Doctor Thorne by Anthony Trollope (page 8)

say much about Frank Gresham without doing so. Lady Scatcherd had, therefore, gradually conceived that her darling was not a favourite with her guest.

Now, therefore, she changed the subject; and, as her own son was behaving with such unexampled propriety, she dropped Frank and confined her eulogies to Louis. He had been a little wild, she admitted; young men so often were so; but she hoped that it was now over.

‘He does still take a little drop of those French drinks in the morning,’ said Lady Scatcherd, in her confidence; for she was too honest to be false, even in her own cause. ‘He does that, I know: but that’s nothing, my dear, to swilling all day; and everything can’t be done at once, can it, Miss Thorne?’

On this subject Mary found her tongue loosened. She could not talk about Frank Gresham, but she could speak with hope to the mother of her only son. She could say that Sir Louis was still very young; that there was reason to trust that he might now reform; that his present conduct was apparently good; and that he appeared capable of better things. So much she did say; and the mother took her sympathy for more than it was worth.

On this matter, and on this matter perhaps alone, Sir Louis and Lady Scatcherd were in accord. There was much to recommend Mary to the baronet; not only did he see her to be beautiful, and perceive her to be attractive and ladylike; but she was also the niece of the man who, for the present, held the purse-strings of his wealth. Mary, it is true, had no fortune. But Sir Louis knew that she was acknowledged to be a lady; and he was ambitious that his ‘lady’ should be a lady. There was also much to recommend Mary to the mother, to any mother; and thus it came to pass, that Miss Thorne had no obstacle between her and the dignity of being Lady Scatcherd the second;–no obstacle whatever, if only she could bring herself to wish it.

It was some time–two or three weeks, perhaps–before Mary’s mind was first opened to this new brilliancy in her prospects. Sir Louis at first was rather afraid of her, and did not declare his admiration in any very determined terms. He certainly paid her many compliments which, from any one else she would have regarded as abominable. But she did not expect great things from the baronet’s taste: she concluded that he was only doing what he thought a gentleman should do; and she was willing to forgive much for Lady Scatcherd’s sake.

His first attempts were, perhaps, more ludicrous than passionate. He was still too much an invalid to take walks, and Mary was therefore saved from his company in her rambles; but he had a horse of his own at Boxall Hill, and had been advised to ride by the doctor. Mary also rode–on a donkey only, it is true–but Sir Louis found himself bound in gallantry to accompany her. Mary’s steed had answered every expectations, and proved himself very quiet; so quiet, that without the admonition of a cudgel behind him, he could hardly be persuaded into the demurest trot. Now, as Sir Louis’s horse was of a very different mettle, he found it rather difficult not to step faster than his inamorata; and, let it him struggle as he would, was generally so far ahead as to be debarred the delights of conversation.

When the second time he proposed to accompany her, Mary did what she could to hinder it. She saw that he had been rather ashamed of the manner in which his companion was mounted, and she herself would have enjoyed the ride much more without him. He was an invalid, however; it was necessary to make much of him, and Mary did not absolutely refuse the offer.

‘Lady Scatcherd,’ said he, as they were standing at the door previous to mounting–he always called his mother Lady Scatcherd–‘why don’t you take a horse for Miss Thorne? This donkey is–is–really is, so very–very–can’t go at all, you know?’

Lady Scatcherd began to declare that she would willing have got a pony if Mary would have let her do it.

‘Oh, no, Lady Scatcherd; not on any account. I do like the donkey so much–I do indeed.’

‘But he won’t go,’ said Sir Louis. ‘And for a person who rides like you, Miss Thorne–such a horsewoman you know–why, you know, Lady Scatcherd, it’s positively ridiculous; d—- absurd, you know.’

And then, with an angry look at his mother, he mounted his horse, and was soon leading the way down the avenue.

‘Miss Thorne,’ said he, pulling himself up at the gate, ‘if I had known that I was to be so extremely happy as to have found you here, I would have brought you down the most beautiful creature, an Arab. She belongs to my friend Jenkins; but I wouldn’t have stood at any price in getting her for you. By Jove! if you were on that mare, I’d back you, for style and appearance, against anything in Hyde Park.’

The offer of this sporting wager, which naturally would have been very gratifying to Mary, was lost upon her, for Sir Louis had again unwittingly got on in advance, but he stopped himself in time to hear Mary again declare her passion was a donkey.

‘If you could only see Jenkins’s little mare, Miss Thorne! Only say one word, and she shall be down here before the week’s end. Price shall be no obstacle–none whatever. By Jove, what a pair you would be!’

This generous offer was repeated four or five times; but on each occasion Mary only half heard what was said, and on each occasion the baronet was far too much in advance to hear Mary’s reply. At last he recollected that he wanted to call on one of his tenants, and begged his companion to allow him to ride on.

‘If you at all dislike being alone, you know–‘

‘Oh dear no, not at all, Sir Louis. I am quite used to it.’

‘Because I don’t care about it, you know; only I can’t make this horse walk the same pace as that brute.’

‘You mustn’t abuse my pet, Sir Louis.’

‘It’s a d—- shame on my mother’s part;’ said Sir Louis, who, even when in his best behaviour, could not quite give up his ordinary mode of conversation. ‘When she was fortunate enough to get such a girl as you to come and stay with her, she ought to have had something proper for her to ride upon; but I’ll look to it as soon as I am a little stronger, you see if I don’t;’ and, so saying, Sir Louis trotted off, leaving Mary in peace with her donkey.

Sir Louis had now been living cleanly and forswearing sack for what was to him a very long period, and his health felt the good effects of it. No one rejoiced at this more cordially than did the doctor. To rejoice at it was with him a point of conscience. He could not help telling himself now and again that, circumstanced as he was, he was most specially bound to take joy in any sign of reformation that the baronet might show. Not to do so would be almost tantamount to wishing that he might die in order that Mary might inherit his wealth; and, therefore, the doctor did with all his energy devote himself to the difficult task of hoping and striving that Sir Louis might yet live to enjoy what was his own. But the task was altogether a difficult one, for as Sir Louis became stronger in health, so also did he become more exorbitant in his demands on the doctor’s patience, and more repugnant to the doctor’s tastes.

In his worst fits of disreputable living he was ashamed to apply to his guardian for money; and in his worst fits of illness he was through fear, somewhat patient under his doctor’s hands; but just at present he had nothing of which to be ashamed, and was not at all patient.

‘Doctor,’–said he, one day, at Boxall Hill–‘how about those Greshamsbury title-deeds?’

‘Oh, that will all be properly settled between my lawyer and your own.’

‘Oh–ah–yes; no doubt the lawyers will settle it; settle it with a fine bill of costs. But, as Finnie says,’–Finnie was Sir Louis’s legal adviser–‘I have got a tremendously large interest at stake in this matter; eighty thousand pounds is no joke. It ain’t everybody that can shell out eighty thousand pounds when they’re wanted; and I should like to know how the thing’s going on. I’ve a right to ask, you know; eh, doctor?’

‘The title-deeds of a large portion of Greshamsbury estate will be placed with the mortgage-deeds before the end of next month.’

‘Oh, that’s all right. I choose to know about these things; for though my father did make such a con-foun-ded will, that’s no reason I shouldn’t know how things are going.’

‘You shall know everything that I know, Sir Louis.’

‘And now, doctor, what are we to do about money?’

‘About money?’

‘Yes; money, rhino, ready! “put money in your purse and cut a dash”; eh, doctor? Not that I want to cut a dash. No, I’m going on the quiet line altogether now: I’ve done with that sort of thing.’

‘I’m heartily glad of it; heartily,’ said the doctor.

‘Yes, I’m not going to make way for my far-away cousin yet; not if I know it, at least. I shall soon be all right now, doctor; shan’t I?’

‘”All right” is a long word, Sir Louis. But I do hope you will be all right in time, if you will live with decent prudence. You shouldn’t take that filth in the morning though.’

‘Filth in the morning! That’s my mother, I suppose! That’s her ladyship! She’s been talking, has she? Don’t you believe her, doctor. There’s not a young man in Barsetshire is going more regular, all right within the posts, than I am.’

The doctor was obliged to acknowledge that there did seem to be some improvement.

‘And now, doctor, how about money, eh?’

Doctor Thorne, like other guardians similarly circumstanced, began to explain that Sir Louis had already had a good deal of money, and had begun also to promise that more should be forthcoming in the event of good behaviour, when he was somewhat suddenly interrupted by Sir Louis.

‘Well, now; I’ll tell you what, doctor; I’ve got a bit of news for you; something that I think will astonish you.’

The doctor opened his eyes, and tried to look as though ready to be surprised.

‘Something that will really make you look about; and something, too, that will be very much to the hearer’s advantage,–as the newspaper advertisements say.’

‘Something to my advantage?’ said the doctor.

‘Well, I hope you’ll think so. Doctor, what would you think now of my getting married?’

‘I should be delighted to hear of it–more delighted than I can express; that is, of course, if you were to marry well. It was your father’s most eager wish that you should marry early.’

‘That’s partly my reason,’ said the young hypocrite. ‘But then if I marry I must have an income fit to live on; eh, doctor?’

The doctor had some fear that his interesting protege was desirous of a wife for the sake of the income, instead of desiring the income for the sake of the wife. But let the cause be what it would, marriage would probably be good for him; and he had no hesitation, therefore, in telling him, that if he married well, he should be put in possession of sufficient income to maintain the new Lady Scatcherd in a manner becoming her dignity.

‘As to marrying well,’ said Sir Louis, ‘you, I take it, will the be the last man, doctor, to quarrel with my choice.’

‘Will I?’ said the doctor, smiling.

‘Well, you won’t disapprove, I guess, as the Yankee says. What would you think of Miss Mary Thorne?’

It must be said in Sir Louis’s favour that he had probably no idea whatever of the estimation in which such young ladies as Mary Thorne are held by those who are nearest and dearest to them. He had no sort of conception that she was regarded by her uncle and inestimable treasure, almost too precious to be rendered up to the arms of any man; and infinitely beyond any price in silver and gold, baronet’s incomes of eight or ten thousand a year, and such coins usually current in the world’s markets. He was a rich man and a baronet, and Mary was an unmarried girl without a portion. In Louis’s estimation he was offering everything, and asking for nothing. He certainly had some idea that girls were apt to be coy, and required a little wooing in the shape of presents, civil speeches–perhaps kisses also. The civil speeches he had, he thought, done, and imagined that they had been well received. The other things were to follow; an Arab pony, for instance–and the kisses probably with it; and then all these difficulties would be smoothed.

But he did not for a moment conceive that there would be any difficulty with the uncle. How should there be? Was he not a baronet with ten thousand a year coming to him? Had he not everything which fathers want for portionless daughters, and uncles for dependant nieces? Might he not well inform the doctor that he had something to tell him for his advantage?

And yet, to tell the truth, the doctor did not seem to be overjoyed when the announcement was first made to him. He was by no means overjoyed. On the contrary, even Sir Louis could perceive his guardian’s surprise was altogether unmixed with delight.

What a question was this that was asked him! What would he think of a marriage between Mary Thorne–his Mary and Sir Louis Scatcherd? Between the alpha of the whole alphabet, and him whom he could not but regard as the omega! Think of it! Why he would think of it as though a lamb and a wolf were to stand at the altar together. Had Sir Louis been a Hottentot, or an Esquimaux, the proposal could not have astonished him more. The two persons were so totally of a different class, that the idea of the one falling in love with the other had never occurred to him. ‘What would you think of Miss Mary Thorne?’ Sir Louis had asked; and the doctor, instead of answering him with ready and pleasant alacrity, stood silent, thunderstruck with amazement.

‘Well, wouldn’t she be a good wife?’ said Sir Louis, rather in a tone of disgust at the evident disapproval shown in his choice. ‘I thought you would have been so delighted.’

‘Mary Thorne!’ ejaculated the doctor at last. ‘Have you spoken to my niece about this, Sir Louis?’

‘Well, I have and yet I haven’t; I haven’t, and yet in a manner I have.’

‘I don’t understand you,’ said the doctor.

‘Why, you see, I haven’t exactly popped to her yet; but I have been doing the civil; and if she’s up to snuff, as I take her to be, she knows very well what I’m after by this time.’

Up to snuff! Mary Thorne, his Mary Thorne, up to snuff! To snuff too of such a very disagreeable description!

‘I think, Sir Louis, that you are in mistake about this. I think you will find that Mary will not be disposed to avail herself of the great advantages–for great they undoubtedly are–which you are able to offer to your intended wife. If you will take my advice, you will give up thinking of Mary. She would not suit you.’

‘Not suit me! Oh, but I think she just would. She’s got no money, you mean?’

‘No, I did not mean that. It will not signify to you whether your wife has money or not. You need not look for money. But you should think of some one more nearly of your temperament. I am quite sure that my niece would refuse you.’

These last words the doctor uttered with much emphasis. His intention was to make the baronet understand that the matter was quite hopeless, and to induce him if possible to drop it on the spot. But he did not know Sir Louis; he ranked him too low in the scale of human beings, and gave him no credit for any strength of character. Sir Louis in his way did love Mary Thorne. And could not bring himself to believe that Mary did not, or at any rate, would not soon return his passion. He was, moreover, sufficiently obstinate, firm we ought perhaps to say–for his pursuit in this case was certainly not an evil one,–and he at once made up his mind to succeed in spite of the uncle.

‘If she consents, however, you will do so too?’ asked he.

‘It is impossible that she should consent,’ said the doctor.

‘Impossible! I don’t see anything at all impossible. But if she does?’

‘But she won’t.’

‘Very well,–that’s to be seen. But just tell me this, if she does, will you consent?’

‘The stars would fall first. It’s all nonsense. Give it up, my dear friend; believe me you are only preparing unhappiness for yourself;’ and the doctor put his hand kindly on the young man’s arm. ‘She will not, cannot, accept such an offer.’

‘Will not! cannot!’ said the baronet, thinking over all the reasons which in his estimation could possibly be inducing the doctor to be so hostile to his views, and shaking the hand of his arm. ‘Will not! cannot! But come, doctor, answer my question fairly. If she’ll have me for better or worse, you won’t say aught against it; will you?’

‘But she won’t have you; why should you give her and yourself the pain of a refusal?’

‘Oh, as for that, I must stand my chance like another. And as for her, why d—-, doctor, you wouldn’t have me believe that any young lady thinks it so very dreadful to have a baronet with ten thousand pounds a year at her feet, specially when that same baronet ain’t very old, nor yet particularly ugly. I ain’t so green as that, doctor.’

‘I suppose she must go through with it, then,’ said the doctor, musing.

‘But, Dr Thorne, I did look for a kinder answer from you, considering all that you so often say about your great friendship with my father. I did think you’d at any rate answer me when I asked you a question.’

But the doctor did not want to answer that special question. Could it be possible that Mary should wish to marry this odious man, could such a state of things be imagined to be the case, he would not refuse his consent, infinitely as he would be disgusted by her choice. But he would not give Sir Louis any excuse of telling Mary that her uncle approved of so odious a match.

‘I cannot say that in case I would approve of such a marriage, Sir Louis. I cannot bring myself to say so; for I know it would make you both miserable. But on that matter my niece will choose wholly for herself.’

‘And about money, doctor?’

‘If you marry a decent woman you shall not want the means of supporting her decently,’ and so saying the doctor walked away, leaving Sir Louis to his meditations.

CHAPTER XXIX

THE DONKEY RIDE

Sir Louis, when left to himself, was slightly dismayed and somewhat discouraged; but he was not induced to give up his object. The first effort of his mind was made in conjecturing what private motive Dr Thorne could possibly have in wishing to debar his niece from marrying a rich young baronet. That the objection was personal to himself, Sir Louis did not for a moment imagine. Could it be that the doctor did not wish that his niece should be richer, and grander, and altogether bigger than himself? Or was it possible that his guardian was anxious to prevent him from marrying from some view of the reversion of the large fortune? That there was some such reason, Sir Louis was well sure; but let it be what it might, he would get the better of the doctor. ‘He knew so,’ so he said to himself, ‘what stuff girls were made of. Baronets did not grow like blackberries.’ And so, assuring himself with such philosophy, he determined to make his offer.

The time he selected for doing this was the hour before dinner; but on the day on which his conversation with the doctor had taken place, he was deterred by the presence of a strange visitor. To account for this strange visit it will be necessary that we should return to Greshamsbury for a few minutes.

Frank, when he returned home for his summer vacation, found that Mary had again flown; and the very fact of her absence added fuel to the fire of his love, more perhaps then even her presence might have done. For the flight of the quarry ever adds eagerness to the pursuit of the huntsman. Lady Arabella, moreover, had a bitter enemy; a foe, utterly opposed to her side in the contest, where she had once fondly looked for her staunchest ally. Frank was now in the habit of corresponding with Miss Dunstable, and received from her most energetic admonitions to be true to the love which he had sworn. True to it he resolved to be; and, therefore, when he found that Mary was flown, he resolved to fly after her.

He did not, however, do this till he had been in a measure provoked by it by the sharp-tongued cautions and blunted irony of his mother. It was not enough for her that she had banished Mary out of the parish, and made Dr Thorne’s life miserable; not enough that she harassed her husband with harangues on the constant subject of Frank’s marrying money, and dismayed Beatrice with invectives against the iniquity of her friend. The snake was so but scotched; to kill it outright she must induce Frank utterly to renounce Miss Thorne.

This task she essayed, but not exactly with success. ‘Well, mother,’ said Frank, at last turning very red, partly with shame, and partly with indignation, as he made the frank avowal, ‘since you press me about it, I tell you fairly that my mind is made up to marry Mary sooner or later, if–‘

‘Oh, Frank! good heavens! you wicked boy; you are saying this purposely to drive me distracted.’

‘If,’ continued Frank, not attending to his mother’s interjections, ‘if she will consent.’

‘Consent!’ said Lady Arabella. ‘Oh, heavens!’ and falling into the corner of her sofa, she buried her face in her handkerchief.

‘Yes, mother, if she will consent. And now that I have told you so much, it is only just that I should tell you this also; that as far as I can see at present I have no reason to hope that she will do so.’

‘Oh, Frank, the girl is doing all she can to catch you,’ said Lady Arabella,–not prudently.

‘No, mother; there you wrong her altogether; wrong her most cruelly.’

‘You ungracious, wicked boy! you call me cruel!’

‘I don’t call you cruel; but you wrong her cruelly, most cruelly. When I have spoken to her about this–for I have spoken to her–she has behaved exactly as you would have wanted her to do; but not at all as I wished her. She has given me no encouragement. You have turned her out among you’–Frank was beginning to be very bitter now–‘but she has done nothing to deserve it. If there has been any fault it has been mine. But it is well now that we should understand each other. My intention is to marry Mary if I can.’ And, so speaking, certainly without due filial respect, he turned towards the door.

‘Frank,’ said his mother, raising herself up with energy to make one last appeal. ‘Frank, do you wish to see me die of a broken heart?’

‘You know, mother, I would wish to make you happy, if I could.’

‘If you wish to see me ever happy again, if you do not wish to see me sink broken-hearted to my grave, you must give up this mad idea, Frank,’–and now all Lady Arabella’s energy came out. ‘Frank there is but one course left open to you. You MUST marry money.’ And then Lady Arabella stood up before her son as Lady Macbeth might have stood, had Lady Macbeth lived to have a son of Frank’s years.

‘Miss Dunstable, I suppose,’ said Frank, scornfully. ‘No, mother; I made an ass and worse than an ass of myself once in that way, and I won’t do it again. I hate money.’

‘Oh, Frank!’

‘I hate money.’

‘But, Frank, the estate?’

‘I hate the estate–at least I shall hate it if I am expected to buy it at such a price as that. The estate is my father’s.’

‘Oh, no, Frank; it is not.’

‘It is in the sense I mean. He may do with it as he pleases; he will never have a word of complaint from me. I am ready to go into a profession to-morrow. I’ll be a lawyer, or a doctor, or an engineer; I don’t care what.’ Frank, in his enthusiasm, probably overlooked some of the preliminary difficulties. ‘Or I’ll take a farm under him, and earn my bread that way; but, mother, don’t talk to me any more about marrying money.’ And, so saying, Frank left the room.

Frank, it will be remembered, was twenty-one when he was first introduced to the reader; he is now twenty-two. It may be said that there was a great difference between his character then and now. A year at that period will make a great difference; but the change has been, not in his character, but in his feelings.

Frank went out from his mother and immediately ordered his black horse to be got ready for him. He would at once go over to Boxall Hill. He went himself to the stables to give his orders; and as he returned to get his gloves and whip he met Beatrice in the corridor.

‘Beatrice,’ said he, ‘step in here,’ and she followed him into his room. ‘I’m not going to bear this any longer; I’m going to Boxall Hill.’

‘Oh, Frank! how can you be so imprudent?’

‘You, at any rate, have some decent feeling for Mary. I believe you have some regard for her; and therefore I tell you. Will you send her any message?’

‘Oh, yes; my best, best love; that is if you will see her; but, Frank, you are very foolish, very; and she will be infinitely distressed.’

‘Do not mention this, not at present; not that I mean you to make any secret of it. I shall tell my father everything. I’m off now!’ and then, paying no attention to her remonstrance, he turned down the stairs and was soon on horseback.

He took the road to Boxall Hill, but he did not ride very fast: he did not go jauntily as a jolly, thriving wooer; but musingly, and often with diffidence, meditating every now and then whether it would not be better for him to turn back: to turn back–but not from fear of his mother; not from prudential motives; not because that often-repeated lesson as to marrying money was beginning to take effect; not from such causes as these; but because he doubted how he might be received by Mary.

He did, it is true, think something about his worldly prospects. He had talked rather grandiloquently to his mother as to his hating money, and hating the estate. His mother’s never-ceasing worldly cares on such subjects perhaps demanded that a little grandiloquence should be opposed to them. But Frank did not hate the estate; nor did he at all hate the position of an English country gentleman. Miss Dunstable’s eloquence, however, rang in his ears. For Miss Dunstable had an eloquence of her own, even in her letters. ‘Never let them talk you out of your own true, honest, hearty feelings,’ she had said. ‘Greshamsbury is a very nice place, I am sure; and I hope I shall see it some day; but all its green knolls are not half so nice, should not be half so precious, as the pulses of your own heart. That is your own estate, your own, your very own–your own and another’s; whatever may go to the money-lenders, don’t send that there. Don’t mortgage that, Mr Gresham.’

‘No,’ said Frank, pluckily, as he put his horse into a faster trot, ‘I won’t mortgage that. They may do what they like with the estate; but my heart’s my own,’ and so speaking to himself, almost aloud, he turned a corner of the road rapidly and came at once upon the doctor.

‘Hallo, doctor! is that you?’ said Frank, rather disgusted.

‘What! Frank! I hardly expected to meet you here,’ said Dr Thorne, not much better pleased.

They were now not above a mile from Boxall Hill, and the doctor, therefore, could not but surmise whither Frank was going. They had repeatedly met since Frank’s return from Cambridge, both in the village and in the doctor’s house; but not a word had been said between them about Mary beyond what the merest courtesy had required. Not that each did not love the other sufficiently to make a full confidence between them desirable to both; but neither had had the courage to speak out.

Nor had either of them the courage to do so now. ‘Yes,’ said Frank, blushing, ‘I am going to Lady Scatcherd’s. Shall I find the ladies at home?’

‘Yes; Lady Scatcherd is there; but Sir Louis is there also–an invalid: perhaps you would not wish to meet him.’

‘Oh! I don’t mind,’ said Frank, trying to laugh; ‘he won’t bite, I suppose?’

The doctor longed in his heart to pray to Frank to return with him; not to go and make further mischief; not to do that which might cause a more bitter estrangement between himself and the squire. But he had not the courage to do it. He could not bring himself to accuse Frank of being in love with his niece. So after a few more senseless words on either side, words which each knew to be senseless as he uttered them, they both rode on their own ways.

And then the doctor silently, and almost unconsciously, made such a comparison between Louis Scatcherd and Frank Gresham as Hamlet made between the dead and live king. It was Hyperion to a satyr. Was it not as impossible that Mary should not love the one, as that she should love the other? Frank’s offer of his affections had at first probably been but a boyish ebullition of feeling; but if it should now be, that this had grown into a manly and disinterested love, how could Mary remain unmoved? What could her heart want more, better, more beautiful, more rich than such a love as this? Was he not personally all that a girl could like? Were not his disposition, mind, character, acquirements, all such as women most delight to love? Was it not impossible that Mary should be indifferent to him?

So meditated the doctor as he road along, with only too true a knowledge of human nature. Ah! it was impossible, quite impossible that Mary should be indifferent. She had never been indifferent since Frank had uttered his first half-joking word of love. Such things are more important to women than they are to men, to girls than they are to boys. When Frank had first told her that he loved her; aye, months before that, when he merely looked his love, her heart had received the whisper, had acknowledged the glance, unconscious as she was herself, and resolved as she was to rebuke his advances. When, in her hearing, he had said soft nothings to Patience Oriel, a hated, irrepressible tear had gathered in her eye. When he had pressed in his warm, loving grasp the hand which she had offered in him in token of mere friendship, her heart had forgiven him the treachery, nay, almost thanked him for it, before her eyes or her words had been ready to rebuke him. When the rumour of his liaison with Miss Dunstable reached her ears, when she heard of Miss Dunstable’s fortune, she had wept, wept outright, in her chamber–wept, as she said to herself, to think that he could be so mercenary; but she had wept, as she should have said to herself, at finding that he was so faithless. Then, when she knew at last that this rumour was false, when she found that she was banished from Greshamsbury for his sake, when she was forced to retreat with her friend Patience, how could she but love him, in that he was not mercenary? How could she not love him in that was so faithful?

It was impossible that she should not love him. Was he not the brightest and the best of men that she had ever seen, or was like to see?–that she could possibly ever see, she would have said to herself, could she have brought herself to own the truth? And then, when she heard how true he was, how he persisted against father, mother, and sisters, how could it be that that should not be a merit in her eyes which was so great a fault in theirs? When Beatrice, with would-be solemn face, but with eyes beaming with feminine affection, would gravely talk of Frank’s tender love as a terrible misfortune, as a misfortune to them all, to Mary herself as well as others, how could Mary do other than love him? ‘Beatrice is his sister,’ she would say within her own mind, ‘otherwise she would never talk like this; were she not his sister, she could not but know the value of such love as this.’ Ah! yes; Mary did love him; love him with all the strength of her heart; and the strength of her heart was very great. And now by degrees, in those lonely donkey-rides at Boxall Hill, in those solitary walks, she was beginning to own to herself the truth.

And now that she did own it, what should be her course? What should she do, how should she act if this loved one persevered in his love? And, ah! what should she do, how should she act if he did not persevere? Could it be that there should be happiness in store for her? Was it not too clear that, let the matter go how it would, there was no happiness in store for her? Much as she might love Frank Gresham, she could never consent to be his wife unless the squire would smile on her as his daughter-in-law. The squire had been all that was kind, all that was affectionate. And then, too, Lady Arabella! As she thought of the Lady Arabella a sterner form of thought came across her brow. Why should Lady Arabella rob her of her heart’s joy? What was Lady Arabella that she, Mary Thorne, need quail before her? Had Lady Arabella stood only in her way, Lady Arabella, flanked by the De Courcy legion, Mary felt that she could have demanded Frank’s hand as her own before them all without a blush of shame or a moment’s hesitation. Thus, when her heart was all but ready to collapse within her, would she gain some little strength by thinking of the Lady Arabella.

‘Please, my lady, here be young squire Gresham,’ said one of the untutored servants at Boxall Hill, opening Lady Scatcherd’s little parlour door as her ladyship was amusing herself by pulling down and turning, and re-folding, and putting up again, a heap of household linen which was kept in a huge press for the express purpose of supplying her with occupation.

Lady Scatcherd, holding a vast counterpane in her arms, looked back over her shoulders and perceived that Frank was in the room. Down went the counterpane on the ground, and Frank soon found himself in the very position which that useful article had so lately filled.

‘Oh! Master Frank! oh, Master Frank!’ said her ladyship, almost in an hysterical fit of joy; and then she hugged and kissed him as she had never kissed and hugged her own son since that son had first left the parent nest.

Frank bore it patiently and with a merry laugh. ‘But, Lady Scatcherd,’ said he, ‘what will they all say? you forget I am a man now,’ and he stooped his head as she again pressed her lips upon his forehead.

‘I don’t care what none of ’em say,’ said her ladyship, quite going back to her old days; ‘I will kiss my own boy; so I will. Eh, but Master Frank, this is good on you. A sight of you is good for sore eyes; and my eyes have been sore enough since I saw you;’ and she put her apron up to wipe a tear away.

‘Yes,’ said Frank, gently trying to disengage himself, but not successfully: ‘yes, you have had a great loss, Lady Scatcherd. I was so sorry when I heard of your grief.’

‘You always had a soft, kind heart, Master Frank; so you had. God’s blessing on you! What a fine man you have grown! Deary me! Well, it seems as though it were only just t’other day like.’ And she pushed him a little from her, so that she might look the better into his face.

‘Well. Is it all right? I suppose you would hardly know me again now I’ve got a pair of whiskers?’

‘Know you! I should know you well if I saw but the heel of your foot. Why, what a head of hair you have got, and so dark too! but it doesn’t curl as it used once.’ And she stroked his hair, and looked into his eyes, and put her hand to his cheeks. ‘You’ll think me an old fool, Master Frank: I know that; but you may think what you like. If I live for the next twenty years you’ll always be my own boy; so you will.’

By degrees, slow degrees, Frank managed to change the conversation, and to induce Lady Scatcherd to speak on some other topic than his own infantine perfections. He affected an indifference as he spoke of her guest, which would have deceived no one but Lady Scatcherd; but her it did deceive; and then he asked where Mary was.

‘She’s just gone out on her donkey–somewhere about the place. She rides on a donkey mostly every day. But you’ll stop and take a bit of dinner with us? Eh, now do’ee, Master Frank.’

But Master Frank excused himself. He did not choose to pledge himself to sit down to dinner with Mary. He did not know in what mood they might return with regard to each other at dinner-time. He said, therefore, that he would return to the house again before he went.

Lady Scatcherd then began making apologies for Sir Louis. He was an invalid; the doctor had been with him all the morning, and he was not yet out of his room.

These apologies Frank willingly accepted, and then made his way as his could on to the lawn. A gardener, of whom he inquired, offered to go with him in pursuit of Miss Thorne. This assistance, however, he declined, and set forth in quest of her, having learnt what were her most usual haunts. Nor was he directed wrongly; for after walking about twenty minutes, he saw through the trees the legs of a donkey moving on the green-sward, at about two hundred yards from him. On that donkey doubtless sat Mary Thorne.

The donkey was coming towards him; not exactly in a straight line, but so much so as to make it impossible that Mary should not see him if he stood still. He did stand still, and soon emerging from the trees, Mary saw him all but close to her.

Her heart gave a leap within her, but she was so far mistress of herself as to repress any visible sign of outward emotion. She did not fall from her donkey, or scream, or burst into tears. She merely uttered the words, ‘Mr Gresham!’ in a tone of not unnatural surprise.

‘Yes,’ said he, trying to laugh, but less successful than she had been suppressing a show of feeling. ‘Mr Gresham! I have come over at last to pay my respects to you. You must have thought me very uncourteous not to do so before.’

This she denied. She had not, she said, thought him at all uncivil. She had come to Boxall Hill to be out of the way; and, of course, had not expected any such formalities. As she uttered this she almost blushed at the abrupt truth of what she was saying. But she was taken so much unawares that she did not know how to make the truth other than abrupt.

‘To be out of the way!’ said Frank. ‘And why should you want to be out of the way?’

‘Oh! there were reasons,’said she, laughing. ‘Perhaps I have quarrelled dreadfully with my uncle.’

Frank at the present moment had not about him a scrap of badinage. He had not a single easy word at his command. He could not answer her with anything in guise of a joke; so he walked on, not answering at all.

‘I hope all my friends at Greshamsbury are well,’ said Mary. ‘Is Beatrice quite well?’

‘Quite well,’ said he.

‘And Patience?’

‘What, Miss Oriel; yes, I believe so. I haven’t seen her this day or two.’ How was it that Mary felt a little flush of joy, as Frank spoke in this indifferent way about Miss Oriel’s health?

‘I thought she was always a particular friend of yours,’ said she.

‘What! who? Miss Oriel? So she is! I like her amazingly; so does Beatrice.’ And then he walked about six steps in silence, plucking up courage for the great attempt. He did pluck up his courage and then rushed at once to the attack.

‘Mary!’ said he, and as he spoke he put his hand on the donkey’s neck, and looked tenderly into her face. He looked tenderly, and, as Mary’s ear at once told her, his voice sounded more soft than it had ever sounded before. ‘Mary, do you remember the last time that we were together?’

Mary did remember it well. It was on that occasion when he had treacherously held her hand; on that day when, according to law, he had become a man; when he had outraged all the propriety of the De Courcy interest by offering his love to Mary in Augusta’s hearing. Mary did remember it well; but how was she to speak of it? ‘It was your birthday, I think,’ said she.

‘Yes, it was my birthday. I wonder whether you remember what I said to you then?’

‘I remember that you were very foolish, Mr Gresham.’

‘Mary, I have come to repeat my folly;–that is, if it be folly. I told you then that I loved you, and I dare say that I did it awkwardly, like a boy. Perhaps I may be just as awkward now; but you ought at any rate to believe me when you find that a year has not altered me.’

Mary did not think him at all awkward, and she did believe him. But how was she to answer him? She had not yet taught herself what answer she ought to make if he persisted in his suit. She had hitherto been content to run away from him; but she had done so because she would not submit to be accused of the indelicacy of putting herself in his way. She had rebuked him when he first spoke of his love; but she had done so because she looked on what he said as a boy’s nonsense. She had schooled herself in obedience to the Greshamsbury doctrines. Was there any real reason, any reason founded on truth and honesty, why she should not be a fitting wife to Frank Gresham,–Francis Newbold Gresham, of Greshamsbury, though he was, or was to be?’

He was well born–as well born as any gentleman in England. She was basely born–as basely born as any lady could be. Was this sufficient bar against such a match? Mary felt in her heart that some twelvemonth since, before she knew what little she did now know of her own story, she would have said it was so. And would she indulge her own love by inveigling him she loved into a base marriage? But then reason spoke again. What, after all, was this blood of which she had taught herself to think so much? Would she have been more honest, more fit to grace an honest man’s hearthstone, had she been the legitimate descendant of a score of legitimate duchesses? Was it not her first duty to think of him–of what would make him happy? Then of her uncle–what he would approve? Then of herself–what would best become her modesty; her sense of honour? Could it be well that she should sacrifice the happiness of two persons to a theoretic love of pure blood?

So she had argued within herself. Not now, sitting on the donkey, with Frank’s hand before her on the tame brute’s neck; but on other former occasions as she had ridden along demurely among those trees. So she had argued; but she had never brought her arguments to a decision. All manner of thoughts crowded on her to prevent her doing so. She would think of the squire, and resolve to reject Frank; and would then remember Lady Arabella, and resolve to accept him. Her resolutions, however, were most irresolute; and so, when Frank appeared in person before her, carrying his heart in his hand, she did not know what answer to make to him. Thus it was with her as with so many other maidens similarly circumstanced; at last she left it all to chance.

‘You ought at any rate, to believe me,’ said Frank, ‘when you find that a year has not altered me.’

‘A year should have taught you to be wiser,’said she. ‘You should have learnt by this time, Mr Gresham, that your lot and mine are not cast in the same mould; that our stations in life are different. Would your father or mother approve of your even coming here to see me?’

Mary, as she spoke these sensible words, felt that they were ‘flat, stale, and unprofitable.’ She felt also, that they were not true in sense; that they did not come from her heart; that they were not such as Frank deserved at her hands, and she was ashamed of herself.

‘My father I hope will approve of it,’ said he. ‘That my mother should disapprove of it is a misfortune which I cannot help; but on this point I will take no answer from my father or mother; the question is one too personal to myself. Mary, if you say that you will not, or cannot return my love, I will go away;–not from here only, but from Greshamsbury. My presence shall not banish you from all that you hold dear. If you can honestly say that I am nothing to you, can be nothing to you, I will then tell my mother that she may be at ease, and I will go away somewhere and get over it as I may.’ The poor fellow got so far, looking apparently at the donkey’s ears, with hardly a gasp of hope in his voice, and he so far carried Mary with him that she also had hardly a gasp of hope in her heart. There he paused for a moment, and then looking up into her face, he spoke but one word more. ‘But,’ said he–and there he stopped. It was clearly told in that ‘but’. Thus would he do if Mary would declare that she did not care for him. If, however, she could not bring herself so to declare, then was he ready to throw his father and mother to the winds; then would he stand his ground; then would he look all other difficulties in the face, sure that they might finally be overcome. Poor Mary! the whole onus of settling the matter was thus thrown upon her. She had only to say that he was indifferent to her;–that was all.

If ‘all the blood of the Howards’ had depended upon it, she could not have brought herself to utter such a falsehood. Indifferent to her, as he walked there by her donkey’s side, talking thus earnestly of his love for her! Was he not to her like some god come from the heavens to make her blessed? Did not the sun shine upon him with a halo, so that he was bright as an angel? Indifferent to her! Could the open unadulterated truth have been practicable for her, she would have declared her indifference in terms that would truly have astonished him. As it was, she found it easier to say nothing. She bit her lips to keep herself from sobbing. She struggled hard, but in vain, to prevent her hands and feet from trembling. She seemed to swing upon her donkey as though like to fall, and would have given much to be upon her own feet in the sward.

‘Si la jeunesse savait . . .’ There is so much in that wicked old French proverb! Had Frank known more about a woman’s mind–had he, that is, been forty-two instead of twenty-two he would at once have been sure of his game, and have felt that Mary’s silence told him all he wished to know. But then, had been forty-two instead of twenty-two, he would not have been so ready to risk the acres of Greshamsbury for the smiles of Mary Thorne.

‘If you can’t say one word to comfort me, I will go,’ said he, disconsolately. ‘I made up my mind to tell you this, and so I came over. I told Lady Scatcherd I should not stay–not even for dinner.’

‘I did not know you were so hurried,’ said she, almost in a whisper.

On a sudden he stood still, and pulling the donkey’s rein, caused him to stand still also. The beast required very little persuasion to be so guided, and obligingly remained meekly passive.

‘Mary, Mary!’ said Frank, throwing his arms round her knees as she sat upon her steed, and pressing his face against her body. ‘Mary, you were always honest; be honest now. I love you with all my heart. Will you be my wife?’

But still Mary said not a word. She no longer bit her lips; she was beyond that, and was now using all her efforts to prevent her tears from falling absolutely on her lover’s face. She said nothing. She could no more rebuke him now and send him from her than she could encourage him. She could only sit there shaking and crying and wishing she was on the ground. Frank, on the whole, rather liked the donkey. It enabled him to approach somewhat nearer to an embrace than he might have found practicable had they both been on their feet. The donkey himself was quite at his ease, and looked as though he was approvingly conscious of what was going on behind his ears.

‘I have a right to a word, Mary; say, “Go”, and I will leave you at once.’

But Mary did not say ‘Go’. Perhaps she would have done so had she been able; but just at present she could say nothing. This came from her having failed to make up her mind in due time as to what course it would best become her to follow.

‘One word, Mary; one little word. There, if you will not speak, here is my hand. If you will have it, let it lie in yours;–if not, push it away.’ So saying, he managed to get the end of his fingers on to her palm, and there it remained unrepulsed. ‘La jeuness’ was beginning to get a lesson; experience when duly sought after sometimes comes early in life.

In truth Mary had not strength to push the fingers away. ‘My love, my own, my own!’ said Frank, presuming on this very negative sign of acquiescence. ‘My life, my own, my own Mary!’ and then the hand was caught hold of and was at his lips before an effort could be made to save it from such treatment.

‘Mary, look at me; say one word to me.’

There was a deep sigh, and then came the one word–‘Oh, Frank!’

‘Mr Gresham, I hope I have the honour of seeing you quite well,’ said a voice close to his ear. ‘I beg to say that you are welcome to Boxall Hill.’ Frank turned round and instantly found himself shaking hands with Sir Louis Scatcherd.

How Mary got over her confusion Frank never saw, for he had enough to do to get over his own. He involuntarily deserted Mary and began talking very fast to Sir Louis. Sir Louis did not once look at Miss Thorne, but walked back towards the house with Mr Gresham, sulky enough in temper, but still making some effort to do the fine gentleman. Mary, glad to be left alone, merely occupied herself with sitting on the donkey; and the donkey, when he found that the two gentlemen went towards the house, for company’s sake and for his stable’s sake, followed after them.

Frank stayed but three minutes in the house; gave another kiss to Lady Scatcherd, getting three in return, and thereby infinitely disgusting Sir Louis, shook hands, anything but warmly, with the young baronet, and just felt the warmth of Mary’s hand within his own. He felt also the warmth of her eyes’ last glance, and rode home a happy man.

CHAPTER XXX

POST PRANDIAL

Frank rode home a happy man, cheering himself, as successful lovers do cheer themselves, with the brilliancy of his late exploit: nor was it till he had turned the corner into the Greshamsbury stables that he began to reflect what he would do next. It was all very well to have induced Mary to allow his three fingers to lie half a minute in her soft hand; the having done so might certainly be sufficient evidence that he had overcome one of the lions in his path; but it could hardly be said that all his difficulties were now smoothed. How was he to make further progress?

To Mary, also, the same ideas no doubt occurred–with many others. But, then, it was not for Mary to make any progress in the matter. To her at least belonged this passive comfort, that at present no act hostile to the De Courcy interest would be expected from her. All that she could do would be to tell her uncle so much as it was fitting that he should know. The doing this would doubtless be in some degree difficult; but it was not probable that there would be much difference, much of anything but loving anxiety for each other, between her and Dr Thorne. One other thing, indeed, she must do; Frank must be made to understand what her birth had been. ‘This,’ she said to herself, ‘will give him an opportunity of retracting what he has done should he choose to avail himself of it. It is well he should have such opportunity.’

But Frank had more than this to do. He had told Beatrice that he would make no secret of his love, and he fully resolved to be as good as his word. To his father he owed an unreserved confidence; and he was fully minded to give it. It was, he knew, altogether out of the question that he should at once marry a portionless girl without his father’s consent; probably out of the question that he should do so even with it. But he would, at any rate, tell his father, and then decide as to what should be done next. So resolving, he put his black horse into the stable and went into dinner. After dinner he and his father would be alone.

Yes; after dinner he and his father would be alone. He dressed himself hurriedly, for the dinner-bell was almost on the stroke as he entered the house. He said this to himself once and again; but when the meats and the puddings, and then the cheese were borne away, as the decanters were placed before his father, and Lady Arabella sipped her one glass of claret, and his sisters ate their portion of strawberries, his pressing anxiety for the coming interview began to wax somewhat dull.

His mother and sisters, however, rendered him no assistance by prolonging their stay. With unwonted assiduity he pressed a second glass of claret on his mother. But Lady Arabella was not only temperate in her habits, but also at the present moment very angry with her son. She thought that he had been to Boxall Hill, and was only waiting a proper moment to cross-question him sternly on the subject. Now she departed, taking her train of daughters with her.

‘Give me one big gooseberry,’ said Nina, as she squeezed herself in under her brother’s arm, prior to making her retreat. Frank would willingly have given her a dozen of the biggest, had she wanted them; but having got the one, she squeezed herself out again and scampered off.

The squire was very cheery this evening; from what cause cannot now be said. Perhaps he had succeeded in negotiating a further loan, thus temporarily sprinkling a drop of water over the ever-rising dust of his difficulties.

‘Well, Frank, what have you been after to-day? Peter told me you had the black horse out,’ said he, pushing the decanter to his son. ‘Take my advice, my boy, and don’t give him too much summer road-work. Legs won’t stand it, let them be ever so good.’

‘Why, sir, I was obliged to go out to-day, and therefore, it had to be either the old mare or the young horse.’

‘Why didn’t you take Ramble?’ Now Ramble was the squire’s own saddle hack, used for farm surveying, and occasionally for going to cover.

‘I shouldn’t think of doing that, sir.’

‘My dear boy, he is quite at your service; for goodness’ sake do let me have a little wine, Frank–quite at your service; any riding I have now is after the haymakers, and that’s all on the grass.’

‘Thank’ee, sir. Well, perhaps I will take a turn out of Ramble should I want it.’

‘Do, and pray, pray take care of that black horse’s legs. He’s turning out more of a horse than I took him to be, and I should be sorry to see him injured. Where have you been to-day?’

‘Well, father, I have something to tell you.’

‘Something to tell me!’ and then the squire’s happy and gay look, which had been only rendered more happy and more gay by his assumed anxiety about the black horse, gave place to a heaviness of visage which acrimony and misfortune had made so habitual to him. ‘Something to tell me!’ Any grave words like these always presaged some money difficulty to the squire’s ears. He loved Frank with the tenderest love. He would have done so under almost any circumstances; but, doubtless, that love had been made more palpable to himself by the fact that Frank had been a good son as regards money–not exigeant as was Lady Arabella, or selfishly reckless as was his nephew Lord Porlock. But now Frank must be in some difficulty about money. This was his first idea. ‘What is it, Frank; you have seldom had anything to say that has not been pleasant for me to hear?’ And then the heaviness of visage again gave way for a moment as his eye fell upon his son.

‘I have been to Boxall Hill, sir.’

The tenor of his father’s thoughts was changed in an instant; and the dread of immediate temporary annoyance gave place to true anxiety for his son. He, the squire, had been no party to Mary’s exile from his own domain; and he had seen with pain that she had now a second time been driven from her home: but he had never hitherto questioned the expediency of separating his son from Mary Thorne. Alas! it had become too necessary–too necessary through his own default–that Frank should marry money!

‘At Boxall Hill, Frank! Has that been prudent? Or, indeed, has it been generous to Miss Thorne, who has been driven there, as it were, by your imprudence?’

‘Father, it is well that we should understand each other about this–‘

‘Fill your glass, Frank;’ Frank mechanically did as he was told, and passed the bottle.

‘I should never forgive myself were I to deceive you, or keep anything from you.’

‘I believe it is not in your nature to deceive me, Frank.’

‘The fact is, sir, that I have made up my mind that Mary Thorne shall be my wife–sooner or later, that is, unless, of course, she should utterly refuse. Hitherto, she has utterly refused me. I believe I may now say that she has accepted me.’

The squire sipped his claret, but at the moment said nothing. There was a quiet, manly, but yet modest determination about his son that he had hardly noticed before. Frank had become legally of age, legally a man, when he was twenty-one. Nature, it seems, had postponed the ceremony till he was twenty-two. Nature often does postpone the ceremony even to a much later age;–sometimes, altogether forgets to accomplish it.

The squire continued to sip his claret; he had to think over the matter a while before he could answer a statement so deliberately made by his son.

‘I think I may say so,’ continued Frank, with perhaps unnecessary modesty. ‘She is so honest that, had she not intended it, she would have said so honestly. Am I right, father, in thinking that, as regards Mary, personally, you would not reject her as a daughter-in-law?’

‘Personally!’ said the squire, glad to have the subject presented to him in a view that enabled him to speak out. ‘Oh, no; personally, I should not object to her, for I love her dearly. She is a good girl. I do believe she is a good girl in every respect. I have always liked her; liked to see her about the house. But–‘

‘I know what you would say, father.’ This was rather more than the squire knew himself. ‘Such a marriage is imprudent.’

‘It is more than that, Frank; I fear that is impossible.’

‘Impossible! No, father; it is not impossible.’

‘It is impossible, Frank, in the usual sense. What are you to live upon? What would you do with your children? You would not wish to see your wife distressed and comfortless.’

‘No, I should not like to see that.’

‘You would not wish to begin life as an embarrassed man and end it as a ruined man. If you were now to marry Miss Thorne such would, I fear, doubtless be your lot.’

Frank caught at the word ‘now’. ‘I don’t expect to marry immediately. I know that would be imprudent. But I am pledged, father, and I certainly cannot go back. And now that I have told you all this, what is your advice to me?’

The father again sat silent, still sipping his wine. There was nothing in his son that he could be ashamed of, nothing that he could meet with anger, nothing that he could not love; but how should he answer him? The fact was, that the son had more in him than the father; this his mind and spirit were of a calibre not to be opposed successfully by the mind and the spirit of the squire.

‘Do you know Mary’s history?’ said Mr Gresham, at last; ‘the history of her birth?’

‘Not a word of it,’ said Frank. ‘I did not know she had a history.’

‘Nor does she know it; at least, I presume not. But you should know it now. And, Frank, I will tell it you; not to turn you from her–not with that object, though I think that, to a certain extent, it should have that effect. Mary’s birth was not such that would become your wife, and be beneficial to your children.’

‘If so, father, I should have known it sooner. Why was she brought here among us?’

‘True, Frank. The fault is mine; mine and your mother’s. Circumstances brought it all about years ago, when it never occurred to us that all this would arise. But I will tell you her history. And, Frank, remember this, though I tell it you as a secret, a secret to be kept from all the world but one, you are quite at liberty to let the doctor know I have told you. Indeed, I shall be careful to let him know myself should it ever be necessary that he and I should speak together as to this engagement.’ The squire then told his son the whole story of Mary’s birth, as it is known to the reader.

Frank sat silent, looking very blank; he also had, as had every Gresham, a great love for his pure blood. He had said to his mother that he hated money, that he hated the estate; but he would have been very slow to say, even in his warmest opposition to her, that he hated the roll of the family pedigree. He loved it dearly, though he seldom spoke of it;–as men of good family seldom do speak of it. It is one of those possessions which to have is sufficient. A man having it need not boast of what he has, or show it off before the world. But on that account he values it more. He had regarded Mary as a cutting duly taken from the Ullathorne tree; not, indeed, as a grafting branch, full of flower, just separated from the parent stalk, but as being not a whit the less truly endowed with the pure sap of that venerable trunk. When, therefore, he heard her true history he sat awhile dismayed.

‘It is a sad story,’ said the father.

‘Yes, sad enough,’ said Frank, rising from his chair and standing with it before him, leaning on the back of it. ‘Poor Mary, poor Mary! She will have to learn it some day.’

‘I fear so, Frank;’ and then there was again a few moments’ silence.

‘To me, father, it is told too late. It can now have no effect on me. Indeed,’ said he, sighing as he spoke, but still relieving himself by the very sigh, ‘it could have had no effect had I learned it ever so soon.’

‘I should have told you before,’ said the father; ‘certainly I ought to have done so.’

‘It would have been no good,’ said Frank. ‘Ah, sir, tell me this: who were Miss Dunstable’s parents? What was that fellow Moffat’s family?’

This was perhaps cruel of Frank. The squire, however, made no answer to the question. ‘I have thought it right to tell you,’ said he. ‘I leave all the commentary to yourself. I need not tell you what your mother will think.’

‘What did she think of miss Dunstable’s birth?’ said he, again more bitterly than before. ‘No, sir,’ he continued, after a further pause. ‘All that can make no change; none at any rate now. It can’t make my love less, even if it could have prevented it. Nor, even, could it do so–which it can’t in the least, not in the least–but could it do so, it could not break my engagement. I am now engaged to Mary Thorne.’

And then he again repeated his question, asking for his father’s advice under the present circumstances. The conversation was a very long one, as long as to disarrange all Lady Arabella’s plans. She had determined to take her son more stringently to task that very evening; and with this object had ensconced herself in the small drawing-room which had formerly been used for a similar purpose by the august countess herself. Here she now sat, having desired Augusta and Beatrice, as well as the twins, to beg Frank to go to her as soon as he should come out of the dining-room. Poor lady! there she waited till ten o’clock,–tealess. There was not much of the Bluebeard about the squire; but he had succeeded in making it understood through the household that he was not to be interrupted by messages from his wife during the post-prandial hour, which, though no toper, he loved so well.

As a period of twelve months will now have to be passed over, the upshot of this long conversation must be told in as few words as possible. The father found it impracticable to talk his son out of his intended marriage; indeed, he hardly attempted to do so by any direct persuasion. He explained to him that it was impossible that he should marry at once, and suggested that he, Frank, was very young.

‘You married, sir, before you were one-and-twenty,’ said Frank. Yes and repented before I was two-and-twenty. So did not say the squire.

He suggested that Mary should have time to ascertain what would be her uncle’s wishes, and ended by inducing Frank to promise, that after taking his degree in October he would go abroad for some months, and that he would not indeed return to Greshamsbury until he was three-and-twenty.

‘He may perhaps forget her,’ said the father to himself.

‘He thinks that I shall forget her,’ said Frank to himself at the same time; ‘but he does not know me.’

When Lady Arabella at last got hold of her son she found that the time for her preaching was utterly gone by. He told her, almost with sang-froid, what his plans were; and when she came to understand them, and to understand also what had taken place at Boxall Hill, she could not blame the squire for what he had done. She also said to herself, more confidently than the squire had done, that Frank would quite forget Mary before the year was out. ‘Lord Buckish,’ said she to herself, rejoicingly, ‘is now with the ambassador at Paris’–Lord Buckish was her nephew–‘and with him Frank will meet women that are really beautiful–women of fashion. When with Lord Buckish he will soon forget Mary Thorne.’

But not on this account did she change her resolve to follow up to the furthest point her hostility to the Thornes. She was fully enabled now to do so, for Dr Fillgrave was already reinstated at Greshamsbury as her medical adviser.

One other short visit did Frank pay to Boxall Hill, and one interview had he with Dr Thorne. Mary told him all she knew of her own sad history, and was answered only by a kiss,–a kiss absolutely not in any way by her to be avoided; the first, and only one, that had ever yet reached her lips from his. And then he went away.

The doctor told him the full story. ‘Yes,’ said Frank, ‘I knew it all before. Dear Mary, dearest Mary! Don’t you, doctor, teach yourself to believe that I shall forget her.’ And then also he went his way from him–went his way also from Greshamsbury, and was absent for the full period of the allotted banishment–twelve months, namely, and a day.

CHAPTER XXXI

THE SMALL EDGE OF THE WEDGE

Frank Gresham was absent from Greshamsbury twelve months and a day: a day is always added to the period of such absences, as shown in the history of Lord Bateman and other noble heroes. We need not detail all the circumstances of his banishment, all the details of the compact that was made. One detail of course was this, that there should be no corresponding; a point to which the squire found some difficulty in bringing his son to assent.

It must not be supposed that Mary Thorne or the doctor were in any way parties to, or privy to these agreements. By no means. The agreements were drawn out, and made, and signed, and sealed at Greshamsbury, and were known nowhere else. The reader must not imagine that Lady Arabella was prepared to give up her son, if only his love could remain constant for one year. Neither did Lady Arabella consent to any such arrangement, nor did the squire. It was settled rather in this wise: that Frank should be subjected to no torturing process, pestered to give no promises, should in no way be bullied about Mary–that is, not at present–if he would go away for a year. Then, at the end of the year, the matter should again be discussed. Agreeing to this, Frank took his departure, and was absent as per agreement.

What were Mary’s fortunes immediately after his departure must be shortly told, and then we will again join some of our Greshamsbury friends at a period about a month before Frank’s return.

When Sir Louis saw Frank Gresham standing by Mary’s donkey, with his arms round Mary’s knees, he began to fear that there must be something in it. He had intended that very day to throw himself at Mary’s feet, and now it appeared to his inexperienced eyes as though somebody else had been at the same work before him. This not unnaturally made him cross; so, after having sullenly wished his visitor good-bye, he betook himself to his room, and there drank curacoa alone, instead of coming down to dinner.

This he did for two or three days, and then, taking heart of grace, he remembered that, after all, he had many advantages over young Gresham. In the first place, he was a baronet, and could make his wife a ‘lady’. In the next place, Frank’s father was alive and like to live, whereas his own was dead. He possessed Boxall Hill in his own right, but his rival had neither house nor land of his own. After all, might it not be possible for him also to put his arm round Mary’s knees;–her knees, or her waist, or, perhaps, even her neck? Faint heart never won fair lady. At any rate, he would try.

And he did try. With what result, as regards Mary, need hardly be told. He certainly did not get nearly so far as putting his hand even upon her knee before he was made to understand that it ‘was no go’, as he graphically described it to his mother. He tried once and again. On the first time Mary was very civil, though very determined. On the second, she was more determined, though less civil; and then she told him, that if he pressed her further he would drive her from her mother’s house. There was something then about Mary’s eye, a fixed composure round her mouth, and an authority in her face, which went far to quell him; and he did not press her again.

He immediately left Boxall Hill, and, returning to London, had more violent recourse to the curacoa. It was not long before the doctor heard of him, and was obliged to follow him, and then again occurred those frightful scenes in which the poor wretch had to expiate, either in terrible delirium or more terrible prostration of spirits, the vile sin which his father had so early taught him.

Then Mary returned to her uncle’s home. Frank was gone, and she therefore could resume her place at Greshamsbury. Yes, she came back to Greshamsbury; but Greshamsbury was by no means the same place that it was formerly. Almost all intercourse was now over between the doctor and the Greshamsbury people. He rarely ever saw the squire, and then only on business. Not that the squire had purposely quarrelled with him; but Dr Thorne himself had chosen that it should be so, since Frank had openly proposed to his niece. Frank was now gone, and Lady Arabella was in arms against him. It should not be said that he kept up any intimacy for the sake of aiding the lovers in their love. No one should rightfully accuse him of inveigling the heir to marry his niece.

Mary, therefore, found herself utterly separated from Beatrice. She was not even able to learn what Beatrice would think, or did think, of the engagement as it now stood. She could not even explain to her friend that love had been too strong for her, and endeavour to get some comfort from that friend’s absolution from her sin. This estrangement was now carried so far that she and Beatrice did not even meet on neutral ground. Lady Arabella made it known to Miss Oriel that her daughter could not meet Mary Thorne, even as strangers meet; and it was made known to others also. Mrs Yates Umbleby, and her dear friend Miss Gushing, to whose charming tea-parties none of the Greshamsbury ladies went above once in a twelvemonth, talked through the parish of this distressing difficulty. They would have been so happy to have asked dear Mary Thorne, only the Greshamsbury ladies did not approve.

Mary was thus tabooed from all society in the place in which a twelvemonth since she had been, of all its denizens, perhaps the most courted. In those days, no bevy of Greshamsbury young ladies had fairly represented the Greshamsbury young ladyhood if Mary Thorne was not there. Now she was excluded from all such bevies. Patience did not quarrel with her, certainly;–came to see her frequently;–invited her to walk;–invited her frequently to the parsonage. But Mary was shy of acceding to such invitations and at last frankly told her friend Patience, that she would not again break bread in Greshamsbury in any house in which she was not thought fit to meet the other guests who habitually resorted there.

In truth, both the doctor and his niece were very sore, but there were of that temperament that keeps all its soreness to itself. Mary walked out by herself boldly, looking at least as though she were indifferent to all the world. She was, indeed, hardly treated. Young ladies’ engagements are generally matters of profoundest secrecy, and are hardly known of by their near friends till marriage is a thing settled. But all the world knew of Mary’s engagement within a month of that day on which she had neglected to expel Frank’s finger from her hand; it had been told openly through the country-side that she had confessed her love for the young squire. Now it is disagreeable for a young lady to walk about under such circumstances, especially so when she has no female friend to keep her in countenance, more especially so when the gentleman is such importance in the neighbourhood as Frank was in that locality. It was a matter of moment to every farmer, and every farmer’s wife, which bride Frank should marry of those bespoken for him; Mary, namely, or Money. Every yokel about the place had been made to understand that, by some feminine sleight of hand, the doctor’s niece had managed to trap Master Frank, and that Master Frank had been sent out of the way so that he might, if yet possible, break through the trapping. All this made life rather unpleasant for her.

One day, walking solitary in the lanes, she met that sturdy farmer to whose daughter she had in former days been so serviceable. ‘God bless ‘ee, Miss Mary,’ said he–he always bid God bless her when he saw her. ‘And, Miss Mary, to say my mind out freely, thee be quite gude enough for un, quite gude enough; so thee be’st tho’f he were ten squoires.’ There may, perhaps, have been something pleasant in the heartiness of this; but it was not pleasant to have this heart affair of hers thus publicly scanned and talked over: to have it known to every one that she had set her heart on marrying Frank gem, and that all the Greshams had set their hearts in preventing it. And yet she could in nowise help it. No girl could have been more staid and demure, less demonstrative and boastful about her love. She had never yet spoken freely, out of her full heart, to one human being. ‘Oh, Frank!’ All her spoken sin had been contained in that.

But Lady Arabella had been very active. It suited her better that it should be known, far and wide, that a nameless pauper–Lady Arabella only surmised that her foe was nameless; but she did not scruple to declare it–was intriguing to catch the heir of Greshamsbury. None of the Greshams must meet Mary Thorne; that was the edict sent out about the county; and the edict was well understood. Those, therefore, were bad days for Miss Thorne.

She had never yet spoken on the matter freely, out of her full heart to one human being. Not to one? Not to him? Not to her uncle? No, not even to him, fully and freely. She had told him that that had passed between Frank and her which amounted, at any rate on his part, to a proposal.

‘Well, dearest, and what was your answer?’ said her uncle, drawing her close to him, and speaking in his kindest voice.

‘I hardly made an answer, uncle.’

‘You did not reject him, Mary?’

‘No, uncle,’ and then she paused;–he had never known her tremble as she now trembled. ‘But if you say that I ought, I will,’ she added, drawing every word from herself with difficulty.

‘I say you ought, Mary! Nay; but this question you must answer yourself.’

‘Must I?’ said she, plaintively. And then she sat for the next half hour with her head against his shoulder; but nothing more was said about it. They both acquiesced in the sentence that had been pronounced against them, and went on together more lovingly than before.

The doctor was quite as weak as his niece; nay, weaker. She hesitated fearfully as to what she ought to do: whether she should obey her heart or the dictates of Greshamsbury. But he had other doubts than hers, which nearly set him wild when he strove to bring his mind to a decision. He himself was now in possession–of course as a trustee only–of the title-deeds of the estate; more of the estate, much more, belonged to the heirs under Sir Roger Scatcherd’s will than to the squire. It was now more than probable that that heir must be Mary Thorne. His conviction became stronger and stronger that no human effort would keep Sir Louis in the land of the living till he was twenty-five. Could he, therefore, wisely or honestly, in true friendship to the squire, to Frank, or to his niece, take any steps to separate two persons who loved each other, and whose marriage would in human probability be so suitable?

And yet he could not bring himself to encourage it then. The idea of ‘looking after dead man’s shoes’ was abhorrent to his mind, especially when the man whose death he contemplated had been so trusted to him as had been Sir Louis Scatcherd. He could not speak of the event, even to the squire, as being possible. So he kept his peace from day to day, and gave no counsel to Mary in the matter.

And then he had his own individual annoyances, and very aggravating annoyances they were. The carriage–or rather the post-chaise–of Dr Fillgrave was now frequent in Greshamsbury, passing him constantly in the street, among the lanes, and on the high roads. It seemed as though Dr Fillgrave could never get to his patients at the big house without showing himself to his beaten rival, either on is way thither or on his return. This alone would, perhaps, not have hurt the doctor much; but it did hurt him to know that Dr Fillgrave was attending the squire for a little incipient gout, and that dear Nina was in measles under those unloving hands.

And then, also, the old-fashioned phaeton, of old-fashioned old Dr Century was seen to rumble up to the big house, and it became known that Lady Arabella was not very well. ‘Not very well,’ when pronounced in a low, grave voice about Lady Arabella, always meant something serious. And, in this case, something serious was meant. Lady Arabella was not only ill, but frightened. It appeared even to her, that Dr Fillgrave hardly knew what he was about, that he was not so sure in his opinion, so confident in himself as Dr Thorne used to be. how should he be, seeing that Dr Thorne had medically had Lady Arabella in his hands for the last ten years?

If sitting with dignity in his hired carriage, and stepping with authority up the big front steps, would have done anything, Dr Fillgrave might have done much. Lady Arabella was greatly taken with his looks when he first came to her, and it was only when she by degrees that the symptoms, which she knew so well, did not yield to him that she began to doubt those looks.

After a while Dr Fillgrave himself suggested Dr Century. ‘Not that I fear anything, Lady Arabella,’ said he,–lying hugely, for he did fear; fear both for himself and for her. ‘But Dr Century has great experience, and in such a matter, when the interests are so important, one cannot be too safe.’

So Dr Century came and toddled slowly into her ladyship’s room. He did not say much; he left the talking to his learned brother, who certainly was able to do that part of the business. But Dr Century, though he said very little, looked very grave, and by no means quieted Lady Arabella’s mind. She, as she saw the two putting their heads together, already had misgivings that she had done wrong. She knew that she could not be safe without Dr Thorne at her bedside, and she already felt that she had exercised a most injudicious courage in driving him away.

‘Well, doctor?’ said she, as soon as Dr Century had toddled downstairs to see the squire.

‘Oh! we shall be all right, Lady Arabella; all right, very soon. But we must be careful, very careful; I am glad I’ve had Dr Century here, very; but there’s nothing to alter; little or nothing.’

There was but few words spoken between Dr Century and the squire; but few as they were, they frightened Mr Gresham. When Dr Fillgrave came down the grand stairs, a servant waited at the bottom to ask him also to go to the squire. Now there never had been much cordiality between the squire and Dr Fillgrave, though Mr Gresham had consented to take a preventative pill from his hands, and the little man therefore swelled himself out somewhat more than ordinarily as he followed the servant.

‘Dr Fillgrave,’ said the squire, at once beginning the conversation, ‘Lady Arabella, is I fear, in danger?’

‘Well, no; I hope not in danger, Mr Gresham. I certainly believe I may be justified in expressing a hope that she is not in danger. Her state is, no doubt, rather serious;–rather serious–as Dr Century has probably told you;’ and Dr Fillgrave made a bow to the old man, who sat quiet in one of the dining-room arm-chairs.

‘Well, doctor,’ said the squire, ‘I have not any grounds on which to doubt your judgement.’

Dr Fillgrave bowed, but with the stiffest, slightest inclination which a head could possibly make. He rather thought that Mr Gresham had no ground for doubting his judgement.

‘Nor do I.’

The doctor bowed, and a little, a very little less stiffly.

‘But, doctor, I think that something ought to be done.’

The doctor this time did his bowing merely with his eyes and mouth. The former he closed for a moment, the latter he pressed; and then decorously rubbed his hands one over the other.

‘I am afraid, Dr Fillgrave, that you and my friend Thorne are not the best friends in the world.’

‘No, Mr Gresham, no; I may go so far as to say we are not.’

‘Well, I am sorry for it–‘

‘Perhaps, Mr Gresham, we need hardly discuss it; but there have been circumstances–‘

‘I am not going to discuss anything, Dr Fillgrave; I say I am sorry for it, because I believe that prudence will imperatively require Lady Arabella to have Doctor Thorne back again. Now, if you would not object to meet him–‘

‘Mr Gresham, I beg pardon; I beg pardon, indeed; but you must really excuse me. Doctor Thorne has, in my estimation–‘

‘But, Doctor Fillgrave–‘

‘Mr Gresham, you really must excuse me; you really must, indeed. Anything else that I could do for Lady Arabella, I should be most happy to do; but after what has passed, I cannot meet Doctor Thorne; I really cannot. You must not ask me to do so; Mr Gresham. And, Mr Gresham,’ continued the doctor, ‘I did understand from Lady Arabella that his–that is, Dr Thorne’s–conduct to her ladyship had been such–so very outrageous, I may say, that–that–that–of course, Mr Gresham, you know best; but I did think that Lady Arabella herself was quite unwilling to see Doctor Thorne again;’ and Dr Fillgrave looked very big, and very dignified, and very exclusive.

The squire did not ask again. He had no warrant for supposing that Lady Arabella would receive Dr Thorne if he did come; and he saw that it was useless to attempt to overcome the rancour of the man so pig-headed as the little Galen now before him. Other propositions were then broached, and it was at last decided that assistance should be sought for from London, in the person of the great Sir Omicron Pie.

Sir Omicron came, and Drs Fillgrave and Century were there to meet him. When they all assembled in Lady Arabella’s room, the poor woman’s heart almost sank within her,–as well it might, at such a sight. If she could only reconcile it with her honour, her consistency, with her high De Courcy principles, to send once more for Dr Thorne. Oh, Frank! Frank! to what misery your disobedience brought your mother!

Sir Omicron and the lesser provincial lights had their consultation, and the lesser lights went their way to Barchester and Silverbridge, leaving Sir Omicron to enjoy the hospitality of Greshamsbury.

‘You should have Thorne back here, Mr Gresham,’ said Sir Omicron, almost in a whisper, when they were quite alone. ‘Doctor Fillgrave is a very good man, and so is Dr Century; very good, I’m sure. But Thorne has known her ladyship so long.’ And then, on the following morning, Sir Omicron also went his way.

And then there was a scene between the squire and her ladyship. Lady Arabella had given herself credit for great good generalship when she found that the squire had been induced to take that pill. We have all heard of the little end of the wedge, and we have most of us an idea that the little end is the difficulty. That pill had been the little end of Lady Arabella’s wedge. Up to that period she had been struggling in vain to make a severance between her husband and her enemy. That pill should do the business. She well knew how to make the most of it; to have it published in Greshamsbury that the squire had put his gouty toe into Dr Fillgrave’s hands; how to let it be known–especially at that humble house in the corner of the street–that Fillgrave’s prescriptions now ran current through the whole establishment. Dr Thorne did hear of it, and did suffer. He had been a true friend to the squire, and he thought the squire should have stood to him more staunchly.

‘After all,’ said he himself, ‘perhaps it’s as well–perhaps it will be best that I should leave this place altogether.’ And then he thought of Sir Roger and his will, and of Mary and her lover. And then of Mary’s birth, and of his own theoretical doctrines as to pure blood. And so his troubles multiplied, and he saw no present daylight through them.

Such had been the way in which Lady Arabella had got in the little end of the wedge. And she would have triumphed joyfully had not her increased doubts and fears as to herself then come in to check her triumph and destroy her joy. She had not yet confessed to any one her secret regret for the friend she had driven away. She hardly yet acknowledged to herself that she did regret him; but she was uneasy, frightened, and in low spirits.

‘My dear,’ said the squire, sitting down by her bedside, ‘I want to tell you what Sir Omicron said as he went away.’

‘Well?’ said her ladyship, sitting up and looking frightened.

‘I don’t know how you may take it, Bell; but I think it very good news:’ the squire never called his wife Bell, except when he wanted her to be on particularly good terms with him.

‘Well?’ she said again. She was not over-anxious to be gracious, and did not reciprocate his familiarity.

‘Sir Omicron says that you should have Thorne back again, and upon my honour, I cannot but agree with him. Now, Thorne is a clever man, a very clever man; nobody denies that; and then, you know–‘

‘Why did not Sir Omicron say that to me?’ said her ladyship, sharply, all her disposition in Dr Thorne’s favour becoming wonderfully damped by her husband’s advocacy.

‘I suppose he thought it better to say it to me,’ said the squire.

‘He should have spoken to myself,’ said Lady Arabella, who, though she did not absolutely doubt her husband’s word, gave him credit for having induced and led on Sir Omicron to the uttering of the opinion. ‘Doctor Thorne has behaved to me in so gross, so indecent a manner! And then, as I understand, he is absolutely encouraging that girl–‘

‘Now, Bell, you are quite wrong–‘

‘Of course I am; I always am quite wrong.’

‘Quite wrong in mixing up two things; Doctor Thorne as an acquaintance, and Dr Thorne as a doctor.’

‘It is dreadful to have him here, even standing in the room with me. How can one talk to one’s doctor openly and confidentially when one looks upon him as one’s worst enemy?’ And Lady Arabella, softening, almost melted with tears.

‘My dear, you cannot wonder that I should be anxious for you.’

Lady Arabella gave a little snuffle, which might be taken as a not very eloquent expression of thanks for the squire’s solicitude, or as an ironical jeer at his want of sincerity.

‘And, therefore, I have not lost a moment in telling you what Sir Omicron said. “You should have Thorne back here;” those were his very words. You can think it over, my dear. And remember this, Bell; if he is to do any good no time is to be lost.’

And then the squire left the room, and Lady Arabella remained alone, perplexed by many doubts.

CHAPTER XXXII

MR ORIEL

I must now, shortly–as shortly as it is in my power to do it–introduce a new character to my reader. Mention has been made of the rectory of Greshamsbury; but, hitherto, no opportunity has offered itself for the Rev Caleb Oriel to come upon the boards.

Mr Oriel was a man of family and fortune, who, having gone to Oxford with the usual views of such men, had become inoculated there with very High-Church principles, and had gone into orders influenced by a feeling of enthusiastic love for the priesthood. He was by no means an ascetic–such men, indeed, seldom are–nor was he a devotee. He was a man well able, and certainly willing to do the work of a parish clergyman; and when he became one, he was efficacious in his profession. But it may perhaps be said of him, without speaking slanderously, that his original calling, as a young man, was rather to the outward and visible signs of religion than to its inward and spiritual graces.

He delighted in lecterns and credence-tables, in services at dark hours of winter mornings when no one would attend, in high waistcoats and narrow white neckties, in chanted services and intoned prayers, and in all the paraphernalia of Anglican formalities which have given such offence to those of our brethren who live in daily fear of the scarlet lady. Many of his friends declared that Mr Oriel would sooner or later deliver himself over body and soul to that lady; but there was no need to fear for him: for though sufficiently enthusiastic to get out of bed at five am on winter mornings–he did so, at least, all through his first winter at Greshamsbury–he was not made of that stuff which is necessary for a staunch, burning, self-denying convert. It was not in him to change his very sleek black coat for a Capuchin’s filthy cassock, nor his pleasant parsonage for some dirty hole in Rome. And it was better so both for him and others. There are but few, very few, to whom it is given to be a Huss, a Wickliffe, or a Luther; and a man gains but little by being a false Huss, or a false Luther,–and his neighbours gain less.

But certain lengths in self-privation Mr Oriel did go; at any rate, for some time. He eschewed matrimony, imagining that it became him as a priest to do so. He fasted rigorously on Fridays; and the neighbours declared that he scourged himself.

Mr Oriel was, it has been said, a man of fortune; that is to say, when he came of age he was master of thirty thousand pounds. When he took it into his head to go into the Church, his friends bought for him the next presentation to the living at Greshamsbury; and, a year after his ordination, the living falling in, Mr Oriel brought himself and his sister to the rectory.

Mr Oriel soon became popular. He was a dark-haired, good-looking man, of polished manners, agreeable in society, not given to monkish austerities–except in the matter of Fridays–nor yet to the Low-Church severity of demeanour. He was thoroughly a gentleman, good-humoured, inoffensive, and sociable. But he had one fault: he was not a marrying man.

On this ground there was a feeling against him so strong as almost at one time to throw him into serious danger. It was not only that he should be sworn against matrimony in his individual self–he whom fate had made so able to sustain the weight of a wife and family; but what an example he was setting! If other clergymen all around should declare against wives and families, what was to become of the country? What was to be done in the rural districts? The religious observances, as regards women, of a Brigham Young were hardly so bad as this!

There were around Greshamsbury very many unmarried ladies–I believe there generally are so round must such villages. From the great house he did not receive much annoyance. Beatrice was then only just on the verge of being brought out, and was not perhaps inclined to think very much of a young clergyman; and Augusta certainly intended to fly at higher game. But there were the Miss Athelings, the daughters of a neighbouring clergyman, who were ready to go all lengths with him in High-Church matters, except as that one tremendously papal step of celibacy; and the two Miss Hesterwells, of Hesterwell Park, the younger of whom boldly declared her purpose of civilizing the savage; and Mrs Opie Green, a very pretty widow, with a very pretty jointure, who lived in a very pretty house about a mile from Greshamsbury, and who declared her opinion that Mr Oriel was quite right in his view of a clergyman’s position. How could a woman, situated as she was, have the comfort of a clergyman’s attention if he were to be regarded just as any other man? She could now know in what light to regard Mr Oriel, and would be able without scruple to avail herself of his zeal. So she did avail herself of his zeal,–and that without any scruple.

And then there was Miss Gushing,–a young thing. Miss Gushing had a great advantage over the other competitors for the civilization of Mr Oriel, namely, in this–that she was able to attend his morning services. If Mr Oriel was to be reached in any way, it was probable that he might be reached in this way. If anything could civilize him, this would do it. Therefore, the young thing, through all one long, tedious winter, tore herself from her warm bed, and was to be seen–no, not seen, but heard–entering Mr Oriel’s church at six o’clock. With indefatigable assiduity the responses were made, uttered from under a close bonnet, and out of a dark corner, in an enthusiastically feminine voice, through the whole winter.

Nor did Miss Gushing altogether fail in her object. When a clergyman’s daily audience consists of but one person, and that person is a young lady, it is hardly possible that he should not become personally intimate with her; hardly possible that he should not be in some measure grateful. Miss Gushing’s responses came from her with such fervour, and she begged for ghostly advice with such eager longing to have her scruples satisfied, that Mr Oriel had nothing for it but to give way to a certain amount of civilization.

By degrees it came to pass that Miss Gushing could never get her final prayer said, her shawl and boa adjusted, and stow away her nice new Prayer Book with the red letters inside, and the cross on the back, till Mr Oriel had been into his vestry and got rid of his surplice. And then they met at the church-porch, and naturally walked together till Mr Oriel’s cruel gateway separated them. The young thing did sometimes think that, as the parson’s civilization progressed, he might have taken the trouble to walk with her as far as Mrs Yates Umbleby’s hall door; but she had hope to sustain her, and a firm resolve to merit success, even though she might not attain it.

‘It is not ten thousand pities,’ she once said to him, ‘that none here should avail themselves of the inestimable privilege which your coming has conferred upon us? Oh, Mr Oriel, I do so wonder at it! To me it is so delightful! The morning service in the dark church is so beautiful, so touching!’

‘I suppose they think it a bore getting up so early,’ said Mr Oriel.

‘Ah, a bore!’ said Miss Gushing, in an enthusiastic tone of depreciation. ‘How insensate they must be! To me it gives a new charm to life. It quiets one for the day; makes one so fitter for one’s daily trials and daily troubles. Does it not, Mr Oriel?’

‘I look upon morning prayer as an imperative duty, certainly.’

‘Oh, certainly, a most imperative duty; but so delicious at the same time. I spoke to Mrs Umbleby about it, but she said she could not leave the children.’

‘No: I dare say not,’ said Mr Oriel.

‘And Mr Umbleby said business kept him up so late at night.’

‘Very probably. I hardly expect the attendance of men of business.’

‘But the servants might come, mightn’t they, Mr Oriel?’

‘I fear that servants seldom can have time for daily prayers in church.’

‘Oh, ah, no; perhaps not.’ And then Miss Gushing began to bethink herself of whom should be composed the congregation which it must be presumed that Mr Oriel wished to see around him. But on this matter he did not enlighten her.

Then Miss Gushing took to fasting on Fridays, and made some futile attempts to induce her priest to give her the comfort of confessional absolution. But, unfortunately, the zeal of the master waxed cool as that of the pupil waxed hot; and, at last, when the young thing returned to Greshamsbury from an autumn excursion which she made with Mrs Umbleby to Weston-super-Mare, she found that the delicious morning services had died a natural death. Miss Gushing did not on that account give up the game, but she was bound to fight with no particular advantage in her favour.

Miss Oriel, though a good Churchwoman, was by no means a convert to her brother’s extremist views, and perhaps gave but scanty credit to the Gushings, Athelings, and Opie Greens for the sincerity of their religion. But, nevertheless, she and her brother were staunch friends; and she still hoped to see the day when he might be induced to think that an English parson might get through his parish work with the assistance of a wife better than he could do without such feminine encumbrance. The girl whom she selected for his bride was not the young thing, but Beatrice Gresham.

And at last it seemed probable to Mr Oriel’s nearest friends that he was in a fair way to be overcome. Not that he had begun to make love to Beatrice, or committed himself by the utterance of any opinion as to the propriety of clerical marriages; but he daily became looser about his peculiar tenets, raved less immoderately than heretofore as to the atrocity of the Greshamsbury church pews, and was observed to take some opportunities of conversing alone with Beatrice. Beatrice had always denied the imputation–this had usually been made by Mary in their happy days–with the vehement asseverations of anger; and Miss Gushing had tittered, and expressed herself as supposing that great people’s daughters might be as barefaced as they pleased.

All this had happened previous to the great Greshamsbury feud. Mr Oriel gradually got himself into a way of sauntering up to the great house, sauntering into the drawing-room for the purpose, as I am sure he thought, of talking with Lady Arabella, and then of sauntering home again, having usually found an opportunity for saying a few words to Beatrice during the visit. This went on all through the feud up to the period of Lady Arabella’s illness; and then one morning, about a month before the date fixed for Frank’s return, Mr Oriel found himself engaged to Miss Beatrice Gresham.

From the day that Miss Gushing heard of it–which was not however for some considerable time after this–she became an Independent Methodist. She could no longer, she said at first, have any faith in any religion; and for an hour or so she was almost tempted to swear that she could no longer have any faith in any man. She had nearly completed a worked cover for a credence-table when the news reached her, as to which, in the young enthusiasm of her heart, she had not been able to remain silent; it had already been promised to Mr Oriel; that promise she swore should not be kept. He was an apostate, she said, from his principles; an utter pervert; a false, designing man, with whom she would never have trusted herself alone on dark mornings had she known that he had such grovelling, worldly inclinations. So Miss Gushing became an Independent Methodist; the credence-table covering was cut up into slippers for the preacher’s feet; and the young thing herself, more happy in this direction than she had been in the other, became the arbiter of that preacher’s domestic happiness.

But this little history of Miss Gushing’s future life is premature. Mr Oriel became engaged demurely, nay, almost silently, to Beatrice, and no one out of their own immediate families was at the time informed of the matter. It was arranged very differently from those other two matches–embryo, or not embryo, those, namely, of Augusta with Mr Moffat, and Frank with Mary Thorne. All Barsetshire had heard of them; but that of Beatrice and Mr Oriel was managed in a much more private manner.

‘I do think you are a happy girl,’ said Patience to her one morning.

‘Indeed I am.’

‘He is so good. You don’t know how good he is as yet; he never thinks of himself, and thinks so much of those he loves.’

Beatrice took her friend’s hand in her own and kissed it. She was full of joy. When a girl is about to be married, when she may lawfully talk of love, there is no music in her ears so sweet as the praises of her lover.

‘I made up my mind from the first that he should marry you.’

‘Nonsense, Patience.’

‘I did, indeed. I made up my mind that he should marry; and there were only two to choose from.’

‘Me and Miss Gushing,’ said Beatrice, laughing.

‘No; not exactly Miss Gushing. I had not many fears for Caleb there.’

‘I declare she is very pretty,’ said Beatrice, who could afford to be good-natured. Now Miss Gushing certainly was pretty; and would have been very pretty had her nose not turned up so much, and could she have parted her hair in the centre.

‘Well, I am very glad you chose me;–if it was you who chose,’ said Beatrice, modestly; having, however, in her own mind a strong opinion that Mr Oriel had chosen for himself, and had never any doubt in the matter. ‘And who was the other?’

‘Can’t you guess?’

‘I won’t guess any more; perhaps Mrs Green.’

‘Oh, no; certainly not a widow. I don’t like widows marrying. But of course you could guess if you would; of course it was Mary Thorne. But I soon saw Mary would not do, for two reasons; Caleb would never have liked her well enough nor would she have ever liked him.’

‘Not like him! oh I hope she will; I do so love Mary Thorne.’

‘So do I dearly; and so does Caleb; but he could never have loved her as he loves you.’

‘But, Patience, have you told Mary?’

‘No, I have told no one, and shall not without your leave.’

‘Ah, you must tell her. Tell it her with my best, and kindest, warmest love. Tell her how happy I am, and how I long to talk to her. Tell that I will have her for my bridesmaid. Oh! I do hope that before that all this horrid quarrel will be settled.