flesh, he did know that things were not going well; he did understand that the heir to a baronetcy and a fortune of some ten thousand a year might be doing better. But what was he to do? he could not watch over his boy himself; so he took a tutor for him and