Dr Thorne............................................................................................................................................................1

Anthony Trollope .....................................................................................................................................1

CHAPTER I THE GRESHAMS OF GRESHAMSBURY.....................................................................2

CHAPTER II. LONG, LONG AGO ......................................................................................................10

CHAPTER III. DR THORNE ................................................................................................................16

CHAPTER IV. LESSONS FROM COURCY CASTLE .......................................................................23

CHAPTER V. FRANK GRESHAM'S FIRST SPEECH .......................................................................36

CHAPTER VI. FRANK GRESHAM'S EARLY LOVES .....................................................................42

CHAPTER VII. THE DOCTOR'S GARDEN .......................................................................................49

CHAPTER VIII. MATRIMONIAL PROSPECTS...............................................................................56

CHAPTER IX. SIR ROGER SCATCHERD........................................................................................65

CHAPTER X. SIR ROGER'S WILL .....................................................................................................72

CHAPTER XI. THE DOCTOR DRINKS HIS TEA .............................................................................79

CHAPTER XII. WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK, THEN COMES THE TUG OF WAR................84

CHAPTER XIII. THE TWO UNCLES .................................................................................................92

CHAPTER XIV. SENTENCE OF EXILE............................................................................................99

CHAPTER XV. COURCY ..................................................................................................................109

CHAPTER XVI. MISS DUNSTABLE...............................................................................................113

CHAPTER XVII. THE ELECTION ....................................................................................................120

CHAPTER XVIII. THE RIVALS.......................................................................................................129

CHAPTER XIX. THE DUKE OF OMNIUM.....................................................................................138

CHAPTER XX. THE PROPOSAL.....................................................................................................144

CHAPTER XXI. MR MOFFAT FALLS INTO TROUBLE..............................................................150

CHAPTER XXII. SIR ROGER IS UNSEATED................................................................................157

CHAPTER XXIII. RETROSPECTIVE ...............................................................................................162

CHAPTER XXIV. LOUIS SCATCHERD ..........................................................................................168

CHAPTER XXV. SIR ROGER DIES .................................................................................................175

CHAPTER XXVI. WAR .....................................................................................................................186

CHAPTER XXVII. MISS THORNE GOES ON A VISIT.................................................................192

CHAPTER XXVIII. THE DOCTOR HEARS SOMETHING TO HIS ADVANTAGE ....................201

CHAPTER XXIX. THE DONKEY RIDE..........................................................................................208

CHAPTER XXX. POST PRANDIAL .................................................................................................217

CHAPTER XXXI. THE SMALL EDGE OF THE WEDGE ..............................................................221

CHAPTER XXXII. MR ORIEL ..........................................................................................................227

CHAPTER XXXIII. A MORNING VISIT.........................................................................................233

CHAPTER XXXIV. A BAROUCHE AND FOUR ARRIVES AT GRESHAMSBURY ..................241

CHAPTER XXXV. SIR LOUIS GOES OUT TO DINNER ...............................................................252

CHAPTER XXXVI. WILL HE COME AGAIN? ...............................................................................258

CHAPTER XXXVII. SIR LOUIS LEAVES GRESHAMSBURY .....................................................263

CHAPTER XXXVIII. DE COURCY PRECEPTS AND DE COURCY PRACTICE.......................270

CHAPTER XXXIX. WHAT THE WORLD SAYS ABOUT BLOOD..............................................278

CHAPTER XL. THE TWO DOCTORS CHANGE PATIENTS ........................................................284

CHAPTER XLI. DOCTOR THORNE WON'T INTERFERE ............................................................290

CHAPTER XLII. WHAT CAN YOU GIVE IN RETURN? ...............................................................297

CHAPTER XLIII. THE RACE OF SCATCHERD BECOMES EXTINCT .......................................306

CHAPTER XLIV. SATURDAY EVENING AND SUNDAY MORNING .......................................312

CHAPTER XLV. LAW BUSINESS IN LONDON ............................................................................320

CHAPTER XLVI. OUR PET FOX FINDS A TAIL ...........................................................................327

THE WEDDING ..................................................................................................................................335

Before the reader is introduced to the modest country medical practitioner who is to be the chief personage of

the following tale, it will be well that he should be made acquainted with some particulars as to the locality in

There is a county in the west of England not so full of life, indeed, nor so widely spoken of as some of its

manufacturing leviathan brethren in the north, but which is, nevertheless, very dear to those who know it

well. Its green pastures, its waving wheat, its deep and shady andlet us adddirty lanes, its paths and

stiles, its tawnycoloured, wellbuilt rural churches, its avenues of beeches, and frequent Tudor mansions, its

constant county hunt, its social graces, and the general air of clanship which pervades it, has made it to its

own inhabitants a favoured land of Goshen. It is purely agricultural; agricultural in its produce, agricultural in

its poor, and agricultural in its pleasures. There are towns in it, of course; depots from whence are brought

seeds and groceries, ribbons and fireshovels; in which markets are held and county balls are carried on;

which return members to Parliament, generallyin spite of Reform Bills, past, present, and comingin

accordance with the dictates of some neighbouring land magnate; from whence emanate the country postmen,

and where is located the supply of posthorses necessary for county visitings. But these towns add nothing to

the importance of the county; dull, all but deathlike single streets. Each possesses two pumps, three hotels,

Indeed, the town population of the county reckons for nothing when the importance of the county is

discussed, with the exception, as before said, of the assize town, which is also a cathedral city. Herein a

clerical aristocracy, which is certainly not without its due weight. A resident bishop, a resident dean, an

archdeacon, three or four resident prebendaries, and all their numerous chaplains, vicars, and ecclesiastical

satellites, do make up a society sufficiently powerful to be counted as something by the county squirearchy.

In other respects the greatness of Barsetshire depends wholly on the landed powers.

Barsetshire, however, is not now so essentially one whole as it was before the Reform Bill divided it. There is

in these days an East Barsetshire, and there is a West Barsetshire; and people conversant with Barsetshire

doings declare that they can already decipher some difference of feeling, some division of interests. The

eastern moiety of the county is more purely Conservative than the western; there is, or was, a taint of Peelism

in the latter; and then, too, the residence of two such great Whig magnates as the Duke of Omnium and the

Earl De Courcy in that locality in some degree overshadows and renders less influential the gentlemen who

It is to East Barsetshire that we are called. When the division above spoken of was first contemplated, in

those stormy days in which gallant men were still combatting reform ministers, if not with hope, still with

spirit, the battle was fought by none more bravely than by John Newbold Gresham of Greshamsbury, the

member for Barsetshire. Fate, however, and the Duke of Wellington were adverse, and in the following

Whether or not it was true, as stated at the time, that the aspect of the men with whom he was called on to

associate at St Stephen's broke his heart, it is not for us now to inquire. It is certainly true that he did not live

to see the first year of the reformed Parliament brought to a close. The then Mr Gresham was not an old man

at the time of his death, and his eldest son, Francie Newbold Gresham, was a very young man; but,

notwithstanding his youth, and notwithstanding other grounds of objection which stood in the way of such

preferment, and which, it must be explained, he was chosen in his father's place. The father's services had

been too recent, too well appreciated, too thoroughly in unison with the feelings of those around him to allow

of any other choice; and in this way young Frank Gresham found himself member for East Barsetshire,

although the very men who elected him knew that they had but slender ground for trusting him with their

Frank Gresham, though then only twenty four years of age, was a married man, and a father. He had already

chosen a wife, and by his choice had given much ground of distrust to the men of East Barsetshire. He had

married no other than Lady Arabella De Courcy, the sister of the great Whig earl who lived at Courcy Castle

in the west; that earl who not only had voted for the Reform Bill, but had been infamously active in bringing

over other young peers so to vote, and whose name therefore stank in the nostrils of the staunch Tory squires

Not only had Frank Gresham so wedded, but having thus improperly and unpatriotically chosen a wife, he

had added to his sins by becoming recklessly intimate with his wife's relations. It is true that he still called

himself a Tory, belonged to the club of which his father had been one of the most honoured members, and in

the days of the great battle got his head broken in a row, on the right side; but, nevertheless, it was felt by the

good men, true and blue, of East Barsetshire, that a constant sojourner at Courcy Castle could not be regarded

as a consistent Tory. When, however, his father died, that broken head served him in good stead: his

sufferings in the cause were made the most of; these, in unison with his father's merits, turned the scale, and it

was accordingly decided, at a meeting held at the George and Dragon, at Barchester, that Frank Gresham

But Frank Gresham could not fill his father's shoes; they were too big for him. He did become member for

East Barsetshire, but he was such a memberso lukewarm, so indifferent, so prone to associate with the

enemies of the good cause, so little willing to fight the good fight, that he soon disgusted those who most

De Courcy Castle in those days had great allurements for a young man, and all those allurements were made

the most of to win over young Gresham. His wife, who was a year or two older than himself, was a

fashionable woman, with thorough Whig tastes and aspirations, such as became the daughter of a great Whig

earl; she cared for politics, or thought that she cared for them, more than her husband did; for a month or two

previous to her engagement she had been attached to the Court, and had been made to believe that much of

the policy of England's rulers depended on the political intrigues of England's women. She was one who

would fain be doing something if she only knew how, and the first important attempt she made was to turn

her respectable young Tory husband into a secondrate Whig bantling. As this lady's character will, it is

hoped, show itself in the following pages, we need not now describe it more closely.

It is not a bad thing to be soninlaw to a potent earl, member of Parliament for a county, and a possessor of

a fine old English seat, and a fine old English fortune. As a very young man, Frank Gresham found the life to

which he was thus introduced agreeable enough. He consoled himself as best he might for the blue looks with

which he was greeted by his own party, and took his revenge by consorting more thoroughly than ever with

his political adversaries. Foolishly, like a foolish moth, he flew to the bright light, and, like the moths, of

course he burnt his wings. Early in 1833 he had become a member of Parliament, and in the autumn of 1834

the dissolution came. Young members of three had fourandtwenty do not think much of dissolutions,

forget the fancies of their constituents, and are too proud of the present to calculate much as to the future. So

it was with Mr Gresham. His father had been member for Barsetshire all his life, and he looked forward to

similar prosperity as though it was part of his inheritance; but he failed to take any of the steps which had

In the autumn of 1834 the dissolution came, and Frank Gresham, with his honourable lady wife and all the De

To his great disgust another candidate was brought forward as a fellow to his late colleague, and though he

manfully fought the battle, and spent ten thousand pounds in the contest, he could not recover his position. A

high Tory, with a great Whig interest to back him, is never a popular person in England. No one can trust

him, though there may be those who are willing to place him, untrusted, in high positions. Such was the case

with Mr Gresham. There were many who were willing, for family considerations, to keep him in Parliament;

but no one thought that he was fit to be there. The consequences were, that a bitter and expensive contest

ensued. Frank Gresham, when twitted with being a Whig, foreswore the De Courcy family; and then, when

ridiculed as having been thrown over by the Tories, foreswore his father's old friends. So between the two

stools he fell to the ground, and, as a politician, he never again rose to his feet.

He never again rose to his feet; but twice again he made violent efforts to do so. Elections in East Barsetshire,

from various causes, came quick upon each other in those days, and before he was eightandtwenty years of

age Mr Gresham had three times contested the county and been three times beaten. To speak the truth of him,

his own spirit would have been satisfied with the loss of the first ten thousand pounds; but Lady Arabella was

made of higher mettle. She had married a man with a fine place and a fine fortune; but she had nevertheless

married a commoner and had in so far derogated from her high birth. She felt that her husband should be by

rights a member of the House of Lords; but, if not, that it was at least essential that he should have a seat in

the lower chamber. She would be degrees sink into nothing if she allowed herself to sit down, the mere wife

Thus instigated, Mr Gresham repeated the useless contest three times, and repeated it each time at a serious

cost. He lost his money, Lady Arabella lost her temper, and things at Greshamsbury went on by no means as

In the first twelve years of their marriage, children came fast into the nursery at Greshamsbury. The first that

was born was a boy; and in those happy halcyon days, when the old squire was still alive, great was the joy at

the birth of an heir to Greshamsbury; bonfires gleamed through the countryside, oxen were roasted whole,

and the customary paraphernalia of joy, usual to rich Britons on such occasions were gone through with

wondrous eclat. But when the tenth baby, and the ninth little girl, was brought into the world, the outward

Then other troubles came. Some of these little girls were sickly, some very sickly. Lady Arabella had her

faults, and they were such as were extremely detrimental to her husband's happiness and her own; but that of

being an indifferent mother was not among them. She had worried her husband daily for years because he

was not in Parliament, she had worried him because he would not furnish his house in Portman Square, she

had worried him because he objected to have more people carried every winter at Greshamsbury Park than

the house would hold; but now she changed her tune and worried him because Selina coughed, because

Helena was hectic, because poor Sophy's spine was weak, and Matilda's appetite was gone.

Worrying from such causes was pardonable it will be said. So it was; but the manner was hardly pardonable.

Selina's cough was certainly not fairly attributable to the oldfashioned furniture in Portman Square; nor

would Sophy's spine have been materially benefited by her father having a seat in Parliament; and yet, to

have heard Lady Arabella discussing those matters in family conclave, one would have thought that she

As it was, her poor weak darlings were carried about from London to Brighton, from Brighton to some

German baths, from the German baths back to Torquay, and thenceas regarded the four we have

namedto that bourne from whence no further journey could be made under Lady Arabella's directions.

The one son and heir to Greshamsbury was named as his father, Francis Newbold Gresham. He would have

been the hero of our tale had not that place been preoccupied by the village doctor. As it is, those who

please may regard him. It is he who is to be our favourite young man, to do the love scenes, to have his trials

and his difficulties, and to win through them or not, as the case may be. I am too old now to be a

hardhearted author, and so it is probable that he may not die of a broken heart. Those who don't approve of a

middleaged bachelor country doctor as a hero, may take the heir to Greshamsbury in his stead, and call the

book, if it so please them, 'The Loves and Adventures of Francis Newbold Gresham the Younger.'

And Master Frank Gresham was not ill adapted for playing the part of a hero of this sort. He did not share his

sisters' illhealth, and though the only boy of the family, he excelled all his sisters in personal appearance.

The Greshams from time immemorial had been handsome. They were broad browed, blueeyed, fair haired,

born with dimples in their chins, and that pleasant, aristocratic dangerous curl of the upper lip which can

equally express good humour or scorn. Young Frank was every inch a Gresham, and was the darling of his

The De Courcys had never been plain. There was too much hauteur, too much pride, we may perhaps even

fairly say, too much nobility in their gait and manners, and even in their faces, to allow of their being

considered plain; but they were not a race nurtured by Venus or Apollo. They were tall and thin, with high

cheekbones, high foreheads, and large, dignified, cold eyes. The De Courcy girls all had good hair; and, as

they also possessed easy manners and powers of talking, they managed to pass in the world for beauties till

they were absorbed in the matrimonial market, and the world at large cared no longer whether they were

beauties or not. The Misses Gresham were made in the De Courcy mould, and were not on this account the

The two eldest, Augusta and Beatrice, lived, and were apparently likely to live. The four next faded and died

one after anotherall in the same sad yearand were laid in the neat, new cemetery at Torquay. Then came

a pair, born at one birth, weak, delicate, frail little flowers, with dark hair and dark eyes, and thin, long, pale

faces, with long, bony hands, and long bony feet, whom men looked on as fated to follow their sisters with

quick steps. Hitherto, however, they had not followed them, nor had they suffered as their sisters had

suffered; and some people at Greshamsbury attributed this to the fact that a change had been made in the

Then came the youngest of the flock, she whose birth we have said was not heralded with loud joy; for when

she came into the world, four others with pale temples, wan, worn cheeks, and skeleton, white arms, were

Such was the family when, in the year 1854, the eldest son came of age. He had been educated at Harrow,

and was now still at Cambridge; but, of course, on such a day as this he was at home. That coming of age

must be a delightful time to a young man born to inherit broad acres and wide wealth. Those fullmouthed

congratulations; those warm prayers with which his manhood is welcomed by the greyhaired seniors of the

county; the affectionate, all but motherly caresses of neighbouring mothers who have seen him grow up from

his cradle, of mothers who have daughters, perhaps, fair enough, and good enough, and sweet enough even

for him; the softspoken, halfbashful, but tender greetings of the girls, who now, perhaps for the first time,

call him by his stern family name, instructed by instinct rather than precept that the time has come when the

familiar Charles or familiar John must by them be laid aside; the 'lucky dogs', and hints of silver spoons

which are poured into his ears as each young compeer slaps his back and bids him live a thousand years and

then never die; the shouting of the tenantry, the good wishes of the old farmers who come up to wring his

hand, the kisses which he gets from the farmers' wives, and the kisses which he gives to the farmers'

daughters; all these things must make the twentyfirst birthday pleasant enough to a young heir. To a youth,

however, who feels that he is now liable to arrest, and that he inherits no other privilege, the pleasure may

The case with young Frank Gresham may be supposed to much nearer the former than the latter; but yet the

ceremony of his coming of age was by no means like that which fate had accorded to his father. Mr Gresham

was not an embarrassed man, and though the world did not know it, or, at any rate, did not know that he was

deeply embarrassed, he had not the heart to throw open his mansion and receive the county with a free hand

Nothing was going well with him. Lady Arabella would allow nothing near him or around him to be well.

Everything with him was now turned to vexation; he was no longer a joyous, happy man, and the people of

East Barsetshire did not look for gala doings on a grand scale when young Gresham came of age.

Gala doings, to a certain extent, there were there. It was in July, and tables were spread under the oaks for the

tenants. Tables were spread, and meat and beer, and wine were there, and Frank, as he walked round and

shook his guests by the hand, expressed a hope that their relations with each other might be long, close, and

We must say a few words now about the place itself. Greshamsbury Park was a fine old Englishman's

seatwas and is; but we can assert it more easily in past tense, as we are speaking of it with reference to a

past time. We have spoken of Greshamsbury Park; there was a park so called, but the mansion itself was

generally known as Greshamsbury House, and did not stand in the park. We may perhaps best describe it by

saying that the village of Greshamsbury consisted of one long, straggling street, a mile in length, which in the

centre turned sharp round, so that one half of the street lay directly at right angles to the other. In this angle

stood Greshamsbury House, and the gardens and grounds around it filled up the space so made. There was an

entrance with large gates at each end of the village, and each gate was guarded by the effigies of two huge

pagans with clubs, such being the crest borne by the family; from each entrance a broad road, quite straight,

running through a majestic avenue of limes, led up to the house. This was built in the richest, perhaps we

should rather say in the purest, style of Tudor architecture; so much so that, though Greshamsbury is less

complete than Longleat, less magnificent than Hatfield, it may in some sense be said to be the finest

It stands amid a multitude of trim gardens and stonebuilt terraces, divided one from another: these to our

eyes are not so attractive as that broad expanse of lawn by which our country houses are generally

surrounded; but the gardens of Greshamsbury have been celebrated for two centuries, and any Gresham who

would have altered them would have been considered to have destroyed one of the wellknown landmarks of

Greshamsbury Parkproperly so calledspread far away on the other side of the village. Opposite to the

two great gates leading up to the mansion were two smaller gates, the one opening onto the stables, kennels,

and farmyard, and the other to the deer park. This latter was the principal entrance to the demesne, and a

grand and picturesque entrance it was. the avenue of limes which on one side stretched up to the house, was

on the other extended for a quarter of a mile, and then appeared to be terminated only by an abrupt rise in the

ground. At the entrance there were four savages and four clubs, two to each portal, and what with the massive

iron gates, surmounted by a stone wall, on which stood the family arms supported by two other clubbearers,

the stonebuilt lodges, the Doric, ivycovered columns which surrounded the circle, the four grim savages,

and the extent of the space itself through which the high road ran, and which just abutted on the village, the

Those who examined it more closely might see that under the arms was a scroll bearing the Gresham motto,

and that the words were repeated in smaller letters under each of the savages. 'Gardez Gresham', had been

chosen in the days of mottochoosing probably by some heraldatarms as an appropriate legend for

signifying the peculiar attributes of the family. Now, however, unfortunately, men were not of one mind as to

the exact idea signified. Some declared, with much heraldic warmth, that it was an address to the savages,

calling on them to take care of their patron; while others, with whom I myself am inclined to agree, averred

with equal certainty that it was an advice to the people at large, especially to those inclined to rebel against

the aristocracy of the county, that the should 'beware the Gresham'. The latter signification would betoken

strengthso said the holders of the doctrine; the former weakness. Now the Greshams were ever a strong

We will not pretend to decide the question. Alas! either construction was not equally unsuited to the family

fortunes. Such changes had taken place in England since the Greshams had founded themselves that no

savage could any longer in any way protect them; they must protect themselves like common folk, or live

unprotected. Nor now was it necessary that any neighbour should shake in his shoes when the Gresham

frowned. It would have been to be wished that the present Gresham himself could have been as indifferent to

But the old symbols remained, and may such symbols long remain among us; they are still lovely and fit to

be loved. They tell us of the true and manly feelings of other times; and to him who can read aright, they

explain more fully, more truly than any written history can do, how Englishmen have become what they are.

England is not yet a commercial country in the sense that epithet is used for her; and let us still hope that she

will not soon become so. She might surely as well be called feudal England, or chivalrous England. If in

western civilized Europe, there does exist a nation among whom there are high signors, and with whom the

owners of the land are the true aristocracy, the aristocracy is trusted as being best and fittest to rule, that

nation is the English. Choose out the ten leading men of each great European people. Choose them in France,

in Austria, Sardinia, Prussia, Russia, Sweden, Denmark, Spain (?), and then select the ten in England whose

names are best known as those of leading statesmen; the result will show in which country there still exists

the closest attachment to, the sincerest trust in, the old feudal and now socalled landed interests.

England a commercial country! Yes; as Venice was. She may excel other nations in commerce, but yet it is

not that in which she most prides herself, in which she most excels. Merchants as such are not the first men

among us; though it perhaps be open, barely open, to a merchant to become one of them. Buying and selling

is good and necessary; it is very necessary, and may, possibly, be very good; but it cannot be the noblest work

of man; and let us hope that it may not be in your time be esteemed the noblest work of any Englishman.

Greshamsbury Park was very large; it lay on the outside of the angle formed by the village street, and

stretched away on two sides without apparent limit or boundaries visible from the village road or house.

Indeed, the ground on this side was so broken up into abrupt hills, and conicalshaped, oakcovered

excrescences, which were seen peeping up through and over each other, that the true extent of the park was

much magnified to the eye. It was very possible for a stranger to get into it and to find some difficulty in

getting out again by any of its known gates; and such was the beauty of the landscape, that a lover or scenery

I have said that on one side lay the kennels, and this will give me an opportunity of describing here one

He had once represented his county in Parliament, and when he ceased to do so he still felt an ambition to be

connected in some peculiar way with that county's greatness; he still desired that a Gresham of Greshamsbury

should be something more in East Barsetshire, than Jackson of the Grange, or Baker of Mill Hill, or Bateson

of Annesgrove. They were all his friends, and very respectable country gentlemen; but Mr Gresham of

Greshamsbury should be more than this: even he had enough ambition to be aware of such a longing.

For this employment he was in every way well suited;unless it was in the matter of finance. Though he had

in his very earliest manly years given such great offence by indifference to his family politics, and had in a

certain degree fostered the illfeeling by contesting the county in opposition to the wishes of his brother

squires, nevertheless, he bore a loved and popular name. Men regretted that he should not have been what

they wished him to be, that he should not have been such as was the old squire; but when they found that

such was the case, that he could not be great among them as a politician, they were still willing that he should

be great in any other way if there were county greatness for which he was suited. Now he was known as an

excellent horseman, as a thorough sportsman, as one knowing in dogs, and tenderhearted as a sucking

mother to a litter of young foxes; he had ridden in the county since he was fifteen, and had a fine voice for a

view hallo, knew every hound by name, and could wind a horn with sufficient music for all hunting purposes;

moreover, he had come to his property, as was well known through all Barsetshire, with a clear income of

Thus, when some old wornout master of hounds was run to ground, about a year after Mr Gresham's last

contest for the county, it seemed to all parties to be a pleasant and rational arrangement that the hounds

should go to Greshamsbury. Pleasant, indeed, to all except the Lady Arabella; and rational, perhaps, to all

All this time he was already considerable encumbered. He had spent much more than he should have done,

and so indeed had his wife, in those two splendid years in which they had figured as great among the great

ones of the earth. Fourteen thousand a year ought to have been enough to allow a member of Parliament with

a young wife and two or three children to live in London and keep up their country family mansion; but then

the De Courcys were very great people, and Lady Arabella chose to live as she had been accustomed to do,

and as her sisterinlaw the countess lived; now Lord de Courcy had much more than fourteen thousand a

year. Then came the three elections, with their vast attendant cost, and then those costly expedients to which

gentlemen are forced to have recourse who have lived beyond their income and find it impossible to reduce

their establishments as to live much below it. Thus when the hounds came to Greshamsbury, Mr Gresham

Lady Arabella said much to oppose their coming; but Lady Arabella, though it could hardly be said of her

that she was under her husband's rule, certainly was not entitled to boast that she had made him under hers.

She then made her first grand attack as to the furniture in Portman Square; and was then for the first time

specially informed that the furniture there was not matter of much importance, as she would not in future be

required to move her family to that residence during the London seasons. The sort of conversation which

grew from such a commencement may be imagined. Had Lady Arabella worried her lord less, he might

perhaps have considered with more coolness the folly of encountering so prodigious an increase to the

expense of his establishment; had he not spent so much money in a pursuit which his wife did not enjoy, she

might perhaps have been more sparing in her rebukes as to his indifference to her London pleasures. As it

was, the hounds came to Greshamsbury, and Lady Arabella did go to London for some period in each year,

The kennels, however, were now again empty. Two years previous to the time at which our story begins, the

hounds had been carried off to the seat of some richer sportsman. This was more felt by Mr Gresham than

any other misfortune which he had yet incurred. He had been master of hounds for ten years, and that work

he had at any rate done well. The popularity among his neighbours which he had lost as a politician he had

regained as a sportsman, and he would fain have remained autocratic in the hunt, had it been possible. But he

so remained much longer than he should have done, and at last they went away, not without signs and sounds

But we have kept the Greshamsbury tenancy waiting under the oaktrees by far too long. Yes; when young

Frank came of age there was still enough left at Greshamsbury, still means enough at the squire's disposal, to

light one bonfire, to roast, whole in its skin, one bullock. Frank's virility came on him not quite unmarked, as

that of the parson's sons might do, or the son of a neighbouring attorney. It could still be reported in the

Barsetshire Conservative "Standard" that 'The beards waggled all,' at Greshamsbury, now as they had done

for many centuries on similar festivals. Yes; it was so reported. But this, like so many other such reports, had

but a shadow of truth in it. 'They poured the liquor in,' certainly, those who were there; but the beards did not

wag as they had been wont to wag in former years. Beards won't wag for the telling. The squire was at his

wits' end for money, and the tenants one and all had so heard. Rents had been raised on them; timber had

fallen fast; the lawyer on the estate was growing rich; tradesmen in Barchester, nay, in Greshamsbury itself,

were beginning to mutter; and the squire himself would not be merry. Under such circumstances the throats

'I minds well,' said Farmer Oaklerath to his neighbour, 'when the squire hisself comed of age. Lord love 'ee!

There was fun going that day. There was more yale dranke then than's been brewed at the big house these two

'And I minds when the squoire was borned; minds it well,' said an old farmer sitting opposite. 'Them was the

days! It an't that long age neither. Squoire a'nt come o' fifty yet; no, nor an't nigh it, though he looks it. Things

be altered at Greemsbury'such was the rural pronunciation'altered sadly, neebor Oaklerath. Well, well;

I'll soon be gone, I will, and so it an't no use talking; but arter paying one pound fifteen for them acres for

Such was the style of conversation which went on at the various tables. It had certainly been of a very

different tone when the squire was born, when he came of age, and when, just two years subsequently, his son

had been born. On each of these events similar rural fetes had been given, and the squire himself had on these

occasions been frequent among his guests. On the first, he had been carried round by his father, a whole train

of ladies and nurses following. On the second, he had himself mixed in all the sports, the gayest of the gay,

and each tenant had squeezed his way up to the lawn to get a sight of the Lady Arabella, who, as was already

known, was to come from Courcy Castle to Greshamsbury to be their mistress. It was little they any of them

cared now for the Lady Arabella. On the third, he himself had borne him; his child in his arms as his father

had before borne him; he was in the zenith of his pride, and though the tenantry had whispered that he was

somewhat less familiar with them than of yore, that he had put on somewhat too much of the De Courcy airs,

still he was their squire, their master, the rich man in whose hand they lay. The old squire was then gone, and

they were proud of the young member and his lady bride in spite of a little hauteur. None of them were proud

He walked once round among the guests, and spoke a few words of welcome at each table; and as he did so

the tenants got up and bowed and wished health to the old squire, happiness to the young one, and prosperity

There were also other visitors, of the gentle sort, to do honour to the occasion; but not such swarms, not such

a crowd at the mansion itself and at the houses of the neighbouring gentry as had always been collected on

these former gala doings. Indeed, the party at Greshamsbury was not a large one, and consisted chiefly of

Lady de Courcy and her suite. Lady Arabella still kept up, as far as she was able, her close connexion with

Courcy Castle. She was there as much as possible, to which Mr Gresham never objected; and she took her

daughters there whenever she could, though, as regarded the two elder girls, she was interfered with by Mr

Gresham, and not unfrequently by the girls themselves. Lady Arabella had a pride in her son, though he was

by no means her favourite child. He was, however, the heir of Greshamsbury, of which fact she was disposed

to make the most, and he was also a fine openhearted young man, who could not but be dear to any mother.

Lady Arabella did love him dearly, though she felt a sort of disappointment in regard to him, seeing that he

was not so much like a De Courcy as he should have been. She did love him dearly; and, therefore, when he

came of age she got her sisterinlaw and all the Ladies Amelia, Rosina etc. to come to Greshamsbury; and

she also, with some difficulty, persuaded the Honourable Georges and the Honourable Johns to be equally

condescending. Lord de Courcy himself was in attendance at the Courtor said that he wasand Lord

Porlock, the eldest son, simply told his aunt when he was invited that he never bored himself with those sort

Then there were the Bakers, and the Batesons, and the Jacksons, who all lived near and returned home at

night; there was the Reverend Caleb Oriel, the HighChurch rector, with his beautiful sister Patience Oriel;

there was Mr Yates Umbleby, the attorney and agent; and there was Dr Thorne, and the doctor's modest,

As Dr Thorne is our heroor I should rather say my hero, a privilege of selecting for themselves in this

respect being left to all my readersand as Miss Mary Thorne is to be our heroine, a point on which no

choice whatsoever is left to any one, it is necessary that they shall be introduced and explained and described

in a proper, formal manner. I feel quite an apology is due for beginning a novel with two long dull chapters

full of description. I am perfectly aware of the danger of such a course. In so doing I sin against the golden

rule which requires us all to put our best foot foremost, the wisdom of which is fully recognized by novelists,

myself among the number. It can hardly be expected that any one will consent to go through with a fiction

that offers so little allurement in its first pages; but twist it as I will I cannot do otherwise. I find that I cannot

make poor Mr Gresham hem and haw and turn himself uneasily in his armchair in a natural manner till I

have said why he is uneasy. I cannot bring my doctor speaking his mind freely among the bigwigs till I have

explained that it is in accordance with his usual character to do so. This is unartistic on my part, and shows

want of imagination as well as want of skill. Whether or not I can atone for these faults by straightforward,

Dr Thorne belonged to a family in one sense as good, and at any rate as old, as that of Mr Gresham; and

much older, he was apt to boast, than that of the De Courcys. This trait in his character is mentioned first, as

it was the weakness for which he was most conspicuous. He was second cousin to Mr Thorne of Ullathorne, a

Barsetshire squire living in the neighbourhood of Barchester, and who boasted that his estate had remained in

his family, descending from Thorne to Thorne, longer than had been the case with any other estate or any

But Dr Thorne was only a second cousin; and, therefore, though he was entitled to talk of the blood as

belonging to some extent to himself, he had no right to lay claim to any position in the county other than such

as he might win for himself if he chose to locate himself in it. This was a fact of which no one was more fully

aware than our doctor himself. His father, who had been first cousin of a former Squire Thorne, had been a

clerical dignitary in Barchester, but had been dead now many years. He had had two sons; one he had

educated as a medical man, but the other, and the younger, whom he had intended for the Bar, had not

betaken himself in any satisfactory way to any calling. This son had been first rusticated from Oxford, and

then expelled; and thence returning to Barchester, had been the cause to his father and brother of much

Old Dr Thorne, the clergyman, died when the two brothers were yet young men, and left behind him nothing

but some household and other property of the value of about two thousand pounds, which he bequeathed to

Thomas, the elder son, much more than that having been spent in liquidating debts contracted by the younger.

Up to that time there had been close harmony between the Ullathorne family and that of the clergyman; but a

month or two before the doctor's deaththe period of which we are speaking was about twoandtwenty

years before the commencement of our storythe then Mr Thorne of Ullathorne had made it understood that

he would no longer receive at his house his cousin Henry, whom he regarded as a disgrace to the family.

Fathers are apt to be more lenient to their sons than uncles to their nephews, or cousins to each other. Dr

Thorne still hoped to reclaim his black sheep, and thought that the head of his family showed an unnecessary

harshness in putting an obstacle in his way of doing so. And if the father was warm in support of his

profligate son, the young medical aspirant was warmer in support of his profligate brother. Dr Thorne, junior,

was no roue himself, but perhaps, as a young man, he had not sufficient abhorrence of his brother's vices. At

any rate, he stuck to him manfully; and when it was signified in the Close that Henry's company was not

considered desirable at Ullathorne, Dr Thomas Thorne sent word to the squire that under such circumstances

This was not very prudent, as the young Galen had elected to establish himself in Barchester, very mainly in

expectation for the help which his Ullathorne connexion would give him. This, however, in his anger he

failed to consider; he was never known, either in early or in middle life, to consider in his anger those points

which were probably best worth his consideration. This, perhaps, was of the less moment as his anger was of

an unenduring kind, evaporating frequently with more celerity than he could get angry words out of his

mouth. With the Ullathorne people, however, he did establish a quarrel sufficiently permanent to be of vital

And then the father died, and the two brothers were left living together with very little means between them.

At this time there was living in Barchester, people of the name of Scatcherd. Of that family, as then existing,

we have only to do with two, a brother and a sister. They were in a low rank of life, the one being a

journeyman stonemason, and the other an apprentice to a strawbonnet maker; but they were, nevertheless,

in some sort remarkable people. The sister was reputed in Barchester to be a model of female beauty of the

strong and robuster cast, and had also a better reputation as being a girl of good character and honest,

womanly conduct. Both of her beauty and of her reputation her brother was exceedingly proud, and he was

the more so when he learnt that she had been asked in marriage by a decent mastertradesman in the city.

Roger Scatcherd had also a reputation, but not for beauty or propriety of conduct. He was known for the best

stonemason in the four counties, and as the man who could, on occasion, drink the most alcohol in a given

time in the same localities. As a workman, indeed, he had higher reputation even than this: he was not only a

good and very quick stonemason, but he had also a capacity for turning other men into good stonemasons:

he had a gift of knowing what a man could and should do; and, by degrees, he taught himself what five, and

ten, and twentylatterly, what a thousand and two thousand men might accomplish among them: this, also,

he did with very little aid from pen and paper, with which he was not, and never became, very conversant. He

had also other gifts and other propensities. He could talk in a manner dangerous to himself and to others; he

could persuade without knowing that he did so; and being himself an extreme demagogue, in those noisy

times just prior to the Reform Bill, he created a hubbub in Barchester of which he himself had had no

Henry Thorne among his other bad qualities had one which his friends regarded as worse than all the others,

and which perhaps justified the Ullathorne people in their severity. He loved to consort with low people. He

not only drank in taprooms with vulgar drinkers; so said his friends, and so said his enemies. He denied the

charge as being made in the plural number, and declared that his only low coreveller was Roger Scatcherd.

With Roger Scatcherd, at any rate, he associated, and became as democratic as Roger himself. Now the

Whether or not Mary Scatcherd at once accepted the offer of the respectable tradesman, I cannot say. After

the occurrence of certain events which must here shortly be told, she declared that she had never done so. Her

brother averred that she most positively had. The respectable tradesman himself refused to speak on the

It is certain, however, that Scatcherd, who had hitherto been silent enough about his sister in those social

hours which he passed with his gentleman friend, boasted of the engagement when it was, as he said, made;

and then boasted also of the girl's beauty. Scatcherd, in spite of his occasional intemperance, looked up in the

world, and the coming marriage of his sister was, he thought, suitable to his own ambition for his family.

Henry Thorne had already heard of, and already seen, Mary Scatcherd; but hitherto she had not fallen in the

way of his wickedness. Now, however, when he heard that she was to be decently married, the devil tempted

him to tempt her. It boots not to tell all the tale. It came out clearly enough when all was told, that he made

her most distinct promises of marriage; he even gave her such in writing; and having in this way obtained

from her her company during some of her little holidaysher Sundays or summer eveningshe seduced

her. Scatcherd accused him openly of having intoxicated her with drugs; and Thomas Thorne, who took up

the case, ultimately believed the charge. It became known in Barchester that she was with child, and that the

Roger Scatcherd, when the news first reached him, filled himself with drink, and then swore that he would

kill them both. With manly wrath, however, he set forth, first against the man, and that with manly weapons.

He took nothing with him but his fists and a big stick as he went in search of Henry Thorne.

The two brothers were then lodging together at a farmhouse close abutting on the town. This was not an

eligible abode for a medical practitioner; but the young doctor had not been able to settle himself eligibly

since his father's death; and wishing to put what constraint he could upon his brother, had so located himself.

To this farmhouse came Roger Scatcherd one sultry summer evening, his anger gleaming from his

bloodshot eyes, and his rage heightened to madness by the rapid pace at which he had run from the city, and

At the very gate of the farmyard, standing placidly with his cigar in his mouth, he encountered Henry

Thorne. He had thought of searching for him through the whole premises, of demanding his victim with loud

exclamations, and making his way to him through all obstacles. In lieu of that, there stood the man before

They were the last words he ever spoke. He was answered by a blow from the blackthorn. A contest ensued;

which ended in Scatcherd keeping his wordat any rate, as regarded the worst offender. How the fatal blow

on the temple was struck was never exactly determined; one medical man said it might have been done in a

fight with a heavyheaded stick; another thought that a stone had been used; a third suggested a

stonemason's hammer. It seemed, however, to be proved subsequently that no hammer was taken out, and

Scatcherd himself persisted in declaring that he had taken in his hand no weapon but the stick. Scatcherd,

however, was drunk; and even though he intended to tell the truth, may have been mistaken. There were,

however, the facts that Thorne was dead; that Scatcherd had sworn to kill him about an hour previously; and

that he had without delay accomplished the threat. He was arrested and tried with murder, all the distressing

circumstances of the case came out on the trial: he was found guilty of manslaughter, and sentenced to be

imprisoned for six months. Our readers will probably think that the punishment was too severe.

Thomas Thorne and the farmer were on the spot soon after Henry Thorne had fallen. The brother was at first

furious for vengeance against his brother's murderer; but, as the facts came out, as he learnt what had been

the provocation given, what had been the feelings of Scatcherd when he left the city, determined to punish

him who had ruined his sister, his heart was changed. Those were trying days for him. It behoved him to do

what in him lay to cover his brother's memory from the obloquy which it deserved; it behoved him also to

save, or to assist to save, from undue punishment the unfortunate man who had shed his brother's blood; and

it behoved him also, at least so he thought, to look after that poor fallen one whose misfortunes were less

And he was not the man to get through these things lightly, or with as much ease as he perhaps might

conscientiously have done. He would pay for the defence of the prisoner; he would pay for the defence of his

brother's memory; and he would pay for the poor girl's comforts. He would do this, and he would allow no

one to help him. He stood alone in the world, and insisted on so standing. Old Mr Thorne of Ullathorne

offered again to open his arms to him; but he had conceived a foolish idea that his cousin's severity had

driven his brother on to his bad career, and he would consequently accept no kindness from Ullathorne. Miss

Thorne, the old squire's daughtera cousin considerably older than himself, to whom he had at one time

been much attachedsent him money; and he returned it to her under a blank cover. He had still enough for

those unhappy purposes which he had in hand. As to what might happen afterwards, he was then mainly

The affair made much noise in the county, and was inquired into closely by many of the county magistrates;

by none more closely than by John Newbold Gresham, with the energy and justice shown by Dr Thorne on

the occasion; and when the trial was over, he invited him to Greshamsbury. The visit ended in the doctor

We must return for a moment to Mary Scatcherd. She was saved from the necessity of encountering her

brother's wrath, for that brother was under arrest for murder before he could get at her. Her immediate lot,

however, was a cruel one. Deep as was her cause for anger against the man who had so inhumanly used her,

still it was natural that she should turn to him with love rather than with aversion. To whom else could she in

such plight look for love? When, therefore, she heard that he was slain, her heart sank within her; she turned

her face to the wall, and laid herself down to die; to die a double death, for herself and the fatherless babe that

But, in fact, life had still much to offer, both to her and her child. For her it was still destined that she should,

in a distant land, be the worthy wife of a good husband, and the happy mother of many children. For that

embryo one it was destinedbut that may not be so quickly told: to describe her destiny this volume has yet

Even in those bitterest days God tempered the wind to the shorn lamb. Dr Thorne was by her bedside soon

after the bloody tidings had reached her, and did for her more than either her lover or her brother could have

done. When the baby was born, Scatcherd was still in prison, and had still three months' more confinement to

undergo. The story of her great wrongs and cruel usage as much talked of, and men said that one who had

One man, at any rate, so thought. At twilight, one evening, Thorne was surprised by a visit from a demure

Barchester hardware dealer, whom he did not remember ever to have addressed before. This was the former

lover of the poor Mary Scatcherd. He had a proposal to make and it was this:if Mary would consent to

leave the country at once, to leave it without notice from her brother, or talk or eclat on the matter, he would

sell all that he had, marry her, and emigrate. There was but one condition; she must leave her baby behind

her. The hardwareman could find it in his heart to be generous, to be generous and true to his love; but he

'I could never abide it, sir, if I took it,' said he; 'and she,why in course she would always love it the best.'

In praising his generosity, who can mingle any censure for such manifest prudence? He would still make her

the wife of his bosom, defiled in the eyes of the world as she had been; but she must be to him the mother of

And now again our doctor had a hard task to win through. He saw at once that it was his duty to use his

utmost authority to induce the poor girl to accept such an offer. She liked the man; and here was opened to

her a course which would have been most desirable, even before her misfortune. But it is hard to persuade a

mother to part with her first babe; harder, perhaps, when the babe had been so fathered and so born than when

the world has shone brightly on its earliest hours. She at first refused stoutly: she sent a thousand loves, a

thousand thanks, profusest acknowledgements for his generosity to the man who showed her that he loved her

'And what will you do for her here, Mary?' said the doctor. Poor Mary replied to him with a deluge of tears.

'She is my niece,'said the doctor, taking up the tiny infant in his huge hands; 'she is already the nearest thing,

the only thing that I have in the world. I am her uncle, Mary. If you will go with this man I will be father to

her and mother to her. Of what bread I eat, she shall eat; of what cup I drink, she shall drink. See, Mary, here

is the Bible;' and he covered the book with his hand, 'Leave her to me, and by this word she shall be my

The mother consented at last; left her baby with the doctor, married, and went to America. All this was

consummated before Roger Scatcherd was liberated from jail. Some conditions the doctor made. The first

was, that Scatcherd should not know his sister's child was thus disposed of. Dr Thorne, in undertaking to

bring up the baby, did not choose to encounter any girl's relations on the other side. Relations she would

undoubtedly have had none had she been left to live or die as a workhouse bastard; but should the doctor

succeed in life, should he ultimately be able to make this girl the darling of his own house, and then the

darling of some other house, should she live and win the heart of some man whom the doctor might delight to

call his friend and nephew; then relations might spring up whose ties would not advantageous.

No man plumed himself on good blood more than Dr Thorne; no man had greater pride in his genealogical

tree, and his hundred and thirty clearly descendant from MacAdam; no man had a stronger theory as to the

advantage held by men who have grandfathers over those who have none, or have none worth talking about.

Let it not be thought that our doctor was a perfect character. No, indeed; most far from perfect. He had within

him an inner, stubborn, selfadmiring pride, which made him believe himself to be better and higher than

those around him, and this from some unknown cause which he could hardly explain to himself. He had a

pride in being a poor man of a high family; he had a pride in repudiating the very family of which he was

proud; and he had a special pride in keeping his pride silently to himself. His father had been a Thorne, his

mother a Thorold. There was no better blood to be had in England. It was in the possession of such properties

as these that he condescended to rejoice; this man, with a man's heart, a man's courage, and a man's

humanity! Other doctors round the county had ditchwater in their veins; he could boast of a pure ichor, to

which that of the great Omnium family was but a muddy puddle. It was thus that he loved to excel his brother

practitioners, he who might have indulged in the pride of excelling them both in talent and in energy! We

speak now of his early days; but even in his maturer life, the man, though mellowed, was the same.

This was the man who now promised to take to his bosom as his own child a poor bastard whose father was

already dead, and whose mother's family was such as the Scatcherds! It was necessary that the child's history

should be known to none. Except to the mother's brother it was an object of interest to no one. The mother

had for some short time been talked of; but now that the ninedays' wonder was a wonder no longer. She

went off to her faraway home; her husband's generosity was duly chronicled in the papers, and the babe was

It was easy to explain to Scatcherd that the child had not lived. There was a parting interview between the

brother and sister in the jail, during which with real tears and unaffected sorrow, the mother thus accounted

for the offspring of her shame. Then she started, fortunate in her coming fortunes; and the doctor took with

him his charge to the new country in which they were both to live. There he found for her a fitting home till

she should be old enough to sit at his table and live in his bachelor house; and no one but old Mr Gresham

Then Roger Scatcherd, having completed his six months' confinement, came out of prison.

Roger Scatcherd, though his hands were now red with blood, was to be pitied. A short time before the days of

Henry Thorne's death he had married a young wife in his own class of life, and had made many resolves that

henceforward his conduct should be such as might become a married man, and might not disgrace the

respectable brotherinlaw he was about to have given him such was his condition when he first heard of his

sister's plight. As has been said, he filled himself with drink and started off on the scent of blood.

During his prison days his wife had to support herself as she might. The decent articles of furniture which

they had put together were sold; she gave up their little house, and, bowed down by misery, she also was

brought near to death. When he was liberated he at once got work; but those who have watched the lives of

such people know how hard it is for them to recover lost ground. She became a mother immediately after his

liberation, and when her child was born they were in direst want; for Scatcherd was again drinking, and his

The doctor was then living at Greshamsbury. He had gone over there before the day on which he undertook

the charge of poor Mary's baby, and soon found himself settled as the Greshamsbury doctor. This occurred

very soon after the birth of the young heir. His predecessor in this career had 'bettered' himself, or

endeavoured to do so, by seeking the practice of some large town, and Lady Arabella, at a very critical time,

was absolutely left with no other advice than that of a stranger, picked up, as she declared to Lady de Courcy,

somewhere between Barchester jail, or Barchester courthouse, she did not know which.

Of course Lady Arabella could not suckle the young heir herself. Ladies Arabella never can. They are gifted

with the powers of being mothers, but not nursingmothers. Nature gives them bosoms for show, but not for

use. So Lady Arabella had a wetnurse. At the end of six months the new doctor found Master Frank was not

doing quite so well as he should do; and after a little trouble it was discovered that the very excellent young

woman who had been sent express from Courcy Castle to Greshamsburya supply being kept up on the

lord's demesne for the family usewas fond of brandy. She was at once sent back to the castle, of course;

and, as Lady de Courcy was too much in dudgeon to send another, Dr Thorne was allowed to procure one. He

thought of the misery of Roger Scatcherd's wife, though also of her health and strength, and active habits; and

One other episode we must tell of past times. Previous to his father's death, Dr Thorne was in love. Nor had

he altogether sighed and pleaded in vain; though it had not quite come to that, the young lady's friends, or

even the young lady herself, had actually accepted his suit. At that time his name stood well in Barchester.

His father was a prebendary; his cousins and his best friends were the Thornes of Ullathorne, and the lady,

who shall be nameless, was not thought to be injudicious in listening to the young doctor. But when Henry

Thorne went so far astray, when the old doctor died, when the young doctor quarrelled with Ullathorne, when

the brother was killed in a disgraceful quarrel, and it turned out that the physician had nothing but his

profession and no settled locality in which to exercise it; then, indeed, the young lady's friends thought that

she was injudicious, and the young lady herself had not spirit enough, or love enough, to be disobedient. In

those stormy days of the trial she told Dr Thorne, that perhaps it would be wise that they should not see each

Dr Thorne, so counselled, at such a moment,so informed then, when he most required comfort from his

love, at once swore loudly that he agreed with her. He rushed forth with a bursting heart, and said to himself

that the world was bad, all bad. He saw the lady no more; and, if I am rightly informed, never again made

And thus Dr Thorne became settled for life in the little village of Greshamsbury. As was then the wont with

many country practitioners, and as should be the wont with them all if they consulted their own dignity a little

less and the comforts of their customers somewhat more, he added the business of a dispensing apothecary to

that of a physician. In doing so, he was of course much reviled. Many people around him declared that he

could not truly be a doctor, or, at any rate, a doctor to be so called; and his brethren in the art living round

him, though they knew that his diplomas, degrees, and certificates were all en regle, rather countenanced the

report. There was much about this newcomer which did not endear him to his own profession. In the first

place he was a newcomer, and, as such, was of course to be regarded by other doctors as being de trop.

Greshamsbury was only fifteen miles from Barchester, where there was a regular depot of medical skill, and

but eight from Silverbridge, where a properly established physician had been in residence for the last forty

years. Dr Thorne's predecessor at Greshamsbury had been a humbleminded general practitioner, gifted with

a due respect for the physicians of the county; and he, though he had been allowed to physic the servants, and

sometimes the children of Greshamsbury, had never had the presumption to put himself on a par with his

Then also, Dr Thorne, though a graduated physician, though entitled beyond all dispute to call himself a

doctor, according to all the laws of the colleges, made it known to the East Barsetshire world, very soon after

he had seated himself at Greshamsbury, that his rate of pay was to be sevenandsixpence a visit within a

circuit of five miles, with a proportionally increased charge at proportionally increased distances. Now there

was something low, mean, unprofessional, and democratic in this; so, at least, said the children of

AEsculapius gathered together in conclave at Barchester. In the first place, it showed that this Thorne was

always thinking of his money, like an apothecary, as he was; whereas, it would have behoved him, as a

physician, had he had the feelings of a physician under his hat, to have regarded his own pursuits in a purely

philosophical spirit, and to have taken any gain which might have accrued as an accidental adjunct to his

station in life. A physician should take his fee without letting his left hand know what his right hand was

doing; it should be taken without a thought, without a look, without a move of the facial muscles; the true

physician should hardly be aware that the last friendly grasp of the hand had been more precious by the touch

of gold. Whereas, that fellow Thorne would lug out half a crown from his breeches pocket and give it in

change for a ten shilling piece. And then it was clear that this man had no appreciation of the dignity of a

learned profession. He might constantly be seen compounding medicines in the shop, at the left hand of his

front door; not making experiments philosophically in materials medica for the benefit of coming

ageswhich, if he did, he should have done in the seclusion of his study, far from profane eyesbut

positively putting together common powders for rural bowels, or spreading vulgar ointments for agricultural

A man of this sort was not fit for society for Dr Fillgrave of Barchester. That must be admitted. And yet he

had been found to be fit society for the old squire of Greshamsbury, whose shoeribbons Dr Fillgrave would

not have objected to tie; so high did the old squire stand in the county just previous to his death. But the spirit

of the Lady Arabella was known by the medical profession of Barsetshire, and when that good man died it

was felt that Thorne's short tenure of Greshamsbury favour was already over. The Barsetshire regulars were,

however, doomed to disappointment. Our doctor had already contrived to endear himself to the heir; and

though there was not even much personal love between him and the Lady Arabella, he kept his place at the

great house unmoved, not only in the nursery and in the bedrooms, but also at the squire's diningtable.

Now there was in this, it must be admitted, quite enough to make him unpopular with his brethren; and this

feeling was soon shown in a marked and dignified manner. Dr Fillgrave, who had certainly the most

respectable professional connexion in the county, who had a reputation to maintain, and who was accustomed

to meet, on almost equal terms, the great medical baronets from the metropolis at the houses of the

nobilityDr Fillgrave declined to meet Dr Thorne in consultation. He exceedingly regretted, he said, most

exceedingly, the necessity he felt of doing so: he had never before had to perform so painful a duty; but, as a

duty which he owed to his profession, he must perform it. With every feeling of respect of Lady ,a sick

guest at Greshamsbury,and for Mr Gresham, he must decline to attend in conjunction with Dr Thorne. If

his services could be made available under any other circumstances, he would go to Greshamsbury as fast as

Then, indeed, there was war in Barsetshire. If there was on Dr Thorne's cranium one bump more developed

than another, it was that of combativeness. Not that the doctor was a bully, or even pugnacious, in the usual

sense of the word; he had no disposition to provoke a fight, no propense love of quarrelling; but there was

that in him which would allow him to yield to no attack. Neither in argument nor in contest would he ever

allow himself to be wrong; never at least to anyone but himself; and on behalf of his special hobbies, he was

It will therefore be understood, that when such a gauntlet was thus thrown in his very teeth by Dr Fillgrave,

he was not slow to take it up. He addressed a letter to the Barsetshire Conservative Standard, in which he

attacked Dr Fillgrave with some considerable acerbity. Dr Fillgrave responded in four lines, saying that on

mature consideration he had made up his mind not to notice any remarks that might be made on him by Dr

Thorne in the public press. The Greshamsbury doctor then wrote another letter, more witty and much more

severe than the last; and as this was copied into the Bristol, Exeter, and Gloucester papers, Dr Fillgrave found

it very difficult to maintain the magnanimity of his reticence. It is sometimes becoming enough for a

Mediterranean to wrap himself in the dignified toga of silence, and proclaim himself indifferent to public

attacks; but it is a sort of dignity which it is very difficult to maintain. As well might a man, when stung to

madness by wasps, endeavour to sit in his chair without moving a muscle, as endure with patience and

without reply the courtesies of a newspaper opponent. Dr Thorne wrote a third letter which was too much for

medical flesh and blood to bear. Dr Fillgrave answered it, not, indeed, in his own name, but in that of a

brother doctor; and then the war raged merrily. It is hardly too much to say that Dr Fillgrave never knew

another happy hour. Had he dreamed of what materials was made that young compounder of doses at

Greshamsbury he would have met him in consultation, morning, noon, and night, without objection; but

having begun the war, he was constrained to go on with it: his brethren would allow him no alternative. Thus

he was continually being brought up to the fight, as a prizefighter may be seen to be, who is carried up

round after round, without any hope on his own part, and who, in each round, drops to the ground before the

But Dr Fillgrave, though thus weak himself, was backed in practice and in countenance by nearly all his

brethren in the county. The guinea fee, the principle of giving advice and of selling no medicine, the great

resolve to keep a distinct barrier between the physician and the apothecary, and, above all, the hatred of the

contamination of a bill, were strong in the medical mind of Barsetshire. Dr Thorne had the provincial medical

world against him, and so he appealed to the metropolis. The Lancet took the matter up in his favour, but the

Journal of Medical Science was against him; the Weekly Chirurgeon, noted for its medical democracy,

upheld him as a medical prophet, but the Scalping Knife, a monthly periodical got up in dead opposition to

the Lancet, showed him no mercy. So the war went on, and our doctor, to a certain extent, became a noted

He had, moreover, other difficulties to encounter in his professional career. It was something in his favour

that he understood his business; something that he was willing to labour at it with energy; and resolved to

labour at it conscientiously. He had also other gifts, such as conversational brilliancy, and aptitude for true

good fellowship, firmness in friendship, and general honesty of disposition, which stood him in stead as he

advanced in life. But, at his first starting, much that belonged to himself personally was against him. Let him

enter what house he would, he entered it with a conviction, often expressed to himself, that he was equal as a

man to the proprietor, equal as a human being to the proprietress. To age he would allow deference, and to

special recognized talentat least so he said; to rank also, he would pay that respect which was its clear and

recognized prerogative; he would let a lord walk out of a room before him if he did not happen to forget it; in

speaking to a duke he would address him as His Grace; and he would in no way assume a familiarity with

bigger men than himself, allowing to the bigger man the privilege of making the first advances. But beyond

this he would admit that no man should walk the earth with his head higher than his own.

He did not talk of these things much; he offended no rank by boasts of his own equality; he did not absolutely

tell the Earl de Courcy in words, that the privilege of dining at Courcy Castle was to him no greater than the

privilege of dining at Courcy Parsonage; but there was that in his manner that told it. The feeling in itself was

perhaps good, and was certainly much justified by the manner in which he bore himself to those below him in

rank; but there was folly in the resolution to run counter to the world's recognized rules on such matters; and

much absurdity in his mode of doing so, seeing that at heart he was a thorough Conservative. It is hardly too

much to say that he naturally hated a lord at first sight; but, nevertheless, he would have expended his means,

Such a disposition, until it was thoroughly understood, did not tend to ingratiate him with the wives of the

country gentlemen among whom he had to look for practice. And then, also, there was not much in his

individual manner to recommend him to the favour of ladies. He was brusque, authoritative, given to

contradiction, rough though never dirty in his personal belongings, and inclined to indulge in a sort of quiet

raillery, which sometimes was not thoroughly understood. People did not always know whether he was

laughing at them or with them; and some people were, perhaps, inclined to think that a doctor should not

When he was known, indeed, when the core of the fruit had been reached, when the huge proportion of that

loving trusting heart had been learned, and understood, and appreciated, when that honesty had been

recognized, that manly, almost womanly tenderness had been felt, then, indeed, the doctor was acknowledged

To trifling ailments he was too often brusque. Seeing that he accepted money for the cure of such, he should,

we may say, have cured them without an offensive manner. So far he is without defence. But to real suffering

no one found him brusque; no patient lying painfully on a bed of sickness ever thought him rough.

Another misfortune was, that he was a bachelor. Ladies think, and I, for one, think that ladies are quite right

in so thinking, that doctors should be married men. All the world feels that a man when married acquires

some of the attributes of the old womanhe becomes, to a certain extent, a motherly sort of being; he

acquires a conversance with women's ways and women's wants, and loses the wilder and offensive sparks of

his virility. It must be easier to talk to such a one about Matilda's stomach, and the growing pains in Fanny's

legs, than to a young bachelor. This impediment also stood much in Dr Thorne's way during his first years at

But his wants were not at first great; and though his ambition was perhaps high, it was not of an impatient

nature. The world was his oyster; but, circumstanced as he was, he knew that it was not for him to open it

with his lancet all at once. He had bread to earn, which he must earn wearily; he had a character to make,

which must come slowly; it satisfied his soul, that in addition to his immortal hopes, he had a possible future

in this world to which he could look forward with clear eyes, and advance with his heart that would know no

On his first arrival at Greshamsbury he had been put by the squire into a house, which he still occupied when

that squire's grandson came of age. There were two decent, commodious, private houses in the

villagealways excepting the rectory, which stood grandly in its own grounds, and, therefore, was

considered as ranking above the village residencesof these two Dr Thorne had the smaller. They stood

exactly at the angle before described, on the outer side of it, and at right angles to each other. They possessed

good stables and ample gardens; and it may be as well to specify, that Mr Umbleby, the agent and lawyer to

Here Dr Thorne lived for eleven or twelve years, all alone; and then for ten or eleven more with his niece,

Mary Thorne. Mary was thirteen when she came to take up permanent abode as mistress of the

establishmentor, at any rate, to act as the only mistress which the establishment possessed. This advent

greatly changed the tenor of the doctor's ways. He had been before pure bachelor; not a room in his house had

been comfortably furnished; he at first commenced in a makeshift sort of way, because he had not at his

command the means of commencing otherwise; and he had gone on in the same fashion, because the exact

time had never come at which it was imperative in him to set his house in order. He had had no fixed hour for

his meals, no fixed place for his books, no fixed wardrobe for his clothes. He had a few bottles of good wine

in his cellar, and occasionally asked a brother bachelor to take a chop with him; but beyond this he had

touched very little on the cares of housekeeping. A slopbowl full of strong tea, together with bread, and

butter, and eggs, was produced for him in the morning, and he expected that at whatever hour he might arrive

in the evening, some food should be presented to him wherewith to satisfy the cravings of nature; if, in

addition to this, he had another slopbowl of tea in the evening, he got all that he ever required, or all, at

But when Mary came, or rather, when she was about to come, things were altogether changed at the doctor's.

People had hitherto wonderedand especially Mrs Umblebyhow a gentleman like Dr Thorne could

continue to live in so slovenly a manner; and how people again wondered, and again especially Mrs

Umbleby, how the doctor could possibly think it necessary to put such a lot of furniture into a house because

Mrs Umbleby had great scope for her wonder. The doctor made a thorough revolution in his household, and

furnished his house from the ground to the roof completely. He paintedfor the first time since the

commencement of his tenancyhe papered, he carpeted, as though a Mrs Thorne with a good fortune were

coming home tomorrow; and all for a girl of twelve years old. 'And now,' said Mrs Umbleby, to her friend

Miss Gushing, 'how did he find out what to buy?' as though the doctor had been brought up like a wild beast,

ignorant of the nature of tables and chairs, and with no more developed ideas of drawingroom drapery than

To the utter amazement of Mrs Umbleby and Miss Gushing, the doctor did it very well. He said nothing

about it to any onehe never did say much about such thingsbut he furnished his house well and

discreetly; and when Mary Thorne came home from her school at Bath, to which she had been taken some six

years previously, she found herself called upon to be the presiding genius of a perfect paradise.

It has been said that the doctor had managed to endear himself to the new squire before the old squire's death,

and that, therefore, the change at Greshamsbury had had no professional ill effects upon him. Such was the

case at the time; but, nevertheless, all did not go smoothly in the Greshamsbury medical department. There

was six or seven years' difference in age between Mr Gresham and the doctor, and moreover, Mr Gresham

was young for his age, and the doctor old; but, nevertheless, there was a very close attachment between them

early in life. This was never thoroughly sundered, and, backed by this the doctor did maintain himself for

some years before the artillery of Lady Arabella's artillery. But drops falling, if they fall constantly, will bore

Dr Thorne's pretensions, mixed with his subversive professional democratic tendencies, his

sevenandsixpenny visits, added to his utter disregard of Lady Arabella's airs, were too much for her spirit.

He brought Frank through his first troubles, and that at first ingratiated her; he was equally successful with

the early dietary of Augusta and Beatrice; but, as his success was obtained in direct opposition to the Courcy

Castle nursery principles, this hardly did much in his favour. When the third daughter was born, he at once

declared that she was a very weakly flower, and sternly forbade the mother to go to London. The mother,

loving her babe, obeyed; but did not the less hate the doctor for the order, which she firmly believed was

given at the instance and express dictation of Mr Gresham. Then another little girl came into the world, and

the doctor was more imperative than ever as to the nursery rules and the excellence of country air. Quarrels

were thus engendered, and Lady Arabella was taught to believe that this doctor of her husband's was after all

no Solomon. In her husband's absence she sent for Dr Fillgrave, giving very express intimation that he would

not have to wound either his eyes or dignity by encountering his enemy; and she found Dr Fillgrave a great

Then Dr Thorne gave Mr Gresham to understand that, under such circumstances, he could not visit

professionally at Greshamsbury any longer. The poor squire saw there was no help for it, and though he

maintained his friendly connexion with his neighbour, the sevenandsixpenny visits were at an end. Dr

Fillgrave from Barchester, and the gentleman at Silverbridge, divided the responsibility between them, and

So things went on for years, and those years were years of sorrow. We must not ascribe to our doctor's

enemies the sufferings and sickness, and deaths that occurred. The four frail little ones that died would

probably have been taken had Lady Arabella been more tolerant of Dr Thorne. But the fact was, that they did

die; and that the mother's heart then got the better of the woman's pride, and Lady Arabella humbled herself

before Dr Thorne. She humbled herself, or would have done so, had the doctor permitted her. But he, with his

eyes full of tears, stopped the utterance of her apology, took her two hands in his, pressed them warmly, and

assured her that his joy in returning would be great, for the love that he bore to all that belonged to

Greshamsbury. And so the sevenandsixpenny visits were recommenced; and the great triumph of Dr

Great was the joy in the Greshamsbury nursery when the second change took place. Among the doctor's

attributes, not hitherto mentioned, was an aptitude for the society of children. He delighted to talk to children,

and to play with them. He would carry them on his back, three or four at a time, roll with them on the ground,

race with them in the garden, invent games for them, contrive amusements in circumstances which seemed

quite adverse to all manner of delight; and, above all, his physic was not nearly so nasty as that which came

He had a great theory as to the happiness of children; and though he was not disposed altogether to throw

over the precepts of Solomonalways bargaining that he should, under no circumstances, be himself the

executionerhe argued that the principal duty which a parent owed to a child was to make him happy. Not

only was the man to be made happythe future man, if that might be possiblebut the existing boy was to

be treated with equal favour; and his happiness, so said the doctor, was of much easier attainment.

'Why struggle after future advantage at the expense of the present pain, seeing that the results were so very

Many an opponent of the doctor had thought to catch him on the hip when so singular a doctrine was

broached; but they were not always successful. 'What!' said his sensible enemies, 'is Johnny not to be taught

to read because he does not like it?' 'Johnny must read by all means,' would the doctor answer; 'but is it

necessary that he should not like it? If the preceptor have it in him, may not Johnny learn not only to read, but

'And so must men also,' would say the doctor. 'I must not steal your peaches, nor make love to your wife, nor

libel your character. Much as I might wish through my natural depravity to indulge in such vices, I am

And so the argument went on, neither party convincing the other. But, in the meantime, the children of the

Dr Thorne and the squire were still fast friends, but circumstances had occurred, spreading themselves now

over a period of many years, which almost made the poor squire uneasy in the doctor's company. Mr

Gresham owed a large sum of money, and he had, moreover, already sold a portion of his property.

Unfortunately it had been the pride of the Greshams that their acres had descended from one another without

an entail, so that each possessor of Greshamsbury had had the full power to dispose of the property as he

pleased. Any doubt as to its going to the male heir had never hitherto been felt. It had occasionally been

encumbered by charges for younger children; but these charges had been liquidated, and the property had

come down without any burden to the present squire. Now a portion of this land had been sold, and it had

This made the squire an unhappy man. No man loved his family name and honour, his old family blazon and

standing more thoroughly than he did; he was every whit a Gresham at heart; but his spirit had been weaker

than that of his forefathers; and, in his days, for the first time, the Greshams were going to the wall! Ten years

before the beginning of our story it had been necessary to raise a large sum of money to meet and pay off

pressing liabilities, and it was found that this could be done with more material advantage by selling a portion

of the property than in any other way. A portion of it, about a third of the whole in value, was accordingly

Boxall Hill lay half between Greshamsbury and Barchester, and was known as having the best partridge

shooting in the county; as having on it also a celebrated fox cover, Boxall Gorse, held in very high repute by

Barsetshire sportsmen. There was no residence on the immediate estate, and it was altogether divided from

the remained of the Greshamsbury property. This, with many inward and outward groans, Mr Gresham

It was sold, and sold well, by private contract to a native of Barchester, who, having risen from the world's

ranks, had made for himself great wealth. Somewhat of this man's character must hereafter be told; it will

suffice to say that he relied for advice in money matters upon Dr Thorne, and that at Dr Thorne's suggestion

he had purchased Boxall Hill, partridgeshooting and gorse cover all included. He had not only bought

Boxall Hill, but had subsequently lent the squire large sums of money on mortgage, in all which transactions

the doctor had taken part. It had therefore come to pass that Mr Gresham was not infrequently called upon to

discuss his money affairs with Dr Thorne, and occasionally to submit to lectures and advice which might

So much for Dr Thorne. A few words must still be said about Miss Mary Thorne before we rush into our

story; the crust will then have been broken, and the pie will be open to the guests. Little Miss Mary was kept

at a farmhouse till she was six; she was then sent to school at Bath, and transplanted to the doctor's newly

furnished house, a little more than six years after that. It must not be supposed that he had lost sight of his

charge during her earlier years. He was much too well aware of the nature of the promise which he had made

to the departing mother to do that. He had constantly visited his little niece, and long before the first twelve

years of her life were over had lost consciousness of his promise, and of his duty to the mother, in the

stronger ties of downright personal love for the only creature that belonged to him.

When Mary came home the doctor was like a child in his glee. He prepared surprises for her with as much

forethought and trouble as though he were contriving mines to blow up an enemy. He took her first into the

shop, and then into the kitchen, thence to the diningrooms, after that to his and her bedrooms, and so on till

he came to the full glory of the new drawingroom, enhancing the pleasure by little jokes, and telling her that

he should never dare to come into the last paradise without her permission, and not then till he had taken off

his boots. Child as she was, she understood the joke, and carried it on like a little queen; and so they soon

But though Mary was queen, it was still necessary that she should be educated. Those were the earlier days in

which Lady Arabella had humbled herself, and to show her humility she invited Mary to share the

musiclessons of Augusta and Beatrice at the great house. A musicmaster from Barchester came over three

times a week, and remained for three hours, and if the doctor chose to send his girl over, she could pick up

what was going on without doing any harm. So said the Lady Arabella. The doctor with many thanks and

with no hesitation, accepted the offer, merely adding, that he had perhaps better settle separately with Signor

Cantabili, the musicmaster. He was very much obliged to Lady Arabella for giving his little girl permission

It need hardly be said that the Lady Arabella was on fire at once. Settle with Signor Cantabili! No, indeed;

she would do that; there must be no expense whatever incurred in such an arrangement on Miss Thorne's

account! But here, as in most things, the doctor carried his point. It being the time of the lady's humility, she

could not make as good a fight as she would otherwise have done; and thus she found, to her great disgust,

that Mary Thorne was learning music in her schoolroom on equal terms, as regarded payment, with her own

daughters. The arrangement having been made could not be broken, especially as the young lady in nowise

made herself disagreeable; and more especially as the Miss Greshams themselves were very fond of her.

And so Mary Thorne learnt music at Greshamsbury, and with her music she learnt other things also; how to

behave herself among girls of her own age; how to speak and talk as other young ladies do; how to dress

herself, and how to move and walk. All which, she being quick to learn without trouble at the great house.

Something also she learnt of French, seeing that the Greshamsbury French governess was always in the room.

And then some few years later, there came a rector, and a rector's sister; and with the latter Mary studied

German and French also. From the doctor himself she learnt much; the choice, namely, of English books for

her own reading, and habits of thought somewhat akin to his own, though modified by the feminine softness

And so Mary Thorne grew up and was educated. Of her personal appearance it certainly is my business as an

author to say something. She is my heroine, and, as such, must necessarily be very beautiful; but, in truth, her

mind and inner qualities are more clearly distinct to my brain than her outward form and features. I know that

she was far from being tall, and far from being showy; that her feet and hands were small and delicate; that

her eyes were bright when looked at, but not brilliant so as to make their brilliancy palpably visible to all

around her; her hair was dark brown, and worn very plainly brushed from her forehead; her lips were thin,

and her mouth, perhaps, in general inexpressive, but when she was eager in conversation it would show itself

to be animated with curves of wondrous energy; and, quiet as she was in manner, sober and demure as was

her usual settled appearance, she could talk, when the fit came on her, with an energy which in truth surprised

those who did not know her; aye, and sometimes those who did. Energy! nay, it was occasionally a

concentration of passion, which left her for the moment perfectly unconscious of all other cares but solicitude

All her friends, including the doctor, had at times been made unhappy by this vehemence of character; but yet

it was to that very vehemence that she owed it that all her friends loved her. It had once nearly banished her

in early years from the Greshamsbury schoolroom; and yet it ended in making her claim to remain there so

strong, that Lady Arabella could no longer oppose it, even when she had the wish to do so.

A new French governess had lately come to Greshamsbury, and was, or was to be, a great pet with Lady

Arabella, having all the great gifts with which a governess can be endowed, and being also a protege from the

castle. The castle, in Greshamsbury parlance, always meant that of Courcy. Soon after this a valued little

locket belonging to Augusta Gresham was missing. The French governess had objected to its being worn in

the schoolroom, and it had been sent up to the bedroom by a young servantgirl, the daughter of a small

farmer on the estate. The locket was missing, and after a while, a considerable noise in the matter having

been made, was found, by the diligence of the governess, somewhere among the belongings of the English

servant. Great was the anger of Lady Arabella, loud were the protestations of the girl, mute the woe of her

father, piteous the tears of her mother, inexorable the judgment of the Greshamsbury world. But something

occurred, it matters now not what, to separate Mary Thorne in opinion from that world at large. Out she then

spoke, and to her face accused the governess of the robbery. For two days Mary was in disgrace almost as

deep as that of the farmer's daughter. But she was neither quiet or dumb in her disgrace. When Lady Arabella

would not hear her, she went to Mr Gresham. She forced her uncle to move in the matter. She gained over to

her side, one by one, the potentates of the parish, and ended by bringing Mam'selle Larron down on her knees

with a confession of the facts. From that time Mary Thorne was dear to the tenantry of Greshamsbury; and

specially dear to one small household, where a roughspoken father of a family was often heard to declare,

And so Mary Thorne grew up under the doctor's eye, and at the beginning of our tale she was one of the

guests assembled at Greshamsbury on the coming of age of the heir, she herself having then arrived at the

It was the first of July, young Frank Gresham's birthday, and the London season was not yet over;

nevertheless, Lady de Courcy had managed to get down into the country to grace the coming of age of the

heir, bringing with her all the Ladies Amelia, Rosina, Margaretta, and Alexandrina, together with such of the

The Lady Arabella had contrived this year to spend ten weeks in town, which, by a little stretching, she made

to pass for the season; and had managed, moreover, at last to refurnish, not ingloriously, the Portman Square

drawingroom. She had gone up to London under the pretext, imperatively urged, of Augusta's teethyoung

ladies' teeth are not infrequently of value in this way;and having received authority for a new carpet, which

was really much wanted, had made such dexterous use of that sanction as to run up an upholsterer's bill of six

or seven hundred pounds. She had of course had her carriage and horses; the girls of course had gone out; it

had been positively necessary to have a few friends in Portman Square; and, altogether, the ten weeks had not

For a few confidential minutes before dinner, Lady de Courcy and her sisterinlaw sate together in the

latter's dressingroom, discussing the unreasonableness of the squire, who had expressed himself with more

than ordinary bitterness as to the follyhe had probably used some stronger wordof these London

'Heavens!,' said the countess, with much eager animation; 'what can the man expect? What does he wish you

'He would like to sell the house in London, and bury us all here for ever. Mind, I was there only for ten

'Barely time for the girls to get their teeth properly looked at! But Arabella, what does he say?' Lady de

Courcy was very anxious to learn the exact truth of the matter, and ascertain, if she could, whether Mr

'Why, he said yesterday that he would have no more going to town at all; that he was barely able to pay the

'But, surely, Arabella, it is not so bad as that? What possible reason can there be for him to be in debt?'

'But, my dear, Boxall Hill paid all that off. Of course Frank will not have such an income as there was when

you married into the family; we all know that. And whom will he have to thank but his father? But Boxall

'Well, I for one never approved of the hounds coming to Greshamsbury. When a man has once involved his

property he should not incur any expenses that are not absolutely necessary. That is a golden rule which Mr

Gresham ought to have remembered. Indeed, I put it to him nearly in those very words; but Mr Gresham

never did, and never will receive with common civility anything that comes from me.'

'I know, Rosina, he never did; and yet where would he have been but for the De Courcys?' So exclaimed, in

her gratitude, the Lady Arabella; to speak the truth, however, but for the De Courcys, Mr Gresham might

'As I was saying,' continued the countess, 'I never approved of the hounds coming to Greshamsbury; but yet,

my dear, the hounds can't have eaten up everything. A man with ten thousand a year ought to be able to keep

'That's nonsense, my dear. Now, Arabella, what does he do with his money? That's the question. Does he

'Well,' said Lady Arabella, very slowly, 'I don't think he does.' If the squire did gamble he must have done it

very slyly, for he rarely went away from Greshamsbury, and certainly very few men looking like gamblers

were in the habit of coming thither as guests. 'I don't think he does gamble.' Lady Arabella put her emphasis

on the word gamble, as though her husband, if he might perhaps be charitably acquitted of that vice, was

'I know he used,' said Lady de Courcy, looking very wise, and rather suspicious. She certainly had sufficient

domestic reasons for disliking the propensity; 'I know he used; and when a man begins, he is hardly ever

'The money, my dear, must go somewhere. What excuse does he give when you tell him you want this and

'Nonsense! Girls cost nothing; there's only Frank, and he can't have cost anything yet. Can he be saving

'Oh no!' said the Lady Arabella, quickly. 'He is not saving anything; he never did, and never will save, though

'Then where has it gone?' said the Countess de Courcy, with a look of stern decision.

'Heaven only knows! Now, Augusta is to be married. I must of course have a few hundred pounds. You

should have heard how he groaned when I asked him for it. Heaven only knows where the money goes!' And

the injured wife wiped a piteous tear from her eye with her fine dress cambric handkerchief. 'I have all the

sufferings and privations of a poor man's wife, but I have none of the consolations. He has no confidence in

me; he never tells me anything; he never talks to me about his affairs. If he talks to any one it is to that horrid

'What, Dr Thorne?' Now the Countess de Courcy hated Dr Thorne with a holy hatred.

'Yes; Dr Thorne. I believe that he knows everything; and advises everything, too. Whatever difficulties poor

Gresham may have, I do believe Dr Thorne has brought them about. I do believe it, Rosina.'

'Well, that is surprising. Mr Gresham with all his faults is a gentleman; and how he can talk about his affairs

with a low apothecary like that I, for one, cannot imagine. Lord de Courcy has not always been to me all that

he should have been; far from it.' And Lady de Courcy thought over in her mind injuries of a much graver

description than any that her sisterinlaw had ever suffered; 'but I have never known anything like that at

The countess shook her head slowly; the idea of Mr Gresham, a country gentleman of good estate like him,

making a confidant of a country doctor was too great a shock for her nerves; and for a while she was

'One thing at any rate is certain, Arabella,' said the countess, as soon as she found herself again sufficiently

composed to offer counsel in a properly dictatorial manner. 'One thing at any rate is certain; if Mr Gresham

be involved so deeply as you say, Frank has but only one duty before him. He must marry money. The heir of

fourteen thousand a year may indulge himself in looking for blood, as Mr Gresham did, my dear'it must be

understood that there was very little compliment in this, as the Lady Arabella had always conceived herself to

be a beauty'or for beauty, as some men do,' continued the countess, thinking of the choice that the present

Earl de Courcy had made; 'but Frank must marry money. I hope he will understand this early; do make him

understand this before he makes a fool of himself: when a man thoroughly understands this, when he knows

what his circumstances require, why, the matter becomes easy to him. I hope that Frank understands that he

'Well, my boy, I wish you joy with all my heart,' said the Honourable John, slapping his cousin on the back,

as he walked round to the stableyard with him before dinner, to inspect a setter puppy of peculiarly fine

breed which had been sent to Frank as a birthday present. 'I wish I were an elder son; but we can't all have

'Who wouldn't sooner be the younger son of an earl than the eldest son of a plain squire?' said Frank, wishing

'I wouldn't for one,' said the Honourable John. 'What chance have I? There's Porlock as strong as a horse; and

then George comes next. And the governor's good for these twenty years.' And the young man sighed as he

reflected what small hope there was that all those who were nearest and dearest to him should die out of his

way, and leave him to the sweet enjoyment of an earl's coronet and fortune. 'Now, you're sure of your game

some day; and as you've no brothers, I suppose the squire'll let you do pretty well what you like. Besides, he's

Frank had never looked at his fortune in this light before, and was so slow and green that he was not much

delighted at the prospect now that it was offered to him. He had always, however, been taught to look to his

cousins, the De Courcys, as men with whom it would be very expedient that he should be intimate; he

'Shall you hunt with the Barsetshire this season, John? I hope you will; I shall.'

'Well, I don't know. It's very slow. It's all tillage here, or else woodland. I rather fancy I shall go to

Leicestershire when the partridgeshooting is over. What sort of a lot do you mean to come out with, Frank?'

Frank became a little red as he answered, 'Oh, I shall have two,' he said; 'that is, the mare I have had these

'Well, Frank, I certainly would not stand that,' said the Honourable John. 'What, go out before the county with

'I'll have him trained before November,' said Frank, 'that nothing in Barsetshire will stop him. Peter

says'Peter was the Greshamsbury studgroom'that he tucks up his legs beautifully.'

'But who the deuce would think of going to work with one horse; or two either, if you insist on calling the old

pony a huntress? I'll put you up to a trick, my lad: if you stand that you'll stand anything; and if you don't

mean to go in leadingstrings all your life, now is the time to show it. There's young BakerHarry Baker,

you knowhe came of age last year, and he has as pretty a string of nags as any one would wish to set eyes

on; four hunters and a hack. Now, if old Baker has four thousand a year it's every shilling he has got.'

This was true, and Frank Gresham, who in the morning had been made so happy by his father's present of a

horse, began to feel that hardly enough had been done for him. It was true that Mr Baker had only four

thousand a year; but it was also true that he had no other child than Harry Baker; that he had no great

establishment to keep up; that he owed a shilling to no one; and, also, that he was a great fool in encouraging

a mere boy to ape all the caprices of a man of wealth. Nevertheless, for a moment, Frank Gresham did feel

'Take the matter in your own hands, Frank,' said the Honourable John, seeing the impression that he had

made. 'Of course the governor knows very well that you won't put up with such a stable as that. Lord bless

you! I have heard that when he married my aunt, and that was when he was about your age, he had the best

stud in the whole county; and then he was in Parliament before he was threeandtwenty.'

Young Frank's face grew dark now instead of red. When his cousin submitted to him the necessity of having

more than two horses for his own use he could listen to him; but when the same monitor talked of the chance

of a father's death as a stroke of luck, Frank was too much disgusted to be able pass it over with indifference.

What! was he thus to think of his father, whose face was always lighted up with pleasure when his boy came

near to him, and so rarely bright at any other time? Frank had watched his father closely enough to be aware

of this; he knew how his father delighted in him; he had had cause to guess that his father had many troubles,

and that he strove hard to banish the memory of them when his son was with him. He loved his father truly,

purely, and thoroughly, liked to be with him, and would be proud to be his confidant. Could he listen quietly

'I shouldn't think it a stroke of luck, John. I should think it the greatest misfortune in the world.'

It is so difficult for a young man to enumerate sententiously a principle of morality, or even an expression of

ordinary good feeling, without giving himself something of a ridiculous air, without assuming something of a

'Oh, of course, my dear fellow,' said the Honourable John, laughing; 'that's a matter of course. We all

understand that without saying it. Porlock, of course, would feel exactly the same about the governor; but if

the governor were to walk, I think Porlock would console himself with the thirty thousand a year.'

'I don't know what Porlock would do; he's always quarrelling with my uncle, I know. I only spoke of myself;

'All right, my lad of wax, all right. I dare say you won't be tried; but it you are, you'll find before six months

'Very well, so be it. You wouldn't do as young Hatherly did, at Hatherly Court, in Gloucestershire, when his

'He's Sir Frederick now, and has, or had, one of the finest fortunes in England, for a commoner; the most of it

is gone now. Well, when he heard of his governor's death, he was in Paris, but he went off to Hatherly as fast

as special train and posthorses would carry him, and got there just in time for the funeral. As he came back

to Hatherly Court from the church, they were putting up the hatchment over the door, and Master Fred saw

that the undertakers had put at the bottom "Resurgam". You know what that means?'

'"I'll come back again."' said the Honourable John, construing the Latin for the benefit of his cousin. '"NO,"

said Fred Hatherly, looking up at the hatchment; "I'm blessed if you do, old gentleman. That would be too

much of a joke; I'll take care of that." So he got up at night, and he got some fellows with him, and they

climbed up and painted out "Resurgam", and they painted into its place, "Requiescat in pace"; which means,

you know, "you'd a great deal better stay where you are". Now I call that good. Fred Hatherly did that as sure

Frank could not help laughing at the story, especially at his cousin's mode of translating the undertaker's

mottoes; and then they sauntered back from the stables into the house to dress for dinner.

Dr Thorne had come to the house somewhat before dinnertime, at Mr Gresham's request, and was now

sitting with the squire in his own bookroomso calledwhile Mary was talking to some of the girls

'I must have ten or twelve thousand pounds; ten at the very least,' said the squire, who was sitting in his usual

armchair, close to his littered table, with his head supported on his hand, looking very unlike the father of an

It was the first of July, and of course there was no fire in the grate; but, nevertheless, the doctor was standing

with his back to the fireplace, with his coattails over his arms, as though he were engaged, now in summer

as he so often was in winter, in talking, and roasting his hinder person at the same time.

'Ten thousand pounds is a very large sum of money. There is no doubt he'll let you have it. Scatcherd will let

'What! for ten thousand pounds?' said the squire. 'There is not a registered debt against the property but his

'Well, what of that? To hear you talk, one would think that there was nothing left of Greshamsbury. What's

'What he means is, that he must have ample security to cover what he has already advanced before he goes

on. I wish to goodness you had no further need to borrow. I did think that things were settled last year.'

'I'd sooner pay double that be talked to in this way,' said the squire, angrily, and, as he spoke, he got up

hurriedly from his chair, thrust his hands into his trouserspockets, walked quickly to the window, and

'There are some things a man cannot bear, doctor,' said he, beating the devil's tattoo on the floor with one of

his feet, 'though God knows I ought to be patient now, for I am made to bear a good many things. You had

better tell Scatcherd that I am obliged to him for his offer, but that I will not trouble him.'

The doctor during this little outburst had stood quite silent with his back to the fireplace and his coattails

hanging over his arms; but though his voice said nothing, his face said much. He was very unhappy; he was

greatly grieved to find that the squire was so soon again in want of money, and greatly grieved also to find

that this want had made him so bitter and unjust. Mr Gresham had attacked him; but as he was determined

The squire also remained silent for a few minutes; but he was not endowed with the gift of silence, and was

'Poor Frank!' said he. 'I could yet be easy about everything if it were not for the injury I have done him. Poor

The doctor advanced a few paces from off the rug, and taking his hand out of his pocket, he laid it gently on

the squire's shoulder. 'Frank will do very well yet,' said the he. 'It is not absolutely necessary that a man

'My father left me the property entire, and I should leave it entire to my son;but you don't understand this.'

The doctor did understand the feeling fully. The fact, on the other hand, was that, long as he had known him,

'I would you could, Mr Gresham,' said the doctor, 'so that your mind might be happier; but that cannot be,

and, therefore, I say again, that Frank will do very well yet, although he will not inherit fourteen thousand

'Ah! you don't understand it,' persisted the squire. 'You don't know how a man feels when heAh, well! it's

no use my troubling you with what cannot be mended. I wonder whether Umbleby is about the place

The doctor was again standing with his back against the chimneypiece, and with his hands in his pockets.

'No, I did not; and if you will take my advice you will not see him now; at any rate with reference to this

'I tell you I must get it from someone; you say Scatcherd won't let me have it.'

'Well, you said what was as bad. Augusta is to be married in September, and the money must be had. I have

agreed to give Moffat six thousand pounds, and he is to have the money down in hard cash.'

'Six thousand pounds,' said the doctor. 'Well, I suppose that is not more than your daughter should have. But

then, five times six are thirty; thirty thousand pounds will be a large sum to make up.'

The father thought to himself that his younger girls were but children, and that the trouble of arranging their

marriage portions might well be postponed a while. Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.

'That Moffat is a gripping, hungry fellow,'said the squire. 'I suppose Augusta likes him; and, as regards

'If Miss Gresham loves him, that is everything. I am not in love with him myself; but then, I am not a young

'The De Courcys are very fond of him. Lady de Courcy says that he is a perfect gentleman, and thought very

'Oh! if Lady de Courcy says that, of course, it's all right,' said the doctor, with a quiet sarcasm, that was

The squire did not like any of the De Courcys; especially, he did not like Lady de Courcy; but still he was

accessible to a certain amount of gratification in the near connexion which he had with the earl and countess;

and when he wanted to support his family greatness, would sometimes weakly fall back upon the grandeur of

Courcy Castle. It was only when talking to his wife that he invariably snubbed the pretensions of his noble

The two men after this remained silent for a while; and then the doctor, renewing the subject for which he had

been summoned into the bookroom, remarked that as Scatcherd was now in the countryhe did not say,

was now at Boxall Hill, as he did not wish to wound the squire's earsperhaps he had better go and see him,

and ascertain in what way this affair of the money might be arranged. There was no doubt, he said, that

Scatcherd would supply the sum required at a lower rate of interest than that which it could be procured

'Very well,' said the squire. 'I'll leave it in your hands, then. I think ten thousand pounds will do. And now I'll

Perhaps the reader will suppose after this that the doctor had some pecuniary interest of his own in arranging

the squire's loans; or, at any rate, he will think that the squire must have so thought. Not in the least; neither

had he any such interest, nor did the squire think that he had any. What Dr Thorne did in this matter the

squire well knew was done for love. But the squire of Greshamsbury was a great man at Greshamsbury; and

it behoved him to maintain the greatness of his squirehood when discussing his affairs with the village doctor.

And the doctorproud, arrogant, contradictory, headstrong as he waswhy did he bear to be thus snubbed?

Because he knew that the squire of Greshamsbury, when struggling with debt and poverty, required an

indulgence for his weakness. Had Mr Gresham been in easy circumstances, the doctor would by no means

have stood so placidly with his hands in his pockets, and have had Mr Umbleby thus thrown in his teeth. The

doctor loved the squire, loved him as his own oldest friend; but he loved him ten times better as being in

adversity than he could ever done had things gone well at Greshamsbury in his time.

While this was going on downstairs, Mary was sitting upstairs with Beatrice Gresham in the schoolroom. The

old schoolroom, so called, was now a sittingroom, devoted to the use of the grownup ladies of the family,

whereas one of the old nurseries was now the modern schoolroom. Mary well knew her way to the sanctum,

and, without asking any questions, walked up to it when her uncle went to the squire. On entering the room

she found that Augusta and the Lady Alexandrina were also there, and she hesitated for a moment at the door.

'Come in, Mary,' said Beatrice, 'you know my cousin Alexandrina.' Mary came in, and having shaken hands

with her two friends, was bowing to the lady, when the lady condescended, put out her noble hand, and

Beatrice was Mary's friend, and many heartburnings and much mental solicitude did that young lady give to

her mother by indulging in such a friendship. But Beatrice, with some faults, was true at heart, and she

persisted in loving Mary Thorne in spite of the hints which her mother so frequently gave as to the

Nor had Augusta any objection to the society of Miss Thorne. Augusta was a strongminded girl, with much

of the De Courcy arrogance, but quite as well inclined to show it in opposition to her mother as in any other

form. To her alone in the house did Lady Arabella show much deference. She was now going to make a

suitable match with a man of large fortune, who had been procured for her as an eligible parti by her aunt, the

countess. She did not pretend, had never pretended, that she loved Mr Moffat, but she knew, she said, that in

the present state of her father's affairs such a match was expedient. Mr Moffat was a young man of very large

fortune, in Parliament, and inclined to business, and in every way recommendable. He was not a man of birth,

to be sure; that was to be lamented;in confessing that Mr Moffat was not a man of birth, Augusta did not

go so far as to admit that he was the son of a tailor; such, however, was the rigid truth in this matterhe was

not a man of birth, that was to be lamented; but in the present state of affairs at Greshamsbury, she

understood well that it was her duty to postpone her own feelings in some respect. Mr Moffat would bring

fortune; she would bring blood and connexion. And as she so said, her bosom glowed with strong pride to

think that she would be able to contribute so much more towards the proposed future partnership than her

'Twas thus that Miss Gresham spoke of her match to her dear friends, her cousins the De Courcys for

instance, to Miss Oriel, her sister Beatrice, and even to Mary Thorne. She had no enthusiasm, she admitted,

but she thought she had good judgment. She thought she had shown good judgment in accepting Mr Moffat's

offer, though she did not pretend to any romance of affection. And, having so said, she went to work with

considerable mental satisfaction, choosing furniture, carriages, and clothes, not extravagantly as her mother

would have done, not in deference to sterner dictates of the latest fashion as her aunt would have done, with

none of the girlish glee in new purchases which Beatrice would have felt, but with sound judgment. She

bought things that were rich, for her husband was to be rich, and she meant to avail herself of his wealth; she

bought things that were fashionable, for she meant to live in the fashionable world; but she bought what was

Augusta Gresham had perceived early in life that she could not obtain success either as an heiress, or as a

beauty, nor could she shine as a wit; she therefore fell back on such qualities as she had, and determined to

win the world as a strongminded, useful woman. That which she had of her own was blood; having that, she

would in all ways do what in her lay to enhance its value. Had she not possessed it, it would to her mind have

When Mary came in, the wedding preparations were being discussed. The number and names of the

bridesmaids were being settled, the dresses were on the tapis, the invitations to be given were talked over.

Sensible as Augusta was, she was not above such feminine cares; she was, indeed, rather anxious that the

wedding should go off well. She was a little ashamed of her tailor's son, and therefore anxious that things

The bridesmaid's names had just been written on a card as Mary entered the room. There were the Ladies

Amelia, Rosina, Margaretta, and Alexandrina of course at the head of it; then came Beatrice and the twins;

then Miss Oriel, who, though only a parson's sister, was a person of note, birth and fortune. After this there

had been here a great discussion whether or not there should be any more. If there were to be one more there

must be two. Now Miss Moffat had expressed a direct wish, and Augusta, though she would much rather

have done without her, hardly knew how to refuse. Alexandrinawe hope we may be allowed to drop the

'lady' for the sake of brevity, for the present scene onlywas dead against such an unreasonable request. 'We

none of us know her, you know; and it would not be comfortable.' Beatrice strongly advocated the future

sisterinlaw's acceptance into the bevy; she had her own reasons; she was pained that Mary Thorne should

not be among the number, and if Miss Moffat were accepted, perhaps Mary might be brought in as her

'If you have Miss Moffat,' said Alexandrina, 'you must have dear Pussy too; and I really think that Pussy is

too young; it will be troublesome.' Pussy was the youngest Miss Gresham, who was now only eight years old,

'Augusta,' said Beatrice, speaking with some slight hesitation, some soupcon of doubt before the highest

authority of her noble cousin, 'if you do have Miss Moffat would you mind asking Mary Thorne to join her? I

think Mary would like it, because, you see, Patience Oriel is to be one; and we have known Mary much

'Beatrice, dear, if you think of what you are asking, I am sure you will see that it would not do; would not do

at all. Miss Thorne is a very nice girl, I am sure; and, indeed, what little I have seen of her I highly approve.

But, after all, who is she? Mamma, I know, thinks that Aunt Arabella has been wrong to let be here so much,

Beatrice became rather red in the face, and, in spite of the dignity of her cousin, was preparing to defend her

'If I am married before her, she shall be one of my bridesmaids,' said Beatrice.

'That will probably depend on circumstances,' said the Lady Alexandrina; I find that I cannot bring my

courteous pen to drop the title. 'But Augusta is very peculiarly situated. Mr Moffat, is, you see, not of the

very highest birth; and, therefore, she should take care that on her side every one about her is well born.'

'But the Thornes are as good a family as the Greshams,' said Beatrice. She had not quite the courage to say, as

'I dare say they are; and if this was Miss Thorne of Ullathorne, Augusta probably would not object to her. But

'You mean that she is called so; but do you know who her father was, or who her mother was? I, for one,

It may easily be conceived, that while Mary was making her salutations the three other young ladies were a

little cast aback. The Lady Alexandrina, however, quickly recovered herself, and, by her inimitable presence

'We were discussing Miss Gresham's marriage,' said she; 'I am sure I may mention to an acquaintance of so

long standing as Miss Thorne, that the first of September has been now fixed for the wedding.'

Miss Gresham! Acquaintance of so long standing! Why, Mary and Augusta Gresham had for years, we will

hardly say for how many, passed their mornings together in the same schoolroom; had quarrelled, and

squabbled, and caressed and kissed, and been all but sisters to each other. Acquaintance indeed! Beatrice felt

that her ears were tingling, and even Augusta was a little ashamed. Mary, however, knew that the cold words

had come from a De Courcy, and not from a Gresham, and did not, therefore, resent them.

'So it's settled, Augusta, is it?' said she; 'the first of September. I wish you joy with all my heart,' and, coming

round, she put her arm over Augusta's shoulder and kissed her. The Lady Alexandrina could not but think that

the doctor's niece uttered her congratulations very much as though she were speaking to an equal; very much

'You will have delicious weather,' continued Mary. 'September, and the beginning of October, is the nicest

time of the year. If I were going honeymooning it is just the time of year I would choose.'

'So do not I, dear, till I have found some decent sort of a body to honeymoon along with me. I won't stir out

of Greshamsbury till I have sent you off before me, at any rate. And where will you go, Augusta?'

The Lady Alexandrina was not pleased to find how completely the doctor's niece took upon herself to talk,

and sit, and act at Greshamsbury as though she was on a par with the young ladies of the family. That

Beatrice should have allowed this would not have surprised her; but it was to be expected that Augusta would

'These things require some tact in their management; some delicacy when high interests are at stake,' said she;

'I agree with Miss Thorne in thinking that, in ordinary circumstances, with ordinary people, perhaps, the lady

should have her way. Rank, however, has its drawbacks, Miss Thorne, as well as its privileges.'

'I should not object to the drawbacks,' said the doctor's niece, 'presuming them to be of some use; but I fear I

The Lady Alexandrina looked at her as though not fully aware whether she intended to be pert. In truth, the

Lady Alexandrina was rather in the dark on the subject. It was almost impossible, it was incredible, that a

fatherless, motherless, doctor's niece should be pert to an earl's daughter at Greshamsbury, seeing that that

earl's daughter was the cousin of the miss Greshams. And yet the Lady Alexandrina hardly knew what other

It was at any rate clear to her that it was not becoming that she should just then stay any longer in that room.

Whether she intended to be pert or not, Miss Mary Thorne was, to say the least, very free. The De Courcy

ladies knew what was due to themno ladies better; and, therefore, the Lady Alexandrina made up her mind

'Augusta,' she said, rising slowly from her chair with much stately composure, 'it is nearly time to dress; will

So she swam out of the room, and Augusta, telling Mary that she would see her again at dinner, swamno,

tried to swimafter her. Miss Gresham had had great advantages; but she had not been absolutely brought

up at Courcy Castle, and could not as yet quite assume the Courcy style of swimming.

'There,' said Mary, as the door closed behind the rustling muslins of the ladies. 'There, I have made an enemy

'And why have you done it, Mary? When I am fighting your battles behind your back, why do you come and

upset it all by making the whole family of the De Courcys dislike you? In such a matter as that, they'll all go

'I am sure they will,' said Mary; 'whether they would be equally unanimous in a case of love and charity, that,

'But why should you try to make my cousin angry; you that ought to have so much sense? Don't you

remember that you were saying yourself the other day, of the absurdity of combatting pretences which the

'I do, Trichy, I do; don't scold me now. It is so much easier to preach than to practise. I do so wish I was a

'Have I?' said Mary, kneeling down on the ground at her friend's feet. 'If I humble myself very low; if I kneel

through the whole evening in a corner; if I put my neck down and let all your cousins trample on it, and then

your aunt, would not that make atonement? I would not object to wearing sackcloth, either; and I'd eat a little

'I am a fool, Trichy, I do confess it; and am not a bit clever; but don't scold me; you see how humble I am; not

only humble but umble, which I look upon to be the comparative, or, indeed, superlative degree. Or perhaps

there are four degrees; humble, umble, stumble, tumble; and then, when one is absolutely in the dirt at their

'And, oh, Trichy! you don't mean to say I mayn't speak out before you. There, perhaps you'd like to put your

foot on my neck.' And then she put her head down to the footstool and kissed Beatrice's feet.

'I'd like, if I dared, to put my hand on your cheek and give you a good slap for being such a goose.'

'Do; do, Trichy: you shall tread on me, or slap me, or kiss me; whichever you like.'

'I can't tell you how vexed I am,' said Beatrice; 'I wanted to arrange something.'

'Arrange something! What? arrange what? I love arranging. I fancy myself qualified to be an

arrangergeneral in female matters. I mean pots and pans, and such like. Of course I don't allude to

extraordinary people and extraordinary circumstances that require tact, and delicacy, and drawbacks, and that

'But it's not very well; it's very bad if you look like that. Well, my pet, there I won't. I won't allude to the

noble blood of your noble relatives either in joke or in earnest. What is it you want to arrange, Trichy?'

'Good heavens, Beatrice! Are you mad? What! Put me, even for a morning, into the same category of finery

'But that is no reason why Impatience should be another, and I should be very impatient under such honours.

No, Trichy; joking apart, do not think of it. Even if Augusta wished it I would refuse. I should be obliged to

refuse. I, too, suffer from pride; a pride quite as unpardonable as that of others: I could not stand with your

four ladycousins behind your sister at the altar. In such a galaxy they would be the stars and I'

'I am all the world's very humble servant. But, Trichy, I should not object if I were as ugly as the veiled

prophet and they all as beautiful as Zuleika. The glory of that galaxy will be held to depend not on its beauty;

but on its birth. You know how they would look at me; now they would scorn me; and there, in church, at the

altar, with all that is solemn round us, I could not return their scorn as I might do elsewhere. In a room I'm not

a bit afraid of them at all.' And Mary was again allowing herself to be absorbed by that feeling of indomitable

pride, of antagonism to the pride of others, which she herself in her cooler moments was the first to blame.

'You often say, Mary, that that sort of arrogance should be despised and passed over without notice.'

'So it should, Trichy. I tell you that as a clergyman tells you to hate riches. But though the clergyman tells

'And I particularly wish to decline the honour; which honour has not been, and will not be, offered to me. No,

'But, Trichy, when some one else is married, when the new wing has been built to a house that you know

'I do so like to see you angry. And when that time comes, when that wedding does take place, then I will be a

bridesmaid, Trichy. Yes! even though I am not invited. Yes! though all the De Courcys in Barsetshire should

tread upon me and obliterate me. Though I should be dust among the stars, though I should creep up in calico

among their satins and lace, I will nevertheless be there; close, close to the bride; to hold something for her,

to touch her dress, to feel that I am near to her, tototo' and she threw her arms round her companion,

and kissed her over and over again. 'No, Trichy; I won't be Augusta's bridesmaid; I'll bide my time for

What protestations Beatrice made against the probability of such an event as foreshadowed in her friend's

promise we will not repeat. The afternoon was advancing, and the ladies also had to dress for dinner, to do

We have said, that over and above those assembled in the house, there came to the Greshamsbury dinner on

Frank's birthday the Jacksons of the Grange, consisting of Mr and Mrs Jackson; the Batesons from

Annesgrove, viz., Mr and Mrs Bateson, and Miss Bateson, their daughteran unmarried lady of about fifty;

the Bakers of Mill Hill, father and son; and Mr Caleb Oriel, the rector, with his beautiful sister, Patience. Dr

Thorne, and his niece Mary, we count among those already assembled at Greshamsbury.

There was nothing very magnificent in the number of the guests thus brought together to do honour to young

Frank; but he, perhaps, was called on to take a more prominent part in the proceedings, to be made more of a

hero than would have been the case had half the county been there. In that case the importance of the guests

would have been so great that Frank would have got off with a halfmuttered speech or two; but now he had

The Batesons, Bakers, and Jacksons were very civil; no doubt the more so from an unconscious feeling on

their part, that as the squire was known to a little out at elbows as regards money, any deficiency on their part

might be considered as owing to the present state of affairs at Greshamsbury. Fourteen thousand a year will

receive honour; in that case there is no doubt, and the man already possessing it is not apt to be suspicious as

to the treatment he may receive; but the ghost of fourteen thousand a year is not always so selfassured. Mr

Baker, with his moderate income, was a very much richer man than the squire; and, therefore, he was

Poor Frank had hardly anticipated what there would be to do, and before dinner was announced he was very

tired of it. He had no warmer feeling for any of the grand cousins than a very ordinary cousinly love; and he

had resolved, forgetful of birth and blood, and all those gigantic considerations which now that manhood had

come upon him, he was bound always to bear in mind,he had resolved to sneak out to dinner comfortably

with Mary Thorne if possible; and if not with Mary, then with his other love, Patience Oriel.

Great, therefore, was his consternation at finding that, after being kept continually in the foreground for half

an hour before dinner, he had to walk out to the diningroom with his aunt the countess, and take his father's

'It will now depend altogether upon yourself, Frank, whether you maintain or lose that high position in the

county which has been held by the Greshams for so many years,' said the countess, as she walked through the

spacious hall, resolving to lose no time in teaching to her nephew that great lesson which it was so imperative

Frank took this as an ordinary lecture, meant to inculcate general good conduct, such as old bores of aunts are

'Yes,' said Frank; 'I suppose so; and I mean to go along all square, aunt, and no mistake. When I get back to

His aunt did not care two straws about his reading. It was not by reading that the Greshams of Greshamsbury

had held their heads up in the county, but by having high blood and plenty of money. The blood had come

naturally to this young man; but it behoved him to look for the money in a great measure himself. She, Lady

de Courcy, could doubtless help him; she might probably be able to fit him with a wife who would bring her

money onto his birth. His reading was a matter in which she could in no way assist him; whether his taste

might lead him to prefer books or pictures, or dogs and horses, or turnips in drills, or old Italian plates and

dishes, was a matter which did not much signify; with which it was not at all necessary that his noble aunt

'Oh! you are going to Cambridge again, are you? Well, if your father wishes it;though very little is ever

'I am to take my degree in October, aunt; and I am determined, at any rate, that I won't be plucked.'

'No; I won't be plucked. Baker was plucked last year, and all because he got into the wrong set at John's. He's

an excellent fellow if you knew him. He got among a set of men who did nothing but smoke and drink beer.

'"Malt", you know, aunt, and "use"; meaning that they drink beer. So poor Harry Baker got plucked. I don't

By this time the party had taken their place round the long board, Mr Gresham sitting at the top, in the place

usually occupied by Lady Arabella. She, on the present occasion, sat next to her son on the one side, as the

countess did on the other. If, therefore, Frank now went astray, it would not be from want of proper leading.

'Aunt, will you have some beef?' said he, as soon as the soup and fish had been disposed of, anxious to

perform the rites of hospitality now for the first time committed to his charge.

'Oh! ah! I forgot; there are cutlets and those sort of things. My hand is not yet in for this work, aunt. Well, as I

'Is Frank to go back to Cambridge, Arabella?' said the countess to her sisterinlaw, speaking across her

'You know I never interfere,' said the Lady Arabella; 'I never liked the idea of Cambridge myself at all. All

the De Courcys were Christchurch men; but the Greshams, it seems, were always at Cambridge.'

'Much better, I would think,' said the Lady Arabella; 'but you know, I never interfere: perhaps you would

The countess smiled grimly, and shook her head with a decidedly negative shake. Had she said out loud to the

young man, 'Your father is such an obstinate, pigheaded, ignorant fool, that it is no use speaking to him; it

would be wasting fragrance on the desert air,' she could not have spoken more plainly. The effect on Frank

was this: that he said to himself, speaking quite as plainly as Lady De Courcy had spoken by her shake of the

face, 'My mother and aunt are always down on the governor, always; but the more they are down on him the

more I'll stick to him. I certainly will take my degree: I will read like bricks; and I'll begin tomorrow.'

The Countess de Courcy was very anxious to go on with her lesson without loss of time; but she could not,

while surrounded by guests and servants, enunciate the great secret: 'You must marry money, Frank; that is

your one great duty; that is the matter to be borne steadfastly in your mind.' She could not now, with

sufficient weight and impress of emphasis, pour this wisdom into his ears; the more especially as he was

standing up to his work of carving, and was deep to his elbows in horseradish, fat and gravy. So the

'Beef, Harry?' shouted the young heir to his friend Baker. 'Oh! but I see it isn't your turn yet. I beg your

pardon, Miss Bateson,' and he sent to that lady a pound and a half of excellent meat, cut out with great energy

Before dinner Frank had found himself obliged to make numerous small speeches in answer to the numerous

individual congratulations of his friends; but these were as nothing to the one great accumulated onus of an

oration which he had long known that he should have to sustain after the cloth was taken away. Some one of

course would propose his health, and then there would be a clatter of voices, ladies and gentlemen, men and

girls; and when that was done he would find himself standing on his legs, with the room about him, going

Having had a previous hint of this, he had sought advice from his cousin, the Honourable George, whom he

regarded as a dab at speaking; at least, so he had heard the Honourable George say of himself.

'What the deuce is a fellow to say, George, when he stands up after the clatter is done?'

'Oh, it's the easiest thing in life,' said the cousin. 'Only remember this: you mustn't get astray; that is what

they call presence of mind, you know. I'll tell you what I do, and I'm often called up, you know; at our

agriculturals I always propose the farmers' daughters: well, what I do is thisI keep my eye steadfastly fixed

'On one of the bottles!' said Frank; 'wouldn't it be better if I made a mark of some old covey's head? I don't

'The old covey'd move, and then you'd be done; besides thee isn't the least use in the world in looking up. I've

heard people say, who go to those sort of dinners every day of their lives, that whenever anything witty is

'But there's no reason you shouldn't learn the manner. That's the way I succeed. Fix your eye on one of the

bottles; put your thumbs in your waistcoat pockets; stick out your elbows, bend your knees a little, and then

'Oh, ah! go ahead; that's all very well; but you can't go ahead if you haven't got any steam.'

'A very little does it. There can be nothing so easy as your speech. When one has to say anything new every

year about the farmers' daughters, why one has to use one's brains a bit. Let's see: how will you begin? Of

course, you'll say that you are not accustomed to this sort of thing; that the honour conferred upon you is too

much for your feelings; that the bright array of beauty and talent around you quite overpowers your tongue,

'Well, tell them again. Then of course you must say something about us; or you'll have the countess as black

'Abut my aunt, George? What on earth can I say about her when she's there herself before me?'

'Before you! of course; that's just the reason. Oh, say any lie you can think of; you must say something about

Frank, in spite of the benefit of receiving from his cousin's erudition, could not help wishing in his heart that

they had al remained in London; but this he kept to himself. He thanked his cousin for his hints, and though

he did not feel that the trouble of his mind was completely cured, he began to hope that he might go through

Nevertheless, he felt rather sick at heart when Mr Baker got up to propose the toast as soon as the servants

were gone. The servants, that is, were gone officially; but they were there in a body, men and women, nurses,

cooks, and ladies' maids, coachmen, grooms, and footmen, standing in two doorways to hear what Master

Frank would say. The old housekeeper headed the maids at one door, standing boldly inside the room; and

the butler controlled the men at the other, marshalling them back with a drawn corkscrew.

Mr Baker did not say much; but what he did say, he said well. They had all seen Frank Gresham grow up

from a child; and were now required to welcome as a man amongst them one who was well qualified to carry

on the honour of that loved and respected family. His young friend, Frank, was every inch a Gresham. Mr

Baker omitted to make mention of the infusion of De Courcy blood, and the countess, therefore, drew herself

up on her chair and looked as though she were extremely bored. He then alluded tenderly to his own long

friendship with the present squire, Francis Newbold Gresham the elder; and sat down, begging them to drink

health, prosperity, long life, and excellent wife to their dear friend Francis Newbold Gresham the younger.

There was a great jingling of glasses, of course; made the merrier and the louder by the fact that the ladies

were still there as well as the gentlemen. Ladies don't drink toasts frequently; and, therefore, the occasion

coming rarely was the more enjoyed. 'God bless you, Frank!' 'Your good health, Frank!' 'And especially a

good wife, Frank!' 'Two or three of them, Frank!' 'Good health and prosperity to you, Mr Gresham!' 'More

power to you, Frank, my boy!' 'May God bless you and preserve you, my dear boy!' and then a merry, sweet,

eager voice from the far end of the table, 'Frank! Frank! Do look at me, pray do Frank; I am drinking your

health in real wine; ain't I, papa?' Such were the addresses which greeted Mr Francis Newbold Gresham the

younger as he essayed to rise up on his feet for the first time since he had come to man's estate.

When the clatter was at an end, and he was fairly on his legs, he cast a glance before him on the table, to look

for a decanter. He had not much liked his cousin's theory of sticking to the bottle; nevertheless, in the

difficulty of the moment, it was well to have any system to go by. But, as misfortune would have it, though

the table was covered with bottles, his eye could not catch one. Indeed, his eye first could catch nothing, for

Up he got, however, and commenced his speech. As he could not follow his preceptor's advice, as touching

the bottle, he adopted his own crude plan of 'making a mark on some old covey's head,' and therefore looked

'Upon my word, I am very much obliged to you, gentlemen and ladies, ladies and gentlemen, I should say, for

drinking my health, and doing me so much honour, and all that sort of thing. Upon my word I am. Especially

'But I am not Mr Gresham; and I don't mean to be for many a long year if I can help it; not at any rate till we

'That will be my son, and a very fine lad he will be; and I hope he'll make a better speech than his father. Mr

Baker said I was every inch a Gresham. Well, I hope I am.' Here the countess began to look cold and angry. 'I

'There's no fear, no fear,' said the doctor, who was almost put out of countenance by the orator's intense gaze.

The countess looked colder and more angry, and muttered something to herself about a beargarden.

'Gardez Gresham; eh? Harry! mind that when you're sticking in a gap I'm coming after you. Well, I am sure I

am very obliged to you for the honour you have all done me, especially the ladies who don't do this sort of

things on ordinary occasions. I wish they did; don't you, doctor? And talking of the ladies, my aunty and

cousins have come all the way from London to hear me take this speech which certainly is not worth the

trouble; but, all the same I am very much obliged to them.' And he looked round and made a little bow at the

countess. 'And so I am to Mr and Mrs Jackson, and Mr and Mrs and Miss Bateson, and Mr BakerI'm not at

all obliged to you, Harryand to Mr Oriel and Miss Oriel, and to Mr Umbleby, and to Dr Thorne, and to

MaryI beg her pardon, I mean Miss Thorne.' And then he sat down, amid the loud plaudits of the company,

After this the ladies rose and departed. As she went, Lady Arabella, kissed her son's forehead, and then his

sisters kissed him, and one or two of his ladycousins; and then Miss Bateson shook him by the hand. 'Oh,

Miss Bateson,' said he, 'I though the kissing was to go all round.' So Miss Bateson laughed and went her way;

and Patience Oriel nodded at him, but Mary Thorne, as she quietly left the room, almost hidden among the

He got up to hold the door for them as the passed; and as they went, he managed to take Patience by the hand;

he took her hand and pressed it for a moment, but dropped it quickly, in order that he might go through the

'Frank,' said Mr Gresham, as soon as the door was closed, 'bring your glass here, my boy;' and the father

made room for his son close beside himself. 'The ceremony is now over, so you may have your place of

dignity.' Frank sat himself down where he was told, and Mr Gresham put his hand on his son's shoulder and

half caressed him, while the tears stood in his eyes. 'I think the doctor is right, Baker, I think he'll never make

The tones of the men's voices were very different. Mr Baker did not care a straw about it; why should he? He

had an heir of his own as well as the squire; one also who was the apple of his eye. But the doctor,he did

care; he had a niece, to be sure, whom he loved, perhaps as well as these men loved their sons; but there was

After this small expose of feeling they sat silent for a moment or two. But silence was not dear to the heart of

'That's a niceish nag you gave Frank this morning,' he said to his uncle. 'I was looking at him before dinner.

'Well I can't say I know how he was bred,' said the squire. 'He should a good deal of breeding.'

'He's a Monsoon, I'm sure,' said the Honourable John. 'They've all those ears, and that peculiar dip in the

'He jumps beautifully, sir,' said Frank. 'I haven't tried him myself, but Peter made him go over the bar two or

The Honourable John was determined to give his cousin a helping hand, as he considered it. He thought that

Frank was very ill used in being put off with so incomplete stud, and thinking also that the son had not spirit

enough to attack his father himself on the subject, the Honourable John determined to do it for him.

'He's the making of a very nice horse, I don't doubt. I wish you had a string like him, Frank.'

Frank felt the blood rush to his face. He would not for worlds have his father think that he was discontented,

or otherwise than pleased with the present he had received that morning. He was heartily ashamed of himself

in that he had listened with a certain degree of complacency to his cousin's tempting; but he had no idea that

the subject would be repeatedand then repeated, too, before his father, in a manner to vex him on such a

day as this, before such people as were assembled here. He was very angry with his cousin, and for a moment

'I tell you what, John,' said he, 'do you choose your day, some day early in the season, and come out on the

best thing you have, and I'll bring, not the black horse, but my old mare; and then do you try to keep near me.

If I don't leave you at the back of Godspeed before long, I'll give you the mare and the horse too.'

The Honourable John was not known in Barsetshire as one of the most forward of its riders. He was a man

much addicted to hunting, as far as the getup of the thing was concerned; he was great in boots and

breeches; wondrously conversant with bits and bridles; he had quite a collection of saddles; and patronized

every newest invention for carrying spare shoes, sandwiches, and flasks of sherry. He was prominent at the

cover side;some people, including the master of hounds, thought him perhaps a little too loudly prominent;

he affected a familiarity with the dogs, and was on speaking acquaintance with every man's horse. But when

the work was cut out, when the pace began to be sharp, when it behoved a man either to ride or visibly to

decline to ride, thenso at least said they who had not the De Courcy interest quite closely at heartthen, in

There was, therefore, a considerable laugh at his expense when Frank, instigated to this innocent boast by a

desire to save his father, challenged his cousin to a trial of prowess. The Honourable John was not, perhaps,

as much accustomed to the ready use of his tongue as was his honourable brother, seeing that it was not his

annual business to depict the glories of the farmers' daughters; at any rate, on this occasion he seemed to be at

some loss for words; he shut up, as the slang phrase goes, and made no further allusion to the necessity of

But the old squire had understood it all; had understood the meaning of his nephew's attack; had thoroughly

understood the meaning of his son's defence, and the feeling which actuated it. He also had thought of the

stableful of horses which had belonged to himself when he became of age; and of the much more humble

position which his son would have to fill than that which his father had prepared for him. He thought of this,

and was sad enough, though he had sufficient spirit to hide from his friends around him the fact, that the

'He shall have Champion,' said the father to himself. 'It is time for me to give up.'

Now Champion was one of the two fine old hunters which the squire kept for his own use. And it might have

been said of him now, at the period of which we are speaking, that the only really happy moments of his life

were those which he spent in the field. So much as to its being time for him to give up.

It was, we have said, the first of July, and such being the time of the year, the ladies, after sitting in the

drawingroom for half an hour or so, began to think that they might as well go through the drawingroom

windows on to the lawn. First one slipped out a little way, and then another; and then they got on to the lawn;

and then they talked of their hats; till, by degrees, the younger ones of the party, and the last of the elder also,

The windows, both of the drawingroom, and the diningroom, looked out on to the lawn; and it was only

natural that the girls should walk from the former to the latter. It was only natural that they, being there,

should tempt their swains to come to them by the sight of their broadbrimmed hats and evening dresses; and

natural, also, that the temptation should not be resisted. The squire, therefore, and the elder male guests soon

'Upon my word, we were enchanted by your eloquence, Mr Gresham, were we not?' said Miss Oriel, turning

Miss Oriel was a very pretty girl; a little older than Frank Gresham,perhaps a year or so. She had dark hair,

large round dark eyes, a nose a little too broad, a pretty mouth, a beautiful chin, and, as we have said before, a

large fortune;that is, moderately largelet us say twenty thousand pounds, there or thereabouts. She and

her brother had been living at Greshamsbury for the last two years, the living having been purchased for

himsuch were Mr Gresham's necessitiesduring the lifetime of the last old incumbent. Miss Oriel was in

every respect a nice neighbour; she was goodhumoured, ladylike, lively, neither too clever nor too stupid,

belonging to a good family, sufficiently fond of this world's good things, as became a pretty young lady so

endowed, and sufficiently fond, also, of the other world's good things, as became the mistress of a

'Indeed, yes;' said the Lady Margaretta. 'Frank is very eloquent. When he described our rapid journey from

London, he nearly moved me to tears. But well as he talks, I think he carves better.'

'But there's one comfort, Miss Oriel; it's over now, and done. A fellow can't be made to come of age twice.'

'But you'll take your degree, Mr Gresham; and then, of course, there'll be another speech; and then you'll get

'I shall not have the slightest objection. It will be so kind of you to patronize my husband.'

'But, by Jove, will he patronize me? I know you'll marry some awful bigwig, or some terribly clever fellow;

'Miss Oriel was saying so much in praise of you before you came out,' said Margaretta, 'that I began to think

Frank blushed, and Patience laughed. There was but a year's difference in their age; but Frank, however, was

'I am ambitious, Lady Margaretta,' said she. 'I own it; but I am moderate in my ambition. I do love

'Miss Bateson has lost her heart to him for ever, because of his carving,' said the Lady Margaretta.

'Well, you see, I have not got any brothers,' said Frank; 'so all I can do is to sacrifice myself.'

'Upon my word, Mr Gresham, I am under more than ordinary obligations to you; I am indeed,' said Miss

Oriel, stood still in the path, and made a very graceful curtsy. 'Dear me! only think, Lady Margaretta, that I

should be honoured with an offer from the heir the very moment he is legally entitled to make one.'

'And done with so much true gallantry, too,' said the other; 'expressing himself quite willing to postpone any

'Yes;' said Patience; 'that's what I value so much: had he loved me now, there would have been no merit on

'Yes, ladies are so fond of such sacrifices, Frank, upon my word, I had no idea you were so very excellent at

'Well,' said Frank, 'I shouldn't have said sacrifice, that was a slip; what I meant was'

'Oh, dear me,' said Patience, 'wait a minute; now we are going to have a regular declaration. Lady Margaretta,

you haven't a scentbottle, have you? And if I should faint, where's the gardenchair?'

'Are you not? Oh! Now, Lady Margaretta, I appeal to you; did you not understand him to say something very

'And so, Mr Gresham, I am to be told, that after all it means nothing,' said Patience, putting her handkerchief

'Quizzing! No; but you are an excellent hand at deceiving a poor girl like me. Well, remember, I have got a

witness; here is Lady Margaretta, who heard it all. What a pity it is that my brother is a clergyman. You

She said so just as her brother joined them, or rather just as he had joined Lady Margaretta de Courcy; for her

ladyship and Mr Oriel walked on in advance by themselves. Lady Margaretta had found it rather dull work,

making a third in Miss Oriel's flirtation with her cousin; the more so as she was quite accustomed to take a

principal part herself in all such transactions. She therefore not unwillingly walked on with Mr Oriel. Mr

Oriel, it must be conceived, was not a common, everyday parson, but had points about him which made him

quite fit to associate with an earl's daughter. And as it was known that he was not a marrying man, having

very exalted ideas on that point connected with his profession, the Lady Margaretta, of course, had the less

But directly she was gone, Miss Oriel's tone of banter ceased. It was very well making a fool of a lad of

twentyone when others were by; but there might be danger in it when they were alone together.

'I don't know any position on earth more enviable than yours, Mr Gresham,' said she, quite soberly and

'What, in being laughed at by you, Miss Oriel, for pretending to be a man, when you choose to make out that

I am only a boy? I can bear to be laughed at pretty well generally, but I can't say that your laughing at me

Frank was evidently of an opinion totally different from that of Miss Oriel. Miss Oriel, when she found

herself teteatete with him, thought it was time to give over flirting; Frank, however, imagined that it was

just the moment for him to begin. So he spoke and looked very languishing, and put on him quite the airs of

'Oh, Mr Gresham, such good friends as you and I may laugh at each other, may we not?'

'You may do what you like, Miss Oriel: beautiful women I believe always may; but you remember what the

spider said to the fly, "That which is sport to you, may be death to me."' Anyone looking at Frank's face as he

said that, might well have imagined that he was breaking his very heart for love of Miss Oriel. Oh, Master

Frank! Master Frank! if you act thus in the green leaf, what will you do in the dry?

While Frank Gresham was thus misbehaving himself, and going on as though to him belonged the privilege

of falling in love with pretty faces, as it does to ploughboys and other ordinary people, his great interests were

not forgotten by those guardian saints who were so anxious to shower down on his head all manner of

Another conversation had taken place in the Greshamsbury gardens, in which nothing light had been allowed

to present itself; nothing frivolous had been spoken. The countess, the Lady Arabella, and Miss Gresham had

been talking over Greshamsbury affairs, and they had latterly been assisted by the Lady Amelia, than whom

no De Courcy ever born was more wise, more solemn, more prudent, more proud. The ponderosity of her

qualifications for nobility was sometimes too much even for her mother, and her devotion for the peerage was

such, that she would certainly have declined a seat in heaven if offered to her without the promise that it

The subject first discussed had been Augusta's prospects. Mr Moffat had been invited to Courcy Castle, and

Augusta had been taken thither to meet him, with the express intention on the part of the countess, that they

should be man and wife. The countess had been careful to make it intelligible to her sisterinlaw and niece,

that though Mr Moffat would do excellently well for a daughter of Greshamsbury, he could not be allowed to

'Not that we personally dislike him,' said the Lady Amelia; 'but rank has its drawbacks, Augusta.' As the Lady

Amelia was now somewhat nearer forty than thirty, and was still allowed to walk,

it may be presumed that in her case rank had been found to have serious drawbacks.

To this Augusta said nothing in objection. Whether desirable by a De Courcy or not, the match was to be

hers, and there was no doubt whatever as to the wealth of the man whose name she was to take; the offer had

been made, not to her, but to her aunt; the acceptance had been expressed, not by her, but by her aunt. Had

she thought of recapitulating in her memory all that had ever passed between Mr Moffat and herself, she

would have found that it did not amount to more than the most ordinary conversation between chance

partners in a ballroom. Nevertheless, she was to be Mrs Moffat. All that Mr Gresham knew of him was, that

when he met the young man for the first and only time in his life, he found him extremely hard to deal with in

the matter of money. He had insisted on having ten thousand pounds with his wife, and at last refused to go

on with the match unless he got six thousand pounds. This latter sum the poor squire had undertaken to pay

Mr Moffat had been for a year or two MP for Barchester; having been assisted in his views on that ancient

city by all the De Courcy interest. He was a Whig, of course. Not only had Barchester, departing from the

light of other days, returned a Whig member of Parliament, but it was declared, that at the next election, now

near at hand, a Radical would be sent up, an man pledged to the ballot, to economies of all sorts, one who

would carry out Barchester politics in all their abrupt, obnoxious, pestilent virulence. This was one Scatcherd,

a great railway contractor, a man who was a native of Barchester, who had bought property in the

neighbourhood, and who had achieved a sort of popularity there and elsewhere by the violence of his

democratic opposition to the aristocracy. According to this man's political tenets, the Conservatives should be

Mr Moffat was now coming down to Courcy Castle to look after his electioneering interests, and Miss

Gresham was to return with her aunt to meet him. The countess was very anxious that Frank should also

accompany them. Her great doctrine, that he must marry money, had been laid down with authority, and

received without doubt. She now pushed it further, and said that no time should be lost; that he should not

only marry money, but do so very early in life; there was always a danger in delay. The Greshamsof

course she alluded only to the males of the familywere foolishly softhearted; no one could say what

This was more than Lady Arabella could stand. She protested that there was at least no ground for supposing

Still the countess continued: 'Perhaps not,' she said; 'but when young people of perfectly different ranks were

allowed to associate together, there was no saying what danger might arise. They all know that old Mr

Batesonthe present Mr Bateson's fatherhad gone off with the governess; and young Mr Everbeery, near

'But Mr Everbeery was always drunk, aunt,' said Augusta, feeling called upon to say something for her

'Horrible!' said the Lady Amelia; 'diluting the best blood of the country, and paving the way for revolution.'

This was very grand; but, nevertheless, Augusta could not but feel that she perhaps might be about to dilute

the blood of her coming children in marrying the tailor's son. She consoled herself by trusting that, at any

'When a thing is so necessary,' said the countess, 'it cannot be done too soon. Now, Arabella, I don't say that

anything will come of it; but it may; Miss Dunstable is coming down to us next week. Now, we all know that

when old Dunstable died last year, he left over two hundred thousand to his daughter.'

'I believe so, my dear; something called the ointment of Lebanon, or something of that sort: but there's no

'Thirty,' said Lady Arabella, rather dolefully. 'And what is she like? I think that Frank already begins to like

'But surely, aunt,' said the Lady Amelia, 'now that he has come to man's discretion, he will not refuse to

consider all that he owes to his family. A Mr Gresham of Greshamsbury has a position to support.' The De

Courcy scion spoke these last words in the sort of tone that a parish clergyman would use, in warning some

young farmer's son that he should not put himself on an equal footing with the ploughboys.

It was at last decided that the countess should herself convey to Frank a special invitation to Courcy Castle,

and that when she got him there, she should do all that lay in her power to prevent his return to Cambridge,

'We did think of Miss Dunstable for Porlock, once,' she said, naively; 'but when we found that it wasn't much

over two hundred thousand, why that idea fell to the ground.' The terms on which the De Courcy blood might

Augusta was sent off to find her brother, and to send him to the countess in the small drawingroom. Here

the countess was to have her tea, apart from the outer common world, and her, without interruption, she was

Augusta did find her brother, and found him in the worst of bad societyso at least the stern De Courcys

would have thought. Old Mr Bateson and the governess, Mr Everbeery and his cook's diluted blood, and

ways paved for revolutions, all presented themselves to Augusta's mind when she found her brother walking

with no other company than Mary Thorne, and walking with her, too, in much too close proximity.

How he had contrived to be off with the old love and so soon on with the new, or rather, to be off with the

new love and again on with the old, we will not stop to inquire. Had Lady Arabella, in truth, known all her

son's doings in this way, could she have guessed how very nigh he had approached the iniquity of old Mr

Bateson, and to the folly of young Mr Everbeery, she would in truth have been in a hurry to send him off to

Courcy Castle and Miss Dunstable. Some days before the commencement of our story, young Frank had

sworn in sober earnestin what he intended for his most sober earnest, his most earnest sobrietythat he

loved Mary Thorne with a love for which words could find no sufficient expressionwith a love that could

never die, never grow dim, never become less, which no opposition on the part of others could extinguish,

which no opposition on her part could repel; that he might, could, would, and should have her for his wife,

'Oh, oh! Mary; do you love me? Don't you love me? Won't you love me? Say you will. Oh, Mary, dearest

Mary, will you? won't you? do you? don't you? Come now, you have a right to give a fellow an answer.'

With such eloquence had the heir of Greshamsbury, when not yet twentyone years of age, attempted to

possess himself of the affections of the doctor's niece. And yet three days afterwards he was quite ready to

And what had Mary said when those fervent protestations of an undying love had been thrown at her feet?

Mary, it must be remembered, was very nearly of the same age as Frank; but, as I an others have so often said

before, 'Women grow on the sunny side of the wall.' Though Frank was only a boy, it behoved Mary to be

something more than a girl. Frank might be allowed, without laying himself open to much reproach, to throw

all of what he believed to be his heart into a protestation of what he believed to be love; but Mary was in duty

bound to be more thoughtful, more reticent, more aware of the facts of their position, more careful of her own

And yet she could not put him down as another young lady might put down another young gentleman. It is

very seldom that a young man, unless he be tipsy, assumes an unwelcome familiarity in his early

acquaintance with any girl; but when acquaintance has been long and intimate, familiarities must follow as a

matter of course. Frank and Mary had been so much together in his holidays, had so constantly consorted

together as boys and girls, that, as regarded her, he had not that innate fear of a woman which represses a

young man's tongue; and she was so used to his goodhumour, his fun, and high jovial spirits, and was,

withal, so fond of them and him, that it was very difficult for her to mark with accurate feeling, and stop with

And Beatrice, too, had done harm in this matter. With a spirit painfully unequal to that of her grand relatives,

she had quizzed Mary and Frank about their early flirtations. This she had done; but had instinctively avoided

doing so before her mother and sister, and had thus made a secret of it, as it were, between herself, Mary, and

her brother;had given currency, as it were, to the idea that there might be something serious between the

two. Not that Beatrice had ever wished to promote a marriage between them, or had even thought of such a

thing. She was girlish, thoughtless, imprudent, inartistic, and very unlike a De Courcy. Very unlike a De

Courcy she was in all that; but, nevertheless, she had the De Courcy veneration for blood, and, more than

that, she had the Gresham feeling joined to that of the De Courcys. The Lady Amelia would not for worlds

have had the De Courcy blood defiled; but gold she thought could not defile. Now Beatrice was ashamed of

her sister's marriage, and had often declared, within her own heart, that nothing could have made her marry a

She had said so also to Mary, and Mary had told her that she was right. Mary was also proud of blood, was

proud of her uncle's blood, and the two girls talked together in all the warmth of girlish confidence, of the

great glories of family traditions and family honours. Beatrice had talked in utter ignorance as to her friend's

birth; and Mary, poor Mary, she had talked, being as ignorant; but not without a strong suspicion that, at

On one point Mary's mind was strongly made up. No wealth, no mere worldly advantage could make any one

her superior. If she were born a gentlewoman, then was she fit to match with any gentleman. Let the most

wealthy man in Europe pour all his wealth at her feet, she could, if so inclined, give him back at any rate

more than that. That offered at her feet she knew she would never tempt her to yield up the fortress of her

heart, the guardianship of her soul, the possession of her mind; not that alone, nor that, even, as any possible

If she were born a gentlewoman! And then came to her mind those curious questions; what makes a

gentleman? what makes a gentlewoman? What is the inner reality, the spiritualised quintessence of that

privilege in the world which men call rank, which forces the thousands and hundreds of thousands to bow

And she answered the question. Absolute, intrinsic, acknowledged, individual merit must give it to its

possessor, let him be whom, and what, and whence he might. So far the spirit of democracy was strong with

her. Beyond this it could be had but by inheritance, received as it were secondhand, or twentysecond hand.

And so far the spirit of aristocracy was strong within her. All this she had, as may be imagined, learnt in early

years from her uncle; and all this she was at great pains to teach Beatrice Gresham, the chosen of her heart.

When Frank declared that Mary had a right to give him an answer, he meant that he had a right to expect one.

'Yes, Mr Gresham. It must be Mr Gresham, after that. And, moreover, it must be Miss Thorne as well.'

'Well; I can't say that I shall be shot if it be not so; but if it be not so, if you do not agree that it shall be so, I

'Indeed! I mean no such thing,' said Mary, with a flash from her eye that made Frank almost start. 'I mean no

such thing. I mean you, not your mother. I am not in the least afraid of Lady Arabella; but I am afraid of you.'

'Miss Thorne; pray, pray, remember. It must be Miss Thorne. Do not turn me out of Greshamsbury. Do not

separate me from Beatrice. It is you that will drive me out; no one else. I could stand my ground against your

motherI feel I could; but I cannot stand against you if you treat me otherwise thanthan'

'Otherwise than what? I want to treat you as the girl I have chosen from all the world as my wife.'

'I am sorry you should so soon have found it necessary to make a choice. But, Mr Gresham, we must not joke

about this at present. I am sure you would not willingly injure me; but if you speak to me, or of me, again in

that way, you will injure me, injure me so much that I shall be forced to leave Greshamsbury, in my own

And so the interview had ended. Frank, of course, went upstairs to see if his new pocketpistols were all

ready, properly cleaned, loaded, and capped, should he find, after a few days' experience, that prolonged

However, he managed to live through the subsequent period; doubtless with a view of preventing any

Mary had contrived to quiet her lover with considerable propriety of demeanour. Then came on her the

somewhat harder task of quieting herself. Young ladies, on the whole, are perhaps quite as susceptible of the

after feelings as young gentlemen are. Now Frank Gresham, was handsome, amiable, by no means a fool in

intellect, excellent in heart; and he was, moreover, a gentleman, being the son of Mr Gresham of

Greshamsbury. Mary had been, as it were, brought up to love him. Had aught but good happened to him, she

would have cried as for a brother. It must not therefore be supposed that when Frank Gresham told her that he

He had not, perhaps, made his declaration with that propriety of language in which such scenes are generally

described as being carried on. Ladies may perhaps think that Mary should have been deterred, by the very

boyishness of his manner, from thinking at all seriously on the subject. His 'will you, won't youdo you,

don't you?' does not sound like the poetic raptures of a highly inspired lover. But, nevertheless, there had

been warmth, and a reality in it not in itself repulsive; and Mary's angeranger? no, not angerher

objections to the declarations were probably not based on the absurdity of her lover's language.

We are inclined to think that these matters are not always discussed by mortal lovers in the poetically

passionate phraseology which is generally thought to be appropriate for their description. A man cannot well

describe that which he has never seen or heard; but the absolute words and acts of one such scene did once

come to the author's knowledge. The couple were by no means plebeian, or below the proper standard of high

bearing and high breeding; they were a handsome pair, living among educated people, sufficiently given to

mental pursuits, and in every way what a pair of polite lovers ought to be. The allimportant conversation

passed in this wise. The site of the passionate scene was the seashore, on which they were walking, in

Gentleman. 'Well, Miss , the long and short of it is this: here I am; you can take me or leave me.'

Ladyscratching a gutter on the sand with her parasol, so as to allow a little salt water to run out of one hole

Gentleman. 'Nonsense! By Jove, it isn't nonsense at all: come, Jane; here I am: come, at any rate you can say

Ladyvery slowly, and with a voice perhaps hardly articulate, carrying on, at the same time, her engineering

And so the matter was settled: settled with much propriety and satisfaction; and both the lady and gentleman

would have thought, had they ever thought about the matter at all, that this, the sweetest moment of their

lives, had been graced by all the poetry by which such moments ought to be hallowed.

When Mary had, as she thought, properly subdued young Frank, the offer of whose love she, at any rate,

knew was, at such a period of his life, an utter absurdity, then she found it necessary to subdue herself. What

happiness on earth could be greater than the possession of such a love, had the true possession been justly and

honestly within her reach? What man could be more lovable than such a man as would grow from such a

boy? And then, did she not love himlove him already, without waiting for any change? Did she not feel

that there was that about him, about him and about herself, too, which might so well fit them for each other?

It would be so sweet to be the sister of Beatrice, the daughter of the squire, to belong to Greshamsbury as a

But though she could not restrain these thoughts, it never for a moment occurred to her to take Frank's offer

in earnest. Though she was a grown woman, he was still a boy. He would have to see the world before he

settled in it, and would change his mind about woman half a score of times before he married. Then, too,

though she did not like the Lady Arabella, she felt that she owed something, if not to her kindness, at least to

her forbearance; and she knew, felt inwardly certain, that she would be doing wrong, that the world would

say that she was doing wrong, that her uncle would think her wrong, if she endeavoured to take advantage of

She had not for an instant doubted; not for a moment had she contemplated it as possible that she should ever

become Mrs Gresham because Frank had offered to make her so; but, nevertheless, she could not help

thinking of what had occurredof thinking of it, most probably much more than Frank did himself.

A day or two afterwards, on the evening before Frank's birthday, she was alone with her uncle, walking in the

garden behind their house, and she then essayed to question him, with the object of learning if she were fitted

by her birth to be the wife of such a one as Frank Gresham. They were in the habit of walking there together

when he happened to be at home of a summer's evening. This was not often the case, for his hours of labour

extended much beyond those usual to the upper working world, the hours, namely, between breakfast and

dinner; but those minutes that they did thus pass together, the doctor regarded as perhaps the pleasantest of

'Uncle,' said she, after a while, 'what do you think of this marriage of Miss Gresham's?'

'Well, Minnie'such was his name of endearment for her'I can't say I have thought much about it, and I

'I'm not so sure of that. Some folks would never get married if they had to trouble themselves with thinking

'That's very good of you; that will save me the trouble; and perhaps save Miss Gresham too. If you have

'Niece, you're a gander; and what is worse, a very silly gander. What is Mr Moffat's family to you, and me?

'Yes,' said Mary, 'I know he is rich; and a rich man I suppose can buy anythingexcept a woman that is

'A rich man can buy anything,' said the doctor; 'not that I meant to say that Mr Moffat has bought Miss

Gresham. I have no doubt that they will suit each other very well,' he added with an air of decisive authority,

But his niece was determined not to let him pass so. 'Now, uncle,'said she, 'you know you are pretending to a

great deal of worldly wisdom, which, after all, is not wisdom at all in your eyes.'

'You know you are: and as for the impropriety of discussing Miss Gresham's marriage'

'Oh, yes, you did; of course such things must be discussed. How is one to have an opinion if one does not get

'Of course you do: so do I. I hope it as much as I can hope what I don't at all see ground for expecting.'

'I am perfectly unable to give any opinion founded on so strange an hypothesis.'

'But, uncle, I am a girl, and perhaps I may marry;or at any rate think of marrying some day.'

'Therefore, in seeing a friend taking such a step, I cannot but speculate on the matter as though I were myself

'No, I am Mary Thorne; it is a very different thing, I know. I suppose I might marry any one without

It was almost illnatured of her to say this; but she had not meant to say it in the sense which the sounds

seemed to bear. She had failed in being able to bring her uncle to the point she wished by the road she had

planned, and in seeking another road, she had abruptly fallen into unpleasant places.

'I should be very sorry that my niece should think so,' said he; 'and am sorry, too, that she should say so. But,

Mary, to tell the truth, I hardly know at what you are driving. You are, I think, not so clear

'I will tell you, uncle;' and, instead of looking up into his face, she turned her eyes down on to the green lawn

'I think that Miss Gresham should not marry Mr Moffat. I think so because her family is high and noble, and

because he is low and ignoble. When one has an opinion on such matters, one cannot but apply it to things

and people around one; and having applied my opinion to her, the next step naturally is to apply it to myself.

Were I Miss Gresham, I would not marry Mr Moffat though he rolled in gold. I know where to rank Miss

They had been standing when she commenced he last speech; but as she finished it, the doctor moved on

again, and she moved with him. He walked on very slowly without answering her; and she, out of her full

'That does not follow,' said the doctor quickly. 'A man raises a woman to his own standard, but a woman must

Again they were silent, and again they walked on, Mary holding her uncle's arm with both her hands. She was

determined, however, to come to the point, and after considering for a while how best she might do it, she

'In absolute genealogy they are, my dear. That is, when I choose to be an old fool and talk of such matters in a

sense different from that in which they are spoken of by the world at large, I may say that the Thornes are as

good, or perhaps better, than the Greshams, but I should be sorry to say so seriously to any one. The

'Yes, yes; Wilfred Thorne of Ullathorne, and our friend the squire here, are of the same class.'

'Well, Minnie, you would hardly have me boast that I am the same class with the squireI, a poor country

'You are not answering me fairly, dear uncle; dearest uncle, do you not know that you are not answering me

fairly? You know what I mean. Have I a right to call the Thornes of Ullathorne my cousins?'

'Mary, Mary, Mary!' said he after a minute's pause, still allowing his arm to hang loose, that she might hold it

'It is over now, uncle: it is told now. I will grieve you no more. Dear, dear, dearest! I should love you more

than ever now; I would, I would, I would if that were possible. What should I be but for you? What must I

have been but for you?' And she threw herself on his breast, and clinging with her arms round his neck,

There was nothing more said then on the subject between them. Mary asked no further question, nor did the

doctor volunteer further information. She would have been most anxious to ask about her mother's history

had she dared to do so; but she did not dare to ask; she could not bear to be told that her mother had been,

perhaps was, a worthless woman. That she was truly a daughter of a brother of the doctor, that she did know.

Little as she had heard of her relatives in her early youth, few as had been the words which had fallen from

her uncle in her hearing as to her parentage, she did know this, that she was the daughter of Henry Thorne, a

brother of the doctor, and a son of the old prebendary. Trifling little things that had occurred, accidents which

could not be prevented, had told her this; but not a word had ever passed any one's lips as to her mother. The

doctor, when speaking of his youth, had spoken of her father; but no one had spoken of her mother. She had

long known that she was the child of a Thorne; now she knew also that she was no cousin of the Thornes of

Ullathorne; no cousin, at least, in the world's ordinary language, no niece indeed of her uncle, unless by his

When the interview was over, she went up alone to the drawingroom, and there she sat thinking. She had

not been there long before her uncle came up to her. He did not sit down, or even take off the hat which he

'Mary, after what has passed I should be very unjust and very cruel to you not to tell you one thing more than

you have now learned. Your mother was unfortunate in much, not in everything; but the world, which is very

often stern in such matters, never judged her to have disgraced herself. I tell you this, my child, in order that

you may respect her memory;' and so saying, he again left her without giving her time to speak a word.

What he then told her he had told in mercy. He felt what must be her feelings when she reflected that she had

to blush for her mother; that not only could she not speak of her mother, but that she might hardly think of

her with innocence; and to mitigate such sorrow as this, and also to do justice to the woman whom his brother

And then he walked slowly by himself, backwards and forwards through the garden, thinking of what he had

done with reference to this girl, and doubting whether he had done wisely and well. He had resolved, when

first the little infant was given over to his charge, that nothing should be known of her or by her as to her

mother. He was willing to devote himself to this orphan child of his brother, this last seedling of his father's

house; but he was not willing so to do this as to bring himself in any manner into familiar contact with the

Scatcherds. He had boasted to himself that he, at any rate, was a gentleman; and that she, if she were to live

in his house, sit at his table, and share his hearth, must be a lady. He would tell no lie about her; he would not

to any one make her out to be aught other or aught better than she was; people would talk about her of course,

only let them not talk to him; he conceived of himselfand the conception was not without due

groundthat should any do so, he had that within him which would silence them. He would never claim for

this little creaturethus brought into the world without a legitimate position in which to standhe would

never claim for her any station that would not properly be her own. He would make for her a station as best

So he had resolved; but things had arranged themselves, as they often do, rather than been arranged by him.

During ten or twelve years no one had heard of Mary Thorne; the memory of Henry Thorne and his tragic

death had passed away; the knowledge that an infant had been born whose birth was connected with that

tragedy, a knowledge never widely spread, had faded down into utter ignorance. At the end of these twelve

years, Dr Thorne had announced, that a young niece, a child of a brother long since dead, was coming to live

with him. As he had contemplated, no one spoke to him; but some people did no doubt talk among

themselves. Whether or not the exact truth was surmised by any, it matters not to say; with absolute

exactness, probably not; with great approach to it, probably yes. By one person, at any rate, no guess

whatever was made; no thought relative to Dr Thorne's niece ever troubled him; no idea that Mary Scatcherd

had left a child in England ever occurred to him; and that person was Roger Scatcherd, Mary's brother.

To one friend, and only one, did the doctor tell the whole truth, and that was to the old squire. 'I have told

you,' said the doctor, 'partly that you may know that the child has no right to mix with your children if you

think much of such things. Do you, however, see to this. I would rather that no one else should be told.'

No one else had been told; and the squire had 'seen to it,' by accustoming himself to look at Mary Thorne

running about the house with his own children as though she were of the same brood. Indeed, the squire had

always been fond of Mary, had personally noticed her, and, in the affair of Mam'selle Larron, had declared

that he would have her placed at once on the bench of magistrates;much to the disgust of the Lady

And so things had gone on and on, and had not been thought of with much downright thinking; till now,

when she was oneandtwenty years of age, his niece came to him, asking as to her position, and inquiring in

And so the doctor walked, backwards and forwards through the garden, slowly, thinking now with some

earnestness what if, after all, he had been wrong about his niece? What if by endeavouring to place her in the

position of a lady, he had falsely so placed her, and robbed her of her legitimate position? What if there was

And then, how had it answered, that plan of his of keeping her all to himself? He, Dr Thorne, was still a poor

man; the gift of saving money had not been his; he had ever a comfortable house for her to live in, and, in

spite of Doctors Fillgrave, Century, Rerechild, and others, had made from his profession an income sufficient

for their joint wants; but he had not done as others do: he had no three or four thousand pounds in the Three

per Cents., on which Mary might live in some comfort when he should die. Late in life he had insured his life

for eight hundred pounds; and to that, and that only, had he to trust for Mary's future maintenance. How had

it answered, then, this plan of letting her be unknown to, and undreamed of, by, those who were as near to her

on her mother's side as he was on the father's? On that side, though there had been utter poverty, there was

But when he took her to himself, had he not rescued her from the very depths of the lowest misery: from the

degradation of the workhouse; from the scorn of honestborn charitychildren; from the lowest of the world's

low conditions? Was she not now the apple of his eye, his one great sovereign comforthis pride, his

happiness, his glory? Was he to make her over, to make any portion of her over to others, if, by doing so, she

might be able to share the wealth, as well as the coarse manners and uncouth society of her at present

unknown connexions? He, who had never worshipped wealth on his own behalf; he, who had scorned the idol

of the gold, and had ever been teaching her to scorn it; was he now to show that his philosophy had all been

But yet, what man would marry this bastard child, without a sixpence, and bring not only poverty, but ill

blood also on his own children? It might be very well for him, Dr Thorne; for him whose career was made,

whose name, at any rate, was his own; for him who had a fixed standingground in the world; it might be

well for him to indulge in large views of a philosophy antagonistic to the world's practice; but had he a right

to do it for his niece? What man would marry a girl so placed? For those among whom she might have

legitimately found a level, education had now utterly unfitted her. And then, he well knew that she would

never put out her hand in token of love to any one without telling all she knew and all she surmised as to her

And that question of this evening; had it not been instigated by some appeal on her part? Was there not

already within her breast some cause for disquietude which had made her so pertinacious? Why else had she

told him then, for the first time, that she did not know where to rank herself? If such an appeal had been made

to her, it must have come from young Frank Gresham. What, in such case, would it behove him to do?

Should he pack up his all, his lancetcase, pestle and mortar, and seek anew fresh ground in a new world,

leaving behind a huge triumph to those learned enemies of his, Fillgrave, Century, and Rerechild? Better that

And so he walked slowly backwards and forwards through his garden, meditating these things painfully

It will of course be remembered that Mary's interview with the other girls at Greshamsbury took place some

two or three days subsequently to Frank's generous offer of his hand and heart. Mary had quite made up her

mind that the whole thing was to be regarded as a folly, and that it was not to be spoken of to any one; but yet

her heart was sore enough. She was full of pride, and yet she knew she must bow her neck to the pride of

others. Being, as she was herself, nameless, she could not but feel a stern, unflinching antagonism, the

antagonism of a democrat, to the pretensions of others who were blessed with that of which she had been

deprived. She had this feeling; and yet, of all the things that she coveted, she most coveted that, for glorying

in which, she was determined to heap scorn on others. She said to herself, proudly, that God's handiwork was

the inner man, the inner woman, the naked creature animated by a living soul; that all other adjuncts were but

man's clothing for the creature; all others, whether stitched by tailors or contrived by kings. Was it not within

her capacity to do as nobly, to love as truly, to worship her God in heaven with as perfect a faith, and her god

on earth with as leal a troth, as though blood had descended to her purely through scores of purely born

progenitors? So to herself she spoke; and yet, as she said it, she knew that were she a man, such a man as the

heir of Greshamsbury should be, nothing would tempt her to sully her children's blood by mating herself with

any one that was base born. She felt that were she Augusta Gresham, no Mr Moffat, let his wealth be what it

might, should win her hand unless he too could tell of family honours and a line of ancestors.

And so, with a mind at war with itself, she came forth armed to do battle against the world's prejudices, those

And was she thus to give up her old affections, her feminine loves, because she found that she was a cousin to

nobody? Was she no longer to pour out her heart to Beatrice Gresham with all the girlish volubility of an

equal? Was she to be severed from Patience Oriel, and banishedor rather was she to banish herselffrom

the free place she had maintained in the various youthful female conclaves within that parish of

Hitherto, what Mary Thorne would say, what Miss Thorne suggested in such and such a matter, was quite as

frequently asked as any opinion from Augusta Greshamquite as frequently, unless when it chanced that

any of the De Courcy girls were at the house. Was this to be given up? These feelings had grown up among

them since they were children, and had not hitherto been questioned among them. Now they were questioned

by Mary Thorne. Was she in fact to find that her position had been a false one, and must be changed?

Such had been her feelings when she protested that she would not be Augusta Gresham's bridesmaid, and

offered to put her neck beneath Beatrice's foot; when she drove the Lady Margaretta out of the room, and

gave her own opinion as to the proper grammatical construction of the word humble; such also had been her

feelings when she kept her hand so rigidly to herself while Frank held the diningroom door open for her to

'Patience Oriel,' said she to herself, 'can talk to him of her father and mother: let Patience take his hand; let

her talk to him;' and then, not long afterwards, she saw that Patience did talk to him; and seeing it, she walked

along silent, among some of the old people, and with much effort did prevent a tear from falling down her

But why was the tear in her eye? Had she not proudly told Frank that his lovemaking was nothing but a

boy's silly rhapsody? Had she not said so while she had yet reason to hope that her blood was as good as his

own? Had she not seen at a glance that his love tirade was worthy of ridicule, and of no other notice? And yet

there was a tear now in her eye because this boy, whom she had scolded from her, whose hand, offered in

pure friendship, she had just refused, because he, so rebuffed by her, had carried his fun and gallantry to one

She could hear as she was walking, that while Lady Margaretta was with them, their voices were loud and

merry; and her sharp ear could also hear, when Lady Margaretta left them, that Frank's voice became low and

tender. So she walked on, saying nothing, looking straight before her, and by degrees separating herself from

The Greshamsbury grounds were on one side somewhat too closely hemmed in by the village. On this side

was a path running the length of one of the streets of the village; and far down the path, near the extremity of

the gardens, and near also to a wicketgate which led out into the village, and which could be opened from

the inside, was a seat, under a big yewtree, from which, through a breach in the houses, might be seen the

parish church, standing in the park on the other side. Hither Mary walked alone, and here she seated herself,

determined to get rid of her tears and their traces before she again showed herself to the world.

'I shall never be happy here again,' said she to herself; 'never. I am no longer one of them, and I cannot live

among them unless I am so.' And then an idea came across her mind that she hated Patience Oriel; and then,

instantly another idea followedquick as such thoughts are quickthat she did not hate Patience Oriel at

all; that she liked her, nay, loved her; that Patience Oriel was a sweet girl; and that she hoped the time would

come when she might see her the lady of Greshamsbury. And then the tear, which had been no whit

controlled, which indeed had now made itself master of her, came to a head, and, bursting through the

floodgates of the eye, came rolling down, and in its fall, wetted her hand as it lay on her lap. 'What a fool!

what an idiot! what an emptyheaded cowardly fool I am!' said she, springing up from the bench on her feet.

As she did so, she heard voices close to her, at the little gate. They were those of her uncle and Frank

'God bless you, Frank!' said the doctor, as he passed out of the grounds. 'You will excuse a lecture, won't you,

from so old a friend?though you are a man now, and discreet of course, by Act of Parliament.'

'Indeed I will, doctor,' said Frank. 'I will excuse a longer lecture than that from you.'

'At any rate it won't be tonight,' said the doctor, as he disappeared. 'And if you see Mary, tell her that I am

Mary could not move on, without being perceived; she therefore stood still till she heard the click of the door,

and then began walking rapidly back to the house by the path which had brought her thither. The moment,

however, that she did so, she found that she was followed; and in a very few moments Frank was alongside of

'Oh, Mary!' said he, calling to her, but not loudly, before he quite overtook her, 'how odd that I should come

Mary's first impulse was to reiterate her command to him to call her no more by her Christian name; but her

second impulse told her that such an injunction at the present moment would not be prudent on her part. The

traces of her tears were still there; and she well knew that a very little, the slightest show of tenderness on his

part, the slightest effort on her own to appear indifferent, would bring down more than one other such

intruder. It would, moreover, be better for her to drop all outward sign that she remembered what had taken

place. So long, then, as he and she were at Greshamsbury together, he should call her Mary if he pleased. He

'At Silverbridge! why, he won't be back all night. Why could not the old woman send for Dr Century?'

Mary could not help smiling. She did not like her uncle going off so late on such a journey; but it was always

'And Janet is to come over for you. However, I told him it was quite unnecessary to disturb another old

'What! on this great day, when every lady is looking for you, and talking of you. I suppose you want to set the

countess against me for ever. Think, too, how angry Lady Arabella will be if you are absent on such and

'To hear you talk, Mary, one would think that you were going to Silverbridge yourself.'

'Good gracious, Frank! Fancy either of the Mr De Courceys walking home with me!'

She had forgotten herself, and the strict propriety on which she had resolved, in the impossibility of forgoing

her little joke against the De Courcy grandeur; she had forgotten herself, and had called him Frank in her old,

former, eager, free tone of voice; and then, remembering she had done so, she drew herself up, but her lips,

'Well, it shall be either one of them, or I,' said Frank: 'perhaps you would prefer my cousin George to me?'

'I should prefer Janet to either, seeing that with her I should not suffer the extreme nuisance of knowing that I

'Yes, Mr Gresham, a bore to you. Having to walk home through the mud with village young ladies is boring.

'Oh! village young ladies never care for such things, though fashionable gentlemen do.'

'I would carry you home, Mary, if it would do you a service,' said Frank, with considerable pathos in his

'Oh, dear me! pray do not, Mr Gresham. I should not like it at all,' said she: 'a wheelbarrow would be

'Certainly; anything in the way of a conveyance. If I were to act baby; and you were to act nurse, it really

Frank Gresham felt disconcerted, though he hardly knew why. He was striving to say something tender to his

ladylove; but every word that he spoke she turned into joke. Mary did not answer him coldly or unkindly;

but, nevertheless, he was displeased. One does not like to have one's little offerings of sentimental service

turned into burlesque when one is in love in earnest. Mary's jokes had appeared so easy too; they seemed to

come from a heart so little troubled. This, also, was cause of vexation to Frank. If he could but have known it

He determined not to be absolutely laughed out of his tenderness. When, three days ago, he had been

repulsed, he had gone away owning to himself that he had been beaten; owning so much, but owning it with

great sorrow and much shame. Since that he had come of age; since that he had made speeches, and speeches

had been made to him; since that he had gained courage by flirting with Patience Oriel. No faint heart ever

won a fair lady, as he was well aware; he resolved, therefore, that his heart should not be faint, and that he

'Mary,' said he, stopping in the pathfor they were now near the spot where it broke out upon the lawn, and

'I am not aware of it, Mr Gresham; but if I am, do not you retaliate. I am weaker than you, and in your power;

'You refused my hand just now,' continued he. 'Of all the people here at Greshamsbury, you are the only one

'I do wish you joy; I will wish you joy: there is my hand,' and she frankly put out her ungloved hand. 'You are

quite man enough to understand me: there is my hand; I trust you use it only as it is meant to be used.'

He took it in his hand and pressed it cordially, as he might have done that of any other friend in such a case;

and thendid not drop it as he should have done. He was not a St Anthony, and it was most imprudent in

As he said this, holding Miss Thorne's hand he stood on the pathway with his back towards the lawn and

house, and, therefore, did not at first see his sister Augusta, who had just at that moment come upon them.

Mary blushed up to her straw hat, and, with a quick jerk, recovered her hand. Augusta saw the motion, and

From my tedious way of telling it, the reader will be led to imagine that the handsqueezing had been

protracted to a duration quite incompatible with any objection to such an arrangement on the part of the lady;

but the fault is mine: in no part hers. Were I possessed of a quick spasmodic style of narrative, I should have

been able to include it allFrank's misbehaviour, Mary's immediate anger, Augusta's arrival, and keen,

Arguseyed inspection, and then Mary's subsequent miseryin five words and half a dozen dashes and

inverted commas. The thing would have been so told; for, to do Mary justice, she did not leave her hand in

Frank, feeling the hand withdrawn, and hearing, when it was too late, the step on the gravel, turned sharply

Augusta was not naturally very illnatured, seeing that in her veins the high De Courcy blood was somewhat

tempered by an admixture of the Gresham attributes; nor was she predisposed to make her brother her enemy

by publishing to the world any of his little tender peccadilloes; but she could not but bethink herself of what

her aunt had been saying as to the danger of any such encounters as that she just now had beheld; she could

not but start at seeing her brother thus, on the very brink of the precipice of which the countess had specially

forewarned her mother. She, Augusta, was, as she well knew, doing her duty by her family by marrying a

tailor's son for whom she did not care a chip, seeing that the tailor's son was possessed of untold wealth. Now

when one member of a household is making a struggle for a family, it is painful to see the benefit of that

struggle negatived by the folly of another member. The future Mrs Moffat did feel aggrieved by the fatuity of

the young heir, and, consequently, took upon herself to look as much like her Aunt De Courcy as she could

'Well, what is it?' said Frank, looking rather disgusted. 'What makes you stick your chin up and look in that

way?' Frank had hitherto been rather a despot among his sisters, and forgot that the eldest of them was now

'Frank,' said Augusta, in a tone of voice which did honour to the great lessons she had lately received. 'Aunt

De Courcy wants to see you immediately in the small drawingroom;' and, as she said so, she resolved to say

a few words of advice to Miss Thorne as soon as her brother should have left them.

'In the small drawingroom, does she? Well, Mary, we may as well go together, for I suppose it is teatime

'You had better go at once, Frank,' said Augusta; 'the countess will be angry if you keep her waiting. She has

been expecting you these twenty minutes. Mary Thorne and I can return together.'

There was something in the tone in which the word, 'Mary Thorne', were uttered, which made Mary at once

draw herself up. 'I hope,' said she, 'that Mary Thorne will never be a hindrance to either of you.'

Frank's ear had also perceived that there was something in the tone of his sister's voice not boding comfort to

Mary; he perceived that the De Courcy blood in Augusta's veins was already rebelling against the doctor's

niece on his part, though it had condescended to submit itself to the tailor's son on her own part.

'Well, I am going,' said he; 'but look here Augusta, if you say one word of Mary'

Oh, Frank! Frank! you boy, you very boy! you goose, you silly goose! Is that the way you make love,

desiring one girl not to tell another, as though you were three children, tearing your frocks and trousers in

getting through the same hedge together? Oh, Frank! Frank! you, the fullblown heir of Greshamsbury? You,

a man already endowed with a man's discretion? You, the forward rider, that did but now threaten young

Harry Baker and the Honourable John to eclipse them by prowess in the field? You, of age? Why, thou canst

So far had he got in his injunction to his sister, but further than that, in such a case, was he never destined to

proceed. Mary's indignation flashed upon him, striking him dumb long before the sound of her voice reached

his ears; and yet she spoke as quick as the words would come to her call, and somewhat loudly too.

'Say one word of Mary, Mr Gresham! And why should she not say as many words of Mary as she may

please? I must tell you all now, Augusta! and I must also beg you not to be silent for my sake. As far as I am

'I beg your pardon, Mr Gresham; you have made it necessary that I should tell your sister all. He has now

twice thought it well to amuse himself by saying to me words which it was illnatured in him to speak,

'Illnatured in him to speak,' continued Mary, 'and to which it would be absurd for me to listen. He probably

does the same to others,' she added, being unable in heart to forget that sharpest of her wounds, that flirtation

of his with Patience Oriel; 'but to me it is almost cruel. Another girl might laugh at him, or listen to him, as he

would choose; but I can do neither. I shall now keep away from Greshamsbury, at any rate till he has left it;

and, Augusta, I can only beg you to understand, that, as far as I am concerned, there is nothing which may not

And, so saying, she walked on a little in advance of them, as proud as a queen. Had Lady de Courcy herself

met her at this moment, she would almost have felt herself forced to shrink out of the pathway. 'Not say a

word of me!' she repeated to herself, but still out loud. 'No word need be left unsaid on my account; none,

Augusta followed her, dumfounded at her indignation; and Frank also followed, but not in silence. When his

first surprise at Mary's great anger was over, he felt himself called upon to say some word that might

exonerate his ladylove; and some word also of protestation as to his own purpose.

'There is nothing to be told, at least of Mary,' he said, speaking to his sister; 'but of me, you may tell this, if

you choose to disoblige your brotherthat I love Mary Thorne with all my heart; and that I will never love

By this time they had reached the lawn, and Mary was able to turn away from the path which led up to the

house. As she left them she said in a voice, now low enough, 'I cannot prevent him from talking nonsense,

Augusta; but you will bear me witness, that I do not willingly hear it.' And, so saying, she started off almost

Frank, as he walked up to the house with his sister, endeavoured to induce her to give him a promise that she

'Of course, Frank, it must be all nonsense,' she had said; 'and you shouldn't amuse yourself in such a way.'

'Well, but, Guss, come, we have always been friends; don't let us quarrel just when you are going to be

Frank, when he reached the house, found the countess waiting for him, sitting in the little drawingroom by

herself,somewhat impatiently. As he entered he became aware that there was some peculiar gravity

attached to the coming interview. Three persons, his mother, one of his younger sisters, and the Lady Amelia,

each stopped him to let him know that the countess was waiting; and he perceived that a sort of guard was

The countess frowned at the moment of his entrance, but soon smoothed her brow, and invited him to take a

chair ready prepared for him opposite to the elbow of the sofa on which she was leaning. She had a small

table before her, on which was her teacup, so that she was able to preach at him nearly as well as though she

'My dear Frank,' said she, in a voice thoroughly suitable to the importance of the communication, 'you have

Frank remarked that he understood that such was the case, and added that 'that was the reason for all the fuss.'

'Yes; you have today come of age. Perhaps I should have been glad to see such an occasion noticed at

'Greshamsbury, Frank, is, or at any rate ought to be, the seat of the first commoner in Barsetshire.

'Well; so it is. I am quite sure there isn't a better fellow than father anywhere in the county.'

The countess sighed. Her opinion of the poor squire was very different from Frank's. 'It is no use now,' said

she, 'looking back to that which cannot be cured. The first commoner in Barsetshire should hold a

'Oh dear no; of course not,' said Frank; and a bystander might have thought that there was a touch of satire in

'No, not equal to that of a peer; but still of very paramount importance. Of course my first ambition is bound

'Of course,' said Frank, thinking how very weak was the staff on which his aunt's ambition rested; for Lord

Porlock's youthful career had not been such as to give unmitigated satisfaction to his parents.

'Is bound up in Porlock:' and then the countess plumed herself; but the mother sighed. 'And next to Porlock,

'No, Frank; by no means. I do not wish to say a word against your father. It may, perhaps have been his

'She is always down on the governor; always,' said Frank to himself; resolving to stick bravely to the side of

'But there is the fact, Frank, too plain to us all; Greshamsbury is not what it was. It is your duty to restore it to

'Yes, Frank, your duty. It all depends on you now. Of course you know that your father owes a great deal of

Frank muttered something. Tidings had in some shape reached his ear that his father was not comfortably

'And then, he has sold Boxall Hill. It cannot be expected that Boxall Hill shall be purchased, as some horrid

'Well, he has built a house there, I'm told; so I presume that it cannot be bought back: but it will be your duty,

Frank, to pay all the debts that there are on the property, and to purchase what, at any rate, will be equal to

Frank opened his eyes wide and stared at his aunt, as though doubting much whether or no she were in her

right mind. He pay off the family debts! He buy up property of four thousand pounds a year! He remained,

Frank was obliged to declare, that just at the present moment he did not find his aunt so clear as usual.

'You have but one line of conduct left you, Frank: your position, as heir to Greshamsbury, is a good one; but

your father has unfortunately so hampered you with regard to money, that unless you set the matter right

'Marry money!' said he, considering for the first time that in all probability Mary Thorne's fortune would not

'Yes, Frank. I know no man whose position so imperatively demands it; and luckily for you, no man can have

'And then, as the matter is made plain to you at so early an age, you are not of course hampered by any

Frank blushed again; and then saying to himself, 'How much the old girl knows about it!' felt a little proud of

'And your connexion with Courcy Castle,' continued the countess, now carrying up the list of Frank's

advantages to its greatest climax, 'will make the matter so easy for you, that really, you will hardly have any

Frank could not but say how much obliged he felt to Courcy Castle and its inmates.

'Of course I would not wish to interfere with you in any underhand way, Frank; but I will tell you what has

'And of course you know that her fortune is immense,' continued the countess, not deigning to notice her

nephew's allusion to the ointment. 'Quite immense when compared with the wants and any position of any

commoner. Now she is coming to Courcy Castle, and I wish you to come and meet her.'

'But, aunt, just at this moment I have to read for my degree like anything. I go up, you know, to Oxford.'

'Degree!' said the countess. 'Why, Frank, I am talking to you of your prospects in life, of your future position,

Frank, however, obstinately persisted that he must take his degree, and that he should commence reading hard

'You can read just as well at Courcy Castle. Miss Dunstable will not interfere with that,' said his aunt, who

knew the expediency of yielding occasionally; 'but I must beg you will come over and meet her. You will

'I really cannot say exactly,' said the countess; 'but it is not, I imagine, a matter of much moment.'

'Is she thirty?' asked Frank, who looked upon an unmarried woman of that age as quite an old maid.

'I dare say she may be about that age,' said the countess, who regarded the subject from a very different point

'It is a matter of no moment,' said his aunt, almost angrily. 'When a subject itself is of such vital importance,

objections of no real weight should not be brought into view. If you wish to hold up your head in the country;

if you wish to represent your county in Parliament, as has been done by your father, your grandfather, and

your greatgrandfathers; if you wish to keep a house over your head, and to leave Greshamsbury to your son

after you, you must marry money. What does it signify whether Miss Dunstable be twentyeight or thirty?

She has got money; and if you marry her, you may then consider that your position in life is made.'

Frank was astonished at his aunt's eloquence; but, in spite of that eloquence, he made up his mind that he

would not marry Miss Dunstable. How could he, indeed, seeing that his troth was already plighted to Mary

Thorne in the presence of his sister? This circumstance, however, he did not choose to plead to his aunt, so he

In the first place, he was so anxious about his degree that he could not think of marrying at present; then he

suggested that it might be better to postpone the question till the season's hunting should be over; he declared

that he could not visit Courcy Castle till he got a new suit of clothes home from the tailor; and ultimately

remembered that he had a particular engagement to go flyfishing with Mr Oriel on that day week.

None, however, of these valid reasons were sufficiently potent to turn the countess from her point.

'Nonsense, Frank,' said she, 'I wonder that you can talk of flyfishing when the property of Greshamsbury is

'Tomorrow, aunt!' he said, in the tone which a condemned criminal might make his ejaculation on hearing

'Yes, we return tomorrow, and shall be happy to have your company. My friends, including Miss Dunstable,

come on Thursday. I am quite sure you will like Miss Dunstable. I have settled all that with your mother, so

Frank, finding that there was nothing more to be said, took his departure, and went out to look for Mary. But

Mary had gone home with Janet half an hour since, so he betook himself to his sister Beatrice.

'Well; I only came of age today, and I will not begin by running counter to them. But I tell you what, I won't

stay above a week at Courcy Castle for all the De Courcys in Barsetshire. Tell me, Beatrice, did you ever hear

Enough has been said in this narrative to explain to the reader that Roger Scatcherd, who was whilom a

drunken stonemason in Barchester, and who had been so prompt to avenge the injury done to his sister, had

become a great man in the world. He had become a contractor, first for little things, such as half a mile or so

of a railway embankment, or three or four canal bridges, and then a contractor for great things, such as

Government hospitals, locks, docks, and quays, and had latterly had in his hands the making of whole lines of

He had been occasionally in partnership with one man for one thing, and then with another for another; but

had, on the whole, kept his interests to himself, and now at the time of our story, he was a very rich man.

And he had acquired more than wealth. There had been a time when the Government wanted the immediate

performance of some extraordinary piece of work, and Roger Scatcherd had been the man to do it. There had

been some extremely necessary bit of a railway to be made in half the time that such work would properly

demand, some speculation to be incurred requiring great means and courage as well, and Roger Scatcherd

had been found to be the man for the time. He was then elevated for the moment to the dizzy pinnacle of a

newspaper hero, and became one of those 'whom the king delighteth to honour'. He went up one day to kiss

Her Majesty's hand, and come down to his new grand house at Boxall Hill, Sir Roger Scatcherd, Bart.

'And now, my lady,' said he, when he explained to his wife the high state to which she had been called by his

exertions and the Queen's prerogative, 'let's have a bit of dinner, and a drop of som'at hot.' Now the drop of

som'at hot signified a dose of alcohol sufficient to send three ordinary men very drunk to bed.

While conquering the world Roger Scatcherd had not conquered his old bad habits. Indeed, he was the same

man at all points that he had been when formerly seen about the streets of Barchester with his stonemason's

apron tucked up round his waist. The apron he had abandoned, but not the heavy prominent thoughtful brow,

with the wildly flashing eye beneath it. He was still the same good companion, and still also the same

hardworking hero. In this only had he changed, that now he would work, and some said equally well,

whether he were drunk or sober. Those who were mostly inclined to make a miracle of himand there was a

school of worshippers ready to adore him as their idea of a divine, superhuman, miraclemoving, inspired

prophetdeclared that his wondrous work was best done, his calculations most quickly and most truly made,

that he saw with most accurate eye into the fardistant balance of profit and loss, when he was under the

influence of the rosy god. To these worshippers his breakingsout, as his periods of intemperance were called

in his own set, were his moments of peculiar inspirationhis divine frenzies, in which he communicated

most closely with those deities who preside over trade transactions; his Eleusinian mysteries, to approach him

'Scatcherd has been drunk this week past,' they would say one to another, when the moment came at which it

was to be decided whose offer should be accepted for constructing a harbour to hold all the commerce of

Lancashire, or to make a railway from Bombay to Canton. 'Scatcherd has been drunk this week past; I am

told that he has taken over three gallons of brandy.' And then they felt sure that none but Scatcherd would be

But be this as it may, be it true or false that Sir Roger was most efficacious when in his cups, there can be no

doubt that he could not wallow for a week in brandy, six or seven times every year, without in a great

measure injuring, and permanently injuring, the outward man. Whatever immediate effect such symposiums

might have on the inner mind symposiums indeed they were not; posiums I will call them, if I may be

allowed; for in latter life, when he drank heavily, he drank alonehowever little for evil, or however much

for good the working of his brain might be affected, his body suffered greatly. It was not that he became

feeble or emaciated, oldlooking or inactive, that his hand shook, or that his eye was watery; but that in the

moments of his intemperance his life was often worth a day's purchase. The frame which God had given to

him was powerful beyond the power of ordinary men; powerful to act in spite of these violent perturbations;

powerful to repress and conquer the qualms and headaches and inward sicknesses to which the votaries of

Bacchus are ordinarily subject; but this power was not without its limit. If encroached on too far, it would

break and fall and come asunder, and then the strong man would at once become a corpse.

Scatcherd had but one friend in the world. And, indeed, this friend was not friend in the ordinary acceptance

of the word. He neither ate with him nor drank with him, nor even frequently talked with him. Their pursuits

in life were wide asunder. Their tastes were all different. The society in which they moved very seldom came

together. Scatcherd had nothing in unison with this solitary friend; but he trusted him, and he trusted no other

He trusted this man; but even him he did not trust thoroughly; not at least as one friend should trust another.

He believed that this man would not rob him; would probably not lie to him; would not endeavour to make

money of him; would not count him up or speculate on him, and make out a balance of profit and loss; and,

therefore, he determined to use him. But he put no trust whatever in his friend's counsel, in his modes of

thought; none in his theory, and none in his practice. He disliked his friend's counsel, and, in fact, disliked his

society, for his friend was somewhat apt to speak to him in a manner approaching to severity. Now Roger

Scatcherd had done many things in the world, and made much money; whereas his friend had done but few

things, and made no money. It was not to be endured that the practical, efficient man should be taken to task

by the man who proved himself to be neither practical nor efficient; not to be endured, certainly, by Roger

Scatcherd, who looked on men of his own class as the men of the day, and on himself as by no means the

The doctor's first acquaintance with Scatcherd has been already explained. He was necessarily thrown into

communication with the man at the time of the trial, and Scatcherd then had not only sufficient sense, but

sufficient feeling also to know that the doctor behaved very well. This communication had in different ways

been kept up between them. Soon after the trial Scatcherd had begun to rise, and his first savings had been

entrusted to the doctor's care. This had been the beginning of a pecuniary connexion which had never wholly

ceased, and which had led to the purchase of Boxall Hill, and to the loan of large sums of money to the

In another way also there had been a close alliance between them, and one not always of a very pleasant

description. The doctor was, and long had been, Sir Roger's medical attendant, and, in his unceasing attempts

to rescue the drunkard from the fate which was so much to be dreaded, he not unfrequently was driven to

One thing further must be told of Sir Roger. In politics he was as violent a Radical as ever, and was very

anxious to obtain a position in which he could bring his violence to bear. With this view he was about to

contest his native borough of Barchester, in the hope of being returned in opposition to the De Courcy

Nor were his claims to sit for Barchester such as could be despised. If money were to be of no avail, he had

plenty of it, and was prepared to spend it; whereas, rumour said that Mr Moffat was equally determined to do

nothing so foolish. Then again, Sir Roger had a sort of rough eloquence, and was bold to address the men of

Barchester in language that would come home to their hearts, in words that would endear him to one party

while they made him offensively odious to the other; but Mr Moffat could make neither friends nor enemies

by his eloquence. The Barchester roughs called him a dumb dog that could not bark, and sometimes

sarcastically added that neither could he bite. The De Courcy interest, however, was at his back, and he had

also the advantage of possession. Sir Roger, therefore, knew that the battle was not to be won without a

Dr Thorne got safely back from Silverbridge that evening, and found Mary waiting to give him his tea. He

had been called there to a consultation with Dr Century, that amiable old gentleman having so far fallen away

from the high Fillgrave tenets as to consent to the occasional endurance of such degradation.

The next morning he breakfasted early, and, having mounted his strong irongrey cob, started for Boxall Hill.

Not only had he there to negotiate the squire's further loan, but also to exercise his medical skill. Sir Roger

having been declared contractor for cutting a canal from sea to sea, through the isthmus of Panama, had been

making a week of it; and the result was that Lady Scatcherd had written rather peremptorily to her husband's

The doctor consequently trotted off to Boxall Hill on his irongrey cob. Among his other merits was that of

being a good horseman, and he did much of his work on horseback. The fact that he occasionally took a day

with the East Barsetshires, and that when he did so he thoroughly enjoyed it, had probably not failed to add

'Well, my lady, how is he? Not much the matter, I hope?' said the doctor, as he shook hands with the titled

mistress of Boxall Hill in a small breakfastparlour in the rear of the house. The showrooms of Boxall Hill

were furnished most magnificently, but they were set apart for company; and as the company never

cameseeing that they were never invitedthe grand rooms and the grand furniture were not of much

'Indeed then, doctor, he's just bad enough,' said her ladyship, not in a very happy tone of voice; 'just bad

enough. There's been some'at the back of his head, rapping, and rapping, and rapping; and if you don't do

'Why, yes, he is in bed; for when he was first took he couldn't very well help hisself, so we put him to bed.

And then, he don't seem to be quite right yet about the legs, so he hasn't got up; but he's got that Winterbones

with him to write for him, and when Winterbones is there, Scatcherd might as well be up for any good that

Mr Winterbones was confidential clerk to Sir Roger. That is to say, he was a writingmachine of which Sir

Roger made use to do certain work which could not well be adjusted without some contrivance. He was a

little, withered, dissipated, brokendown man, whom gin and poverty had nearly burnt to a cinder, and dried

to an ash. Mind he had none left, nor care for earthly things, except the smallest modicum of substantial food,

and the largest allowance of liquid sustenance. All that he had ever known he had forgotten, except how to

count up figures and to write: the results of his counting and his writing never stayed with him from one hour

to another; nay, not from one folio to another. Let him, however, be adequately screwed up with gin, and

adequately screwed down by the presence of his master, and then no amount of counting and writing would

be too much for him. This was Mr Winterbones, confidential clerk to the great Sir Roger Scatcherd.

'Indeed, doctor, I wish you would. I wish you'd send him to Bath, or anywhere else out of the way. There is

Scatcherd, he takes brandy; and there is Winterbones, he takes gin; and it'd puzzle a woman to say which is

It will seem from this, that Lady Scatcherd and the doctor were on very familiar terms as regarded her little

'Just a thimbleful of this?' said the lady, producing from some recess under a sideboard a bottle of brandy;

When Lady Scatcherd found that even this argument failed, she led the way to the great man's bedroom.

'Well doctor! well doctor!, well, doctor!' was the greeting with which our son of Galen was saluted some time

before he entered the sickroom. His approaching step was heard, and thus the cidevant Barchester

stonemason saluted his coming friend. The voice was loud and powerful, but not clear and sonorous. What

voice that is nurtured on brandy can ever be clear? It had about it a peculiar huskiness, a dissipated guttural

tone, which Thorne immediately recognized, and recognized as being more marked, more guttural, and more

'So you've smelt me out, have you, and come for your fee? Ha! ha! ha! Well, I have had a sharpish bout of it,

as her ladyship there no doubt has told you. Let her alone to make the worst of it. But, you see, you're too

'Something! I don't know what you call something. I never was better in my life. Ask Winterbones here.'

'Indeed, now, Scatcherd, you ain't; you're bad enough if you only knew it. And as for Winterbones, he has no

business here up in your bedroom, which stinks of gin so, it does. Don't you believe him, doctor; he ain't well,

Winterbones, when the above illnatured allusion was made to the aroma coming from his libations, might be

seen to deposit surreptitiously beneath the little table at which he sat, the cup with which he had performed

The doctor, in the meantime, had taken Sir Roger's hand on the pretext of feeling his pulse, but was drawing

quite as much information from the touch of the sick man's skin, and the look of the sick man's eye.

'I think Mr Winterbones had better go back to the London office,' said he. 'Lady Scatcherd will be your best

'Then I'll be d if Mr Winterbones does anything of the kind,' said he; 'so there's an end of that.'

'Very well,' said the doctor. 'A man can die but once. It is my duty to suggest measures for putting off the

'Well, I am not anxious about it, one way or the other,' said Scatcherd. And as he spoke there came a fierce

gleam from his eye, which seemed to say'If that's the bugbear with which you wish to frighten me, you

'Now, doctor, don't let him talk that way, don't,' said Lady Scatcherd, with her handkerchief to her eyes.

'Now, my lady, do you cut it; cut at once,' said Sir Roger, turning hastily round to his betterhalf; and his

betterhalf, knowing that the province of a woman is to obey, did cut it. But as she went she gave the doctor

a pull by the coat's sleeve, so that thereby his healing faculties might be sharpened to the very utmost.

'The best woman in the world, doctor; the very best,' said he, as the door closed behind the wife of his bosom.

'Yes, till you find a better one,' said Scatcherd. 'Ha! ha! ha! but for good or bad, there are some things which a

woman can't understand, and some things which she ought not to be let to understand.'

'I don't know that,' said the contractor. 'She'll be very well off. All that whining won't keep a man alive, at any

There was a pause, during which the doctor continued his medical examination. To this the patient submitted

'Winterbones,' said the contractor, turning to his clerk, 'go down, go down, I say; but don't be out of the way.

If you go to the publichouse, by G you may stay there for me. When I take a drop,that is if I ever do, it

does not stand in the way of work.' So Mr Winterbones, picking up his cup again, and concealing it in some

way beneath his coat flap, retreated out of the room, and the two friends were alone.

'Scatcherd,' said the doctor, 'you have been as near your God, as any man ever was who afterwards ate and

'All right! How can you be all right, when you know that your limbs refuse to carry you? All right! why the

blood is still beating round you brain with a violence that would destroy any other brain but yours.'

'Ha! ha! ha!,' laughed Scatcherd. He was very proud of thinking himself to be differently organized from

The whole of the doctor's prescription we will not give at length. To some of his ordinances Sir Roger

promised obedience; to others he objected violently, and to one or two he flatly refused to listen. The great

stumblingblock was this, that total abstinence from business for two weeks was enjoined; and that it was

'If you work,' said the doctor, 'in your present state, you will certainly have recourse to the stimulus of drink;

'Scatcherd, I know that there is brandy in this room at the moment, and that you have been taking it within

'I feel the alcohol working within your veins,' said the doctor, who still had his hand on his patient's arm.

Sir Roger turned himself roughly in the bed so as to get away from his Mentor, and then he began to threaten

'I'll tell you what it is, doctor; I've made up my mind, and I'll do it. I'll send for Fillgrave.'

'Very well,' said he of Greshamsbury, 'send for Fillgrave. Your case is one in which even he can hardly go

'You think you can hector me, and do as you like because you had me under your thumb in other days. You're

a very good fellow, Thorne, but I ain't sure that you are the best doctor in all England.'

'You may be sure I am not; you may take me for the worst if you will. But while I am here as your medical

adviser, I can only tell you the truth to the best of my thinking. Now the truth is, that another bout of drinking

will in all probability kill you; and any recourse to stimulus in your present condition may do so.'

'Well, send for Fillgrave, only do it at once. Believe me at any rate in this, that whatever you do, you should

do at once. Oblige me in this; let Lady Scatcherd take away that brandy bottle till Dr Fillgrave comes.'

'I'm d if I do. Do you think I can't have a bottle of brandy in my room without swigging?'

Sir Roger made another angry turn in his bed as well as his halfparalysed limbs would let him; and then,

'Yes; I'll have Fillgrave over here. If a man be ill, really ill, he should have the best advice he can get. I'll have

Fillgrave, and I'll have that other fellow from Silverbridge to meet him. What's his name?Century.'

The doctor turned his head away; for though the occasion was serious, he could not help smiling at the

'I will; and Rerechild too. What's the expense? I suppose five or six pounds apiece will do it; eh, Thorne?'

'Oh, yes; that will be liberal I should say. But, Sir Roger, will you allow me to suggest what you ought to do?

'Joking!' shouted the baronet; 'you tell a man he's dying and joking in the same breath. You'll find I'm not

'Nonsense! Send to London for Sir Omicron Pie: send for some man whom you will really trust when you see

'There's not one of the lot I'd trust as soon as Fillgrave. I've known Fillgrave all my life and I trust him. I'll

send for Fillgrave and put my case in his hands. If any one can do anything for me, Fillgrave is the man.'

'Then in God's name send for Fillgrave,' said the doctor. 'And now, goodbye, Scatcherd; and as you do send

for him, give him a fair chance. Do not destroy yourself by more brandy before he comes.'

'So be it; give me your hand, at any rate, before I go. I wish you well through it, and when you are well, I'll

'Goodbyegoodbye; and look here, Thorne, you'll be talking to Lady Scatcherd downstairs I know; now,

Dr Thorne left the room and went downstairs, being fully aware that he could not leave the house without

having some communication with Lady Scatcherd. He was not sooner within the passage than he heard the

sick man's bell ring violently; and then the servant, passing him on the staircase, received orders to send a

mounted messenger immediately to Barchester. Dr Fillgrave was to be summoned to come as quickly as

possible to the sick man's room, and Mr Winterbones was to be sent up to write the note.

Sir Roger was quite right in supposing that there would be some words between the doctor and her ladyship.

How, indeed, was the doctor to get out of the house without such, let him wish it ever so much? There were

words; and these were protracted, while the doctor's cob was being ordered round, till very many were uttered

Lady Scatcherd was no fit associate for the wives of English baronets;was no doubt by education and

manners much better fitted to sit in their servants' halls; but not on that account was she a bad wife or a bad

woman. She was painfully, fearfully, anxious for that husband of hers, whom she honoured and worshipped,

as it behoved her to do, above all other men. She was fearfully anxious as to his life, and faithfully believed,

that if any man could prolong it, it was that old and faithful friend whom she had known to be true to her lord

When, therefore, she found that she had been dismissed, and that a stranger was to be sent for in his place, her

'But, doctor,' she said, with her apron up to her eyes, 'you ain't going to leave him, are you?'

Dr Thorne did not find it easy to explain to her ladyship that medical etiquette would not permit him to

remain in attendance on her husband after he had been dismissed and another physician called in his place.

'Etiquette!' said she, crying. 'What's etiquette to do with it when a man is akilling hisself with brandy?'

Dr Thorne could almost have embraced her for the strong feeling of thorough confidence on the one side, and

thorough distrust on the other, which she contrived to throw into those few words.

'I'll tell you what, doctor; I won't let that messenger go. I'll bear the brunt of it. He can't do much now he ain't

This, however, was a step to which Dr Thorne would not assent. He endeavoured to explain to the anxious

wife, that after what had passed he could not tender his medical services till they were again asked for.

'But you can slip in as a friend, you know; and then by degrees you can come round him, eh? can't you now,

All that Dr Thorne said on the subject may easily be imagined. And in this way, and in partaking of the lunch

which was forced upon him, an hour had nearly passed between his leaving Sir Roger's bedroom and putting

his foot in the stirrup. But no sooner had the cob begun to move on the gravelsweep before the house than

one of the upper windows opened, and the doctor was summoned to another conference with the sick man.

'He says you are to come back, whether or no,' said Mr Winterbones, screeching out of the window, and

'Thorne! Thorne! Thorne!' shouted the sick man from his sickbed, so loudly that the doctor heard him,

'You're to come back, whether or no,' repeated Winterbones, with more emphasis, evidently conceiving that

there was a strength of injunction in that 'whether or no' which would be found quite invincible.

Whether actuated by these magic words, or by some internal process of thought, we will not say; but the

doctor did slowly, and as though unwillingly, dismount again from his steed, and slowly retrace his steps into

'It is no use,' he said to himself, 'for that messenger has already gone to Barchester.'

'I have sent for Dr Fillgrave,' were the first words which the contractor said to him when he again found

'Did you call me back to tell me that?' said Thorne, who now felt really angry at the impertinent petulance of

the man before him: 'you should consider, Scatcherd, that my time may be of value to others, if not to you.'

'Now don't be angry, old fellow,' said Scatcherd, turning to him, and looking at him with a countenance quite

different from any that he had shown that day; a countenance in which there was a show of manhood,some

'Not in the least,' said the doctor very complacently. 'Not in the least. Fillgrave will do as much good as I can

'That depends on yourself. He will do you good if you will tell him the truth, and will then be guided by him.

Your wife, your servant, any one can be as good a doctor to you as either he or I; as good, that is, in the main

point. But you have sent for Fillgrave now; and of course you must see him. I have much to do, and you must

Scatcherd, however, would not let him go, but held his hand fast. 'Thorne,' said he, 'if you like it, I'll make

them put Fillgrave under the pump directly he comes here. I will indeed, and pay all the damage myself.'

This was another proposition to which the doctor could not consent; but he was utterly unable to refrain from

laughing. There was an earnest look of entreaty about Sir Roger's face as he made the suggestion; and, joined

to this, there was a gleam of comic satisfaction in his eye which seemed to promise, that if he received the

least encouragement he would put his threat into execution. Now our doctor was not inclined to taking any

steps towards subjecting his learned brother to pump discipline; but he could not but admit to himself that the

'I'll have it done, I will, by heavens! if you'll only say the word,' protested Sir Roger.

'You shouldn't be so testy with a man when he is ill,' said Scatcherd, still holding the doctor's hand, of which

he had again got possession; 'specially not an old friend; and specially again when you're been ablowing

It was not worth the doctor's while to aver that the testiness had all been on the other side, and that he had

never lost his goodhumour; so he merely smiled, and asked Sir Roger if he could do anything further for

'Indeed you can, doctor; and that's why I sent for you,why I sent for you yesterday. Get out of the room,

Winterbones,' he then said gruffly, as though he were dismissing from his chamber a dirty dog. Winterbones,

'Sit down, Thorne, sit down,' said the contractor, speaking in quite a different manner from any that he had

yet assumed. 'I know you're in a hurry, but you must give me half an hour. I may be dead before you can give

The doctor of course declared that he hoped to have many a halfhour's chat with him for many a year to

'Well, that's as may be. You must stop now, at any rate. You can make the cob pay for it, you know.'

The doctor took a chair and sat down. Thus entreated to stop, he had hardly any alternative but to do so.

'It wasn't because I'm ill that I sent for you, or rather let her ladyship send for you. Lord bless you, Thorne; do

you think I don't know what it is that makes me like this? When I see that poor wretch Winterbones, killing

himself with gin, do you think I don't know what's coming to myself as well as him?

'Why do you take it then? Why do you do it? Your life is not like his. Oh, Scatcherd! Scatcherd!' and the

doctor prepared to pour out the flood of his eloquence in beseeching this singular man to abstain from his

'Is that all you know of human nature, doctor? Abstain. Can you abstain from breathing, and live like a fish

'Habit is second nature, man; and a stronger nature than the first. And why should I not drink? What else has

the world given me for all that I have done for it? What other resource have I? What other gratification?'

'Oh, my God! Have you not unbounded wealth? Can you not do anything you wish? be anything you choose?'

'No,' and the sick man shrieked with an energy that made him audible all through the house. 'I can do nothing

that I would choose to do; be nothing that I would wish to be! What can I do? What can I be? What

gratification can I have except the brandy bottle? If I go among gentlemen, can I talk to them? If they have

anything to say about a railway, they will ask me a question: if they speak to me beyond that, I must be

dumb. If I go among my workmen, can they talk to me? No; I am their master, and a stern master. They bob

their heads and shake in their shoes when they see me. Where are my friends? Here!' said he, and he dragged

a bottle from under his very pillow. 'Where are my amusements? Here!' and he brandished the bottle almost

in the doctor's face. 'Where is my one resource, my one gratification, my only comfort after all my toils. Here,

doctor; here, here, here!' and, so saying, he replaced his treasure beneath his pillow.

There was something so horrifying in this, that Dr Thorne shrank back amazed, and was for a moment unable

'But, Scatcherd,' he said at last; 'surely you would not die for such a passion as that?' 'Die for it? Aye, would I.

Live for it while I can live; and die for it when I can live no longer. Die for it! What is that for a man to do?

What is a man the worse for dying? What can I be the worse for dying? A man can die but once, you said just

'Folly enough, perhaps, and madness enough, also. Such a life as mine makes a man a fool, and makes him

mad too. What have about me that I should be afraid to die? I'm worth three hundred thousand pounds; and

I'd give it all to be able to go to work tomorrow with a hod and mortar, and have a fellow clap his hand upon

my shoulder, and say: "Well, Roger, shall us have that 'ere other halfpint this morning?" I'll tell you what,

Thorne, when a man has made three hundred thousand pounds, there's nothing left for him but to die. It's all

he's good for then. When money's been made, the next thing is to spend it. Now the man who makes it has

The doctor, of course, in hearing all this, said something of a tendency to comfort and console the mind of his

patient. Not that anything he could say would comfort or console the man; but that it was impossible to sit

there and hear such fearful truthsfor as regarded Scatcherd they were truthswithout making some

'This is as good as a play, isn't, doctor?' said the baronet. 'You didn't know how I could come out like one of

those actor fellows. Well, now, come; at last I'll tell you why I have sent for you. Before that last burst of

'Yes, I had. That will is destroyed. I burnt it with my own hand, so that there should be no mistake about it. In

that will I had named two executors, you and Jackson. I was then partner with Jackson in the York and

Yeovil Grand Central. I thought a deal of Jackson then. He's not worth a shilling now.'

'No, you're not. Jackson is nothing without money; but money'll never make you.'

'No, you never will. Nevertheless, there's my other will, there, under that desk there; and I've put you in as

'You must alter that, Scatcherd; you must indeed; with three hundred thousand pounds to be disposed of, the

trust is far too much for any one man: besides you must name a younger man; you and I are of the same age,

'Now, doctor, no humbug; let's have no humbug from you. Remember this; if you're not true, you're nothing.'

'Well, but doctor, there's the will, it's already made. I don't want to consult you about that. You are named as

executor, and if you have the heart to refuse to act when I'm dead, why, of course, you can do so.'

The doctor was not lawyer, and hardly knew whether he had any means of extricating himself from this

'You'll have to see that will carried out, Thorne. Now I'll tell you what I have done.'

'Not exactly; at least not all of it. One hundred thousand I've in legacies, including, you know, what Lady

'No; what the devil would she do with a house like this? She doesn't know how to live in it now she has got it.

I have provided for her; it matters not how. The house and the estate, and the remainder of my money I have

'And why shouldn't I leave two hundred thousand pounds to my son, even to my eldest son if I have more

than one? Does not Mr Gresham leave all his property to his heir? Why should not I make an eldest son as

well as Lord de Courcy or the Duke of Omnium? I suppose a railway contractor ought not to be allowed an

eldest son by Act of Parliament! Won't my son have a title to keep up? And that's more than the Greshams

The doctor explained away what he said as well as he could. He could not explain that what he had really

meant was this, that Sir Roger Scatcherd's son was not a man fit to be trusted with the entire control of an

Sir Roger Scatcherd had but one child; that child which had been born in the days of his early troubles, and

had been dismissed from his mother's breast in order that the mother's milk might nourish the young heir of

Greshamsbury. The boy had grown up, but had become strong neither in mind nor body. His father had

determined to make a gentleman of him, and had sent to Eton and Cambridge. But even this receipt, generally

as it is recognized, will not make a gentleman. It is hard, indeed, to define what receipt will do so, though

people do have in their own minds some certain undefined, but yet tolerably correct ideas on the subject. Be

that as it may, two years at Eton, and three terms at Cambridge, did not make a gentleman of Louis Philippe

Yes; he was christened Louis Philippe, after the King of the French. If one wishes to look out in the world for

royal nomenclature, to find children who have been christened after kings and queens, or the uncles and aunts

of kings and queens, the search should be made in the families of democrats. None have so servile a

deference for the very nailparings of royalty; none feel so wondering an awe at the exaltation of a crowned

head; none are so anxious to secure themselves some shred or fragment that has been consecrated by the

royal touch. It is the distance which they feel to exist between themselves, and the throne which makes them

There was nothing royal about Louis Philippe Scatcherd but his name. He had now come to man's estate, and

his father, finding the Cambridge receipt to be inefficacious, had sent him abroad to travel with a tutor. The

doctor had from time to time heard tidings of this youth; he knew that he had already shown symptoms of his

father's vices, but no symptoms of his father's talents; he knew that he had begun life by being dissipated,

without being generous; and that at the age of twentyone he had already suffered from delirium tremens.

It was on this account that he had expressed disapprobation, rather than surprise, when he heard that his

father intended to bequeath the bulk of his large fortune to the uncontrolled will of this unfortunate boy.

'I have toiled for my money hard, and I have a right to do as I like with it. What other satisfaction can it give

'Louis Philippe will do well enough, you'll find,' continued the baronet, understanding what was passing

within his companion's breast. 'Let a young fellow sow his wild oats while he is young, and he'll be steady

'But what if he never lives to get through the sowing?' thought the doctor to himself. 'What if the wildoats

operation is carried on in so violent a manner as to leave no strength in the soil for the product of a more

valuable crop?' It was of no use saying this, however, so he allowed Scatcherd to continue.

'If I'd had a free fling when I was a youngster, I shouldn't have been so fond of the brandy bottle now. But

any way, my son shall be my heir. I've had the gumption to make the money, but I haven't the gumption to

spend it. My son, however, shall be able to ruffle it with the best of them. I'll go bail he shall hold his head

higher than ever young Gresham will be able to hold his. They are much of the same age, as well I have cause

Now the fact was, that Sir Roger Scatcherd felt in his heart no special love for young Gresham; but with her

ladyship it might almost be a question whether she did not love the youth whom she had nursed almost as

'And will you not put any check on thoughtless expenditure? If you live ten or twenty years, as we hope you

may, it will become unnecessary; but in making a will, a man should always remember he may go off

'Especially if he goes to bed with a brandy bottle under his head; eh, doctor? But, mind, that's a medical

Dr Thorne could but sigh. What could he say on such a subject to such a man as this?

'Yes, I have put a check on his expenditure. I will not let his daily bread depend on any man; I have therefore

let him five hundred a year at his own disposal, from the day of my death. Let him make what ducks and

'No; nor do I want to keep him to that. Let him have whatever he wants if he sets about spending it properly.

But the bulk of the propertythis estate of Boxall Hill, and the Greshamsbury mortgage, and those other

mortgagesI have tied up in this way: they shall be all his at twentyfive; and up to that age it shall be in

your power to give him what he wants. If he shall die without children before he shall be twentyfive years

Now Mary was Sir Roger's sister, the mother, therefore, of Miss Thorne, and, consequently, the wife of the

'Mary's eldest child!' said the doctor, feeling that the perspiration had nearly broken out on his forehead, and

that he could hardly control his feelings. 'Mary's eldest child! Scatcherd, you should be more particular in

'They may be all girls for what I know, or all boys; besides, I don't care which it is. A girl would probably do

best with it. Only you'd have to see that she married some decent fellow; you'd be her guardian.'

'Pooh, nonsense,' said the doctor. 'Louis will be fiveandtwenty in a year or two.'

'And for all that's come and gone yet, Scatcherd, you are not going to leave us yourself quite so soon as all

'The chances are ten to one that such a clause in your will will never come to bear.'

'Quite so, quite so. If I die, Louis Philippe won't, but I thought it right to put in something to prevent his

'Oh! quite right, quite right. I think I would have named a later age than twentyfive.'

'So would not I. Louis Philippe will be all right by that time. That's my lookout. And now, doctor, you know

'No; no; never mind. The eldest child! You should be more particular, Scatcherd; you should, indeed.

'Why, what the devil could I say? I don't know their names; never even heard them. But the eldest is the

eldest, all the world over. Perhaps I ought to say the youngest, seeing that I am only a railway contractor.'

Scatcherd began to think that the doctor might now as well go away and leave him to the society of

Winterbones and the brandy; but, much as our friend had before expressed himself in a hurry, he now seemed

inclined to move very leisurely. He sat there by the bedside, resting his hands on his knees and gazing

unconsciously at the counterpane. At last he gave a deep sigh, and then he said, 'Scatcherd, you must be more

particular in this. If I am to have anything to do with it, you must, indeed, be more explicit.'

'Why, how the deuce can I be more explicit? Isn't her eldest living child plain enough, whether he be Jack, or

'Lawyer! You don't suppose I let my lawyer know what I was putting. No; I got the form and the paper, and

all that from him, and I did it in another. It's all right enough. Though Winterbones wrote it, he did it in such

The doctor sat a while longer, still looking at the counterpane, and then got up to depart. 'I'll see you again

'Tomorrow!' said Sir Roger, not at all understanding why Dr Thorne should talk of returning so soon.

'Tomorrow! why I ain't so bad as that, man, am I? If you come so often as that you will ruin me.'

'Oh, not as a medical man; not as that; but about this will, Scatcherd. I must think if over; I must, indeed.'

'You need not give yourself the least trouble in the world about my will till I'm dead; not the least. And who

knowsmay be, I may be settling your affairs yet; eh, doctor? looking after your niece when you're dead and

The doctor got on his cob and went his way, returning duly to Greshamsbury. But, in truth, as he went he

hardly knew whither he was going, or what he was doing. Sir Roger had hinted that the cob would be

compelled to make up for lost time by extra exertion on the road; but the cob had never been permitted to

have his own way as to pace more satisfactorily than on the present occasion. The doctor, indeed, hardly

knew that he was on horseback, so completely was he enveloped in the cloud of his own thoughts.

In the first place, that alternative which it had become him to put before the baronet as one unlikely to

occurthat of the speedy death of both father and sonwas one which he felt in his heart of hearts might

'The chances are ten to one that such a clause will never be brought to bear.' This he had said partly to

himself, so as to ease the thoughts which came crowding on his brain; partly, also, in pity for the patient and

the father. But now that he thought the matter over, he felt that there were no such odds. Were not the odds

the other way? Was it not almost probable that both these men might be gathered to their long account within

the next four years? One, the elder, was a strong man, indeed; one who might yet live for years to come if he

could but give himself fair play. But then, he himself protested, and protested with a truth too surely

grounded, that fair play to himself was beyond his own power to give. The other, the younger, had everything

against him. Not only was he a poor, puny creature, without physical strength, one of whose life a friend

could never feel sure under any circumstances, but he also was already addicted to his father's vices; he also

And then, if these two men did die within the prescribed period, if this clause of Sir Roger's will were brought

to bear, it should become his, Dr Thorne's, duty to see that clause carried out, how would he be bound to act?

That woman's eldest child was his own niece, his adopted bairn, his darling, the pride of his heart, the

cynosure of his eye, his child also, his own Mary. Of all his duties on this earth, next to that one great duty to

his God and conscience, was his duty to her. What, under these circumstances, did his duty to her require of

But then, that one great duty, that duty which she would be the first to expect from him; what did that

demand of him? Had Scatcherd made his will without saying what its clauses were, it seemed to Thorne that

Mary must have been the heiress, should that clause become necessarily operative. Whether she were so or

not would at any rate be for lawyers to decide. But now the case was very different. This rich man had

confided in him, and would it not be a breach of confidence, an act of absolute dishonestyan act of

dishonesty both to Scatcherd and to that fardistant American family, to that father, who, in former days, had

behaved so nobly, and to that eldest child of his, would it not be gross dishonesty to them all if he allowed

this man to leave a will by which his property might go to a person never intended to be his heir?

Long before he had arrived at Greshamsbury his mind on this point had been made up. Indeed, it had been

made up while sitting there by Scatcherd's bedside. It had not been difficult to make up his mind to so much;

but then, his way out of this dishonesty was not so easy for him to find. How should he set this matter right to

as to inflict no injury on his niece, and no sorrow to himselfif that indeed could be avoided?

And then other thoughts crowded on his brain. He had always professedprofessed at any rate to himself

and to herthat of all the vile objects of a man's ambition, wealth, wealth merely for its own sake, was the

vilest. They, in their joint school of inherent philosophy, had progressed to ideas which they might find it not

easy to carry out, should they be called on by events to do so. And if this would have been difficult to either

when acting on behalf of self alone, how much more difficult when one might have to act for the other! This

difficulty had now come to the uncle. Should he, in this emergency, take upon himself to fling away the

golden chance which might accrue to his niece if Scatcherd should be encouraged to make her partly his heir?

'He'd want her to go and live thereto live with him and his wife. All the money in the Bank of England

would not pay her for such misery,' said the doctor to himself, as he slowly rode into is own yard.

On one point, and one only, had he definitely made up his mind. On the following day he would go over

again to Boxall Hill, and would tell Scatcherd the whole truth. Come what might, the truth must be best. And

so, with some gleam of comfort, he went into the house, and found his niece in the drawingroom with

'Mary and I have been quarrelling,' said Patience. 'She says the doctor is the greatest man in a village; and I

'I only say that the doctor is the most looked after,' said Mary. 'There's another horrid message for you to go

'She says,' continued Miss Oriel, 'that if a parson was away for a month, no one would miss him; but that a

'I am sure uncle's are. They begrudge him his meals. Mr Oriel never gets called away to Silverbridge.'

'No; we in the Church manage our parish arrangements better than you do. We don't let strange practitioners

in among our flocks because the sheep may chance to fancy them. Our sheep have to put up with our spiritual

doses whether they like them or not. In that respect we are much the best off. I advise you, Mary, to marry a

'I am sure nothing on earth would give me greater pleasure,' said Miss Oriel, getting up and curtseying very

low to Dr Thorne; 'but I am not quite prepared for the agitation of an offer this morning, so I'll run away.'

And so she went; and the doctor, getting to his other horse, started again for Silverbridge, wearily enough.

'She's happy now where she is,' said he to himself, as he rode along. 'They all treat her there as an equal at

Greshamsbury. What though she be no cousin to the Thornes of Ullathorne. She has found her place there

among them all, and keeps it on equal terms with the best of them. There is Miss Oriel; her family is high;

she is rich, fashionable, a beauty, courted by every one; but yet she does not look down on Mary. They are

equal friends together. But how would it be if she were taken to Boxall Hill, even as a recognized niece of the

rich man there? Would Patience Oriel and Beatrice Gresham go there after her? Could she be happy there as

she is in my house here, poor though it be? It would kill her to pass a month with Lady Scatcherd and put up

with that man's humours, to see his mode of life, to be dependent on him, to belong to him.' And then the

doctor, hurrying on to Silverbridge, again met Dr Century at the old lady's bedside, and having made his

endeavours to stave off the inexorable coming of the grim visitor, again returned to his own niece and his

'You must be dead, uncle,' said Mary, as she poured out his tea for him, and prepared the comforts of that

most comfortable mealtea, dinner, and supper, all in one. 'I wish Silverbridge was fifty miles off.'

'That would only make the journey worse; but I am not dead yet, and, what is more to the purpose, neither is

my patient.' And as he spoke he contrived to swallow a jorum of scalding tea, containing in measure

somewhat near a pint. Mary, not a whit amazed at this feat, merely refilled the jorum without any

observation; and the doctor went on stirring the mixture with his spoon, evidently oblivious that any

ceremony had been performed by either of them since the first supply had been administered to him.

When the clatter of knives and forks was over, the doctor turned himself to the hearthrug, and putting one leg

over the other, he began to nurse it as he looked with complacency at his third cup of tea, which stood

untasted beside him. The fragments of the solid banquet had been removed, but no sacrilegious hand had

'Mary,' said he, 'suppose you were to find out tomorrow morning that, by some accident, you had become a

'The first thing I'd do, would be to pronounce a positive edict that you should never go to Silverbridge again;

'The next thingthe next thing would be to send to Paris for a French bonnet exactly like the one Patience

'Well I can't say I did; bonnets are invisible now; besides I never remark anybody's clothes, except yours.'

'Oh! do look at Miss Oriel's bonnet the next time you see her. I cannot understand why it should be so, but I

am sure of thisno English fingers put together such a bonnet as that; and I am nearly sure that no French

'But you don't care so much about bonnets, Mary!' This the doctor said as an assertion; but there was,

'Don't I though?' said she. 'I do care very much about bonnets; especially since I saw Patience this morning. I

'What! more than ten pounds? Then I don't think even Patience Oriel ought to give it.'

'Oh! a hundred francs; that's four pounds, isn't it? Well, and how much did your last new bonnet cost?'

'Mine! oh, nothingfive and ninepence, perhaps; I trimmed it myself. If I were left a great fortune, I'd send

to Paris tomorrow; no, I'd go myself to Paris to buy a bonnet, and I'd take you with me to choose it.'

The doctor sat silent for a while meditating about this, during which he unconsciously absorbed the tea beside

'Come, Mary,' he said at last, 'I'm in a generous mood; and as I am rather more rich than usual, we'll send to

Paris for a French bonnet. The going for it must wait a while longer I am afraid.'

'No, indeed. If you know the way to sendthat I must confess would puzzle me; but if you'll manage the

'And if you do, I'll tell you what I'll do with it. I'll cut it into fragments, and burn them before your face. Why,

uncle, what do you take me for? You're not a bit nice tonight to make such an offer as that to me; not a bit,

not a bit.' And then she came over from her seat at the teatray and sat down on a footstool close at his

knee. 'Because I'd have a French bonnet if I had a large fortune, is that a reason why I should like one now? if

you were to pay four pounds for a bonnet for me, it would scorch my head every time I put it on.'

'I don't see that: four pounds would not ruin me. However, I don't think you'd look a bit better if you had it;

and, certainly, I should not like to scorch these locks,' and putting his hand upon her shoulders, he played

'Patience has a ponyphaeton, and I'd have one if I were rich; and I'd have all my books bound as she does;

'Patience did not tell me; but so Beatrice says. Patience showed it to me once, and it is a darling. I think I'd

'Not properly, or improperly; not much, or little. I covet many things; but nothing of that sort. You know, or

'Very fine, when it is well come by,' she answered; 'that is, without detriment to the heart and soul.'

'I should be a happier man if you were provided for as Miss Oriel. Suppose, now, I could give you up to a

'Insure me against all wants! Oh, that would be a man. That would be selling me, wouldn't it, uncle? Yes,

selling me; and the price you would receive would be freedom from future apprehensions as regards me. It

would be a cowardly sale for you to make; and then, as to meme the victim. No, uncle; you must bear the

misery of having to provide for mebonnets and all. We are in the same boat, and you shan't turn me

'And if I were to die, what would you do? People must be bound together. They must depend on each other.

Of course, misfortunes may come; but it is cowardly to be afraid of them beforehand. You and I are bound

together, uncle; and though you say these things to tease me, I know you do not wish to get rid of me.'

'Well, well; we shall win through, doubtless; if not in one way, then in another.'

'No, my dear! not five; only fouronly four. I assure you; I have been very particular to count. I had one

'Well, then, as I hate the prejudice which attaches luck to an odd number, I'll have the sixth to show that I am

While Mary was preparing the sixth jorum, there came a knock at the door. Those late summonses were

hateful to Mary's ear, for they were usually forerunners of a midnight ride through the dark lanes to some

farmer's house. The doctor had been in the saddle all day, and, as Janet brought the note into the room, Mary

'A note from the house, miss,' said Janet: now 'the house', in Greshamsbury parlance, always meant the

'No one ill at the house, I hope,' said the doctor, taking the note from Mary's hand. 'Ohahyes; it's from

the squirethere's nobody ill: wait a minute, Janet, and I'll write a line. Mary, lend me your desk.'

The squire, anxious as usual for money, had written to ask what success the doctor had had in negotiating the

new loan with Sir Roger. That fact, however, was, that in his visit to Boxall Hill, the doctor had been

altogether unable to bring on the carpet the matter of this loan. Subjects had crowded themselves in too

quickly during that interviewthose two interviews at Sir Roger's bedside; and he had been obliged to leave

'I must at any rate go back now,' he said to himself. So he wrote to the squire, saying that he was to be at

Boxall Hill again on the following day, and that he would call at the house on his return.

'Why, I must go to Boxall Hill again tomorrow. I must go early, too, so we'd better both be off to bed. Tell

'That's an objection, certainly; but some day, when he's well, could you not take me over? I have the greatest

desire to see a man like that; a man who began with nothing and now has more than enough to buy the whole

'Why not? I am sure I should; I am sure I should like him, and Lady Scatcherd too. I've heard you say that she

'Yes, in her way; and he, too, is good in his way; but they are neither of them in your way: they are extremely

'Oh! I don't mind that; that would make them more amusing; one doesn't go to those sort of people for

'I don't think you'd find the Scatcherds pleasant acquaintances at all,' said the doctor, taking his bedcandle,

The doctor, that is our doctor, had thought nothing more of the message which had been sent to that other

doctor, Dr Fillgrave; nor in truth did the baronet. Lady Scatcherd had thought of it, but her husband during

the rest of the day was not in a humour which allowed her to remind him that he would soon have a new

physician on his hands; so she left the difficulty to arrange itself, waiting in some little trepidation till Dr

It was well that Sir Roger was not dying for want of his assistance, for when the message reached Barchester,

Dr Fillgrave was some five or six miles out of town, at Plumstead; and as he did not get back till late in the

evening, he felt himself necessitated to put off his visit to Boxall Hill till next morning. Had he chanced to

have been made acquainted with that little conversation about the pump, he would probably have postponed it

He was, however, by no means sorry to be summoned to the bedside of Sir Roger Scatcherd. It was well

known at Barchester, and very well known to Dr Fillgrave, that Sir Roger and Dr Thorne were old friends. It

was very well known to him also, that Sir Roger, in all his bodily ailments, had hitherto been contented to

entrust his safety to the skill of his old friend. Sir Roger was in his way a great man, and much talked of in

Barchester, and rumour had already reached the ears of the Barchester Galen, that the great railway contractor

was ill. When, therefore, he received a peremptory summons to go over to Boxall Hill, he could not but think

that some pure light had broken in upon Sir Roger's darkness, and taught him at last where to look for true

And then, also, Sir Roger was the richest man in the county, and to county practitioners a new patient with

large means is a godsend; how much greater a godsend when not only acquired, but taken also from some

Dr Fillgrave, therefore, was somewhat elated when, after an early breakfast, he stepped into the postchaise

which was to carry him to Boxall Hill. Dr Fillgrave's professional advancement had been sufficient to justify

the establishment of a brougham, in which he paid his ordinary visits round Barchester; but this was a special

occasion, requiring special speed, and about to produce no doubt a special guerdon, and therefore a pair of

It was hardly yet nine when the postboy somewhat loudly rang the bell at Sir Roger's door; and then Dr

Fillgrave, for the first time, found himself in the new grand hall of Boxall Hill house.

'I'll tell my lady,' said the servant, showing him into the grand diningroom; and there for some fifteen

minutes or twenty minutes Dr Fillgrave walked up and down the length of the Turkey carpet all alone.

Dr Fillgrave was not a tall man, and was perhaps rather more inclined to corpulence than became his height.

In his stockingfeet, according to the usually received style of measurement, he was five feet five; and he had

a little round abdominal protuberance, which an inch and a half added to the heels of his boots hardly enabled

him to carry off as well as he himself would have wished. Of this he was apparently conscious, and it gave to

him an air of not being entirely at his ease. There was, however, a personal dignity in his demeanour, a

propriety in his gait, and an air of authority in his gestures which should prohibit one from stigmatizing those

efforts at altitude as a failure. No doubt he did achieve much; but, nevertheless, the effort would occasionally

betray itself, and the story of the frog and the ox would irresistibly force itself into one's mind at those

But if the bulgy roundness of his person and the shortness of his legs in any way detracted from his personal

importance, these trifling defects were, he was well aware, more than atoned for by the peculiar dignity of his

countenance. If his legs were short, his face was not; if there was any undue preponderance below the

waistcoat, all was in due symmetry above the necktie. His hair was grey, not grizzled, nor white, but properly

grey; and stood up straight from his temples on each side, with an unbending determination of purpose. His

whiskers, which were of an admirable shape, coming down and turning gracefully at the angle of his jaw,

were grey also, but somewhat darker than his hair. His enemies in Barchester declared that their perfect shade

was produced by a leaden comb. His eyes were not brilliant, but were very effective, and well under

command. He was rather shortsighted, and a pair of eyeglasses was always on his nose, or in his hand. His

nose was long, and well pronounced, and his chin, also, was sufficiently prominent; but the great feature of

his face was his mouth. The amount of secret medical knowledge of which he could give assurance by the

pressure of those lips was truly wonderful. By his lips, also, he could be most exquisitely courteous, or most

sternly forbidding. And not only could he be either the one or the other; but he could at his will assume any

When Dr Fillgrave was first shown into Sir Roger's diningroom, he walked up and down the room for a

while with easy, jaunty step, with his hands joined together behind his back, calculating the price of the

furniture, and counting the heads which might be adequately entertained in a room of such noble proportions;

but in seven or eight minutes an air of impatience might have been seen to suffuse his face. Why could he not

be shown into the sick man's room? What necessity could there be for keeping him there, as though he were

some apothecary with a box of leeches in his pocket? He then rang the bell, perhaps a little violently. 'Does

Sir Roger know that I am here?' he said to the servant. 'I'll tell my lady,' said the man, again vanishing.

For five minutes more he walked up and down, calculating no longer the value of the furniture, but rather that

of his own importance. He was not wont to be kept waiting in this way; and though Sir Roger Scatcherd was

at present a great and rich man, Dr Fillgrave had remembered him a very small and a very poor man. He now

began to think of Sir Roger as the stonemason, and to chafe somewhat more violently at being so kept by

When one is impatient, five minutes is as the duration of all time, and a quarter of an hour is eternity. At the

end of twenty minutes the step of Dr Fillgrave up and down the room had become very quick, and he had just

made up his mind that he would not stay there all day to the serious detriment, perhaps fatal injury, of his

other expectant patients. His hand was again on the bell, and was about to be used with vigour, when the door

'Oh, laws!' Such had been her first exclamation on hearing that the doctor was in the diningroom. She was

standing at the time with her housekeeper in a small room in which she kept her linen and jam, and in which,

in company with the same housekeeper, she spent the happiest moments of her life.

'But surely didn't he send for 'un? Let the master have the row himself, then; that's what I'd do, my lady,'

added Hannah, seeing that her ladyship still stood trembling in doubt, biting her thumbnail.

'You couldn't go up to the master yourself, could now, Hannah?' said Lady Scatcherd in her most persuasive

'Why no,' said Hannah, after a little deliberation; 'no, I'm afeard I couldn't.'

'Then I must just face it myself.' And up went the wife to tell her lord that the physician for whom he had sent

In the interview which then took place the baronet had not indeed been violent, but he had been very

determined. Nothing on earth, he said, should induce him to see Dr Fillgrave and offend his dear old friend

'But Roger,' said her ladyship, half crying, or rather pretending to cry in vexation, 'what shall I do with the

'Put him under the pump,' said the baronet; and he laughed his peculiar low guttural laugh, which told so

'That's nonsense, Roger; you know I can't put him under the pump. Now you are ill, and you'd better see him

'I'll be d if I do, my lady.' All the people about Boxall Hill called poor Lady Scatcherd 'my lady' as if

'You know you needn't mind nothing he says, nor yet take nothing he sends: and I'll tell him not to come no

But there was not coaxing Roger over now, indeed ever: he was a wilful, headstrong, masterful man; a tyrant

always though never a cruel one; and accustomed to rule his wife and household as despotically as he did his

'You go down and tell him I don't want him, and won't see him, and that's an end of it. If he chose to earn his

money, why didn't he come yesterday when he was sent for? I'm well now, and don't want him; and what's

So Winterbones, who during this interview had been at work at his little table, got up to lock the door, and

Lady Scatcherd had no alternative but to pass through it before the last edict was obeyed.

Lady Scatcherd, with slow step, went downstairs and again sought counsel with Hannah, and the two, putting

their heads together, agreed that the only cure for the present evil was to found in a good fee. So Lady

Scatcherd, with a fivepound note in her hand, and trembling in every limb, went forth to encounter the

As the door opened, Dr Fillgrave dropped the bellrope which was in his hand, and bowed low to the lady.

Those who knew the doctor well, would have known from his bow that he was not well pleased; it was as

much as though he said, 'Lady Scatcherd, I am your most obedient servant; at any rate it appears that it is

Lady Scatcherd did not understand all this; but she perceived at once that he was angry.

'I hope Sir Roger does not find himself worse,' said the doctor. 'The morning is getting on; shall I step up and

'Hem! ha! oh! Why, you see, Dr Fillgrave, Sir Roger finds hisself vastly better this morning, vastly so.'

'I'm very glad to hear it; but as the morning is getting on, shall I step up to see Sir Roger?'

'Why, Dr Fillgrave, sir, you see, he finds hisself so much hisself this morning, that he a'most thinks it would

'A shame to trouble me!' This was the sort of shame which Dr Fillgrave did not at all comprehend. 'A shame

Lady Scatcherd saw that she had nothing for it but to make the whole matter intelligible. Moreover, seeing

that she appreciated more thoroughly the smallness of Dr Fillgrave's person more thoroughly than she did the

peculiar greatness of his demeanour, she began to be a shade less afraid of him than she had thought she

'Yes, Dr Fillgrave; you see, when a man like he gets well, he can't abide the idea of doctors: now, yesterday,

he was all for sending for you; but today he comes to hisself, and don't seem to want no doctor at all.'

Then did Dr Fillgrave seem to grow out of his boots, so suddenly did he take upon himself sundry modes of

expansive attitude;to grow out of his boots and to swell upwards, till his angry eyes almost looked down

'This is very singular, very singular, Lady Scatcherd; very singular indeed; very singular; quite unusual. I

have come here from Barchester, at some considerable inconvenience, at some very considerable

inconvenience, I may say, to my regular patients; andandandI don't know that anything so very

singular ever occurred to me before.' And then Dr Fillgrave, with a compression of his lips which almost

Then Lady Scatcherd bethought of her great panacea. 'It isn't about the money, you know, doctor,' said she;

'of course Sir Roger don't expect you to come here with posthorses for nothing.' In this, by the by, Lady

Scatcherd did not stick quite close to veracity, for Sir Roger, had he known it, would by no means have

assented to any payment; and the note which her ladyship held in her hand was taken from her own private

purse. 'It ain't about the money, doctor;' and then she tendered the banknote, which she thought would

Now Dr Fillgrave dearly loved a fivepound fee. What physician is so unnatural as not to love it? He dearly

loved a fivepound fee; but he loved his dignity better. He was angry also; and like all angry men, he loved

his grievance. He felt that he had been badly treated; but if he took the money he would throw away his right

to indulge in any such feeling. At that moment his outraged dignity and cherished anger were worth more

than a fivepound note. He looked at it with wishful but still averted eyes, and then sternly refused the tender.

'No, madam,' said he; 'no, no;' and with his right hand raised with his eyeglasses in it, he motioned away the

tempting paper. 'No; I should have been happy to have given Sir Roger the benefit of any medical skill I may

'Oh, of course; if he's well, and does not choose to see me, there's an end of it. Should he have any relapse, as

my time is valuable, he will perhaps oblige me by sending elsewhere. Madam, good morning. I will, if you

'But, doctor, you'll take the money; you must take the money; indeed you'll take the money,' said Lady

Scatcherd, who had now become really unhappy at the idea of her husband's unpardonable whim had brought

this man with posthorses all the way from Barchester, and that he was to be paid nothing for his time or

'No, madam, no. I could not think of it. Sir Roger, I have no doubt, will know better another time. It is not a

'But it is a question of money, doctor; and you really shall, you must.' And poor Lady Scatcherd, in her

anxiety to acquit herself at any rate of any pecuniary debt to the doctor, came to personal close quarters with

'Quite impossible, quite impossible,' said the doctor, still cherishing his grievance, and valiantly rejecting the

'Quite out of the question.' And so, with his hands and hat behind his back, in token of his utter refusal to

accept any pecuniary accommodation of his injury, he made his way backwards to the door, her ladyship

perseveringly pressing him in front. So eager had been the attack on him, that he had not waited to give his

'Utterly out of the question,' said Dr Fillgrave, with great deliberation, as he backed his way into the hall. As

he did so, of course he turned round,and he found himself almost in the arms of Dr Thorne.

As Burley might have glared at Bothwell when they rushed together in the dread encounter on the mountain

side; as Achilles may have glared at Hector when at last they met, each resolved to test in fatal conflict the

prowess of the other, so did Dr Fillgrave glare at his foe from Greshamsbury, when, on turning round on his

exalted heel, he found his nose on a level with the top button of Dr Thorne's waistcoat.

And here, if it be not too tedious, let us pause a while to recapitulate and add up the undoubted grievances of

the Barchester practitioner. He had made no effort to ingratiate himself into the sheepfold of that other

shepherddog; it was not by his seeking that he was not at Boxall Hill; much as he hated Dr Thorne, full sure

as he felt of that man's utter ignorance, of his incapacity to administer properly even a black dose, of his

murdering propensities and his low, mean, unprofessional style of practice; nevertheless, he had done nothing

to undermine him with these Scatcherds. Dr Thorne might have sent every mother's son at Boxall Hill to his

long account, and Dr Fillgrave would not have interfered;would not have interfered unless specially and

But he had been and duly called on. Before such a step was taken some words must undoubtedly have passed

on the subject between Thorne and Scatcherds. Thorne must have known what was to be done. Having been

so called, Dr Fillgrave had comehad come all the way in a postchaisehad been refused admittance to

the sick man's room, on the plea that the sick man was no longer sick; and just as he was about to retire

feelessfor the want of the fee was not the less a grievance from the fact of its having been tendered and

refusedfeeless, dishonoured, and in dudgeon, he encountered this other doctorthis very rival whom he

had bee sent to supplant; he encountered him in the very act of going to the sick man's room.

What mad fanatic Burley, what godsuccoured insolent Achilles, ever had such cause to swell with wrath as

at that moment had Dr Fillgrave? Had I the pen of Moliere, I could fitly tell of such medical anger, but with

no other pen can it be fitly told. He did swell, and when the huge bulk of his wrath was added to his natural

proportions, he loomed gigantic before the eyes of the surrounding followers of Sir Roger.

Dr Thorne stepped back three steps and took his hat from his head, having, in the passage from the halldoor

to the diningroom, hitherto omitted to do so. It must be borne in mind that he had to conception whatever

that Sir Roger had declined to see the physician for whom he had sent; none whatever that the physician was

Dr Thorne and Dr Fillgrave were doubtless wellknown enemies. All the world of Barchester, and all that

portion of the world of London which is concerned with the lancet and the scalpingknife, were well aware

of this: they were continually writing against each other; continually speaking against each other; but yet they

had never hitherto come to that positive personal collision which is held to justify a cut direct. They very

rarely saw each other; and when they did meet, it was in some casual way in the streets of Barchester or

elsewhere, and on such occasions their habit had been to bow with very cold propriety.

On the present occasion, Dr Thorne of course felt that Dr Fillgrave had the whiphand of him; and, with a

sort of manly feeling on such a point, he conceived it to be most compatible with his own dignity to show,

under such circumstances, more than his usual courtesysomething, perhaps, amounting almost to

cordiality. He had been supplanted, quoad doctor, in the house of this rich, eccentric, railway baronet, and he

So he smiled blandly as he took off his hat, and in a civil speech he expressed a hope that Dr Fillgrave had

Here was an aggravation to the already lacerated feelings of the injured man. He had been brought thither to

be scoffed at and scorned at, that he might be a laughingstock to his enemies, and food for mirth to the

vileminded. He swelled with noble anger till he would have burst, had it not been for the opportune padding

'Sir,' said he; 'sir:' and he could hardly get his lips open to give vent to the tumult of his heart. Perhaps he was

not wrong; for it may be that his lips were more eloquent than would have been his words.

'What's the matter?' said Dr Thorne, opening his eyes wide, and addressing Lady Scatcherd over his head and

across the hairs of the irritated man below him. 'What on earth is the matter? Is anything wrong with Sir

'Oh, laws, doctor!' said her ladyship. 'Oh, laws; I'm sure it ain't my fault. Here's Dr Fillgrave, in a taking, and

I'm quite ready to pay himquite. If a man gets paid, what more can he want?' And she again held out the

What more, indeed, Lady Scatcherd, can any of us want, if only we could keep our tempers and feelings a

little in abeyance? Dr Fillgrave, however, could not so keep his; and, therefore, he did want something more,

Lady Scatcherd's courage was somewhat resuscitated by the presence of her ancient trusty ally; and,

moreover, she began to conceive that the little man before her was unreasonable beyond all conscience with

his anger, seeing that that for which he was ready to work had been offered him without any work at all.

'Madam,' said he, again turning round at Lady Scatcherd, 'I was never before treated in such a way in any

'I'll let you know what is the matter, sir,' said he, turning round again as quickly as before. 'I'll let you know

what is the matter. I'll publish this, sir, to the medical world;' and as he shrieked out the words of the threat,

he stood on tiptoes and brandished his eyeglasses up almost into his enemy's face.

'Don't be angry with Dr Thorne,' said Lady Scatcherd. 'Any ways, you needn't be angry with him. If you must

'I shall be angry with him, madam,' ejaculated Dr Fillgrave, making another sudden demipirouette. 'I am

angry with himor, rather, I despise him;' and completing the circle, Dr Fillgrave again brought himself

Dr Thorne raised his eyebrows and looked inquiringly at Lady Scatcherd; but there was a quiet sarcastic

motion round his mouth which by no means had the effect of throwing oil on the troubled waters.

'I'll publish the whole of this transaction to the medical world, Dr Thornethe whole of it; and if that has not

the effect of rescuing the people of Greshamsbury out of your hands, thenthenthen, I don't know what

will. Is my carriagethat is, the postchaise there?' and Dr Fillgrave, speaking very loudly, turned

'What have I done to you, Dr Fillgrave,' said Dr Thorne, now absolutely laughing, 'that you should

determined to take the bread out of my mouth? I am not interfering with your patient. I have come here

'Money matters! Very wellvery well; money matters. That is your idea of medical practice. Very

wellvery well. Is my postchaise at the door? I'll publish it all to the medical worldevery wordevery

'Man! sir; whom do you call a man? I'll let you know whether I'm a manpostchaise there!'

'Don't 'ee call him names now, doctor; don't 'ee pray don't 'ee,' said Lady Scatcherd.

By this time they had all got somewhere nearer the halldoor; but the Scatcherd retainers were too fond of

the row to absent themselves willingly at Dr Fillgrave's bidding, and it did not appear that any one went in

'Man! sir; I'll let you know what it is to speak to me in that style. I think, sir, you hardly know who I am.'

'All that I know of you at present is, that you are my friend Sir Roger's physician, and I cannot conceive what

has occurred to make you so angry.' And as he spoke, Dr Thorne looked carefully at him to see whether that

pumpdiscipline had in truth been applied. There were no signs whatever that cold water had been thrown

'My postchaiseis may postchaise there? The medical world shall know all; you may be sure, sir, the

medical world shall know it all;' and thus, ordering his postchaise and threatening Dr Thorne with the

But the moment he put on his hat he returned. 'No, madam,' said he. 'No; quite out of the question: such an

affair is not to be arranged by such means. I'll publish it all to the medical worldpostchaise there!' and

then, using all his force, he flung as far as he could into the hall a light bit of paper. It fell at Dr Thorne's feet,

'I put it into his hat just while he was in his tantrum,' said Lady Scatcherd. 'And I thought that perhaps he

would not find it till he got to Barchester. Well I wish he'd been paid, certainly, although Sir Roger wouldn't

see him;' and in this manner Dr Thorne got some glimpse of understanding into the cause of the great offence.

'Ha! ha! ha! Ha! ha! ha!' laughed Sir Roger, lustily, as Dr Thorne entered the room. 'Well, if that ain't rich, I

don't know what is. Ha! ha! ha! But why didn't they put him under the pump, doctor?'

The doctor, however, had too much tact, and too many things of importance to say, to allow of his giving up

much time to the discussion of Dr Fillgrave's wrath. He had come determined to open the baronet's eyes as to

what would be the real effect of his will, and he had also to negotiate a loan for Mr Gresham, if that might be

possible. Dr Thorne therefore began about the loan, that being the easier subject, and found that Sir Roger

was quite clearheaded as to his many money concerns, in spite of his illness. Sir Roger was willing enough

to lend Mr Gresham more moneysix, eight, ten, twenty thousand; but then, in doing so, he should insist on

'What! the titledeeds of Greshamsbury for a few thousand pounds?' said the doctor.

'I don't know whether you call ninety thousand pounds a few thousands; but the debt will about amount to

'Old and new together, of course; every shilling I lend more weakens my security for what I have lent before.'

'It ought to be first and last to cover such a debt as that. If he wants further accommodation, he must part with

The point was argued backwards and forwards for some time without avail, and the doctor then thought it

'No I ain't,' said Sir Roger; 'not a bit hard; that is, not a bit too hard. Money is always hard. I know I found it

hard to come by; and there is no reason why Squire Gresham should expect to find me so very soft.'

'Very well; there is an end of that. I thought you would have done as much to oblige me, that is all.'

'I'll tell you what; I'll do as much to oblige a friend as any one. I'll lend you five thousand pounds, you

'But to ask me to go on lending money to a third party, and he over head and ears in debt, by way of obliging

'Well, there's and end of it. Now I've something to say to you about that will of yours.'

'No, Scatcherd; it isn't settled. It must be a great deal more settled before we have done with it, as you'll find

'What you have to tell me!' said Sir Roger, sitting up in bed; 'and what have you to tell me?'

'Yes; but that's only in the event of Louis Philippe dying before he is twentyfive.'

'Exactly; and now I know something about your sister's eldest child, and, therefore, I have come to tell you.'

'I do, Scatcherd; it is a strange story, and maybe it will make you angry. I cannot help it if it does so. I should

not tell you this if I could avoid it; but as I do tell you, for your sake, as you will see, and not for my own, I

Sir Roger now looked at him with an altered countenance. There was something in his voice of the

authoritative tone of other days, something in the doctor's look which had on the baronet the same effect

'Can you give me a promise, Scatcherd, that what I am about to tell you shall not be repeated?'

'A promise! Well, I don't know what it's about, you know. I don't like promises in the dark.'

'Then I must leave it to your honour; for what I have to say must be said. You remember my brother,

Remember his brother! thought the rich man to himself. The name of the doctor's brother had not been

alluded to between them since the days of that trial; but still it was impossible but that Scatcherd should well

'Yes, yes; certainly. I remember your brother,' said he. 'I remember him well; there's no doubt about that.'

'Well, Scatcherd,' and, as he spoke, the doctor laid his hand with kindness on the other's arm. 'Mary's eldest

'But there is no such child living,' said Sir Roger; and, in his violence, as he spoke he threw from off him the

bedclothes, and tried to stand up on the floor. He found, however, that he had no strength for such an effort,

Dr Thorne would say nothing further till he had got the man into bed again. This he at last affected, and then

'Yes, Scatcherd, that child is alive; and for fear that you should unintentionally make her your heir, I have

'And why should you want to spite her? If she is Mary's child, she is your brother's child also. If she is my

niece, she must be your niece also. Why should you want to spite her? Why should you try to do her such a

The doctor did not at once answer all these questions. He had made up his mind that he would tell Sir Roger

that this child was living, but he had not as yet resolved to make known all the circumstances of her history.

He was not even yet quite aware whether it would be necessary to say that this foundling orphan was the

'Such a child, is, at any rate, living,' said he; 'of that I give you my assurance; and under your will, as now

worded, it might come to pass that that child should be your heir. I do not want to spite her, but I should be

wrong to let you make your will without such knowledge, seeing that I am in possession of it myself.'

'Signifies! Yes; it does signify, a great deal. But, Thorne, Thorne, now that I remember it, now that I can

think of things, it waswas it not you yourself who told me that the baby did not live?'

'I believed you then, Thorne; then, when I was a poor, brokendown daylabourer, lying in jail, rotting there;

'Whatever scheme I may have, you can frustrate by making another will. What can I gain by telling you this?

They both remained silent for a while, during which the baronet poured out from his hidden resource a glass

'When a man is taken aback suddenly by such tidings as these, he must take a drop of something, eh, doctor?'

Dr Thorne did not seen the necessity; but the present, he felt, was no time for arguing the point.

'Come, Thorne, where is the girl? You must tell me that. She is my niece, and I have a right to know. She

shall come here, and I will do something for her. By the Lord! I would as soon she had the money as anyone

'She is a good girl,' said the doctor somewhat loudly and sternly. He could hardly trust himself to say much

'Mary was a good girl, a very good girl, till'and Sir Roger raised himself up in his bed with his fist

clenched, as though he were again about to strike that fatal blow at the farmyard gate. 'But come, it's no

good thinking of that; you behaved well and manly, always. And so poor Mary's child is alive; at least, you

To this the doctor chose to make no answer, and again there was silence for a while.

'The prettiest women's name going; there's no name like it,' said the contractor, with an unusual tenderness in

'Not Mary Scatcherd! Mary what, then? you, with your d pride, wouldn't let her be called Mary Thorne, I

This was too much for the doctor. He felt that there were tears in his eyes, so he walked away to the window

to dry them, unseen. He had fifty names, each more sacred than the other, the most sacred of them all would

'Mary what, doctor? Come, if the girl is to belong to me, if I am to provide for her, I must know what to call

'Who talked of your providing for her?,' said the doctor, turning round at the rival uncle. 'Who said that she

was to belong to you? She will be no burden to you; you are only told of this that you may not leave your

money to her without knowing it. She is provided forthat is, she wants nothing; she will do well enough;

'But is she's Mary's child, Mary's child in real truth, I will trouble myself about her. Who else should do so?

For the matter of that, I'd soon say her as any of those others in America. What do I care about blood? I shan't

mind her being a bastard. That is to say, of course, if she's decently good. Did she ever get any kind of

Dr Thorne at this moment hated his friend the baronet with almost a deadly hatred; that he, rough brute as he

wasfor he was a rough brutethat he should speak in such language of the angel who gave to that home

in Greshamsbury so many of the joys of Paradisethat he should speak of her as in some degree his own,

that he should inquire doubtingly as to her attributes and her virtues. And then the doctor thought of her

Italian and French readings, of her music, of her nice books, and sweet lady ways, of her happy

companionship with Patience Oriel, and her dear, bosom friendship with Beatrice Gresham. He thought of

her grace, and winning manners, and soft, polished feminine beauty; and, as he did so, he hated Sir Roger

Scatcherd, and regarded him with loathing, as he might have regarded a wallowinghog.

At last a light seemed to break in upon Sir Roger's mind. Dr Thorne, he perceived, did not answer his last

question. He perceived, also, that the doctor was affected with some more than ordinary emotion. Why

should it be that this subject of Mary Scatcherd's child moved him so deeply? Sir Roger had never been at the

doctor's house at Greshamsbury, had never seen Mary Thorne, but he had heard that there lived with the

doctor some young female relative; and thus a glimmering light seemed to come in upon Sir Roger's bed.

He had twitted the doctor with his pride; had said that it was impossible that the girl should be called Mary

Thorne. What if she were so called? What if she were now warming herself at the doctor's hearth?

'Well, come, Thorne, what is it you call her? Tell it out, man. And, look you, if it's your name she bears, I

shall think more of you, a deal more than ever I did yet. Come, Thorne, I'm her uncle too. I have a right to

The doctor had not the hardihood nor the resolution to deny it. 'Yes,' said he, 'that is her name; she lives with

'Yes, and lives with all those grand folks at Greshamsbury too. I have heard of that.'

'She shall come over here. Lady Scatcherd shall have her to stay with her. She shall come to us. And as for

'Yes, make another willor else alter that one. But as to Miss Thorne coming here'

'Well, Mary. As to Mary Thorne coming here, that I fear will not be possible. She cannot have two homes.

'But one such as I am. She would not be happy over here. She does not like new faces. You have enough

'Ah! but, Thorne, you have told me of this girl now, and I cannot but talk of her. If you wished to keep the

matter dark, you should have said nothing about it. She is my niece as much as yours. And, Thorne, I loved

Any one who might have heard and seen the contractor would have hardly thought him to be the same man

who, a few hours before, was urging that the Barchester physician should be put under the pump.

'I don't want to take her from you. I don't want to take her; but surely there can be no harm in her coming here

to see us? I can provide for her, Thorne, remember that. I can provide for her without reference to Louis

Philippe. What are ten or fifteen thousand pounds to me? Remember that, Thorne.'

Dr Thorne did remember it. In that interview he remembered many things, and much passed through his mind

on which he felt himself compelled to resolve somewhat too suddenly. Would he be justified in rejecting, on

behalf of Mary, the offer of pecuniary provision which this rich relative would be so well inclined to make?

Or, if he accepted ti, would be in truth be studying her interests? Scatcherd was a selfwilled, obstinate

mannow indeed touched by unwonted tenderness; but he was one of those whose lasting tenderness Dr

Thorne would be very unwilling to trust his darling. He did resolve, that on the whole he should best

discharge his duty, even to her, by keeping her to himself, and rejecting, on her behalf, any participation in

the baronet's wealth. As Mary herself had said, 'some people must be bound together;' and their destiny, that

of himself and his niece, seemed to have so bound them. She had found her place at Greshamsbury, her place

in the world; and it would be better for her now to keep it, than to go forth and seek another that would be

'No, Scatcherd,' he said at last, 'she cannot come here; she would not be happy here, and, to tell the truth I do

'Ah! she would be ashamed of her mother, you mean, and of her mother's brother too, eh? She's too fine a

lady, I suppose, to take me by the hand and give me a kiss, and call me her uncle? I and Lady Scatcherd

'But I don't know how you'll reconcile what you are doing with your conscience. What right can you have to

throw away the girl's chance, now that she has a chance? What fortune can you give her?'

'Well, well, well, well, I never heard such a thing in my life; never. Mary's child, my own Mary's child, and

I'm not to see her! But, Thorne, I tell you what; I will see her. I'll go over to her, I'll go to Greshamsbury, and

tell her who I am, and what I can do for her. I tell you fairly I will. You shall not keep her away from those

who belong to her, and can do her a good turn. Mary's daughter; another Mary Scatcherd! I almost wish she

were called Mary Scatcherd. Is she like her, Thorne? Come tell me that; is she like her mother.'

'Not remember her! ah, well. She was the handsomest girl in Barchester, anyhow. That was given up to her.

Well, I didn't think to be talking of her again. Thorne, you cannot but expect that I shall go over and see

'Now, Scatcherd, look here,' and the doctor, coming away from the window, where he had been standing, sat

'Listen to me, Scatcherd. I do not want to praise myself in any way; but when that girl was an infant, six

months old, she was like to be a thorough obstacle to her mother's fortune in life. Tomlinson was willing to

marry your sister, but he would not marry the child too. Then I took the baby, and I promised her mother that

I would be to her as a father. I have kept my word as fairly as I have been able. She has sat at my hearth, and

drunk of my cup, and been to me as my own child. After that, I have the right to judge what is best for her.

'You may take it as you will,' said the doctor, who was too much in earnest to be in the least afraid of

offending his companion. 'I have not said so; but I do say that you and she are unlike in the way of living.'

'You could not see her without letting her know what is the connexion between you; of that I wish to keep her

'I never knew any one yet who is ashamed of a rich connexion. How do you mean to get a husband for her,

'I have told you of her existence,' continued the doctor, not appearing to notice what the baronet had last said,

'because I found it necessary that you should know the fact of your sister having left a child behind her; you

would otherwise have made a will different from that intended, and there might have been a lawsuit, and

mischief, and misery when we are gone. You must perceive that I have done this in honesty to you; and you

yourself are too honest to repay me by taking advantage of this knowledge to make me unhappy.'

'Oh, very well, doctor. At any rate, you are a brick, I will say that. But I'll think of this, I'll think of it; but it

'Oh, but doctor, you ain't going to leave me so. What am I to do? What doses shall I take? How much brandy

may I drink? May I have a grill for dinner? D me, doctor, you have turned Fillgrave out of the house.

Dr Thorne laughed, and then, sitting himself down to write medically, gave such prescriptions and ordinances

as he found to be necessary. They announced but to this: that the man was to drink, if possible, no brandy;

This having been done, the doctor again proceeded to take his leave; but when he got to the door he was

called back. 'Thorne! Thorne! About that money for Mr Gresham; do what you like, do just what you like.

Ten thousand is it? Well, he shall have it. I'll make Winterbones write about it at once. Five per cent., isn't it?

'Thank you, Scatcherd, thank you, I am really very much obliged to you, I am indeed. I wouldn't ask it if I

was not sure your money is safe. Goodbye, old fellow, and get rid of that bedfellow of yours,' and again he

'Thorne,' said Sir Roger once more. 'Thorne, just come back for a minute. You wouldn't let me send a present

The doctor contrived to escape without giving a definite answer to this question; and then, having paid his

Dr Thorne did not at once go home to his own house. When he reached the Greshamsbury gates, he sent his

horse to its own stable by one of the people at the lodge, and then walked on to the mansion. He had to see

the squire on the subject of the forthcoming loan, and he had also to see the Lady Arabella.

The Lady Arabella, though she was not personally attached to the doctor with quite so much warmth as some

others of her family, still had reasons of her own for not dispensing with his visits to the house. She was one

of his patients, and a patient fearful of the disease with which she was threatened. Though she thought the

doctor to be arrogant, deficient as to properly submissive demeanour towards herself, an instigator to marital

parsimony in her lord, one altogether opposed to herself and her interest in Greshamsbury politics,

nevertheless she did feel trust in him as a medical man. She had no wish to be rescued out of his hands by any

Dr Fillgrave, as regarded that complaint of hers, much as she may have desired, and did desire, to sever him

Now the complaint of which the Lady Arabella was afraid, was cancer: and her only present confidant in this

The first of the Greshamsbury circle whom he saw was Beatrice, and he met her in the garden.

'Oh, doctor,' said she, 'where has Mary been this age? She has not been up here since Frank's birthday.'

'Well, that was only three days ago. Why don't you go down and ferret her out in the village?'

'So I have done. I was there just now, and found her out. She was out with Patience Oriel. Patience is all and

'A poor, beggarly, sneaking virtue after all, doctor. They should have come up, seeing how deserted I am

'Oh, yes! All the De Courcys have gone. I think, between ourselves, Mary stays away because she does not

'Oh, yes; did you not hear? There was rather a fight about it. Master Frank wanted to get off, and was as hard

to catch as an eel, and then the countess was offended; and papa said he didn't see why Frank was to go if he

The doctor understood it all as well as though it had been described to him at full length. The countess had

claimed her prey, in order that she might carry him off to Miss Dunstable's golden embrace. The prey, not yet

old enough and wise enough to connect the worship of Plutus with that of Venus, had made sundry futile

feints and dodges in the vain hope of escape. Then the anxious mother had enforced the De Courcy behests

with all a mother's authority. But the father, whose ideas on the subject of Miss Dunstable's wealth had

probably not been consulted, had, as a matter of course, taken exactly the other side of the question. The

doctor did not require to be told all this in order to know how the battle had raged. He had not yet heard of the

great Dunstable scheme; but he was sufficiently acquainted with Greshamsbury tactics to understand that the

As a rule, when the squire took a point warmly to heart, he was wont to carry his way against the De Courcy

interest. He could be obstinate enough when it so pleased him, and had before now gone so far as to tell his

wife, that her thricenoble sisterinlaw might remain at home at Courcy Castleor, at any rate, not come

to Greshamsburyif she could not do so without striving to rule him and every one else when she got here.

This had of course been repeated to the countess, who had merely replied to it by a sisterly whisper, in which

she sorrowfully intimated that some men were born brutes, and always would remain so.

'I think they all are,' the Lady Arabella had replied; wishing, perhaps, to remind her sisterinlaw that the

breed of brutes was as rampant in West Barsetshire as in the eastern division of that county.

The squire, however, had not fought on this occasion with all his vigour. There had, of course, been some

passages between him and his son, and it had been agreed that Frank should go for a fortnight to Courcy

'We mustn't quarrel with them, you know, if we can help it,' said the father; 'and, therefore, you must go

'Oh, yes, to be sure; the ointment of Lebanon. He used to cover all the walls of London. I haven't heard of

'No; that is because he's dead. Well, she carries on the ointment now, I believe; at any rate, she has got all the

'You'd better go and see,' said the father, who now began to have some inkling of an idea why the two ladies

were so anxious to carry his son off to Courcy Castle at this exact time. And so Frank had packed up his best

clothes, given a last fond look at the new black horse, repeated his last special injunctions to Peter, and had

then made one of the stately cortege which proceeded through the county from Greshamsbury to Courcy

'I am very glad of that, very,' said the squire, when he heard that the money was to be forthcoming. 'I shall get

it on easier terms from him than elsewhere; and it kills me to have continual bother about such things.' And

Mr Gresham, feeling that that difficulty was tided over for a time, and that the immediate pressure of little

debts would be abated, stretched himself on his easy chair as though he were quite comfortable;one may

How frequent it is that men on their road to ruin feel elation such as this! A man signs away moiety of his

substance; nay, that were nothing; but a moiety of the substance of his children; he puts his pen to the paper

that ruins him and them; but in doing so he frees himself from a source of immediate little pestering, stinging

The doctor felt angry with himself for what he had done when he saw how easily the squire adapted himself

to this new loan. 'It will make Scatcherd's claim upon you very heavy,' said he.

Mr Gresham at once read all that was passing through the doctor's mind. 'Well, what else can I do?' said he.

'You wouldn't have me allow my daughter to lose this match for the sake of a few thousand pounds? It will be

The doctor took the letter and read it. It was a long, wordy, illwritten rigmarole, in which that amorous

gentleman spoke with much rapture of his love and devotion for Miss Gresham; but at the same time

declared, and most positively swore, that the adverse cruelty of his circumstances was such, that it would not

allow him to stand up like a man at the hymeneal altar until six thousand pounds hard cash had been paid

'It may be all right,' said the squire; 'but in my time gentlemen were not used to write such letters as that to

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. He did not know how far he would be justified in saying much, even to

'I told him that he should have the money; and one would have thought that that would have been enough for

him. Well: I suppose Augusta likes him. I suppose she wishes the match; otherwise, I would give him such an

'Oh, that's satisfactory enough; couldn't be more so; a thousand a year and the house at Wimbledon for her;

that's all very well. But such a lie, you know, Thorne. He's rolling in money, and yet he talks of this beggarly

'Oh, impossible; quite impossible. In the first place, he was so very anxious for the match. In the next place, it

is such a great thing for him. And then, he would never dare; you see, he is dependent on the De Courcys for

'But there is not much fear of that, I think. Scatcherd may be a very fine fellow, but I think they'll hardly

'And you believe that this man absolutely wants to get off the match; absolutely thinks of playing such a trick

'I don't say he intends to do it; but it looks to me as though he were making a door for himself, or trying to

The doctor was silent for a moment, and then he said, 'I am not a lovemaking man myself, but I think that if

I were much in love with a young lady, I should not write such a letter as that to her father.'

'By heavens! If I thought so,' said the squire'but, Thorne, we can't judge of those fellows as one does of

gentlemen; they are so used to making money, and seeing money made, that they have an eye to business in

'Perhaps so, perhaps so,' muttered the doctor, showing evidently that he still doubted the warmth of Mr

'The match was none of my making, and I cannot interfere now to break it off: it will give her a good position

in the world; for, after all, money goes a great way, and it is something to be in Parliament. I can only hope

she likes him. I do truly hope she likes him;' and the squire also showed by the tone of his voice that, though

he might hope that his daughter was in love with her intended husband, he hardly conceived it to be possible

And what was the truth of the matter? Miss Gresham was no more in love with Mr Moffat than you areoh,

sweet, young, blooming beauty! Not a whit more; not, at least, in your sense of the word, nor in mine. She

had by no means resolved within her heart that of all the men whom she had ever seen, or ever could see, he

was far away the nicest and the best. That is what you will do when you are in love, if you be good for

anything. She had no longing to sit near to himthe nearer the better; she had no thought of his taste and his

choice when she bought her ribbons and bonnets; she had not indescribable desire that all her female friends

should be ever talking to her about him. When she wrote to him, she did not copy her letters again and again,

so that she might be, as it were, ever speaking to him; she took no special pride in herself because he had

chosen her to be his life's partner. In point of fact, she did not care one straw about him.

And yet she thought she loved him; was, indeed, quite confident that she did so; told her mother that she was

sure Gustavus would wish this, she knew Gustavus would like that, and so on; but as for Gustavus himself,

She was in love with her match just as farmers are in love with wheat and eighty shillings a quarter; or

shareholdersinnocent gudgeonswith seven and half per cent interest on their paid up capital. Eighty

shillings a quarter, and seven and half per cent interest, such were the returns which she had been taught to

look for in exchange for her young heart; and, having obtained them, or being thus about to obtain them, why

should not her young heart be satisfied? Had she not sat herself down obediently at the feet of her lady

And then the doctor went to the lady. On their medical secrets we will not intrude; but there were other

matters bearing on the course of our narrative, as to which Lady Arabella found it necessary to say a word of

so to the doctor; and it is essential that we should know what was the tenor of those few words so spoken.

How the aspirations, and instincts, and feelings of a household become changed as the young birds begin to

flutter those feathered wings, and have halfformed thoughts of leaving the parental nest! A few months

back, Frank had reigned almost autocratic over the lesser subjects of the kingdom of Greshamsbury. The

servants, for instance, always obeyed him, and his sisters never dreamed of telling anything which he directed

should not be told. All his mischief, all his troubles, and all his loves were confided to them, with the sure

Trusting to this wellascertained state of things, he had not hesitated to declare his love for Miss Thorne

before his sister Augusta. But his sister Augusta had now, as it were, been received into the upper house;

having duly profited by the lessons of her great instructress, she was now admitted to sit in conclave with the

higher powers: her sympathies, of course, became changed, and her confidence was removed from the young

and giddy and given to the ancient and discreet. She was as a schoolboy, who, having finished his schooling,

and being fairly forced by necessity into the stern breadearning world, undertakes the new duties of tutoring.

Yesterday he was taught, and fought, of course, against the schoolmaster; today he teaches, and fights as

keenly for him. So it was with Augusta Gresham, when, with careful brow, she whispered to her mother that

'Stop it at once, Arabella: stop it at once,' the countess had said; 'that, indeed, will be the ruin. If he does not

marry money, he is lost. Good heavens! the doctor's niece! A girl that nobody knows where she comes from!'

'Yes; and that is so far well: if he will be led by me, the evil may be remedied before he returns; but it is very,

very hard to lead young men. Arabella, you must forbid that girl to come to Greshamsbury again on any

'Then she must be here as a matter of course no more: there has been folly, very great folly, in having her

here. Of course she would turn out to be a designing creature with such temptation before her; with such a

'Nonsense,' said the countess; 'before you of course she did. Arabella, the matter must not be left to the girl's

propriety. I never knew the propriety of a girl of that sort to be fit to be depended on yet. If you wish to save

the whole family from ruin, you must take steps to keep her away from Greshamsbury now at once. Now is

the time; now that Frank is going away. Where so much, so very much depends on a young man's marrying

Instigated in this manner, Lady Arabella resolved to open her mind to the doctor, and to make it intelligible to

him, that under present circumstances, Mary's visits at Greshamsbury had better be discontinued. She would

have given much, however, to have escaped this business. She had in her time tried one or two falls with the

doctor, and she was conscious that she had never yet got the better of him: and then she was in a slight degree

afraid of Mary herself. She had a presentiment that it would not be so easy to banish Mary from

Greshamsbury: she was not sure that that young lady would not boldly assert her right to her place in the

schoolroom; appeal loudly to the squire, and perhaps, declare her determination of marrying the heir, out

before them all. The squire would be sure to uphold her in that, or in anything else.

And then, too, there would be the greatest difficulty in wording her request to the doctor; and Lady Arabella

was sufficiently conscious of her own weakness to know that she was not always very good at words. But the

doctor, when hard pressed, was never at fault: he could say the bitterest things in the quietest tone, and Lady

Arabella had a great dread of these bitter things. What, also, if he should desert her himself; withdraw from

her his skill and knowledge of her bodily wants and ailments now that he was so necessary to her? She had

once before taken that measure of sending to Barchester for Dr Fillgrave, but it had answered with her hardly

When, therefore, Lady Arabella found herself alone with the doctor, and called upon to say out in what best

language she could select for the occasion, she did not feel to very much at her ease. There was that about the

man before her which cowed her, in spite of her being the wife of the squire, the sister of an earl, a person

quite acknowledged to be of the great world, and the mother of a very important young man whose affections

were now about to be called in question. Nevertheless, there was the task to be done, and with a mother's

'Dr Thorne,' said she, as soon as their medical conference was at an end, 'I am very glad you came over

today, for I have something special which I wanted to say to you:' so far she got, and then stopped; but, as

the doctor did not seem inclined to give her any assistance, she was forced to flounder on as best she could.

'Something very particular indeed. You know what a respect and esteem, and I may say affection, we all have

for you,'here the doctor made a low bow'and I may say for Mary also;' here the doctor bowed himself

again. 'We have done what little we could to be pleasant neighbours, and I think you'll believe me when I say

The doctor knew that something very unpleasant was coming, but he could not at all guess what might be its

nature. He felt, however, that he must say something; so he expressed a hope that he was duly sensible of all

the acts of kindness he had ever received from the squire and the family at large.

'I hope, therefore, my dear doctor, you won't take amiss what I am going to say.'

'I am sure I would not give any pain if I could help it, much less to you. But there are occasions, doctor, in

which duty must be paramount; paramount to all other considerations, you know, and, certainly, this occasion

'Oh, yes; I know his position in that respect; an only son, and his father's heir; and a very fine fellow, he is.

Lady Arabella sighed. She did not wish at the present moment to express herself as being in any way proud of

Frank. She was desirous rather, on the other hand, of showing that she was a good deal ashamed of him; only

'Well, perhaps so; yes,' said Lady Arabella, 'he is, I believe, a very good young man, with an excellent

disposition; but, doctor, his position is very precarious; and he is just at that time of life when caution is

To the doctor's ears, Lady Arabella was now talking of her son as a mother might of her infant when

whoopingcough was abroad our croup imminent. 'There is nothing on earth the matter with him, I should

'Oh yes; his health! Yes, thank God, his health is good; that is a great blessing.' And Lady Arabella thought of

her four flowerets that had already faded. 'I am sure I am most thankful to see him growing up so strong. But

Now the doctor undoubtedly did know the squire's position with regard to money matters,knew it much

better than Lady Arabella; but he was by no means inclined to talk on that subject to her ladyship. He

remained quite silent, therefore, although Lady Arabella's last speech had taken the form of a question. Lady

Arabella was a little offended at this want of freedom on his part, and become somewhat sterner in her

'The squire has unfortunately embarrassed the property, and Frank must look forward to inherit it with very

heavy encumbrances; I fear very heavy indeed, though of what exact nature I am kept in ignorance.'

Looking at the doctor's face, she perceived that there was no probability whatever that her ignorance would

'No; not exactly that: though of course he must be careful as to that, too; that's of course. But that is not what

I mean, doctor; his only hope of retrieving his circumstances is by marrying money.'

'With every other conjugal blessing that a man can have, I hope he may have that also.' So the doctor replied

with imperturbable face; but not the less did he begin to have a shade of suspicion of what might be the

coming subject of the conference. It would be untrue to say that he had ever thought it probable that the

young heir should fall in love with his niece; that he had ever looked forward to such a chance, either with

complacency or with fear; nevertheless, the idea had of late passed through his mind. Some word had fallen

from Mary, some closely watched expression of her eye, or some quiver in her lip when Frank's name was

mentioned, had of late made him involuntarily think that such a thing might not be impossible; and then,

when the chance of Mary becoming the heiress to so large a fortune had been forced upon his consideration,

he had been unable to prevent himself from building happy castles in the air, as he rode slowly home from

Boxall Hill. But not a whit the more on that account was he prepared to be untrue to the squire's interest or to

'And worth, Lady Arabella; and a pure feminine heart; and youth and beauty. I hope he will marry them all.'

Could it be possible, that in speaking of a pure feminine heart, and youth and beauty, and such like gewgaws,

the doctor was thinking of his niece? Could it be that he had absolutely made up his mind to foster and

The bare idea made Lady Arabella wrathful, and her wrath gave her courage. 'He must marry money, or he

will be a ruined man. Now, doctor, I am informed that thingswords that ishave passed between him and

And now the doctor was wrathful. 'What things? what words?' said he, appearing to Lady Arabella as though

he rose in his anger nearly a foot in altitude before her eyes. 'What has passed between them? and who says

'Doctor, there have been lovemakings, you may take my word for it; lovemakings of a very, very advanced

This, the doctor could not stand. No, not for Greshamsbury and its heir; not for the squire and all his

misfortunes; not for Lady Arabella and the blood of the De Courcys could he stand quiet and hear Mary

accused. He sprang up another foot in height, and expanded equally in width as he flung back the insinuation.

'Who says so? Whoever says so, whoever speaks of Miss Thorne in such language, says what is not true. I

'My dear doctor, my dear doctor, what took place was quite clearly heard; there was no mistake about it,

'Well, then, I don't want, you know, to make more of it than can be helped. The thing must be stopped, that is

'What thing? Speak out, Lady Arabella. I will not have Mary's conduct impugned by innuendoes. What is that

'And not talebearers either? Will you ladyship oblige me by letting me know what is this accusation which

'Oh, of course I am not going to say but what Frank must have been very imprudent. Of course he has been to

'I utterly deny it. I positively deny it. I know nothing of the circumstances; have heard nothing about it'

'I know nothing of the circumstance; have heard nothing about it,' continued Dr Thorne; 'but I do know my

niece, and am ready to assert that there has not been fault on both sides. Whether there has been any fault on

'I can assure you, Dr Thorne, that an offer was made by Frank; such an offer cannot be without its

'Allurements!' almost shouted the doctor, and, as he did so, Lady Arabella stepped back a pace or two,

retreating from the fire which shot out of his eyes. 'But the truth is, Lady Arabella, you do not know my

niece. If you will have the goodness to let me understand what it is that you desire I will tell you whether I

'Of course it will be very inexpedient that the young people should be thrown together again;for the

'Frank has now gone to Courcy Castle; and he talks of going from thence to Cambridge. But he will doubtless

be here, backwards and forwards; and perhaps it will be better for all partiessafer, that is, doctorif Miss

'Very well!' thundered out the doctor. 'Her visits to Greshamsbury shall be discontinued.'

'Of course, doctor, this won't change intercourse between us; between you and the and the family.'

'Not change it!' said he. 'Do you think that I will break bread in a house from whence she has been

ignominiously banished? Do you think that I can sit in friendship with those who have spoken of her as you

have now spoken? You have many daughters; what would you say if I accused them one of them as you have

'Accused, doctor! No, I don't accuse her. But prudence, you know, does sometimes require us'

'Very well; prudence requires you to look after those who belong to you. And prudence requires me to look

'But, doctor, you are not going to quarrel with us? You will come when we want you; eh! won't you?'

Quarrel! quarrel with Greshamsbury! Angry as he was, the doctor felt that he could ill bear to quarrel with

Greshamsbury. A man past fifty cannot easily throw over the ties that have taken twenty years to form, and

wrench himself away from the various close ligatures with which, in such a period, he has become bound. He

could not quarrel with the squire; he could ill bear to quarrel with Frank; though he now began to conceive

that Frank had used him badly, he could not do so; he could not quarrel with the children, who had almost

been born into his arms; nor even with the very walls, and trees, and grassy knolls with which he was so

dearly intimate. He could not proclaim himself an enemy to Greshamsbury; and yet he felt that fealty to Mary

'If you want me, Lady Arabella, and send for me, I will come to you; otherwise, if you please, share the

sentence which has been passed on Mary. I will now wish you good morning.' And then bowing low to her,

What was he to say to Mary? He walked very slowly, down the Greshamsbury avenue with his hands clasped

behind his back, thinking over the whole matter; thinking of it, or rather trying to think of it. When a man's

heart is warmly concerned in any matter, it is almost useless for him to endeavour to think of it. Instead of

thinking, he gives play to his feelings, and feeds his passion by indulging it. 'Allurements!' he said to himself,

repeating Lady Arabella's words. 'A girl circumstanced like my niece! How utterly incapable is such a

woman as that to understand the mind, and the heart, and soul of such a one as Mary Thorne!' And then his

thoughts recurred to Frank. 'It has been ill done of him; ill done of him: young as he is, he should have had

feeling enough to spared me this. A thoughtless word has been spoken which will now make her miserable!'

And then, as he walked on, he could not divest his mind of the remembrance of what had passed between him

and Sir Roger. What, if after all, Mary should become the heiress to all that money? What, if she should

become, in fact, the owner of Greshamsbury? for, indeed it seemed too possible that Sir Roger's heir would

The idea was one which he disliked to entertain, but it would recur to him again and again. It might be, that a

marriage between his niece and the nominal heir to the estate might be of all the matches the best for young

Gresham to make. How sweet would be the revenge, how glorious the retaliation on Lady Arabella, if, after

what had now been said, it should come to pass that all the difficulties of Greshamsbury should be made

smooth by Mary's love, and Mary's hand! It was a dangerous subject on which to ponder. And, as he

sauntered down the road, the doctor did his best to banish it from his mindnot altogether successfully.

But as he went he again encountered Beatrice. 'Tell Mary I went up to her today,' said she, 'and that I expect

'Do not be savage,' said he, putting out his hand, 'even though she should not come.'

Beatrice immediately saw that his manner with her was not playful, and that his face was serious. 'I was only

in joke,' said she; 'of course I was only joking. But is anything the matter? Is Mary ill?'

'Oh, no; not ill at all; but she will not be here tomorrow, nor probably for some time. But, Miss Gresham,

Beatrice tried to interrogate him, but he would not wait to answer her questions. While she was speaking he

bowed to her in his usual oldfashioned courteous way, and passed on out of hearing. 'She will not come up

for some time,' said Beatrice to herself. 'Then mamma must have quarrelled with her.' And at once in her

heart she acquitted her friend of all blame in the matter, whatever it might be, and condemned her mother

The doctor, when he arrived in his own house, had in nowise made up his mind as to the manner in which he

would break the matter to Mary; but by the time that he had reached the drawingroom, he had made up his

mind to this, that he would put off the evil hour till the morrow. He would sleep on the matterlie awake on

it, more probablyand then at breakfast, as best he could, tell her what had been said of her.

Mary that evening was more than usually inclined to be playful. She had not been quite certain till the

morning, whether Frank had absolutely left Greshamsbury, and had, therefore, preferred the company of Miss

Oriel to going up to the house. There was a peculiar cheerfulness about her friend Patience, a feeling of

satisfaction with the world and those in it, which Mary always shared with her; and now she had brought

home to the doctor's fireside, in spite of her young troubles, a smiling face, if not a heart altogether happy.

'Ah, but it is something, and you shall tell me;' getting up, she came over to his armchair, and leant over his

He looked up at her for a minute in silence, and then, getting up from his chair, passed his arm round her

'My darling!' he said, almost convulsively. 'My best own, truest darling!' and Mary looked up into his face,

When Frank Gresham expressed to his father an opinion that Courcy Castle was dull, the squire, as may be

remembered, did not pretend to differ from him. To men such as the squire, and such as the squire's son,

Courcy Castle was dull. To what class of men it would not be dull the author is not prepared to say; but it

may be presumed that the De Courcys found it to their liking, or they would have made it other than it was.

The castle itself was a huge brick pile, built in the days of William III, which, though they were grand for

days of the construction of the Constitution, were not very grand for architecture of a more material

description. It had, no doubt, a perfect right to be called a castle, as it was entered by a castlegate which led

into a court the porter's lodge for which was built as it were into the wall; there were attached to it also two

round, stumpy adjuncts, which were, perhaps properly, called towers, though they did not do much in the way

of towering; and, moreover, along one side of the house, over what would otherwise have been the cornice,

there ran a castellated parapet, through the assistance of which, the imagination no doubt was intended to

supply the muzzles of defiant artillery. But any artillery which would have so presented its muzzle must have

been very small, and it may be doubted whether even a bowman could have obtained shelter there.

The grounds about the castle were not very inviting, nor, as grounds, very extensive; though, no doubt, the

entire domain was such as suited the importance of so puissant a nobleman as Earl de Courcy. What, indeed,

should have been the park was divided out into various large paddocks. The surface was flat and unbroken;

and though there were magnificent elmtrees standing in straight lines, like hedgerows, the timber had not

that beautiful, wild, scattered look which generally gives the great charm to English scenery.

The town of Courcyfor the place claimed to rank as a townwas in many particulars like the castle. It

was built of dingyred brickalmost more brown than redand was solid, dulllooking, ugly and

comfortable. It consisted of four streets, which were formed by two roads crossing each other, making at the

point of junction a centre for the town. Here stood the Red Lion; had it been called the brown lion, the

nomenclature would have been more strictly correct; and here, in the old days of coaching, some life had

been wont to stir itself at those house in the day and night when the Freetraders, Tallyhoes, and Royal Mails

changed their horses. But now there was a railway station a mile and a half distant, and the moving life of the

town of Courcy was confined to the Red Lion omnibus, which seemed to pass its entire time in going up and

down between the town and the station, quite unembarrassed by any great weight of passengers.

There were, so said the Courcyites when away from Courcy, excellent shops in the place; but they were not

the less accustomed, when at home among themselves, to complain to each other of the vile extortion with

which they were treated by their neighbours. The ironmonger, therefore, though he loudly asserted that he

could beat Bristol in the quality of his wares in one direction, and undersell Gloucester in another, bought his

tea and sugar on the sly in one of those larger towns; and the grocer, on the other hand equally distrusted the

pots and pans of home production. Trade, therefore, at Courcy, had not thriven since the railway opened: and,

indeed, had any patient inquirer stood at the cross through one entire day, counting customers who entered

the neighbouring shops, he might well have wondered that any shops in Courcy could be kept open.

And how changed has been the bustle of that once noisy inn to the present deathlike silence of its green

courtyard! There, a lame ostler crawls about with the hands thrust into the capacious pockets of his jacket,

feeding on memory. That weary pair of omnibus jades, and three sorry posters are all that now grace those

stables where horses used to be stalled in close contiguity by the dozen; where twenty grains apiece,

abstracted from every feed of oats consumed during the day, would have afforded a daily quart to the lucky

Come, my friend, and discourse with me. Let us know what are thy ideas of the inestimable benefits which

science has conferred on us in these, our latter days. How dost thou, among others, appreciate railways and

the power of steam, telegraphs, telegrams, and our new expresses? But indifferently, you say. 'Time was I've

zeed vifteen pair o' 'osses go out of this 'ere yard in vourandtwenty hour; and now there be'ant vifteen, no,

not ten, in vourandtwenty days! There was the duiknot this 'un; he be'ant no gude; but this 'un's

vatherwhy, when he'd come down the road, the cattle did be agoing, vour days an eend. Here'd be the

tooter and the young gen'lmen, and the governess and the young leddies, and then the servantsthey'd be

al'ays the grandest folk of alland then the duik and doochessLord love 'ee, zur; the money did fly in

them days! But now' and the feeling of scorn and contempt which the lame ostler was enabled by his

native talent to throw into the word 'now', was quite as eloquent against the power of steam as anything that

has been spoken at dinners, or written in pamphlets by the keenest admirers of latterday lights.

'Why, luke at this 'ere town,' continued he of the sieve, 'the grass be agrowing in the very streets;that can't

be no gude. Why, luke 'ee here, zur; I do be astanding at this 'ere gateway, just this way, hour arter hour, and

my heyes is hopen mostly;I zees who's acoming and who's agoing. Nobody's acoming and nobody's

agoing; that can't be no gude. Luke at that there homnibus; why, darn me' and now, in his eloquence at

this peculiar point, my friend became more loud and powerful than ever'why, darn me, if maister harns

enough with that there bus to put hiron on them osses' feet, I'llbeblowed!' And as he uttered this

hypothetical denunciation on himself he spoke very slowly, bringing out every word as it were separately,

and lowering himself at his knees at every sound, moving at the same time his right hand up and down. When

he had finished, he fixed his eyes upon the ground, pointing downwards, as if there was to be the site of his

doom if the curse that he had called down upon himself should ever come to pass; and then, waiting no

Oh, my friend! my poor lame friend! it will avail nothing to tell thee of Liverpool and Manchester; of the

glories of Glasgow, with her flourishing banks; of London, with its third millions of inhabitants; of the great

things which commerce is doing for this nation of thine! What is commerce to thee, unless it be commerce in

posting on that wornout, all but useless great western turnpikeroad? There is nothing left for thee but to be

carted away as rubbishfor thee and for many of us in these now prosperous days; oh, my melancholy,

Courcy Castle was certainly a dull place to look at, and Frank, in his former visits, had found that the

appearance did not belie the reality. He had been but little there when the earl had been at Courcy; and as he

had always felt from his childhood a peculiar taste to the governance of his aunt the countess, this perhaps

may have added to his feeling of dislike. Now, however, the castle was to be fuller than he had ever before

known it; the earl was to be at home; there was some talk of the Duke of Omnium coming for a day or two,

though that seemed doubtful; there was some faint doubt of Lord Porlock; Mr Moffat, intent on the coming

electionand also, let us hope, on his coming blisswas to be one of the guests; and there was also to be

Frank, however, found that those grandees were not expected quite immediately. 'I might go back to

Greshamsbury for three or four days as she is not to be here,' he said naively to his aunt, expressing, with

tolerable perspicuity, his feeling, that he regarded his visit to Courcy Castle quite as a matter of business. But

the countess would hear of no such arrangement. Now that she had got him, she was not going to let him fall

back into the perils of Miss Thorne's intrigues, or even of Miss Thorne's propriety. 'It is quite essential,' she

said, 'that you should be here a few days before her, so that she may see that you are at home.' Frank did not

understand the reasoning; but he felt himself unable to rebel, and he therefore, remained there, comforting

himself, as best he might, with the eloquence of the Honourable George, and the sporting humours of the

Mr Moffat was the earliest arrival of any importance. Frank had not hitherto made the acquaintance of his

future brotherinlaw, and there was, therefore, some little interest in the first interview. Mr Moffat was

shown into the drawingroom before the ladies had gone up to dress, and it so happened that Frank was there

also. As no one else was in the room but his sister and two of his cousins, he had expected to see the lovers

rush into each other's arms. But Mr Moffat restrained his ardour, and Miss Gresham seemed contented that he

He was a nice, dapper man, rather above the middle height, and goodlooking enough had he had a little

more expression in his face. He had dark hair, very nicely brushed, small black whiskers, and a small black

moustache. His boots were excellently well made, and his hands were very white. He simpered gently as he

took hold of Augusta's fingers, and expressed a hope that she had been quite will since last he had the

pleasure of seeing her. Then he touched the hands of the Lady Rosina and the Lady Margaretta.

'Most happy, I'm sure,' said Mr Moffat, again putting out his hand, and allowing it to slip through Frank's

grasp, as he spoke in a pretty, mincing voice: 'Lady Arabella quite well?and your father, and sisters? Very

'I hope Augusta likes him,' said Frank to himself, arguing on the subject exactly as his father had done; 'but

for an engaged lover he seems to me to have a very queer way with him.' Frank, poor fellow! who was of a

coarser mould, would, under such circumstances, have been all for kissingsometimes, indeed, even under

Mr Moffat did not do much towards improving the conviviality of the castle. He was, of course, a good deal

intent upon his coming election, and spent much of his time with Mr Nearthewinde, the celebrated

parliamentary agent. It behoved him to be a good deal at Barchester, canvassing the electors and

undermining, by Mr Nearthewinde's aid, the mines for blowing him out of his seat, which were daily being

contrived by Mr Closerstil, on behalf of Sir Roger. The battle was to be fought on the internecine principle,

no quarter being given or taken on either side; and of course this gave Mr Moffat as much as he knew how to

Mr Closerstil was well known to be the sharpest man at his business in all England, unless the palm should be

given to his great rival Mr Nearthewinde; and in this instance he was to be assisted in the battle by a very

clever young barrister, Mr Romer, who was an admirer of Sir Roger's career in life. Some people in

Barchester, when they saw Sir Roger, Closerstil and Mr Romer saunter down the High Street, arm in arm,

declared that it was all up with poor Moffat; but others, in whose head the bump of veneration was strongly

pronounced, whispered to each other that great shibboleththe name of the Duke of Omniumand mildly

Our poor friend the squire did not take much interest in the matter except in so far that he liked his

soninlaw to be in Parliament. Both the candidates were in his eye equally wrong in their opinions. He had

long since recanted those errors of his early youth, which had cost him his seat for the county, and had

abjured the De Courcy politics. He was staunch enough as a Tory now that his being so would no longer be

of the slightest use to him; but the Duke of Omnium, and Lord de Courcy, and Mr Moffat were all Whigs;

Whigs, however, differing altogether in politics from Sir Roger, who belonged to the Manchester school, and

whose pretensions, through some of those inscrutable twists in modern politics which are quite unintelligible

to the minds of ordinary men outside the circle, were on this occasion secretly favoured by the high

How Mr Moffat, who had been brought into the political world by Lord de Courcy, obtained the weight of the

duke's interest I never could exactly learn. For the duke and the earl did not generally act as twinbrothers on

There is a great difference in Whigs. Lord de Courcy was a Court Whig, following the fortunes, and

enjoying, when he could get it, the sunshine of the throne. He was a sojourner at Windsor, and a visitor at

Balmoral. He delighted in gold sticks, and was never so happy as when holding some cap of maintenance or

spur of precedence with due dignity and acknowledged grace in the presence of all the Court. His means had

been somewhat embarrassed by early extravagance; and, therefore, as it was to his taste to shine, it suited him

The Duke of Omnium was a Whig of a very different calibre. He rarely went near the presence of majesty,

and when he did so, he did it merely as a disagreeable duty incident to his position. He was very willing that

the Queen should be queen so long as he was allowed to be Duke of Omnium. Nor had he begrudged Prince

Albert any of his honours till he was called Prince Consort. Then, indeed, he had, to his own intimate friends,

made some remark in three words not flattering to the discretion of the Prime Minister. The Queen might be

queen so long as he was Duke of Omnium. Their revenues were about the same, with the exception, that the

duke's were his own, and he could do what he liked with them. This remembrance did not unfrequently

present itself to the duke's mind. In person, he was a plain, thin man, tall, but undistinguished in appearance,

except that there was a gleam of pride in his eye which seemed every moment to be saying, 'I am the Duke of

Omnium'. He was unmarried, and, if report said true, a great debauchee; but if so he had always kept his

debaucheries decently away from the eyes of the world, and was not, therefore, open to that loud

condemnation which should fall like a hailstorm round the ears of some more open sinners.

Why these two mighty nobles put their heads together in order that the tailor's son should represent

Barchester in Parliament, I cannot explain. Mr Moffat, was, as has been said, Lord de Courcy's friend; and it

may be that Lord de Courcy was able to repay the duke for his kindness, as touching Barchester, with some

The next arrival was that of the Bishop of Barchester. A meek, good, worthy man, much attached to his wife,

and somewhat addicted to his ease. She, apparently, was made in a different mould, and by her energy and

diligence atoned for any want of those qualities which might be observed in the bishop himself. When asked

his opinion, his lordship would generally reply by saying'Mrs Proudie and I think so and so.' But before

that opinion was given, Mrs Proudie would take up the tale, and she, in her more concise manner, was not

wont to quote the bishop as having at all assisted in the consideration of the subject. It was well known in

Barsetshire that no married pair consorted more closely or more tenderly together; and the example of such

conjugal affection among persons in the upper classes is worth mentioning, as it is believed by those below

them, and too often with truth, that the sweet bliss of connubial reciprocity is not so common as it should be

But the arrival even of the bishop and his wife did not make the place cheerful to Frank Gresham, and he

began to long for Miss Dunstable, in order that he might have something to do. He could not get on at all with

Mr Moffat. He had expected that the man would at once have called him Frank, and that he would have

called the man Gustavus; but they did not even get beyond Mr Moffat and Mr Gresham. 'Very hot in

Barchester, today, very,' was the nearest approach to conversation which Frank could attain with him; and as

far as he, Frank, could see, Augusta never got much beyond it. There might be teteatete meetings between

them, but, if so, Frank could not detect when they took place; and so, opening his heart at last to the

Honourable George, for the want of a better confidant, he expressed his opinion that his future

'A muffI believe you too. What do you think now? I have been with him and Nearthewinde in Barchester

these three days past, looking up the electors' wives and daughters, and that kind of thing.'

'Oh, there is not much fun; they are mostly so slobbered and dirty. A sharp fellow in Nearthewinde, and

'Oh, he goes on every tack just as it's wanted. But there was Moffat, yesterday, in a room behind the milliner's

shop near Cuthbert's Gate; I was with him. The woman's husband is one of the choristers and an elector, you

know, and Moffat went to look for his vote. Now, there was no one there when we got there but the three

young women, the wife, that is, and her two girlsvery pretty women they are too.'

'I say, George, I'll go and get the chorister's vote for Moffat; I ought to do it as he's to be my brotherinlaw.'

'Kiss any of them? No; but he begged to give them his positive assurance as a gentleman that if he was

returned to Parliament he would vote for an extension of the franchise, and the admission of the Jews into the

At last the great Miss Dunstable came. Frank, when he heard that the heiress had arrived, felt some slight

palpitation at his heart. He had not the remotest idea in the world of marrying her; indeed, during the last

week past, absence had so heightened his love for Mary Thorne that he was more than ever resolved that he

would never marry any one but her. He knew that he had made her a formal offer for her hand, and that it

behoved him to keep to it, let the charms of Miss Dunstable be what they might; but, nevertheless, he was

prepared to go through a certain amount of courtship, in obedience to his aunt's behests, and he felt a little

nervous at being brought up in that way, face to face, to do battle with two hundred thousand pounds.

'Miss Dunstable has arrived,' said his aunt to him, with great complacency, on his return from an

electioneering visit to the beauties of Barchester which he made with his cousin George on the day after the

conversation which was repeated at the end of the last chapter. 'She has arrived, and is looking remarkably

well; she has quite a distingue air, and will grace any circle to which she may be introduced. I will introduce

'Don't talk nonsense, Frank,' said the countess angrily. 'I am doing what I can for you, and taking on an

infinity of trouble to endeavour to place you in an independent position; and now you talk nonsense to me.'

Frank muttered some sort of apology, and then went to prepare himself for the encounter.

Miss Dunstable, though she had come by train, had brought with her her own carriage, her own horses, her

own coachman and footman, and her own maid, of course. She had also brought with her half a score of

trunks, full of wearing apparel; some of them nearly as rich as that wonderful box which was stolen a short

time since from the top of a cab. But she brought these things, not in the least because she wanted them

Frank was a little more than ordinarily careful in dressing. He spoilt a couple of white neckties before he was

satisfied, and was rather fastidious as the set of his hair. There was not much of the dandy about him in the

ordinary meaning of the word. But he felt that it was incumbent on him to look his best, seeing what it was

expected he should now do. He certainly did not mean to marry Miss Dunstable; but as he was to have a

flirtation with her, it was well that he should do so under the best possible auspices.

When he entered the drawingroom he perceived at once that the lady was there. She was seated between the

countess and Mrs Proudie; and mammon, in her person, was receiving worship from the temporalities and

spiritualities of the land. He tried to look unconcerned, and remained in the farther part of the room, talking

with some of his cousins; but he could not keep his eye off the future possible Mrs Frank Gresham; and it

seemed as though she was as much constrained to scrutinize him as he felt to scrutinize her.

Lady de Courcy had declared that she was looking extremely well, and had particularly alluded to her

distingue appearance. Frank at once felt that he could not altogether go along with his aunt in this opinion.

Miss Dunstable might be very well; but her style of beauty was one which did not quite meet with his

In age she was about thirty; but Frank, who was no great judge in these matters, and who was accustomed to

have very young girls round him, at once put her down as being ten years older. She had a very high colour,

very red cheeks, a large mouth, big white teeth, a broad nose, and bright, small, black eyes. Her hair also was

black and bright, but very crisp, and strong, and was combed close round her face in small crisp black

ringlets. Since she had been brought out into the fashionable world some of her instructors in fashion had

given her to understand that curls were not the thing. 'They'll always pass muster,' Miss Dunstable had

replied, 'when they are done up with banknotes.' It may therefore be presumed that Miss Dunstable had a

'Frank,' said the countess, in the most natural and unpremeditated way, as soon as she caught her nephew's

eye, 'come here. I want to introduce you to Miss Dunstable.' The introduction was then made. 'Mrs Proudie,

would you excuse me? I must positively go and say a few words to Mrs Barlow, or the poor woman will feel

herself huffed'; and so saying, she moved off, leaving the coast clear for Master Frank.

He of course slipped into his aunt's place, and expressed a hope that Miss Dunstable was not fatigued by her

'Fatigued!' said she, in a voice rather loud, but very goodhumoured, and not altogether unpleasing; 'I am not

to be fatigued by such a thing as that. Why, in May we came through all the way from Rome to Paris without

sleepingthat is, without sleeping in a bedand we were upset three times out of the sledges coming over

'All the way from Rome to Paris!' said Mrs Proudiein a tone of astonishment, meant to flatter the

'Something about money matters,' said Miss Dunstable, speaking rather louder than usual. 'Something to do

Mrs Proudie bowed, and immediately changed the conversation. 'Idolatry is, I believe, more rampant than

ever in Rome,' said she; 'and I fear there is no such thing at all as Sabbath observance.'

'Oh, not in the least,' said Miss Dunstable, with rather a joyous air; 'Sundays and weekdays are all the same

'But it's a delicious place. I do like Rome, I must say. And as for the Pope, if he wasn't quite so fat he would

Mrs Proudie sighed as she replied in the negative, and declared her belief that danger was apprehended from

'Oh!ah!the malariaof courseyes; if you go at the wrong time; but nobody is such a fool as that

'I was thinking of the soul, Miss Dunstable,' said the ladybishop, in her peculiar grave tone. 'A place where

'And have you been at Rome, Mr Gresham?' said the young lady, turning almost abruptly round to Frank, and

giving a somewhat uncivilly cold shoulder to Mrs Proudie's exhortation. She, poor lady, was forced to finish

her speech to the Honourable George, who was standing near to her. He having an idea that bishops and all

their belongings, like other things appertaining to religion, should, if possible, be avoided; but if that were not

possible, should be treated with much assumed gravity, immediately put on a long face, and remarked

that'it was a deuced shame: for his part he always liked to see people go quiet on Sundays. The parsons

had only one day out of seven, and he thought they were fully entitled to that.' Satisfied with which, or not

'No,' said Frank; 'I never was in Rome. I was in Paris once, that's all.' And then, feeling not unnatural anxiety

as to the present state of Miss Dunstable's worldly concerns, he took an opportunity of falling back on that

part of her conversation which Mrs Proudie had exercised so much tact in avoiding.

'You were saying about the businessthat you came back without going to bed because of selling the

'Oh!the ointment. No; it was not sold. After all, the affair did not come off, and I might have remained and

'So,' said Frank to himself, 'if I should do it, I should be owner of the ointment of Lebanon: how odd!' And

He certainly found that his dinner was less dull than any other he had sat down to at Courcy Castle. He did

not fancy that he should ever fall in love with Miss Dunstable; but she certainly was an agreeable companion.

She told him of her tour, and the fun she had in her journeys; how she took a physician with her for the

benefit of her health, whom she generally was forced to nurse; of the trouble it was to her to look after and

wait upon her numerous servants; of the tricks she played to bamboozle people who came to stare at her; and,

lastly, she told him of a lover who followed her from country to country, and was now in hot pursuit of her,

'Only three or four, upon my word; that is, only three or four that I favour. One is not bound to reckon the

'No, they'd be too numerous. And so you have three whom you favour, Miss Dunstable;' and Frank sighed, as

'Is not that quite enough? But of course I change them sometimes;' and she smiled on him very

'Do you think the countess would mind my having or two of them here if I were to ask her?'

'I am quite sure she would,' said Frank, very briskly. 'She would not approve of it; nor should I.'

'We will contrive to make up for the deficiency as well as possible, if you will permit us to do so. Now for

At this moment the countess gleamed her accomplished eye round the table, and Miss Dunstable rose from

her chair as Frank was preparing his attack, and accompanied the other ladies into the drawingroom.

His aunt, as she passed him, touched his arm lightly with her fan, so lightly that the action was perceived by

no one else. But Frank well understood the meaning of the touch, and appreciated the approbation which it

conveyed. He merely blushed however at his own dissimulation; for he felt more certain that ever that he

would never marry Miss Dunstable, and he felt nearly equally sure that Miss Dunstable would never marry

Lord de Courcy was now at home; but his presence did not add much hilarity to the claretcup. The young

men, however, were very keen about the election, and Mr Nearthewinde, who was one of the party, was full

'I have done a good one at any rate,' said Frank; 'I have secured the chorister's vote.'

'What! Bagley?' said Neathewinde. 'The fellow kept out of my way, and I couldn't see him.'

'No, not by letter,' said Frank, speaking rather low as he looked at the bishop and the earl; 'I got a promise

'Hahaha!' laughed the good bishop, who, in spite of Frank's modulation of voice, had overheard what

had passed. 'Is that the way you manage electioneering matters in our cathedral city?' The idea of one of his

'Oh, I got a distinct promise,' said Frank, in his pride; and then added incautiously, 'but I had to order bonnets

'Hushhhh!' said Mr Nearthewinde, absolutely flabbergasted by such imprudence on the part of one of his

client's friends. 'I am quite sure that you order had no effect, and was intended to have no effect on Mr

'One should never admit anything in electioneering matters, should one?' said George, turning to Mr

'Very little, Mr de Courcy; very little indeedthe less the better. It's hard to say in these days what is wrong

and what is not. Now, there's Reddypalm, the publican, the man who has the Brown Bear. Well, I was there,

of course: he's a voter, and if any man in Barchester ought to feel himself bound to vote for a friend of the

duke's he ought. Now, I was so thirsty when I was in that man's house, that I was dying for a glass of beer;

'Why not?' said Frank, whose mind was only just beginning to be enlightened by the great doctrine of purity

'Oh, Closerstil had some fellow looking at me; why, I can't walk down that town without having my very

'Nevertheless I got Bagley's vote,' said Frank, persisting in praise of his own electioneering prowess; 'and you

may be sure of this, Mr Nearthewinde, none of Closerstil's men were looking at me when I got it.'

'Oh, I'll pay for them if Moffat won't. I think I shall keep an account there; they seem to have good gloves and

'I suppose your lordship will be in town soon after the meeting of Parliament?' said the bishop, questioning

'Oh! yes; I suppose I must be there. I am never allowed to remain very long in the quiet. It is a great nuisance;

'Men in high places, my lord, never were, and never will be, allowed to consider themselves. They burn their

torches not in their own behalf,' said the bishop, thinking, perhaps, as much of himself as he did of his noble

friend. 'Rest and quiet are the comforts of those who have been content to remain in obscurity.'

'Perhaps so,' said the earl, finishing his glass of claret with an air of virtuous resignation. 'Perhaps so.' His

own martyrdom, however, had not been severe, for the rest and quiet of home had never been peculiarly

It was some little time before Frank could find an opportunity of recommencing his allotted task with Miss

Dunstable. She got into conversation with the bishop and with some other people, and, except that he took

her teacup and nearly managed to squeeze one of her fingers as she did so, he made very little further

At last he found her so nearly alone as to admit of his speaking to her in a low confidential voice.

'What matter?' said Miss Dunstable; and her voice was not low, nor particularly confidential.

'Oh! my attendant knights! no, indeed; you gave me such very slight hope of success; besides, you said

'Yes I did; I really think they'd be quite unnecessary. If you should want any one to defend you'

'Then, or at any other time, there are plenty here who will be ready to stand up for you.'

'Plenty! I don't want plenty: one good lance in the olden days was always worth more than a score of ordinary

'Yes; but then you see, Mr Gresham, I have never yet found the one good lanceat least, not good enough to

What could Frank do but declare that he was ready to lay his own in rest, now and always in her behalf?

His aunt had been quite angry with him, and had thought that he turned her into ridicule, when he spoke of

making an offer to her guest that very evening; and yet here he was so placed that he had hardly an

alternative. Let his inward resolution to abjure the heiress be ever so strong, he was now in a position which

allowed him no choice in the matter. Even Mary Thorne could hardly have blamed him for saying, that so far

as his own prowess went, it was quite at Miss Dunstable's service. Had Mary been looking on, she perhaps,

might have thought that he could have done so with less of that look of devotion which he threw into his

'Well, Mr Gresham, that's very civilvery civil indeed,' said Miss Dunstable. 'Upon my word, if a lady

wanted a true knight she might do worse than trust to you. Only I fear that your courage is of so exalted a

nature that you would be ever ready to do battle for any beauty that might be in distressor, indeed, who

might not. You could never confine your valour to the protection of one maiden.'

'Oh, yes! but I would though if I liked her,' said Frank. 'There isn't a more constant fellow in the world than I

'When young ladies make such trials as that, they sometimes find it too late to go back if the trial doesn't

'Oh, of course, there's always some risk. It's like hunting; there would be no fun if there was no danger.'

'But if you get a tumble one day you can retrieve your honour the next; but a poor girl if she once trusts a man

who says that he loves her, has no such chance. For myself, I would never listen to a man unless I'd known

'Seven years!' said Frank, who could not help thinking that in seven years' time Miss Dunstable would be

'Seven hourswell, perhaps seven hours, if they happen to be a good deal together during that time.'

Frank knew well enough that she was quizzing him, and could not resist the temptation he felt to be revenged

on her. 'I am sure it's very pleasant,' said he; 'but as for myself, I have never experienced it.'

'Ha, ha, ha!' laughed Miss Dunstable. 'Upon my word, Mr Gresham, I like you amazingly. I didn't expect to

meet anybody down here that I could like half so much. You must come and see me in London, and I'll

introduce you to my three knights,' and so saying, she moved away and fell into conversation with some of

Frank felt himself to be rather snubbed, in spite of the strong expression which Miss Dunstable had made in

his favour. It was not quite clear to him that she did not take him for a boy. He was, to be sure, avenged on

her for that by taking her for a middleaged woman; but, nevertheless, he was hardly satisfied with himself;

'and she might find afterwards that she was left in the lurch with all her money.' And so he retired, solitary,

into a far part of the room, and began to think of Mary Thorne. As he did so, and as his eyes fell upon Miss

And then the ladies retired. His aunt, with a goodnatured smile on her face, come to him as she was leaving

the room, the last of the bevy, and putting her hand on his arm, led him out into a small unoccupied chamber

'Upon my word, Master Frank,' said she, 'you seem to be losing no time with the heiress. You have quite

'Oh, I declare you have; but, Frank, my dear boy, you should not precipitate these sort of things too much. It

is well to take a little more time: it is more valued; and perhaps, you know, on the whole'

Perhaps Frank might know; but it was clear that Lady de Courcy did not: at any rate, she did not know how to

express herself. Had she said out her mind plainly, she would probably have spoken thus: 'I want you to make

love to Miss Dunstable, certainly; or at any rate to make an offer to her; but you need not make a show of

yourself and of her, by doing it so openly as all that.' The countess, however, did not want to reprimand her

'Take a leetle more timethat is all, my dear boy; slow and sure, you know,' so the countess again patted his

'Old fool!' muttered Frank to himself, as he returned to the room where the men were still standing. He was

right in this: she was an old fool, or she would have seen that there was no chance whatever that her nephew

'He won't give any of us a chance,' said the Honourable George. 'If he goes on in that way she'll be Mrs

Gresham before a month is over. But, Frank, what will she say of your manner of looking for Barchester

'Mr Gresham is certainly an excellent hand at canvassing,' said Mr Nearthewinde; 'only a little too open in his

'I got that chorister for you at any rate,' said Frank. 'And you would never have had him without me.'

'I don't think half so much of the chorister's vote as that of Miss Dunstable,' said the Honourable George:

'But, surely,' said Mr Moffat, 'Miss Dunstable has not property in Barchester?' Poor man! his heart was so

And now the important day of the election had arrived, and some men's hearts beat quickly enough. To be or

not to a member of the British Parliament is a question of very considerable moment in a man's mind. Much

is often said of the great penalties which the ambitious pay for enjoying this honour; of the tremendous

expenses of election; of the long, tedious hours of unpaid labour: of the weary days passed in the House; but,

nevertheless, the prize is one very well worth the price paid for itwell worth any price that can be paid for

No other great European nation has anything like it to offer to the ambition of its citizens; for in no other

great country of Europe, not even in those which are free, has the popular constitution obtained, as with us,

true sovereignty and power of rule. Here it is so; and when a man lays himself out to be a member of

Parliament, he plays the highest game and for the highest stakes which the country affords.

To some men, born silverspooned, a seat in Parliament comes as a matter of course. From the time of their

early manhood they hardly know what it is not to sit there; and the honour is hardly appreciated, being too

much a matter of course. As a rule, they never know how great a thing it is to be in Parliament; though, when

reverse comes, as reverses occasionally will come, they fully feel how dreadful it is to be left out.

But to men aspiring to be members, or to those who having been once fortunate have again to fight the battle

without assurance of success, the coming election must be matter of dread concern. Of, how delightful to hear

that the longtalked of rival has declined the contest, and that the course is clear! or to find by a short canvass

that one's majority is safe, and the pleasures of crowing over an unlucky, friendless foe quite secured!

No such gratification as this filled the bosom of Mr Moffat on the morning of the Barchester election. To him

had been brought no positive assurance of success by his indefatigable agent, Mr Nearthewinde. It was

admitted on all sides that the contest would be a very close one; and Mr Nearthewinde would not do more

Mr Nearthewinde had other elections to attend to, and had not been remaining at Courcy Castle ever since the

coming of Miss Dunstable: but he had been there, and at Barchester, as often as possible, and Mr Moffat was

The two parties had outdone each other in the loudness of their assertions, that each would on his side

conduct the election in strict conformity to law. There was to be no bribery. Bribery! who indeed in these

days would dare to bribe; to give absolute money for an absolute vote, and pay for such an article in

downright palpable sovereigns? No. Purity was much too rampant for that, and the means of detection too

well understood. But purity was to be carried much further than this. There should be no treating; no hiring of

two hundred votes to act as messengers at twenty shillings a day in looking up some four hundred other

voters; no bands were to be paid for; no carriages furnished; no ribbons supplied. British voters were to vote,

if vote they would, for the love and respect they bore to their chosen candidate. If so actuated, they would not

So much was said loudlyvery loudlyby each party; but, nevertheless, Mr Moffat, early in these election

days, began to have some misgivings about the bill. The proclaimed arrangement had been one exactly

suitable to his taste; for Mr Moffat loved his money. He was a man in whose breast the ambition of being

great in the world, and of joining himself to aristocratic people was continually at war with the great cost

which such tastes occasioned. His last election had not been a cheap triumph. In one way or another money

had been dragged from him for purposes which had been to his mind unintelligible; and when, about the

middle of his first session, he had, with much grumbling, settled all demands, he had questioned with himself

He was therefore a great stickler for purity of election; although, had he considered the matter, he should

have known that with him money was his only passport into that Elysium in which he had now lived for two

years. He probably did not consider it; for when, in those canvassing days immediately preceding the

election, he had seen that all the beerhouses were open, and half the population was drunk, he had asked Mr

Nearthewinde whether this violation of the treaty was taking place only on the part of the opponent, and

whether, in such case, it would not by duly noticed with a view to a possible petition.

Mr Nearthewinde assured him triumphantly that half at least of the wallowing swine were his own especial

friends; and that somewhat more than half of the publicans of the town were eagerly engaged in fighting his,

Mr Moffat's battle. Mr Moffat groaned, and would have expostulated had Mr Nearthewinde been willing to

hear him. But that gentleman's services had been put into requisition by Lord De Courcy rather than by the

candidate. For the candidate he cared but little. To pay the bill would be enough for him. He, Mr

Nearthewinde, was doing his business as he well knew how to do it; and it was not likely that he should

It certainly did appear on the morning of the election as though some great change had been made in that

resolution of the candidates to be very pure. From and early hour rough bands of music were to be heard in

every part of the usually quiet town; carts and gigs, omnibuses and flys, all the old carriages from all the

innyards, and every vehicle of any description which could be pressed into the service were in motion; if the

horses and postboys were not to be paid for by the candidates, the voters themselves were certainly very

liberal in their mode of bringing themselves to the poll. The election district of the city of Barchester

extended for some miles on each side of the city, so that the omnibuses and flys had enough to do. Beer was

to be had at the publichouses, almost without question, by all who chose to ask for it; and rum and brandy

were dispensed to select circles within the bars with equal profusion. As for ribbons, the mercers' shops must

have been emptied of that article, as far as scarlet and yellow were concerned. Scarlet was Sir Roger's colour,

while the friends of Mr Moffat were decked with yellow. Seeing what he did see, Mr Moffat might well ask

At the time of this election there was some question whether England should go to war with all her energy; or

whether it would not be better for her to save her breath to cool her porridge, and not meddle more than could

be helped with foreign quarrels. The last view of the matter was advocated by Sir Roger, and his motto of

course proclaimed the merits of domestic peace and quiet. 'Peace abroad and a big loaf at home', was

consequently displayed on four or five huge scarlet banners, and carried waving over the heads of the people.

But Mr Moffat was a staunch supporter of the Government, who were already inclined to be belligerent, and

'England's honour' was therefore the legend under which he selected to do battle. It may, however, be doubted

whether there was in all Barchester one inhabitantlet alone one electorso fatuous to suppose that

England's honour was in any special manner dear to Mr Moffat; or that he would be whit more sure of a big

loaf than he was now, should Sir Roger happily become a member of the legislature.

And then the fine arts were resorted to, seeing that language fell short in telling all that was found necessary

to be told. Poor Sir Roger's failing as regards the bottle were too well known; and it was also known that, in

acquiring this title, he had not quite laid aside the rough mode of speech which he had used in his early years.

There was, consequently, a great daub painted up on sundry walls, on which a navvy, with a pimply, bloated

face, was to be seen standing on a railway bank, leaning on a spade holding a bottle in one hand, while he

invited a comrade to drink. 'Come, Jack, shall us have a drop of some'at short?' were the words coming out of

But Mr Moffat hardly escaped on easier terms. The trade by which his father had made his money was as

well known as that of the railway contractor; and every possible symbol of tailordom was displayed in

graphic portraiture on the walls and hoardings of the city. He was drawn with his goose, his scissors, with his

needle, with his tapes; he might be seen measuring, cutting, pressing, carrying home his bundle and

presenting his little bill; and under each of these representations was repeated his own motto: 'England's

Such were the pleasant little amenities with which the people of Barchester greeted the two candidates who

The polling went briskly and merrily. There were somewhat above nine hundred registered voters, of whom

the greater portion recorded their votes early in the day. At two o'clock, according to Sir Roger's committee,

Whereas, by the light afforded by Mr Moffat's people, they stood in a slightly different ratio to each other,

This naturally heightened the excitement, and gave additional delight to the proceedings. At halfpast two it

was agreed by both sides that Mr Moffat was ahead; the Moffatites claiming a majority of twelve, and the

Scatcherdites allowing a majority of one. But by three o'clock sundry good men and true, belonging to the

railway interest, had made their way to the booth in spite of the efforts of a band of roughs from Courcy, and

One little transaction which took place in the earlier part of the day deserves to be recorded. There was in

Barchester an honest publicanhonest as the world of publicans goeswho not only was possessed of a

vote, but possessed of a son who was a voter. He was one Reddypalm in earlier days, before he had learned to

appreciate the full value of an Englishman's franchise, he had been a declared Liberal and a friend of Roger

Scatcherd's. In latter days he had governed his political feelings with more decorum, and had not allowed

himself to be carried away by such foolish fervour as he had evinced in his youth. On this special occasion,

however, his line of conduct was so mysterious as for a while to baffle even those who knew him best.

His house was apparently open in Sir Roger's interest. Beer, at any rate, was flowing there as elsewhere; and

scarlet ribbons going innot perhaps, in a state of perfect steadinesscame out more unsteady than before.

Still had Mr Reddypalm been deaf to the voice of that charmer, Closerstil, though he had charmed with all his

wisdom. Mr Reddypalm had stated, first his unwillingness to vote at all:he had, he said, given over

politics, and was not inclined to trouble his mind again with the subject; then he had spoken of his great

devotion to the Duke of Omnium, under whose grandfathers his grandfather had been bred: Mr Nearthewinde

had, as he said, been with him, and proved to him beyond a shadow of a doubt that it would show the deepest

Mr Closerstil thought he understood all this, and sent more, and still more men to drink beer. He even

causedtaking infinite trouble to secure secrecy in the matterthree gallons of British brandy to be ordered

and paid for as the best French. But, nevertheless, Mr Reddypalm made no sign to show that he considered

that the right thing had been done. On the evening before the election, he told one of Mr Closerstil's

confidential men, that he had thought a good deal about it, and that he believed he should be constrained by

We have said that Mr Closerstil was accompanied by a learned friend of his, one Mr Romer, a barrister, who

was greatly interested in Sir Roger, and who, being a strong Liberal, was assisting in the canvass with much

energy. He, hearing how matters were likely to go with this conscientious publican, and feeling himself

peculiarly capable of dealing with such delicate scruples, undertook to look into the case in hand. Early,

therefore, on the morning of the election, he sauntered down the cross street in which hung out the sign of the

Now it was quite an understood thing that there was to be no bribery. This was understood by no one better

than Mr Romer, who had, in truth, drawn up many of the published assurances to that effect. And, to give him

his due, he was fully minded to act in accordance with these assurances. The object of all the parties was to

make it worth the voters' while to give their votes; but to do so without bribery. Mr Romer had repeatedly

declared that he would have nothing to do with any illegal practising; but he had also declared that, as long as

all was done according to law, he was ready to lend his best efforts to assist Sir Roger. How he assisted Sir

Oh, Mr Romer! Mr Romer! is it not the case with thee that thou 'wouldst not play false, and yet wouldst

wrongly win?' Not in electioneering, Mr Romer, any more than in any other pursuits, can a man touch pitch

and not be defiled; as thou, innocent as thou art, wilt soon learn to thy terrible cost.

'Well, Reddypalm,' said Mr Romer, shaking hands with him. Mr Romer had not been equally cautious as

Neatherwinde, and had already drunk sundry glasses of ale at the Brown Bear, in the hope of softening the

'If any one knows that, Mr Romer, you must be the man. A poor numbskull like me knows nothing of them

matters. How should I? All I looks to, Mr Romer, is selling a trifle of drink now and thenselling it, and

'Yes, that's important, no doubt. But come, Reddypalm, such an old friend as Sir Roger as you are, a man he

speaks of as one of his intimate friends, I wonder how you can hesitate about it? Now with another man, I

'I know it's not the case with you. It would be an insult to offer you money, even if money were going. I

should not mention this, only as money is not going, neither, on our side nor on the other, no harm can be

'Mr Romer, if you speak of such a thing, you'll hurt me. I know the value of an Englishman's franchise too

well to wish to sell it. I would not demean myself so low; no, not though fiveandtwenty pound a vote was

'I am sure you wouldn't, Reddypalm; I'm sure you wouldn't. But an honest man like you should stick to old

friends. Now, tell me,' and putting his arm through Reddypalm's, he walked with him into the passage of his

own house; 'Now, tell meis there anything wrong? It's between friends, you know. Is there anything

'I wouldn't sell my vote for untold gold,' said Reddypalm, who was perhaps aware that untold gold would

'And I did say two years since, when your friend Mr Closerstil brought a friend of his down to stand hereit

wasn't Sir Roger thenbut when he brought a friend of his down, and when I drew two or three hogsheads

of ale on their side, and when my bill was questioned, and only halfsettled, I did say that I wouldn't interfere

with no election no more. And no more I will, Mr Romerunless it be to give a quiet vote for the nobleman

Mr Romer could not but acknowledge that this was a natural feeling on the part of an ordinary mortal

'It goes agin the grain with a man not to have his little bill paid, and specially at election time,' again urged

Mr Romer had not much time to think about it; but he knew well that matters were so nearly balanced, that

'If it's only about your bill,' said Mr Romer, 'I'll see to have it settled. I'll speak to Closerstil about that.'

'All right!' said Reddypalm, seizing the young barrister's hand, and shaking it warmly; 'all right!' And late in

the afternoon when a vote or two became matter of intense interest, Mr Reddypalm and his son came up to

There was a great deal of eloquence heard in Barchester on that day. Sir Roger had by this time so far

recovered as to be able to go through the dreadfully hard work of canvassing and addressing the electors from

eight in the morning till near sunset. A very perfect recovery, most men will say. Yes; a perfect recovery as

regarded the temporary use of his faculties, both physical and mental; though it may be doubted whether

there can be any permanent recovery from such a disease as his. What amount of brandy he consumed to

enable him to perform this election work, and what lurking evil effect the excitement have on himof these

Sir Roger's eloquence was of a rough kind; but not perhaps the less operative on those for whom it was

intended. The aristocracy of Barchester consisted chiefly of clerical dignitaries, bishops, deans, prebendaries,

and such like: on them and theirs it was not probable that anything said by Sir Roger would have much effect.

Those men would either abstain from voting, or vote for the railway hero, with the view of keeping out the

De Courcy candidate. Then came the shopkeepers, who might also be regarded as a stiffnecked generation,

impervious to electioneering eloquence. They would, generally, support Mr Moffat. But there was an inferior

class of voters, tenpound freeholders, and such like, who, at this period, were somewhat given to have an

opinion of their own, and over them it was supposed that Sir Roger did obtain some power by his gift of

'Now, gentlemen, will you tell me this,' said he, bawling at the top of his voice from the portico which graced

the door of the Dragon of Wantley, at which celebrated inn Sir Roger's committee sat:'Who is Mr Moffat,

and what has he done for us? There have been some picturemakers about the town this week past. The Lord

knows who they are; I don't. These clever fellows do tell you who I am, and what I've done. I ain't very proud

of the way they've painted me, though there's something about it I ain't ashamed of either. See here,' and he

held up on one side of him one of the great daubs oh himself'just hold it there till I can explain it,' and, he

handed the paper to one of his friends. 'That's me,' said Sir Roger, putting up his stick, and pointing to the

'Hurrah! Hurrrah! more power to youwe all know who you are, Roger. You're the boy! When did you

get drunk last?' Suchlike greetings, together with a dead cat which was flung at him from the crowd, and

which he dexterously parried with his stick, were the answers which he received to this exordium.

'Yes,' said he, quite undismayed by this little missile which had so nearly reached him: 'that's me. And look

here; this brown, dirtylooking broad streak here is intended for a railway; and that thing in my handnot

'I'll come to that presently. I'll tell you about the brandy in good time. But that thing in my left hand is a

spade. Now, I never handled a spade, and never could; but, boys, I handled a chisel and mallet; and many a

hundred block of stone has come out smooth from under that hand;' and Sir Roger lifted up his great broad

'The meaning, however, of that spade is to show that I made the railway. Now I'm very much obliged to those

gentlemen over at the White Horse for putting up this picture of me. It's a true picture, and it tells you who I

am. I did make that railway. I have made thousands of miles of railway; I am making thousands of miles

railwayssome in Europe, some in Asia, some in America. It's a true picture,' and he poked his stick right

through it and held it up to the crowd. 'A true picture: but for that spade and that railway, I shouldn't be now

here asking your votes; and, when next February comes, I shouldn't be sitting in Westminster to represent

you, as by God's grace, I certainly will do. That tells you who I am. But now, will you tell me who Mr Moffat

'Oh, yes, the brandy! I was forgetting that and the little speech that is coming out of my moutha deal

shorter speech, and a better one than what I am making now. Here, in the right hand you see a brandy bottle.

Well, boys, I am not ashamed of that; as long as a man does his workand the spade shows thatit's only

fair he should have something to comfort him. I'm always able to work, and few men work much harder. I'm

always able to work, and no man has a right to expect more of me. I never expect more than that from those

'No more you don't, Roger: a little drop's very good, ain't it, Roger? Keeps the cold from the stomach, eh,

'Then as to this speech, "Come, Jack, let's have a drop of some'at short". Why, that's a good speech too. When

I do drink I like to share with a friend; and I don't care how humble that friend is.'

'Hurrah! more power. That's true too, Roger; may you never be without a drop to wet your whistle.'

'They say I'm the last new baronet. Well, I ain't ashamed of that; not a bit. When will Mr Moffat get himself

made a baronet? No man can truly say I'm too proud of it. I have never stuck myself up; no, nor stuck my

wife up either: but I don't see much to be ashamed of because the bigwigs chose to make a baronet of me.'

'Nor, no more thee h'ant, Roger. We'd all be barrownites if so be we knew the way.'

'But now, having polished off this bit of picture, let me ask you who Mr Moffat is? There are pictures enough

about him, too; though Heaven knows where they all come from. I think Sir Edwin Landseer must have done

this one of the goose; it is so deadly natural. Look at it; there he is. Upon my word, whoever did that ought to

make his fortune at some of these exhibitions. Here he is again, with a big pair of scissors. He calls himself

"England's honour"; what the deuce England's honour has to do with tailoring, I can't tell you: perhaps Mr

Moffat can. But mind you, my friends, I don't say anything against tailoring: some of you are tailors, I dare

'And a good trade it is. When I first know Barchester there were tailors here could lick any stonemason in

the trade; I say nothing against tailors. But it isn't enough for a man to be a tailor unless he's something else

along with it. You're not so fond of tailors that you'll send one up to Parliament merely because he is a tailor.'

'We won't have no tailors. No; nor yet no cabbaging. Take a go of brandy, Roger; you're blown.'

'No, I'm not blown yet. I've a deal more to say about Mr Moffat before I shall be blown. What has he done to

entitle him to come here before you and ask you to send him to Parliament? Why; he isn't even a tailor. I wish

he were. There's always some good in a fellow who knows how to earn his own bread. But he isn't a tailor; he

can't even put a stitch in towards mending England's honour. His father was a tailor; not a Barchester tailor,

mind you, so as to give him any claim on your affections; but a London tailor. Now the question is, do you

'I rather think not. You've had him once, and what has he done for you? has he said much for you in the

House of Commons? Why, he's so dumb a dog that he can't bark even for a bone. I'm told it's quite painful to

hear him fumbling and mumbling and trying to get up a speech there over at the White Horse. He doesn't

belong to the city; he hasn't done anything for the city; and he hasn't the power to do anything for the city.

Then, why on earth does he come here? I'll tell you. The Earl de Courcy brings him. He's going to marry the

Earl de Courcy's niece; for they say he's very richthis tailor's sononly they do say also that he doesn't

much like to spend his money. He's going to marry Lord de Courcy's niece, and Lord de Courcy wishes that

his nephew should be in Parliament. There, that's the claim which Mr Moffat has here on the people of

Barchester. He's Lord de Courcy's nominee, and those who feel themselves bound hand and foot, heart and

soul, to Lord de Courcy, had better vote for him. Such men have my leave. If there are enough of such at

Barchester to send him to Parliament, the city in which I was born must be very much altered since I was a

And so finishing his speech, Sir Roger retired within, and recruited himself in the usual manner.

Such was the flood of eloquence at the Dragon of Wantly. At the White Horse, meanwhile, the friends of the

De Courcy interest were treated perhaps to sounder political views; though not expressed in periods so

Mr Moffat was a young man, and there was no knowing to what proficiency in the Parliamentary gift of

public talking he might yet attain; but hitherto his proficiency was not great. He had, however, endeavoured

to make up by study for any want of readiness of speech, and had come to Barchester daily, for the last four

days, fortified with a very pretty harangue, which he had prepared for himself in the solitude of his chamber.

On the three previous days matters had been allowed to progress with tolerable smoothness, and he had been

permitted to deliver himself of his elaborate eloquence with few other interruptions than those occasioned by

his own want of practice. But on this, the day of days, the Barchesterian roughs were not so complaisant. It

appeared to Mr Moffat, when he essayed to speak, that he was surrounded by enemies rather than friends; and

in his heart he gave great blame to Mr Nearthewinde for not managing matters better for him.

'Men of Barchester,' he began, in a voice which was every now and then preternaturally loud, but which, at

each fourth or fifth word, gave way from want of power, and descended to its natural weak tone. 'Men of

'Oh! we've tried you. We know what you're made on. Go on, Snip; don't you let 'em put you down.'

'I've had the honour of representing you in Parliament for the last two years and'

'What could you expect from the ninth part of a man? Never mind, Snipgo on; don't you be out by any of

them. Stick to your wax and thread like a manlike the ninth part of a mango on a little faster, Snip.'

'For the last two yearsandand' Here Mr Moffat looked round to his friends for some little support, and

the Honourable George, who stood close behind him, suggested that he had gone through it like a brick.

'Andand I went through it like a brick,' said Mr Moffat, with the gravest possible face, taking up in his

'Hurray!so you didyou're the real brick. Well done, Snip; go it again with the wax and thread!'

'I am a thoroughpaced reformer,' continued Mr Moffat, somewhat reassured by the effect of the opportune

words which his friend had whispered into his ear. 'A thoroughpaced reformera thoroughpaced

'Never mind your paces, man; but get on. Tell us something new. We're all reformers, we are.'

Poor Mr Moffat was a little thrown back. It wasn't so easy to tell these gentlemen anything new, harnessed as

he was at this moment; so he looked back at his honourable supporter for some further hint. 'Say something

about their daughters,' whispered George, whose own flights of oratory were always on that subject. Had he

counselled Mr Moffat to way a word or two about the tides, his advice would not have been less to the

'Oh, drat your reform. He's a dumb dog. Go back to your goose, Snippy; you never were made for this work.

Mr Moffat, grieved in his soul, was becoming inextricably bewildered by such facetiae as these, when an

eggand it may be feared not a fresh eggflung with unerring precision, struck him on the open part of his

An egg is a means of delightful support when properly administered; but it is not calculated to add much

spirit to a man's eloquence, or to ensure his powers of endurance, when supplied in the manner above

described. Men there are, doubtless, whose tongues would not be stopped even by such an argument as this;

but Mr Moffat was not one of them. As the insidious fluid trickled down beneath his waistcoat, he felt that all

further powers of coaxing the electors out of their votes, by words flowing from his tongue sweeter than

honey, was for that occasion denied him. He could not be selfconfident, energetic, witty, and

goodhumoured with a rotten egg, drying through his clothes. He was forced, therefore, to give way, and

with sadly disconcerted air retired from the open window at which he had been standing.

It was in vain that the Honourable George, Mr Nearthewinde, and Frank endeavoured again to bring him to

the charge. He was like a beaten prizefighter, whose pluck has been cowed out of him, and who, if he stands

up, only stands up to fall. Mr Moffat got sulky also, and when he was pressed, said that Barchester and the

people in it might be d. 'With all my heart,' said Mr Nearthewinde. 'That wouldn't have any effect on their

But, in truth, it mattered very little whether Mr Moffat spoke, or whether he didn't speak. Four o'clock was

the hour for closing the poll, and that was now fast coming. Tremendous exertions had been made about

halfpast three, by a safe emissary sent from Nearthewinde, to prove to Mr Reddypalm that all manner of

contingent advantages would accrue to the Brown Bear if it should turn out that Mr Moffat should take his

seat for Barchester. No bribe was, of course offered or even hinted at. The purity of Barchester was not

contaminated during the day by one such curse as this. But a man, and a publican, would be required to do

some great deed in the public line. To open some colossal tapp to draw beer for the million; and no one

would be so fit as Mr Reddypalmif only it might turn out that Mr Moffat should, in the coming February,

But Mr Reddypalm was a man of humble desires, whose ambitions scored no higher than thisthat his little

bills should be duly settled. It was wonderful what love an innkeeper has for his bill in its entirety. An

account, with a respectable total of five or six pounds, is brought to you, and you complain but of one article;

that fire in the bedroom was never lighted; or that second glass of brandy and water was never called for. You

desire to have the shilling expunged, and all your host's pleasure in the whole transaction is destroyed. Oh!

my friends, pay for the brandy and water, though you never drank it; suffer the fire to pass, though it never

It became notified to Reddypalm with sufficient clearness that his bill for the past election should be paid

without further question; and therefore, at five o'clock the Mayor of Barchester proclaimed the results of the

Mr Reddypalm's two votes had decided the question. Mr Nearthewinde immediately went up to town; and the

dinner party at Courcy Castle that evening was not a particularly pleasant meal.

This much, however, had been absolutely decided before the yellow committee concluded their labour at the

White Horse: there should be a petition. Mr Nearthewinde had not been asleep, and already knew something

The intimacy between Frank and Miss Dunstable grew and prospered. That is to say, it prospered as an

intimacy, though perhaps hardly as a love affair. There was a continued succession of jokes between them,

which no one else in the castle understood; but the very fact of there being such a good understanding

between them rather stood in the way of, than assisted, that consummation which the countess desired.

People, when they are in love with each other, or even when they pretend to be, do not generally show it by

loud laughter. Nor is it frequently the case that a wife with two hundred thousand pounds can be won without

Lady de Courcy, who thoroughly understood that portion of the world in which she herself lived, saw that

things were not going quite as they should do, and gave much and repeated advice to Frank on the subject.

She was the more eager in doing this, because she imagined Frank had done what he could to obey her first

precepts. He had not turned up his nose at Miss Dunstable's curls, nor found fault with her loud voice: he had

not objected to her as ugly, nor even shown any dislike to her age. A young man who had been so amenable

to reason was worthy of further assistance; and so Lady de Courcy did what she could to assist him.

'Frank, my dear boy,' she would say, 'you are a little too noisy, I think. I don't mean for myself, you know; I

don't mind it. But Miss Dunstable would like it better if you were a little more quiet with her.'

'Would she, aunt?' said Frank, looking demurely up into the countess's face. 'I rather think she likes fun and

'Ah!but, Frank, there are times, you know, when that sort of thing should be laid aside. Fun, as you call it,

is all very well in its place. Indeed, no one likes it better than I do. But that's not the way to show admiration.

Young ladies like to be admired; and if you'll be a little more softmannered with Miss Dunstable, I'm sure

And so the old bird taught the young bird how to flyvery needlesslyfor in this matter of flying, Nature

gives her own lessons thoroughly; and the ducklings will take the water, even though the maternal hen warn

Soon after this, Lady de Courcy began to be not very well pleased in the matter. She took it into her head that

Miss Dunstable was sometimes almost inclined to laugh at her; and on one or two occasions it almost seemed

as though Frank was joining Miss Dunstable in doing so. The fact indeed was, that Miss Dunstable was fond

of fun; and, endowed as she was with all the privileges which two hundred thousand pounds may be supposed

to give to a young lady, did not very much care at whom she laughed. She was able to make a tolerably

correct guess at Lady De Courcy's plan towards herself; but she did not for a moment think that Frank had

any intention of furthering his aunt's views. She was, therefore, not at all illinclined to have her revenge on

'How very fond your aunt is of you!' she said to him one wet morning, as he was sauntering through the

house; now laughing, and almost romping with herthen teasing his sister about Mr Moffatand then

'I declare she takes more notice of you and your doings than of any of your cousins. I wonder they aren't

'You are so much younger than they are, that I suppose she thinks you want more of her care.'

'Tell me, Mr Gresham, what was it she was saying to you last night? I know we have been misbehaving

'How on earth should she talk of any one else as long as you are here? Don't you know that all the world is

'Is it?dear me, how kind! But I don't care a straw about any world at present but Lady de Courcy's world.

'No; I forgot. Itit was I that said that; and she saidwhat was it she said? She said, that after all, beauty

was but skin deepand that she valued you for your virtues and prudence rather than your good looks.'

'And you talked of my beauty? That was so kind of you. You didn't either of you say anything about other

'Oh! I don't know. Only some people are sometimes valued rather for what they've got than for any good

'That can never be the case with Miss Dunstable; especially not at Courcy Castle,' said Frank, bowing easily

'Of course not,' said Miss Dunstable; and Frank at once perceived that she spoke in a tone of voice differing

much from that halfbantering, halfgoodhumoured manner that was customary with her. 'Of course not:

any such idea would be quite out of the question with Lady de Courcy.' She paused for a moment, and then

added in a tone different again, and unlike any that he had yet heard from her:'It is, at any rate, out of the

Frank ought to have understood her, and have appreciated the good opinion which she intended to convey;

but he did not entirely do so. He was hardly honest himself towards her; and he could not at first perceive that

she intended to say that she thought him so. He knew very well that she was alluding to her own huge

fortune, and was alluding also to the fact that people of fashion sought her because of it; but he did not know

that she intended to express a true acquittal as regarded him of any such baseness.

And did he deserve to be acquitted? Yes, upon the whole he did;to be acquitted of that special sin. His

desire to make Miss Dunstable temporarily subject to his sway arose, not from a hankering after her fortune,

but from an ambition to get the better of a contest in which other men around him seemed to be failing.

For it must not be imagined that, with such a prize to be struggled for, all others stood aloof and allowed him

to have his own way with the heiress, undisputed. The chance of a wife with two hundred thousand pounds is

a godsend, which comes in a man's life too seldom to be neglected, let that chance be never so remote.

Frank was the heir to a large embarrassed property; and, therefore, the heads of families, putting their

wisdoms together, had thought it most meet that this daughter of Plutus should, if possible, fall to his lot. But

not so thought the Honourable George; and not so thought another gentleman who was at that time an inmate

These suitors perhaps somewhat despised their young rival's efforts. It may be that they had sufficient

worldly wisdom to know that so important a crisis of life is not settled among quips and jokes, and that Frank

was too much in jest to be in earnest. But be that as it may, his lovemaking did not stand in the way of their

The Honourable George had discussed the matter with the Honourable John in a properly fraternal manner. It

may be that John had also an eye to the heiress; but, if so, he had ceded his views to his brother's superior

claims; for it came about that they understood each other very well, and John favoured George with salutary

'As sharp as you like,' said George. 'I'm not the fellow to be studying three months in what attitude I'll fall at a

'No: and when you are there you mustn't take three months more to study how you'll get up again. If you do it

at all, you must do it sharp,' repeated John, putting great stress on his advice.

'I have said a few soft words to her already, and she didn't seem to take them badly,' said George.

'She's no chicken, you know,' remarked John; 'and with a woman like that, beating about the bush never does

any good. The chances are she won't have youthat's of course; plums like that don't fall into a man's mouth

merely for shaking the tree. But it's possible she may; and if she will, she's as likely to take you today as this

'Write her a lettereh?' said George, who did not altogether dislike the advice, for it seemed to take from his

shoulders the burden of preparing a spoken address. Though he was so glib in speaking about the farmers'

daughters, he felt that he should have some little difficulty in making known his passion to Miss Dunstable,

'Yes; write a letter. If she'll take you at all, she'll take you that way; half the matches going are made up by

writing letters. Write her a letter and get it put on her dressingtable.' George said that he would, and so he

George spoke quite truly when he hinted that he had said a few soft things to Miss Dunstable. Miss

Dunstable, however, was accustomed to hear soft things. She had been carried much about in society among

fashionable people since, on the settlement of her father's will, she had been pronounced heiress to all the

ointment of Lebanon; and many men had made calculations respecting her similar to those which were now

animating the brain of the Honourable George de Courcy. She was already quite accustomed to being a target

at which spendthrifts and the needy rich might shoot their arrows: accustomed to being shot at, and tolerably

accustomed to protect herself without making scenes in the world, or rejecting the advantageous

establishments offered to her with any loud expressions of disdain. The Honourable George, therefore, had

And very little more outward fracas arose from the correspondence which followed than had arisen from the

soft things so said. George wrote the letter, and had it duly conveyed to Miss Dunstable's bedchamber. Miss

Dunstable duly received it, and had her answer conveyed back discreetly to George's hands. The

'I cannot but flatter myself that you must have perceived from my manner that you are not indifferent to me.

Indeed, indeed, you are not. I may truly say, and swear' (these last strong words had been put in by the special

counsel of the Honourable John), 'that if ever a man loved a woman truly, I truly love you. You may think it

very odd that I should say this in a letter instead of speaking it out before your face; but your powers of

raillery are so great' ('touch her up about her wit' had been the advice of the Honourable John) 'that I am all

but afraid to encounter them. Dearest, dearest Marthaoh do not blame me for so addressing you!if you

will trust your happiness to me you shall never find that you have been deceived. My ambition shall be to

make you shine in that circle which you are so well qualified to adorn and to see you firmly fixed in that

'I may safely assertand I do assert it with my hand on my heartthat I am actuated by no mercenary

motives. Far be it from me to marry any womanno, not a princesson account of her money. No marriage

can be happy without mutual affection; and I do fully trustno, not trust, but hopethat there may be such

between you and me, dearest Miss Dunstable. Whatever settlements you might propose I would accede to. It

'For myself, I need not remind you that I am the second son of my father; and that, as such, I hold no

inconsiderable station in the world. My intention is to get into Parliament, and to make a name for myself, if I

can, among those who shine in the House of Commons. My elder brother, Lord Porlock, is, you are aware,

unmarried; and we all fear that the family honours are not likely to be perpetuated by him, as he has all

manner of troublesome liaisons which will probably prevent his settling in life. There is nothing at all of that

kind in my way. It will indeed be a delight to place a coronet on the head of my lovely Martha: a coronet

which can give no fresh grace to her, but which will be so much adorned by her wearing it.

'Dearest, Miss Dunstable, I shall wait with the utmost impatience for your answer; and now, burning with

hope that it may not be altogether unfavourable to my love, I beg permission to sign myself

The ardent lover had not to wait long for an answer from his mistress. She found this letter on her toilettable

one night as she went to bed. The next morning she came down to breakfast and met her swain with the most

unconcerned air in the world; so much so that he began to think, as he munched his toast with rather a

shamefaced look, that the letter on which so much was to depend had not yet come safely to hand. But his

suspense was not of a prolonged duration. After breakfast, as was his wont, he went out to the stables with his

brother and Frank Gresham; and while there, Miss Dunstable's man, coming up to him, touched his hat, and

Frank, who knew the man, glanced at the letter and looked at his cousin; but he said nothing. He was,

however, a little jealous, and felt that an injury was done to him by any correspondence between Miss

Miss Dunstable's reply was as follows; and it may be remarked that it was written in a very clear and

wellpenned hand, and one which certainly did not betray much emotion of the heart:

'I am sorry to say that I had not perceived from your manner that you entertained any peculiar feelings

towards me; as, had I done so, I should at once have endeavoured to put an end to them. I am much flattered

by the way in which you speak of me; but I am in too humble a position to return your affection; and can,

therefore, only express a hope that you may be soon able to eradicate it from your bosom. A letter is a very

good way of making an offer, and as such I do not think it at all odd; but I certainly did not expect such an

honour last night. As to my raillery, I trust it has never yet hurt you. I can assure you that it never shall. I

hope you will soon have a worthier ambition than that to which you allude; for I am well aware that no

'I am quite sure you have had no mercenary motives: such motives in marriage are very base, and quite below

your name and lineage. Any little fortune that I may have must be a matter of indifference to one who looks

forward, as you do, to put a coronet on his wife's brow. Nevertheless, for the sake of the family, I trust that

Lord Porlock, in spite of his obstacles, may live to do the same for a wife of his own some of these days. I am

glad to hear that there is nothing to interfere with your own prospects of domestic felicity.

'Sincerely hoping that you may be perfectly successful in your proud ambition to shine in Parliament, and

regretting extremely that I cannot share that ambition with you, I beg to subscribe myself, with very great

The Honourable George, with that modesty which so well became him, accepted Miss Dunstable's reply as a

final answer to his little proposition, and troubled her with no further courtship. As he said to his brother

John, no harm had been done, and he might have better luck next time. But there was an intimate of Courcy

Castle who was somewhat more pertinacious in his search after love and wealth. This was no other than Mr

Moffat: a gentleman whose ambition was not satisfied by the cares of his Barchester contest, or the

Mr Moffat was, as we have said, a man of wealth; but we all know, from the lessons of early youth, how the

love of money increases and gains strength by its own success. Nor was he a man of so mean a spirit as to be

satisfied with mere wealth. He desired also place and station, and gracious countenance among the great ones

of the earth. Hence had come his adherence to the De Courcys; hence his seat in Parliament; and hence, also,

There is no doubt but that the privilege of matrimony offers opportunities to moneyloving young men which

ought not to be lightly abused. Too many young men marry without giving any consideration to the matter

whatever. It is not that they are indifferent to money, but that they recklessly miscalculate their own value,

and omit to look around and see how much is done by those who are more careful. A man can be young but

once, and, except in cases of a special interposition of Providence, can marry but once. The chance once

thrown away may be said to be irrevocable! How, in afterlife, do men toil and turmoil through long years to

attain some prospect of doubtful advancement! Half that trouble, half that care, a tithe of that circumspection

would, in early youth, have probably secured to them the enduring comfort of a wife's wealth.

You will see men labouring night and day to become bank directors; and even a bank direction may only be

the road to ruin. Others will spend years in degrading subserviency to obtain a niche in a will; and the niche,

when at last obtained and enjoyed, is but a sorry payment for all that has been endured. Others again, struggle

harder still, and go through even deeper waters: they make wills for themselves, forge stockshares, and fight

with unremitting, painful labour to appear to be the thing they are not. Now, in many of these cases, all this

might have been spared had the men made adequate use of those opportunities which youth and youthful

charms afford onceand once only. There is no road to wealth so easy and respectable as that of matrimony;

that, is of course, provided that the aspirant declines the slow course to honest work. But then, we can so

In the case of Mr Moffat, we may perhaps say that a specimen was produced of this bird, so rare in the land.

His shoulders were certainly young, seeing that he was not yet sixandtwenty; but his head had ever been

old. From the moment when he was first put forth to go aloneat the age of twentyonehis life had been

one calculation how he could make the most of himself. He had allowed himself to be betrayed into folly by

an unguarded heart; no youthful indiscretion had marred his prospects. He had made the most of himself.

Without wit or depth, or any mental giftwithout honesty of purpose or industry for good workhe had

been for two years sitting member for Barchester; was the guest of Lord de Courcy; was engaged to the eldest

daughter of one of the best commoners' families in England; and was, when he first began to think of Miss

When, however, at this period he began to calculate what his position in the world really was, it occurred to

him that he was doing an illjudged thing in marrying Miss Gresham. Why marry a penniless girlfor

Augusta's trifle of a fortune was not a penny in his estimationwhile there was Miss Dunstable in the world

to be won? His own six or seven thousand a year, quite unembarrassed as it was, was certainly a great thing;

but what might he not do if to that he could add the almost fabulous wealth of the great heiress? Was she not

here, put absolutely in his path? Would it not be a wilful throwing away of a chance not to avail himself of it?

He must, to be sure, lose the De Courcy friendship; but if he should then have secured his Barchester seat for

the usual term of parliamentary session, he might be able to spare that. He would also, perhaps, encounter

some Gresham enmity: this was a point on which he did think more than once: but what will a man not

It was thus that Mr Moffat argued with himself, with much prudence, and brought himself to resolve that he

would at any rate become the candidate for the great prize. He also, therefore, began to say soft things; and it

must be admitted that he said them with more considerate propriety than had the Honourable George. Mr

Moffat had an idea that Miss Dunstable was not a fool, and that in order to catch her he must do more than

endeavour to lay salt on her tail, in the guise of flattery. It was evident to him that she was a bird of some

cunning, not to be caught by an ordinary gin, such as those commonly in use with the Honourable Georges of

It seemed to Mr Moffat, that though Miss Dunstable was so sprightly, so full of fun, and so ready to chatter

on all subjects, she well knew the value of her own money, and of her position as dependent on it: he

perceived that she never flattered the countess, and seemed to be no whit absorbed by the titled grandeur of

her host's family. He gave her credit, therefore, for an independent spirit: and an independent spirit in his

estimation was one that placed its sole dependence on a respectable balance at its banker's.

Working on these ideas, Mr Moffat commenced operations in such manner that his overtures to the heiress

should not, if unsuccessful, interfere with the Greshamsbury engagement. He began by making common

cause with Miss Dunstable: their positions in the world, he said to her, were closely similar. They had both

risen from the lower classes by the strength of honest industry: they were both now wealthy, and had both

hitherto made such use of their wealth as to induce the highest aristocracy in England to admit them into their

'Yes, Mr Moffat,' had Miss Dunstable remarked; 'and if all that I hear be true, to admit you into their very

At this Mr Moffat slightly demurred. He would not affect, he said, to misunderstand what Miss Dunstable

meant. There had been something said on the probability of such an event; but he begged Miss Dunstable not

'I do not believe much,' said she; 'but I certainly did think that that might be credited.'

Mr Moffat went on to show how it behoved them both, in holding out their hands halfway to meet the

aristocratic overtures that were made to them, not to allow themselves to be made use of. The aristocracy,

according to Mr Moffat, were people of a very nice sort; the best acquaintance in the world; a portion of

mankind to be noticed by whom should be one of the first objects in the life of the Dunstables and the

Moffats. But the Dunstables and Moffats should be very careful to give little or nothing in return. Much, very

much in return, would be looked for. The aristocracy, said Mr Moffat, were not a people to allow in the light

of their countenance to shine forth without looking for a quid pro quo, for some compensating value. In all

their intercourse with the Dunstables and Moffats, they would expect a payment. It was for the Dunstables

and Moffats to see that, at any rate, they did not pay more for the article they got than its market value.

They way in which she, Miss Dunstable, and he, Mr Moffat, would be required to pay would be by taking

each of them some poor scion of the aristocracy in marriage; and thus expending their hardearned wealth in

procuring highpriced pleasures for some wellborn pauper. Against this, peculiar caution was to be used. Of

course, the further induction to be shown was this: that people so circumstanced should marry among

themselves; the Dunstables and the Moffats each with the other and not tumble into the pitfalls prepared for

Whether these great lessons had any lasting effect on Miss Dunstable's mind may be doubted. Perhaps she

had already made up her mind on the subject which Mr Moffat so well discussed. She was older than Mr

Moffat, and, in spite of his two years of parliamentary experience, had perhaps more knowledge of the world

with which she had to deal. But she listened to what he said with complacency; understood his object as well

as she had that of his aristocratic rival; was no whit offended; but groaned in her spirit as she thought of the

But all this good advice, however, would not win the money for Mr Moffat without some more decided step;

and that step he soon decided on taking, feeling assured that what he had said would have its due weight with

The party at Courcy Castle was now soon about to be broken up. The male De Courcys were going down to a

Scotch mountain. The female De Courcys were to be shipped off to an Irish castle. Mr Moffat was to go up to

town to prepare his petition. Miss Dunstable was again about to start on a foreign tour in behalf of her

physician and attendants; and Frank Gresham was at last to be allowed to go to Cambridge; that is to say,

unless his success with Miss Dunstable should render such a step on his part quite preposterous.

'I think you may speak now, Frank,' said the countess. 'I really think you may: you have known her now for a

'I think differently; and lookerson, you know, always understand the game best. I suppose you are not afraid

'Afraid!' said Frank, in a tone of considerable scorn. He almost made up his mind that he would ask her to

show that he was not afraid. His only obstacle to doing so was, that he had not the slightest intention of

There was to be but one other great event before the party broke up, and that was a dinner at the Duke of

Omnium's. The duke had already declined to come to Courcy; but he had in a measure atoned for this by

asking some of the guests to join a great dinner which he was about to give to his neighbours.

Mr Moffat was to leave Courcy Castle the day after the dinnerparty, and he therefore determined to make

his great attempt on the morning of that day. It was with some difficulty that he brought about an opportunity;

but at last he did so, and found himself alone with Miss Dunstable in the walks of Courcy Park.

'It is a strange thing, is it not,' said he, recurring to his old view of the same subject, 'that I should be going to

dine with the Duke of Omniumthe richest man, they say, among the whole English aristocracy?'

'Men of that kind entertain everybody, I believe, now and then,' said Miss Dunstable, not very civilly.

'I believe they do; but I am not going as one of the everybodies. I am going from Lord de Courcy's house with

some of his own family. I have no pride in thatnot the least; I have more pride in my father's honest

'Yes, indeed; money does a great deal many queer things.' In saying this Miss Dunstable could not but think

that money had done a very queer thing in inducing Miss Gresham to fall in love with Mr Moffat.

'Yes; wealth is very powerful: here we are, Miss Dunstable, the most honoured guests in the house.'

'Oh! I don't know about that; you may be, for you are a member of Parliament, and all that'

'Well, you will be, and that's all the same; but I have no such title to honour, thank God.'

They walked on in silence for a little while, for Mr Moffat hardly knew who to manage the business he had in

hand. 'It is quite delightful to watch these people,' he said at last; 'now they accuse us of being tufthunters.'

'Do they?' said Miss Dunstable. 'Upon my word I didn't know that anybody ever so accused me.'

'But that is what the world says of persons of our class. Now it seems to me that toadying is all on the other

'Do they? if so, upon my word I didn't know it. But, to tell the truth, I don't think much of such things. I live

'I see that you do, and I admire you for it; but, Miss Dunstable, you cannot always live so,' and Mr Moffat

looked at her in a manner which gave her the first intimation of his coming burst of tenderness.

He went on beating about the bush for some timegiving her to understand now necessary it was that

persons situated as they were should live either for themselves or for each other, and that, above all things,

they should beware of falling into the mouths of voracious aristocratic lions who go about looking for

preytill they came to a turn in the grounds; at which Miss Dunstable declared her intention of going in. She

had walked enough, she said. As by this time Mr Moffat's immediate intentions were becoming visible she

thought it prudent to retire. 'Don't let me take you in, Mr Moffat; but my boots are a little damp, and Dr

'Your feet damp?I hope not: I do hope not,' said he, with a look of the greatest solicitude.

'Oh! it's nothing to signify; but it's well to be prudent, you know. Good morning, Mr Moffat.'

'Ehyes!' and Miss Dunstable stopped in the grand path. 'I won't let you return with me, Mr Moffat, because

'I know it. I am going to town and you are going abroad. It may be longvery longbefore we meet again.'

'About Easter,' said Miss Dunstable; 'that is, if the doctor doesn't known up on the road.'

'And I had, had wish to say something before we part for so long a time. Miss Dunstable'

'Stop!Mr Moffat. Let me ask you one question. I'll hear anything that you have got to say, but on one

condition: that is, that Miss Augusta Gresham shall be by while you say it. Will you consent to that?'

'Miss Augusta Gresham,' said he, 'has no right to listen to my private conversation.'

'Has she not, Mr Moffat? then I think she should have. I, at any rate, will not so far interfere with what I look

on as her undoubted privileges as to be a party to any secret in which she may not participate.'

And to tell you fairly, Mr Moffat, any secret that you do tell me, I shall most undoubtedly repeat to her before

dinner. Good morning, Mr Moffat; my feet are certainly a little damp, and if I stay a moment longer, Dr

Easyman will put off my foreign trip for at least a week.' And so she left him standing alone in the middle of

For a moment or two, Mr Moffat consoled himself in his misfortune by thinking how he might avenge

himself on Miss Dunstable. Soon, however, such futile ideas left his brain. Why should he give over the

chase because the rich galleon had escaped him on this, his first cruise in pursuit of her? Such prizes were not

to be won so easily. His present objection clearly consisted in his engagement to Miss Gresham, and in that

only. Let that engagement be at an end, notoriously and publicly broken off, and this objection would fall to

the ground. Yes; ships so richly freighted were not to be run down in one summer morning's plain sailing.

Instead of looking for his revenge on Miss Dunstable, it would be more prudent in himmore in keeping

with his characterto pursue his object, and overcome such difficulties as he might find his way.

The Duke of Omnium was, as we have said, a bachelor. Not the less on that account did he on certain rare

gala days entertain the beauty of the county in his magnificent rural seat, or the female fashion of London in

Belgrave Square; but on this occasion the dinner at Gatherum Castlefor such was the name of his

mansionwas to be confined to the lords of the creation. It was to be one of those days on which he

collected round his board all the notables of the county, in order that his popularity might not wane, or the

On such an occasion it was not probable that Lord de Courcy would be one of the guests. They party, indeed,

who went from Courcy Castle was not large, and consisted of the Honourable George, Mr Moffat, and Frank

Gresham. They went in a taxcart, with a tandem horse, driven very knowingly by George de Courcy; and

the fourth seat on the back of the vehicle was occupied by a servant, who was to look after the horses at

The Honourable George drove either well or luckily, for he reached the duke's house in safety; but he drove

very fast. Poor Miss Dunstable! what would have been her lot had anything but good happened to that

vehicle, so richly freighted with her three lovers! They did not quarrel as to the prize, and all reached

The castle was new building of white stone, lately erected at an enormous cost by one of the first architects of

the day. It was an immense pile, and seemed to cover ground enough for a moderatesized town. But,

nevertheless, report said that when it was completed, the noble owner found that he had no rooms to live in;

and that, on this account, when disposed to study his own comfort, he resided in a house of perhaps onetenth

Gatherum Castle would probably be called Italian in its style of architecture; though it may, I think, be

doubted whether any such edifice, or anything like it, was ever seen in any part of Italy. It was a vast edifice;

irregular in heightor it appeared to behaving long wings on each side too high to be passed over by the

eye as mere adjuncts to the mansion, and a portico so large as to make the house behind it look like another

building of a greater altitude. This portico was supported by Ionic columns, and was in itself doubtless a

beautiful structure. It was approached by a flight of steps, very broad and very grand; but, as an approach, by

a flight of steps hardly suits an Englishman's house, to the immediate entrance of which it is necessary that

his carriage should drive, there was another front door in one of the wings which was commonly used. A

carriage, however, could on very stupendously grand occasionsthe visits, for instance, of queens and kings,

and royal dukesbe brought up under the portico; as the steps had been so constructed as to admit of a road,

with a rather stiff ascent, being made close in front of the wing up into the very porch.

0pening from the porch was the grand hall, which extended up to the top of the house. It was magnificent,

indeed; being decorated with manycoloured marbles, and hung round with various trophies of the house of

Omnium; banners were there, and armour; the sculptured busts of many noble progenitors; fulllength

figures of marble of those who had been especially prominent; and every monument of glory and wealth,

long years, and great achievements could bring together. If only a man could but live in his hall and be for

ever happy there! But the Duke of Omnium could not live happily in his hall; and the fact was, that the

architect, in contriving this magnificent entrance for his own honour and fame, had destroyed the duke's

Nevertheless, Gatherum Castle is a very noble pile; and, standing as it does an eminence, has a very fine

At seven o'clock, Mr de Courcy and his friends got down from their drag at the smaller doorfor this was no

day on which to mount up under the portico; nor was that any suitable vehicle to have been entitled to such

honour. Frank felt some excitement a little stronger than that usual to him at such moments, for he had never

yet been in company with the Duke of Omnium; and he rather puzzled himself to think on what points he

would talk to the man who was the largest landowner in that county in which he himself had so great an

interest. He, however, made up his mind that he would allow the duke to choose his own subjects; merely

reserving to himself the right of pointing out how deficient in gorse covers was West Barsetshirethat being

They were soon divested of their coats and hats, and, without entering on the magnificence of the great hall,

were conducted through rather a narrow passage into rather a small drawingroomsmall, that is, in

proportion to the number of gentlemen there assembled. There might be about thirty, and Frank was inclined

to think that they were almost crowded. A man came forward to greet them when their names were

announced; but our hero at once knew that he was not the duke; for this man was fat and short, whereas the

There was a great hubbub going on; for everybody seemed to be talking to his neighbour; or, in default of a

neighbour, to himself. It was clear that the exalted rank of their host had put very little constraint on his

guests' tongues, for they chatted away with as much freedom as farmers at an ordinary.

'Oh;he's not here,' said George; 'I suppose he'll be in presently. I believe he never shows till just before

Frank, of course, had nothing further to say; but he already began to feel himself a little snubbed: he thought

that the duke, duke though he was, when he asked people to dinner should be there to tell them that he was

More people flashed into the room, and Frank found himself rather closely wedged in with a stout clergyman

of his acquaintance. He was not badly off, for Mr Athill was a friend of his own, who had held a living near

Greshamsbury. Lately, however, at the lamented decease of Dr Stanhopewho had died of apoplexy at his

villa in ItalyMr Athill had been presented with the better preferment of Eiderdown, and had, therefore,

removed to another part of the county. He was somewhat of a bonvivant, and a man who thoroughly

understood dinnerparties; and with much good nature he took Frank under his special protection.

'You stick to me, Mr Gresham,' he said, 'when we go into the diningroom. I'm an old hand at the duke's

'He'll be here as soon as dinner is ready,' said Mr Athill. 'Or, rather, the dinner will be ready as soon as he is

He was beginning to be impatient, for the room was now nearly full, and it seemed evident that no other

guests were coming; when suddenly a bell rang, and a gong was sounded, and at the same instant a door that

had not yet been used flew open, and a very plainly dressed, plain, tall man entered the room. Frank at once

But his grace, late as he was in commencing the duties as host, seemed in no hurry to make up for lost time.

He quietly stood on the rug, with his back to the empty grate, and spoke one or two words in a very low voice

to one or two gentlemen who stood nearest to him. The crowd, in the meanwhile, became suddenly silent.

Frank, when he found that the duke did not come and speak to him, felt that he ought to go and speak to the

duke; but no one else did so, and when he whispered his surprise to Mr Athill, that gentleman told him that

'Fothergill,' said the dukeand it was the only word he had yet spoken out loud'I believe we are ready for

dinner.' Now Mr Fothergill was the duke's landagent, and he it was who had greeted Frank and his friends at

Immediately the gong was again sounded, and another door leading out of the drawingroom into the

diningroom was opened. The duke led the way, and then the guests followed. 'Stick close to me, Mr

Gresham,' said Athill, 'we'll get about the middle of the table, where we shall be cosyand on the other side

of the room, out of this dreadful draughtI know the place well, Mr Gresham; stick to me.'

Mr Athill, who was a pleasant, chatty companion, had hardly seated himself, and was talking to Frank as

quickly as he could, when Mr Fothergill, who sat at the bottom of the table, asked him to say grace. It seemed

to be quite out of the question that the duke should take any trouble over his guests whatever. Mr Athill

consequently dropped the word he was speaking, and uttered a prayerif it was a prayerthat they might

If it was a prayer! As far as my own experience goes, such utterances are seldom prayers, seldom can be

prayers. And if not prayers, what then? To me it is unintelligible that the full tide of glibbest chatter can be

stopped at a moment in the midst of profuse good living, and the Given thanked becomingly in words of

heartfelt praise. Setting aside for the moment what one daily hears and sees, may not one declare that a

change so sudden is not within the compass of the human mind? But then, to such reasoning one cannot but

add what one does hear and see; one cannot but judge of the ceremony by the manner in which one sees it

performeduttered, that isand listened to. Clergymen there areone meets them now and thenwho

endeavour to give to the dinnertable grace some of the solemnity of a church ritual, and what is the effect?

Much the same as though one were to be interrupted for a minute in the midst of one of our church liturgies

And it will be argued, that a man need be less thankful because, at the moment of receiving, he utters not

thanksgiving? or will it be thought that a man is made thankful because what is called a grace is uttered after

Dinnergraces are, probably, the last remaining relic of certain daily services which the Church in olden days

enjoined: nones, complines, and vespers were others. Of the nones and complines we have happily got quit;

and it might be well if we could get rid of the dinnergrace also. Let any man ask himself whether, on his

own part, they are acts of prayer and thanksgivingand if not that, what then? It is, I know, alleged that

graces are said before dinner, because our Saviour uttered a blessing before his last supper. I cannot say that

When the large party entered the diningroom one or two gentlemen might be seen to come in from some

other door and set themselves at the table near to the duke's chair. These were guests of his own, who were

staying in the house, his particular friends, the men with whom he lived: the others were strangers whom he

fed, perhaps once a year, in order that his name might be known in the land as that of one who distributed

food and wine hospitably through the county. The food and wine, the attendance also, and the view of the

vast repository of plate he vouchsafed willingly to his county neighbours;but it was beyond his good

nature to talk to them. To judge by the present appearance of most of them, they were quite as well satisfied

Frank was altogether a stranger there, but Mr Athill knew every one at the table.

'That's Apjohn,' said he: 'don't you know, Mr Apjohn, the attorney from Barchester? he's always here; he does

some of Fothergill's law business, and makes himself useful. If any fellow knows the value of a good dinner,

he does. You'll see that the duke's hospitality will not be thrown away on him.'

'It's very much thrown away on me, I know,' said Frank, who could not at all put up with the idea of sitting

'Oh, nonsense!' said his clerical friend; 'you'll enjoy yourself amazingly by and by. There is not much

champagne in any other house in Barsetshire; and then the claret' And Mr Athill pressed his lips together,

and gently shook his head, meaning to signify by the motion that the claret of Gatherum Castle was sufficient

atonement for any penance which a man might have to go through in his mode of obtaining it.

'Who is that funny little man sitting there, next but one to Mr de Courcy? I never saw such a queer fellow in

'Don't you know old Bolus? Well, I thought every one in Barsetshire knew Bolus; you especially should do

'Yes; he was apothecary at Scarington in the old days, before Dr Fillgrave came into vogue. I remember when

'Ha! ha! ha! Well, I suppose we must be charitable, and say that he is quite as good, at any rate, as many

others there are here' and Mr Athill, as he spoke, whispered into Frank's ear, 'You see there's Finnie here,

another Barchester attorney. Now, I really think where Finnie goes, Bolus may go too.'

'Well, something a little like that. I wonder why Thorne is not here? I'm sure he was asked.'

'Perhaps he did not particularly wish to meet Finnie and Bolus. Do you know, Mr Athill, I think he was quite

'Ha! ha! ha! You don't know the duke's ways yet; and what's more, you're young, you happy fellow! But

The gormandizing was now going on at a tremendous rate. Though the volubility of their tongues had been

for a while stopped by the first shock of the duke's presence, the guests seemed to feel no such constraint

upon their teeth. They fed, one may almost say, rabidly, and gave their orders to the servants in an eager

manner; much more impressive than that usual at smaller parties. Mr Apjohn, who sat immediately opposite

to Frank, had, by some wellplanned manoeuvre, contrived to get before him the jowl of a salmon; but,

unfortunately, he was not for a while equally successful in the article of sauce. A very limited portionso at

least thought Mr Apjohnhad been put on his plate; and a servant, with a huge sauce tureen, absolutely

passed behind his back inattentive to his audible requests. Poor Mr Apjohn in his despair turned round to

arrest the man by his coattails; but he was a moment too late, and all but fell backwards on the floor. As he

righted himself he muttered an anathema, and looked with a face of anguish at his plate.

'Anything the matter, Apjohn?' said Mr Fothergill, kindly, seeing the utter despair written on the poor man's

'The sauce!' said Mr Apjohn, in a voice that would have melted a hermit; and as he looked at Mr Fothergill,

he point at the now distant sinner, who was dispensing his melted ambrosia at least ten heads upwards, away

Mr Fothergill, however, knew where to look for balm for such wounds, and in a minute or two, Mr Apjohn

'Well,' said Frank to his neighbour, 'it may be very well once in a way; but I think that on the whole Dr

'My dear Mr Gresham, see the world on all sides,' said Mr Athill, who had also been somewhat intent on the

gratification of his own appetite, though with an energy less evident than that of the gentleman opposite. 'See

the world on all sides if you have an opportunity; and, believe me, a good dinner now and then is a very good

'Whishh! softly, softly, Mr Gresham, or you'll disturb Mr Apjohn's digestion. Upon my word, he'll want it

'Yes; indeed I do. One sees so much character. And after all, what harm does it do?'

'My idea is that people should live with those whose society is pleasant to them.'

'Liveyes, Mr GreshamI agree with you there. It wouldn't do for me to live with the Duke of Omnium; I

shouldn't understand, or probably approve, his ways. Nor should I, perhaps, much like the constant presence

of Mr Apjohn. But now and thenonce in a year or soI do own I like to see them both. Here's the cup;

And so the dinner passed on, slowly enough as Frank thought, but all too quickly for Mr Apjohn. It passed

away, and the wine came circulating freely. The tongues again were loosed, the teeth being released from

their labours, and under the influence of the claret the duke's presence was forgotten.

But very speedily the coffee was brought. 'This will soon be over now,' said Frank, to himself, thankfully; for,

though he be no means despised good claret, he had lost his temper too completely to enjoy it at the present

moment. But he was much mistaken; the farce as yet was only at its commencement. The duke took his cup

of coffee, and so did the few friends who sat close to him; but the beverage did not seem to be in great

request with the majority of the guests. When the duke had taken his modicum, he rose up and silently

'Now, gentlemen,' said Mr Fothergill, cheerily, 'we are all right. Apjohn, is there claret there? Mr Bolus, I

know you stick to the Madeira; you are quite right, for there isn't too much of it left, and my belief is there'll

And so the duke's hospitality went on, and the duke's guests drank merrily for the next two hours.

'Oh, no; you'll see no more of him. He always goes when the coffee comes. It's brought in as an excuse.

We've had enough of the light of his countenance to last till next year. The duke and I are excellent friends;

'I don't care. I shall walk on, and they may catch me. I may be wrong; but it seems to me that a man insults

me when he asks me to dine with him and never speaks to me. I don't care if he be ten times Duke of

Omnium; he can't be more than a gentleman, and as such I am his equal.' And then, having thus given vent to

his feelings in somewhat highflown language, he walked forth and trudged away along the road towards

Frank Gresham had been born and bred a Conservative, whereas the Duke of Omnium was well known as a

consistent Whig. There is no one so devoutly resolved to admit of no superior as your Conservative, born and

bred, no one so inclined to high domestic despotism as your thoroughgoing consistent old Whig.

When he had proceeded about six miles, Frank was picked up by his friends; but even then his anger had

'Was the duke as civil as ever when you took your leave of him?' said he to his cousin George, as he took his

'The juke was jeuced jude winelem me tell you that, old fella,' hiccupped out the Honourable George, as he

And now the departure from Courcy Castle came rapidly one after the other, and there remained but one more

evening before Miss Dunstable's carriage was to be packed. The countess, in the early moments of Frank's

courtship, had controlled his ardour and checked the rapidity of his amorous professions; but as days, and at

last weeks, wore away, she found that it was necessary to stir the fire which she had before endeavoured to

'There will be nobody here tonight but our own circle,' said she to him, 'and I really think you should tell

Miss Dunstable what your intentions are. She will have fair ground to complain of you if you don't.'

Frank began to feel that he was in a dilemma. He had commenced making love to Miss Dunstable partly

because he liked the amusement, and partly from a satirical propensity to quiz his aunt by appearing to fall

into her scheme. But he had overshot the mark, and did not know what answer to give when he was thus

called upon to make a downright proposal. And then, although he did not care two rushes about Miss

Dunstable in the way of love, he nevertheless experienced a sort of jealousy when he found that she appeared

to be indifferent to him, and that she corresponded the meanwhile with his cousin George. Though all their

flirtations had been carried on on both sides palpably by way of fun, though Frank had told himself ten times

a day that his heart was true to Mary Thorne, yet he had an undefined feeling that it behoved Miss Dunstable

to be a little in love with him. He was not quite at ease in that she was not a little melancholy now that his

departure was so nigh; and, above all, he was anxious to know what were the real facts about that letter. He

had in his own breast threatened Miss Dunstable with a heartache; and now, when the time for their

separation came, he found that his own heart was the more likely to ache of the two.

'I suppose I must say something to her, or my aunt will never be satisfied,' said he to himself as he sauntered

into the little drawingroom on that last evening. But at the very time he was ashamed of himself, for he

His sister and one of his cousins were in the room, but his aunt, who was quite on the alert, soon got them out

'So all our fun and all our laughter is come to an end,' said she, beginning the conversation. 'I don't know how

you feel, but for myself I really am a little melancholy at the idea of parting;' and she looked up at him with

her laughing black eyes, as though she never had, and never could have a care in the world.

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

'But how thoroughly glad the countess must be that we are both going,' continued she. 'I declare we have

treated her most infamously. Ever since we've been here we've had the amusement to ourselves. I've

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

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

Frank's voice quivered a little as he made this gallant profession; but still Miss Dunstable only laughed the

louder. 'Upon my word, of all my knights you are by far the best behaved,' said she, 'and say much the

prettiest things.' Frank became rather red in the face, and felt that he did so. Miss Dunstable was treating him

like a boy. While she pretended to be so fond of him she was only laughing at him, and corresponding the

while with his cousin George. Now Frank Gresham already entertained a sort of contempt for his cousin,

which increased the bitterness of his feelings. Could it really be possible that George had succeeded while he

had utterly failed; that his stupid cousin had touched the heart of the heiress while she was playing with him

'Of all your knights! Is that the way you talk to me when we are going to part? When was it, Miss Dunstable,

Miss Dunstable for a while looked serious enough. 'What makes you ask that?' said she. 'What makes you

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

For a moment she sat silent, and then her face again resumed its usual happy smile. 'Come, Mr Gresham, you

are not going to quarrel with me, I hope, even if I did write a letter to your cousin. Why should I not write to

him? I correspond with all manner of people. I'll write to you some of these days if you'll let me, and will

Frank threw himself back on the sofa on which he was sitting, and, in doing so, brought himself somewhat

nearer to his companion than he had been; he then drew his hand slowly across his forehead, pushing back his

'I do not care,' said he, 'for the privilege of correspondence on such terms. If my cousin George is to be a

And then he sighed again, so that it was piteous to hear him. He was certainly an arrant puppy, and an

egregious ass into the bargain; but then, it must be remembered in his favour that he was only twentyone,

and that much had been done to spoil him. Miss Dunstable did remember this, and therefore abstained from

'Why, Mr Gresham, what on earth do you mean? In all human probability I shall never write another line to

'Don't I? Then I hope I never shall. I thought I did. I thought they were the feelings of a good, truehearted

friend; feelings that I could sometimes look back upon with pleasure as being honest when so much that one

meets is false. I have become very fond of you, Mr Gresham, and I should be sorry to think that I did not

This was almost worse and worse. Young ladies like Miss Dunstablefor she was still to be numbered in the

category of young ladiesdo not usually tell young gentlemen that they are very fond of them. To boys and

girls they may make such a declaration. Now Frank Gresham regarded himself as one who had already fought

his battles, and fought them not without glory; he could not therefore endure to be thus openly told by Miss

'You little know how fond I am of you, Miss Dunstable,' and he put out his hand to take hold of hers. She

'And what can you have to say to say to Miss Dunstable that can make it necessary that you should pinch her

hand? I tell you fairly, Mr Gresham, if you make a fool of yourself, I shall come to a conclusion that you are

Such advice as this, so kindly given, so wisely meant, so clearly intelligible he should have taken and

'A fool of myself! Yes; I suppose I must be a fool if I have so much regard for Miss Dunstable as to make it

painful for me to know that I am to see her no more: a fool: yes, of course I am a foola man is always a

Miss Dunstable could not pretend to doubt his meaning any longer; and was determined to stop him, let it

cost what it would. She now put out her hand, not over white, and, as Frank soon perceived, gifted with a

'Now, Mr Gresham,' said she, 'before you go any further you shall listen to me. Will you listen to me for a

'You are goingor rather you were going, for I shall stop youto make a profession of love.'

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

'Yes; a professiona false profession, Mr Gresham,a false profession a false profession. Look into

your heartinto your heart of hearts. I know you at any rate have a heart; look into it closely. Mr Gresham,

you know you do not love me; not as a man should love the woman he swears to love.'

Frank was taken aback. So appealed to he found that he could not any longer say that he did love her. He

could only look into her face with all his eyes, and sit there listening to her.

'How is it possible that you should love me? I am Heaven knows how many years your senior. I am neither

young nor beautiful, nor have I been brought up as she should be whom you in time will really love and make

'It is not that,' said Frank, stoutly, feeling himself imperatively called upon to utter something in his own

'Ah, Mr Gresham, I fear it is that. For what other reason can you have laid your plans to talk in this way to

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

'I like you so wellnay, love you, if a woman may talk of love in the way of friendshipthat if money,

money alone would make you happy, you should have it heaped on you. If you want it, Mr Gresham, you

'But it grieves me,' continued she, 'it does grieve me, to think that you, you, youso young and gay, so

brightthat you should have looked for it in this way. From others I have taken it just as the wind that

whistles;' and now two big slow tears escaped from her eyes, and would have rolled down her rosy cheeks

Frank had nothing further to say in his own defence. He had not wanted Miss Dunstable's moneythat was

true; but he could not deny that he had been about to talk that absolute nonsense of which she spoke with so

'You would almost make me think that there are none honest in this fashionable world of yours. I well know

why Lady de Courcy has had me here: how could I help knowing it? She has been so foolish in her plans that

ten times a day she has told me her own secret. But I have said to myself twenty times, that if she were crafty,

'I have laughed in my sleeve to see how she played her game, and to hear others around playing theirs; all of

them thinking that they could get the money of the poor fool who had come at their beck and call; but I was

able to laugh at them as long as I thought that I had one true friend to laugh with me. But one cannot laugh

'Sell yourself for money! why, if I were a man I would not sell one jot of liberty for mountains of gold. What!

tie myself in the heyday of my youth to a person I could never love, for a price! perjure myself, destroy

myselfand not only myself, but her also, in order that I might live idly! Oh, heavens! Mr Gresham! can it

be that the words of such a woman as your aunt have sunk so deeply in your heart; have blackened you so

foully as this? Have you forgotten your soul, your spirit, your man's energy, the treasure of your heart? And

Frank found the task before him by no means an easy one. He had to make Miss Dunstable understand that he

had never had the slightest idea of marrying her, and that he had made love to her merely with the object of

keeping his hand in for the work as it were; with that object, and the other equally laudable one of interfering

And yet there was nothing for him but to get through this task as best he might. He was goaded to it by the

accusations which Miss Dunstable brought against him; and he began to feel, that though her invective

against him might be bitter when he had told the truth, they could not be so bitter as those she now kept

hinting at under her mistaken impression as to his views. He had never had any strong propensity for

moneyhunting; but now that offence appeared in his eyes abominable, unmanly, and disgusting. Any

'Miss Dunstable, I never for a moment thought of doing what you accuse me of; on my honour, I never did. I

have been very foolishvery wrongidiotic, I believe; but I have never intended that.'

This was rather a difficult question to answer; and Frank was not very quick in attempting it. 'I know you will

not forgive me,' he said at last; 'and, indeed, I do not see how you can. I don't know how it came about; but

this is certain, Miss Dunstable; I have never for a moment thought about your fortune; that is, thought about it

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

'You have never gloated over me as the bird of prey gloats over the poor beast that is soon to become carrion

beneath its claws? You have not counted me out as equal to so much land, and calculated on me as a balance

at your banker's? Ah, Mr Gresham,' she continued, seeing that he stared as though struck almost with awe by

her strong language; 'you little guess what a woman situated as I am has to suffer.'

'I have behaved badly to you, Miss Dunstable, and I beg your pardon; but I have never thought of your

'Then we will be friends again, Mr Gresham, won't we? It is so nice to have a friend like you. There, I think I

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

'There is merit in that, at any rate,' said Miss Dunstable. 'I understand it all now; you thought to make a fool

It may be, that Miss Dunstable did not feel much acute anger at finding that this young man had addressed

her with words of love in the course of an ordinary flirtation, although that flirtation had been unmeaning and

silly. This was not the offence against which her heart and breast had found peculiar cause to arm itself; this

At any rate, she and Frank again became friends, and, before the evening was over, they perfectly understood

each other. Twice during this long teteatete Lady de Courcy came into the room to see how things were

going on, and twice she went out almost unnoticed. It was quite clear to her that something uncommon had

taken place, was taking place, or would take place; and that should this be for weal or for woe, no good could

not come from her interference. On each occasion, therefore, she smiled sweetly on the pair of turtledoves,

But at last it became necessary to remove them; for the world had gone to bed. Frank, in the meantime, had

told to Miss Dunstable all his love for Mary Thorne, and Miss Dunstable had enjoined him to be true to his

vows. To her eyes there was something of heavenly beauty in young, true loveof beauty that was heavenly

'Mind you let me hear, Mr Gresham,' said she. 'Mind you do; and, Mr Gresham, never, never forget her for

Frank was about to swear that he never wouldagain, when the countess, for the third time, sailed into the

'Dear me, Lady de Courcy, I declare it is past twelve; I really am ashamed of myself. How glad you will be to

Then once again the aunt tapped her nephew with her fan. It was the last time in her life that she did so. He

looked up in her face, and his look was enough to tell her that the acres of Greshamsbury were not to be

Nothing further on the subject was said. On the following morning Miss Dunstable took her departure, not

much heeding the rather cold words of farewell which her hostess gave her; and on the following day Frank

We will now, with the reader's kind permission, skip over some months in our narrative. Frank returned from

Courcy Castle to Greshamsbury, and having communicated to his mothermuch in the same manner as he

had to the countessthe fact that his mission had been unsuccessful, he went up after a day or two to

Cambridge. During his short stay at Greshamsbury he did not even catch a glimpse of Mary. He asked for

her, of course, and was told that it was not likely that she would be at the house just at present. He called at

the doctor's, but she was denied to him there; 'she was out,' Janet said,'probably with Miss Oriel.' He went

to the parsonage and found Miss Oriel at home; but Mary had not been seen that morning. He then returned to

the house; and, having come to the conclusion that she had not thus vanished into air, otherwise than by

Beatrice looked very demure; declared that no one in the house had quarrelled with Mary; confessed that it

had been thought prudent that she should for a while stay away from Greshamsbury; and, of course, ended by

telling her brother everything, including all the scenes that had passed between Mary and herself.

'It is out of the question your thinking of marrying her, Frank,' said she. 'You must know that nobody feels it

more strongly than poor Mary herself;' and Beatrice looked the very personification of domestic prudence.

'I know nothing of the kind,' said he, with the headlong imperative air that was usual with him in discussing

matters with his sisters. 'I know nothing of the kind. Of course I cannot say what Mary's feelings may be: a

pretty life she must have had of it among you. But you may be sure of this, Beatrice, and so may my mother,

that nothing on earth shall make me give her upnothing.' And Frank, as he made this protestation,

strengthened his own resolution by thinking of all the counsel that Miss Dunstable had given him.

The brother and sister could hardly agree, as Beatrice was dead against the match. Not that she would not

have liked Mary Thorne for a sisterinlaw, but that she shared to a certain degree the feeling which was

now common to all the Greshamsthat Frank must marry money. It seemed, at any rate, to be imperative

that he should either do that or not marry at all. Poor Beatrice was not very mercenary in her views: she had

no wish to sacrifice her brother to any Miss Dunstable; but yet she felt, as they all feltMary Thorne

includedthat such as a match as that, of the young heir with the doctor's niece, was not to be thought

of;not to be spoken of as a thing that was in any way possible. Therefore, Beatrice, though she was Mary's

great friend, though she was her brother's favourite sister, could give Frank no encouragement. Poor Frank!

His mother said nothing to him on the subject: when she learnt that the affair with Miss Dunstable was not to

come off, she merely remarked that it would perhaps be best for him to return to Cambridge as soon as

possible. Had she spoken her mind out, she would probably have also advised him to remain there as long as

possible. The countess had not omitted to write to her when Frank had left Courcy Castle; and the countess's

letter certainly made the anxious mother think that her son's education had hardly yet been completed. With

this secondary object, but with that of keeping him out of the way of Mary Thorne in the first place, Lady

Arabella was now quite satisfied that her son should enjoy such advantages as an education completed at the

With his father Frank had a long conversation; but, alas! the gist of his father's conversation was this, that it

behoved him, Frank, to marry money. The father, however, did not put it to him in the cold, callous way in

which his ladyaunt had done, and his ladymother. He did not bid him go and sell himself to the first female

he could find possessed of wealth. It was with inward selfreproaches, and true grief of spirit, that the father

told the son that it was not possible for him to do as those who may do who are born really rich, or really

'If you marry a girl without a fortune, Frank, how are you to live?' the father asked, after having confessed

'I don't care about money, sir,' said Frank. 'I shall be just as happy if Boxall Hill had never been sold. I don't

'Let me go into some profession. Let me go to the Bar. I am sure I could earn my own living. Earn it! of

course I could, why not I as well as others? I should like of all things to be a barrister.'

There was much more of the same kind, in which Frank said all that he could think of to lessen his father's

regrets. In their conversation not a word was spoken about Mary Thorne. Frank was not aware whether or no

his father had been told of the great family danger which was dreaded in that quarter. That he had been told,

we may surmise, as Lady Arabella was not wont to confine the family dangers to her own bosom. Moreover,

Mary's presence had, of course, been missed. The truth was, that the squire had been told, with great

bitterness, of what had come to pass, and all the evil had been laid at his door. He it had been who hand

encouraged Mary to be regarded almost as a daughter of the house of Greshamsbury: he it was who taught

that odious doctorodious on all but his aptitude for good doctoringto think himself a fit match for the

aristocracy of the county. It had been his fault, this great necessity that Frank should marry money; and now

By no means in quiescence did the squire hear these charges brought against him. The Lady Arabella, in each

attack, got quite as much as she gave, and, at last, was driven to retreat in a state of headache, which she

declared to be chronic; and which, so she assured her daughter Augusta, must prevent her from having any

more lengthened conversations with her lordat any rate for the next three months. But though the squire

may be said to have come off on the whole as the victor in these combats, they did not perhaps have, on that

account, the less effect upon him. He knew it was true that he had done much towards ruining his son; and he

also could think of no other remedy than matrimony. It was Frank's doom, pronounced even by the voice of

And so, Frank went off again to Cambridge, feeling himself, as he went, to be a much lesser man in

Greshamsbury estimation than he had been some two months earlier, when his birthday had been celebrated.

Once during his short stay at Greshamsbury he had seen the doctor; but the meeting had been anything but

pleasant. He had been afraid to ask after Mary; and the doctor had been too diffident of himself to speak of

her. They had met casually on the road, and, though each in his heart loved the other, the meeting had been

And so Frank went to Cambridge; and, as he did so, he stoutly resolved that nothing should make him untrue

to Mary Thorne. 'Beatrice,' said he, on the morning he went away, when she came into his room to

'Oh, Frank, my darling Frank, don't think of itit is madness; she knows it is madness.'

'Never mind; if she ever talks about me, tell her that the last word I said was, that I would never forget her.

Beatrice made no promise, never hinted that she would give the message; but it may be taken for granted that

And then there were other troubles at Greshamsbury. It had been decided that Augusta's marriage was to take

place in September; but Mr Moffat had, unfortunately, been obliged to postpone the happy day. He himself

had told Augustanot, of course, without protestations as to his regretand had written to this effect to Mr

Gresham, 'Electioneering matters, and other troubles had,' he said, 'made this peculiarly painful postponement

Augusta seemed to bear her misfortune with more equanimity than is, we believe, usual with young ladies

under such circumstances. She spoke of it to her mother in a very matteroffact way, and seemed almost

contented at the idea of remaining at Greshamsbury till February; which was the time now named for the

'I half believe that fellow is not honest,' he had once said out loud before Frank, and this set Frank athinking

of what dishonesty in the matter it was probable that Mr Moffat might be guilty, and what would be the

fitting punishment for such a crime. Nor did he think on the subject in vain; especially after a conference on

the matter which he had with his friend Harry Baker. This conference took place during the Christmas

It should be mentioned, that the time spent by Frank at Courcy Castle had not done much to assist him in his

views as to an early degree, and that it had at last been settled that he should stay up at Cambridge another

year. When he came home at Christmas he found that the house was not peculiarly lively. Mary was absent

on a visit with Miss Oriel. Both these young ladies were staying with Miss Oriel's aunt, in the neighbourhood

of London; and Frank soon learnt that there was no chance that either of them would be home before his

return. No message had been left for him by Marynone at least had been left with Beatrice; and he began

in his heart to accuse her of coldness and perfidy;not, certainly, with much justice, seeing that she had

The absence of Patience Oriel added to the dullness of the place. It was certainly hard upon Frank that all the

attraction of the village should be removed to make way and prepare for his returnharder, perhaps, on

them; for, to tell the truth, Miss Oriel's visit had been entirely planned to enable her to give Mary a

comfortable way of leaving Greshamsbury during the time that Frank should remain at home. Frank thought

himself cruelly used. But what did Mr Oriel think when doomed to eat his Christmas pudding alone, because

the young squire would be unreasonable in his love? What did the doctor think, as he sat solitary by his

deserted hearththe doctor, who no longer permitted himself to enjoy the comforts of the Greshamsbury

diningtable? Frank hinted and grumbled; talked to Beatrice of the determined constancy of his love, and

occasionally consoled himself by a stray smile from some of the neighbouring belles. The black horse was

made perfect; the old grey pony was by no means discarded; and much that was satisfactory was done in the

sporting line. But still the house was dull, and Frank felt that he was the cause of its being so. Of the doctor

he saw but little: he never came to Greshamsbury, unless to see Lady Arabella as doctor, or to be closeted

with the squire. There were no special evenings with him; no animated confabulations at the doctor's house;

no discourses between them, as there was wont to be, about the merits of the different covers, and the

capacities of the different hounds. These were dull days on the whole for Frank; and sad enough, we may say,

In February Frank again went back to college; having settled with Harry Baker certain affairs which weighed

on his mind. He went back to Cambridge, promising to be home on the twentieth of the month, so as to be

present at his sister's wedding. A cold and chilling time had been named for these hymeneal joys, but one not

altogether unsuited to the feelings of the happy pair. February is certainly not a warm month; but with the

rich it is generally a cosy, comfortable time. Good fires, winter cheer, groaning tables, and warm blankets,

make a fictitious summer, which, to some tastes, is more delightful than the long days and the hot sun. And

some marriages are especially winter matches. They depend for their charm on the same substantial

attractions: instead of heart beating to heart in sympathetic unison, purse chinks to purse. The rich new

furniture of the new abode is looked to instead of the rapture of a pure embrace. The new carriage is

depended on rather than the new heart's companion; and the first bright gloss, prepared by the upholsterer's

hands, stands in lieu of the rosy tints which young love lends to his true votaries.

Mr Moffat had not spent his Christmas at Greshamsbury. That eternal election petition, those eternal lawyers,

the eternal care of his wellmanaged wealth, forbade him the enjoyment of any such pleasures. He could not

come to Greshamsbury for Christmas, nor yet for the festivities of the new year; but now and then he wrote

prettily worded notes, sending occasionally a silvergilt pencilcase, or a small brooch, and informed Lady

Arabella that he looked forward to the twentieth of February with great satisfaction. But, in the meanwhile,

the squire became anxious, and at last went up to London; and Frank, who was at Cambridge, bought the

heaviestcutting whip to be found in that town, and wrote a confidential letter to Harry Baker.

Poor Mr Moffat! It is well known that none but the brave deserve the fair; but thou, without much excuse for

bravery, had secured for thyself one who, at any rate, was fair enough for thee. Would it not have been well

hadst thou looked to thyself to see what real bravery might be in thee, before thou hadst prepared to desert

this fair one thou hadst already won? That last achievement, one may say, did require some special courage.

Poor Mr Moffat! It is wonderful that as he sat in that gig, going to Gatherum Castle, planning how he would

be off with Miss Gresham and afterwards on with Miss Dunstable, it is wonderful that he should not then

have cast his eye behind him, and looked at that stalwart pair of shoulders which were so close to his own

back. As he afterwards pondered on his scheme while sipping the duke's claret, it is odd that he should not

have observed the fiery pride of purpose and power of wrath which was so plainly written on that young

man's brow: or, when he matured, and finished, and carried out his purpose, that he did not think of that keen

grasp which had already squeezed his own hand with somewhat too warm a vigour, even in the way of

Poor Mr Moffat! it is probable that he forgot to think of Frank at all as connected with his promised bride; it

is probable that he looked forward only to the squire's violence and the enmity of the house of Courcy; and

that he found from enquiry at his heart's pulses, that he was man enough to meet these. Could he have

guessed what a whip Frank Gresham would have bought at Cambridgecould he have divined what a letter

would have been written to Harry Bakerit is probable, nay, we think we may say certain, that Miss

Miss Gresham, however, never did become Mrs Moffat. About two days after Frank's departure for

Cambridgeit is just possible that Mr Moffat was so prudent as to make himself aware of the factbut just

two days after Frank's departure, a very long, elaborate, and clearly explanatory letter was received at

Greshamsbury. Mr Moffat was quite sure that Miss Gresham and her very excellent parents would do him the

justice to believe that he was not actuated, The long and the short of this was, that Mr Moffat signified his

Augusta again bore her disappointment well: not, indeed, without sorrow and heartache, and inward, hidden

tears; but still well. She neither raved, nor fainted, nor walked about by moonlight alone. She wrote no

poetry, and never once thought of suicide. When, indeed, she remembered the rosytinted lining, the

unfathomable softness of that Longacre carriage, her spirit did for one moment give way; but, on the whole,

But both Lady Arabella and the squire were greatly vexed. The former had made the match, and the latter,

having consented to it, had incurred deeper responsibilities to enable him to bring it about. The money which

was to have been given to Mr Moffat was still to the fore; but alas! how much, how much that he could ill

spare, had been thrown away in bridal preparations! It is, moreover, an unpleasant thing for a gentleman to

have his daughter jilted; perhaps peculiarly so to have her jilted by a tailor's son.

Lady Arabella's woe was really piteous. It seemed to her as though cruel fate were heaping misery after

misery upon the wretched house of Greshamsbury. A few weeks since things were going so well with her!

Frank then was still all but the accepted husband of almost untold wealthso, at least, she was informed by

her sisterinlawwhereas, Augusta, was the accepted wife of wealth, not indeed untold, but of dimensions

quite sufficiently respectable to cause much joy in the telling. Where now were her golden hopes? Where

now the splendid future of her poor duped children? Augusta was left to pine alone; and Frank, in a still

For Frank's affairs she had received some poor consolation by laying all the blame on the squire's shoulders.

What she had then said was now repaid to her with interest; for not only had she been the maker of Augusta's

It was from Beatrice that Frank had obtained his tidings. This last resolve on the part of Mr Moffat had not

altogether been unsuspected by some of the Greshams, though altogether unsuspected by the Lady Arabella.

Frank had spoken of it as a possibility to Beatrice, and was not quite unprepared when the information

reached him. He consequently bought his cuttingwhip, and wrote his confidential letter to Harry Baker.

On the following day Frank and Harry might have been seen, with their heads nearly close together, leaning

over one of the tables in the large breakfastroom at the Tavistock Hotel in Covent Garden. The ominous

whip, to the handle of which Frank had already made his hand well accustomed, was lying on the table

between them; and ever and anon Harry Baker would take it up and feel its weight approvingly. Oh, Mr

Moffat! poor Mr Moffat! go not out into the fashionable world today; above all, go not to that club of thine

in Pall Mall; but, oh! especially go not there, as is thy wont to do, at three o'clock in the afternoon!

With much care did those two young generals lay their plans of attack. Let it not for a moment be thought

that it was ever in the minds of either of them that two men should attack one. But it was thought that Mr

Moffat might be rather coy in coming out from his seclusion to meet the proffered hand of his once intended

brotherinlaw when he should see that hand armed with a heavy whip. Baker, therefore, was content to act

as a decoy duck, and remarked that he might no doubt make himself useful in restraining the public mercy,

'It will be deuced hard if I can't get five or six shies at him,' said Frank, again clutching his weapon almost

spasmodically. Oh, Mr Moffat! five or six shies with such a whip, and such an arm! For myself, I would

At ten minutes before four these two heroes might be seen walking up Pall Mall, towards the Club.

Young Baker walked with an eager disengaged air. Mr Moffat did not know his appearance; he had,

therefore, no anxiety to pass along unnoticed. But Frank had in some mysterious way drawn his hat very far

over his forehead, and had buttoned his shootingcoat up round his chin. Harry had recommended to him a

greatcoat, in order that he might the better conceal his face; but Frank had found the greatcoat was an

encumbrance to his arm. He put it on, and when thus clothed he had tried the whip, he found that he cut the

air with much less potency than in the lighter garment. He contented himself, therefore, with looking down

on the pavement as he walked along, letting the long point of the whip stick up from his pocket, and flattering

himself that even Mr Moffat would not recognise him at the first glance. Poor Mr Moffat! If he had but had

And now, having arrived at the front of the club, the two friends for a moment separate: Frank remains

standing on the pavement, under the shade of the high stone arearailing, while Harry jauntily skips up three

steps at a time, and with a very civil word of inquiry of the hall porter, sends his card to Mr Moffat

Mr Moffat, never having heard of such a gentleman in his life, unwittingly comes out into the hall, and Harry,

Now the plan of the campaign had been settled in this wise: Baker was to send into the club for Mr Moffat,

and invite that gentleman down into the street. It was probable that the invitation might be declined; and it

had been calculated in such case the two gentlemen would retire for parley into the strangers' room, which

was known to be immediately opposite the hall door. Frank was to keep his eye on the portals, and if he

found that Mr Moffat did not appear as readily as might be desired, he also was to ascend the steps and hurry

into the strangers' room. Then, whether he met Mr Moffat there or elsewhere, or wherever, he might meet

him, he was to greet him with all the friendly vigour in his power, while Harry disposed of the club porters.

But fortune, who ever favours the brave, specially favoured Frank Gresham on this occasion. Just as Harry

Baker had put his card into the servant's hand, Mr Moffat, with his hat on, prepared for the street, appeared in

the hall; Mr Baker addressed him with his sweetest smile, and begged the pleasure of saying a word or two as

they descended into the street. Had not Mr Moffat been going thither it would have been very improbable that

he should have done so at Harry's instance. But, as it was, he merely looked rather solemn at his visitorit

Frank, his heart leaping the while, saw his prey, and retreated two steps behind the arearailing, the dread

weapon already well poised in his hand. Oh! Mr Moffat! Mr Moffat! if there be any goddess to interfere in

thy favour, let her come forward now without delay; let her now bear thee off on a cloud if there be one to

Harry smiled blandly till they were well on the pavement, saying some nothing, and keeping the victim's face

averted from the avenging angel; and then, when the raised hand was sufficiently nigh, he withdrew two steps

towards the nearest lamppost. Not for him was the honour of the interview;unless, indeed, succouring

But succouring policemen were no more to be come by than goddesses. Where were ye, men, when that

savage whip fell about the ears of the poor exlegislator? In Scotland Yard, sitting dozing on your benches,

or talking soft nothings to the housemaids round the corner; for ye were not walking on your beats, nor

standing at coign of vantage, to watch the tumults of the day. Had Sir Richard himself been on the spot Frank

Gresham would still, we may say, have had his five shies at that unfortunate one.

When Harry Baker quickly seceded from the way, Mr Moffat at once saw the fate before him. His hair

doubtless stood on end, and his voice refused to give the loud screech with which he sought to invoke the

club. An ashy paleness suffused his cheeks, and his tottering steps were unable to bear him away in flight.

Once, and twice, the cutting whip came well down across his back. Had he been wise enough to stand still

and take his thrashing in that attitude, it would have been well for him. But men so circumstanced have never

such prudence. After two blows he made a dash at the steps, thinking to get back into the club; but Harry,

who had by no means reclined in idleness against the lamppost, here stopped him: 'You had better go back

into the street,' said Harry; 'indeed you had,' giving him a shove from off the second step.

Then of course Frank could do no other than hit him anywhere. When a gentleman is dancing about with

much energy it is hardly possible to strike him fairly on his back. The blows, therefore, came now on his legs

and now on his head; and Frank unfortunately got more than his five or six shies before he was interrupted.

The interruption however came, all too soon for Frank's idea of justice. Though there be no policeman to take

part in a London row, there are always others ready enough to do so; amateur policemen, who generally

sympathize with the wrong side, and, in nine cases out of ten, expend their generous energy in protecting

thieves and pickpockets. When it was seen with what tremendous ardour that dread weapon fell about the

ears of the poor undefended gentleman, interference was at last, in spite of Harry Baker's best endeavours,

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

In the teeth, however, of these assurances, rude people did interfere, and after some nine or ten shies Frank

found himself encompassed by the arms, and encumbered by the weight of a very stout gentleman, who hung

affectionately about his neck and shoulders; whereas, Mr Moffat was already sitting in a state of syncope on

Frank was thoroughly out of breath: nothing came from his lips but halfmuttered expletives and

unintelligible denunciations of the iniquity of his foe. But still he struggled to be at him again. We all know

how dangerous is the taste of blood; now cruelly it will become a custom even with the most tenderhearted.

Frank felt that he had hardly fleshed his virgin lash: he thought, almost with despair, that he had not yet at all

succeeded as became a man and a brother; his memory told him of but one or two of the slightest touches that

had gone well home to the offender. He made a desperate effort to throw off that incubus round his neck and

'Do you want to murder the man, sir; to murder him?' said the stout gentleman over his shoulder, speaking

'I don't care,' said Frank, struggling manfully but uselessly. 'Let me out, I say; I don't caredon't let him go,

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

By this time there was a considerable concourse. The club steps were crowded with members; among whom

there were may of Mr Moffat's acquaintance. Policemen now flocked up, and the question arose as to what

should be done with the originators of the affray. Frank and Harry found that they were to consider

themselves under a gentle arrest, and Mr Moffat, in a fainting state, was carried into the interior of the club.

Frank, in his innocence, had intended to have celebrated this little affair when it was over by a light repast

and a bottle of claret with his friend, and then to have gone back to Cambridge by the mail train. He found,

however, that his schemes in this respect were frustrated. He had to get bail to attend at Marlborough Street

policeoffice should he be wanted within the next two or three days; and was given to understand that he

would be under the eye of the police, at any rate until Mr Moffat should be out of danger.

'Out of danger!' said Frank to his friend with a startled look. 'Why I hardly got at him.' Nevertheless, they did

On the second morning after this occurrence, Frank was again sitting in that public room at the Tavistock,

and Harry was again sitting opposite to him. The whip was not now so conspicuously produced between

them, having been carefully packed up and put away among Frank's other travelling properties. They were so

sitting, rather glum, when the door swung open, and a heavy quick step was heard advancing towards them. It

'Frank,' said he'Frank, what on earth is all this?' and as he spoke he stretched out both hands, the right to

Frank felt that his hand was held with a peculiarly warm grasp; and he could not but think that his father's

face, raised though his eyebrows werethough there was on it an intended expression of amazement and,

perhaps, regretnevertheless he could not but think that his father's face looked kindly at him.

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

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

'Danger!' said Frank, who could not yet induce himself to believe that he had been allowed a fair chance with

'Oh, Frank! Frank! how could you be so rash? In the middle of Pall Mall, too. Well! well! well! All the

And then the father sat well pleased while he heard, chiefly from Harry Baker, the full story of his son's

prowess. And then they did not separate without another slight repast and another bottle of claret.

Mr Moffat retired to the country for a while, and then went abroad; having doubtless learnt that the petition

was not likely to give him a seat for the city of Barchester. And this was the end of the wooing with Miss

After this, little occurred at Greshamsbury, or among Greshamsbury people, which it will be necessary for us

to record. Some notice was, of course, taking of Frank's prolonged absence from his college; and tidings,

perhaps exaggerated tidings, of what had happened at Pall Mall were not slow to reach the High Street of

Cambridge. But that affair was gradually hushed up; and Frank went on with his studies.

He went back to his studies: it then being an understood arrangement between him and his father that he

should not return to Greshamsbury till the summer vacation. On this occasion, the squire and Lady Arabella

had, strange to say, been of the same mind. They both wished to keep their son away from Miss Thorne; and

both calculated, that at his age and with his disposition, it was not probable that any passion would last out a

six month absence. 'And when that summer comes it will be an excellent opportunity for us to go abroad,'

said Lady Arabella. 'Poor Augusta will require some change to renovate her spirits.'

To this last proposition the squire did not assent. It was, however, allowed to pass over; and this much was

It will be remembered that Sir Roger Scatcherd had been elected as sitting member for the city of Barchester;

but it will also be remembered that a petition against his return was threatened. Had the petition depended

solely on Mr Moffat, Sir Roger's seat no doubt would have been saved by Frank Gresham's cutting whip. But

such was not the case. Mr Moffat had been put forward by the De Courcy interest; and that noble family with

its dependants was not to go to the wall because Mr Moffat had had a thrashing. No; the petition was to go

on; and Mr Nearthewinde declared, that no petition in his hands had half so good a chance of success.

'Chance, no, but certainty,' said Mr Nearthewinde; for Mr Nearthewinde had learnt something with reference

The petition was presented and duly backed; the recognisances were signed, and all the proper formalities

formally executed; and Sir Roger found that his seat was in jeopardy. His return had been a great triumph to

him; and, unfortunately, he had celebrated that triumph as he had been in the habit of celebrating most of the

very triumphant occasions of his life. Though he was than hardly yet recovered from the effects of his last

attack, he indulged in another violent drinking bout; and, strange to say, did so without any immediate visible

In February he took his seat amidst the warm congratulations of all men of his own class, and early in the

month of April his case came on for trial. Every kind of electioneering sin known to the electioneering world

was brought to his charge; he was accused of falseness, dishonesty, and bribery of every sort: he had, it was

said in the paper of indictment, bought votes, obtained them by treating, carried them off by violence,

conquered them by strong drink, polled them twice over, counted those of dead men, stolen them, forged

them, and created them by every possible, fictitious contrivance: there was no description of wickedness

appertaining to the task of procuring votes of which Sir Roger had not been guilty, either by himself or by his

agents. He was quite horrorstruck at the list of his own enormities. But he was somewhat comforted when

Mr Closerstil told him that the meaning of it all was that Mr Romer, the barrister, had paid a former bill due

'I fear he was indiscreet, Sir Roger; I really fear he was. Those young mean always are. Being energetic, they

'The agency can be proved, Sir Roger,' said Mr Closerstil, shaking his head. And then there was nothing

In these days of snowwhite purity all political delinquency is abominable in the eyes of British politicians;

but no delinquency is so abominable than the venality at elections. The sin of bribery is damnable. It is the

one sin for which, in the House of Commons, there can be no forgiveness. When discovered, it should render

the culprit liable to political death, without hope of pardon. It is treason against a higher throne than that on

which the Queen sits. It is a heresy which requires an autodafe. It is a pollution to the whole House, which

can only be cleansed by a great sacrifice. Anathema maranatha! out with it from amongst us, even though

half of our heart's blood be poured from the conflict! Out with it, and for ever!

Such is the language of patriotic members with regard to bribery; and doubtless, if sincere, they are in the

right. It is a bad thing, certainly, that a rich man should buy votes; bad also that a poor man should sell them.

With heartfelt disgust, if we can do so, by all means; but not with disgust pretended only and not felt in the

heart at all. The laws against bribery at elections are now so stringent that an unfortunate candidate may

easily become guilty, even though actuated by the purest intentions. But not the less on that account does any

gentleman, ambitious of the honour of serving his country in Parliament, think it necessary as a preliminary

measure to provide a round sum of money at his banker's. A candidate must pay for no treating, no

refreshments, no band of music; he must give neither ribbons to the girls nor ale to the men. If a huzza be

uttered in his favour, it is at his peril; it may be necessary for him to prove before a committee that it was the

spontaneous result of British feeling in his favour, and not the purchased result of British beer. He cannot

safely ask any one to share his hotel dinner. Bribery hides itself now in the most impalpable shapes, and may

be effected by the offer of a glass of sherry. But not the less on this account does a poor man find that he is

We strain at our gnats with a vengeance, but we swallow our camels with ease. For what purpose is it that we

employ those peculiarly safe men of businessMessrs Nearthewinde and Closerstilwhen we wish to win

our path through all obstacles into that sacred recess? Alas! the money is still necessary, is still prepared, or at

any rate, expended. The poor candidate of course knows nothing of the matter till the attorney's bill is laid

before him, when all danger of petitions has passed away. He little dreamed till then, not he, that there had

been banquetings and junketings, secret doings and deep drinkings at his expense. Poor candidate! Poor

member! Who was so ignorant as he! 'Tis true he has paid bills before; but 'tis equally true that he specially

begged his managing friend Mr Nearthewinde, to be very careful that all was done according to law! He pays

Now and again, at rare intervals, some glimpse into the inner sanctuary does reach the eyes of ordinary

mortal men without; some slight accidental peep into those mysteries from when all corruption has been so

thoroughly expelled; and then, how delightfully refreshing is the sight, when, perhaps, some exmember,

hurled from his paradise like a fallen peri, reveals the secret of that pure heaven, and, in the agony of his

despair, tells us all that it cost him to sit forthrough those few halcyon years!

But Mr Nearthewinde is a safe man, and easy to be employed with but little danger. All these stringent

bribery laws only enhance the value of such very safe men as Mr Nearthewinde. To him, stringent laws

against bribery are the strongest assurance of valuable employment. Were these laws of a nature to be evaded

with ease, any indifferent attorney might manage a candidate's affairs and enable him to take his seat with

It would have been well for Sir Roger if he had trusted solely to Mr Closerstil; well also for Mr Romer had he

never fished in those troubled waters. In due process of time the hearing of the petition came on, and then

who so happy, sitting at his ease in the London inn, blowing his cloud from a long pipe, with measureless

content, as Mr Reddypalm? Mr Reddypalm was the one great man of the contest. All depended on Mr

The result of the petition was declared by the committee to be read as follows:that Sir Roger's election was

null and voidthat Sir Roger had, by his agent, been guilty of bribery in obtaining a vote, by the payment of

a bill alleged to have been previously refused paymentthis is always a matter of course;but that Sir

Roger's agent, Mr Romer, had been willingly guilty of bribery with reference to the transaction above

Poor Mr Romer indeed! His fate was perhaps as sad as well might be, and as foul a blot to the purism of these

very pure times in which we live. Not long after those days, it so happening that some considerable amount of

youthful energy and quidnunc ability were required to set litigation afloat at Hong Kong, Mr Romer was sent

thither as the fittest man for such work, with rich assurance of future guerdon. Who are so happy then as Mr

Romer! But even among the pure there is room for envy and detraction. Mr Romer had not yet ceased to

wonder at new worlds, as he skimmed among the islands of that southern ocean, before the edict had gone

forth for his return. There were men sitting in that huge court of Parliament on whose breasts it lay as an

intolerable burden, that England should be represented among the antipodes by one who had tampered with

the purity of the franchise. For them there was no rest till this great disgrace should be wiped out and atoned

for. Men they were of that calibre, that the slightest reflection on them of such a stigma seemed to themselves

to blacken their own character. They could not break bread with satisfaction till Mr Romer was recalled. He

was recalled, and of course ruinedand the minds of those just men were then at peace.

To any honourable gentleman who really felt his brow suffused with a patriotic blush, as he thought of his

country dishonoured by Mr Romer's presence at Hong Kongto any such gentleman, if any such there were,

let all honour be given, even though the intensity of his purity may create amazement to our less finely

organized souls. But if no such blush suffused the brow of any honourable gentleman; if Mr Romer was

recalled from quite other feelingswhat then in lieu of honour shall we allot to those honourable gentlemen

Sir Roger, however, lost his seat, and, after three months of the joys of legislation, found himself reduced by

And the blow to him was very heavy. Men but seldom tell the truth of what is in them, even to their dearest

friends; they are ashamed of having feelings, or rather of showing that they are troubled by any intensity of

feeling. It is the practice of the time to treat all pursuits as though they were only half important to us, as

though in what we desire we were only half in earnest. To be visibly eager seems childish, and is always bad

policy; and men, therefore, nowadays, though they strive as hard as ever in the service of ambitionharder

than ever in that of mammonusually do so with a pleasant smile on, as though after all they were but

Perhaps it had been so with Sir Roger in those electioneering days when he was looking for votes. At any

rate, he had spoken of his seat in Parliament as but a doubtful good. 'He was willing, indeed, to stand, having

been asked; but the thing would interfere wonderfully with his business; and then, what did he know about

Parliament? Nothing on earth: it was the maddest scheme, but nevertheless, he was not going to hang back

when called uponhe had always been rough and ready when wantedand there he was now ready as ever,

'Twas thus that he had spoken of his coming parliamentary honours; and men had generally taken him at his

word. He had been returned, and this success had been hailed as a great thing for the cause and class to which

he belonged. But men did not know that his inner heart will swelling with triumph, and that his bosom could

hardly contain his pride as he reflected that the poor Barchester stonemason was now the representative of

his native city. And so, when his seat was attacked, he still laughed and joked. 'They were welcome to it for

him,' he said; 'he could keep it or want it; and of the two, perhaps, the want of it would come most convenient

to him. He did not exactly think that he had bribed any one; but if the bigwigs chose to say so, it was all one

But when the struggle came, it was to him a fearful one; not the less fearful because there was no one, no, not

one friend in all the world, to whom he could open his mind and speak out honestly what was in his heart. To

Dr Thorne he might perhaps have done so had his intercourse with the doctor been sufficiently frequent; but

it was only now and then when he was ill, or when the squire wanted to borrow money, that he saw Dr

Thorne. He had plenty of friends, heaps of friends in the parliamentary sense; friends who talked about him,

and lauded him at public meetings; who shook hands with him on platforms and drank his health at dinners;

but he had no friends who could sit with him over his own hearth, in true friendship, and listen to, and

sympathize with, and moderate the sighings of the inner man. For him there was no sympathy; no tenderness

of love; no retreat, save into himself, from the loud brass band of the outer world.

The blow hit him terribly hard. It did not come altogether unexpectedly, and yet, when it did come, it was all

but unendurable. He had made so much of the power of walking into that august chamber, and sitting

shoulder to shoulder in legislative equality with the sons of dukes and the curled darlings of the nation.

Money had given him nothing, nothing but the mere feeling of brute power: with his three hundred thousand

pounds he had felt himself to be no more palpably near to the goal of his ambition than when he had chipped

stones for three shillings and sixpence a day. But when he was led up and introduced at that table, when he

shook the old premier's hand on the floor of the House of Commons, when he heard the honourable member

for Barchester alluded to in grave debate as the greatest living authority on railway matters, then, indeed, he

And now this cup was ravished from his lips, almost before it was tasted. When he was first told as a

certainty that the decision of the committee was against him, he bore up against the misfortune like a man. He

laughed heartily, and declared himself well rid of a very profitless profession; cut some little joke about Mr

Moffat and his thrashing, and left on those around him an impression that he was a man so constituted, so

strong in his own resolves, so steadily pursuant of his own work, that no little contentions of this kind could

affect him. Men admired his easy laughter, as, shuffling his halfcrowns with both his hands in his

trouserpockets, he declared that Messrs Romer and Reddypalm were the best friends he had known for

But not the less did he walk out from the room in which he was standing a brokenhearted man. Hope could

not buoy him up as she may do other exmembers in similarly disagreeable circumstances. He could not

afford to look forward to what further favours parliamentary future have in store for him after a lapse of five

or six years. Five or six years! Why, his life was not worth four years' purchase; of that he was perfectly

aware: he could not now live without the stimulus of brandy; and yet, while he took it, he knew he was

killing himself. Death he did not fear; but he would fain have wished, after his life of labour, to have lived,

while yet he could live, in the blaze of that high world to which for a moment he had attained.

He laughed loud and cheerily as he left his parliamentary friends, and, putting himself into the train, went

down to Boxall Hill. He laughed loud and cheerily; but he never laughed again. It had not been his habit to

laugh much at Boxall Hill. It was there he kept his wife, and Mr Winterbones, and the brandy bottle behind

his pillow. He had not often there found it necessary to assume that loud and cheery laugh.

On this occasion he was apparently well in health when he got home; but both Lady Scatcherd and Mr

Winterbones found him more than ordinarily cross. He made an affectation at sitting very hard to business,

and even talked of going abroad to look at some of his foreign contracts. But even Winterbones found that his

patron did not work as he had been wont to do; and at last, with some misgivings, he told Lady Scatcherd that

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

'Always, my lady. I never saw nothing like it. Now, there's meI can always go my halfhour when I've had

This was not cheerful to Lady Scatcherd; but what was the poor woman to do? When she spoke to him on any

subject he only snarled at her; and now that the heavy fit was on him, she did not dare even to mention the

subject of his drinking. She had never known him so savage in his humour as he was now, so bearish in his

habits, so little inclined to humanity, so determined to rush headlong down, with his head between his legs,

She thought of sending for Dr Thorne; but she did not know under what guise to send for him,whether as

doctor or as friend: under neither would he now be welcome; and she well knew that Sir Roger was not the

man to accept in good part either a doctor or a friend who might be unwelcome. She knew that this husband

of hers, this man, who, with all his faults, was the best of her friends whom she loved bestshe knew that he

was killing himself, and yet she could do nothing. Sir Roger was his own master, and if kill himself he would,

And kill himself he did. Not indeed by one sudden blow. He did not take one huge dose of his consuming

poison, and then fall dead upon the floor. It would perhaps have been better for himself, and better for those

around him, had he done so. No; the doctors had time to congregate round his bed; Lady Scatcherd was

allowed a period of nursetending; the sick man was able to say his last few words and bid his adieu to his

portion of the lower world with dying decency. As these last words will have some lasting effect upon the

surviving personages of our story, the reader must be content to stand for a short while by the side of Sir

Roger's sickbed, and help us bid him Godspeed on the journey which lies before him.

It was declared in the early pages of this work that Dr Thorne was to be our hero; but it would appear very

much as though he had latterly been forgotten. Since that evening when he retired to rest without letting Mary

share the grievous weight which was on his mind, we have neither seen nor heard aught of him.

It was then full midsummer, and it now early spring: and during the intervening months the doctor had not

had a happy time of it. On that night, as we have before told, he took his niece to his heart; but he could not

then bring himself to tell her that which it was so imperative that she should know. Like a coward, he would

put off the evil hour, till the next morning, and thus robbed himself of his night's sleep.

But when the morning came the duty could not be postponed. Lady Arabella had given him to understand

that his niece would no longer be a guest at Greshamsbury; and it was quite out of the question that Mary,

after this, should be allowed to put her foot within the gate of the domain without having learnt what Lady

Arabella had said. So he told it before breakfast, walking round their little garden, she with her hand in his.

He was perfectly thunderstruck by the collectednay, cool way in which she received his tidings. She turned

pale, indeed; he felt also that her hand somewhat trembled in his own, and he perceived that for a moment her

voice shook; but no angry word escaped her lip, nor did she even deign to repudiate the charge, which was, as

it were, conveyed in Lady Arabella's request. The doctor knew, or thought he knewnay, he did knowthat

Mary was wholly blameless in the matter: that she had at least given no encouragement to any love on the

part of the young heir; but, nevertheless, he had expected that she would avouch her own innocence. This,

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

'She is a selfish, proud woman,' said the doctor; 'quite indifferent to the feelings of others; quite careless how

deeply she may hurt her neighbours, if, in doing so, she may possibly benefit herself.'

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

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

'On me, uncle? She casts no imputation on me. Frank has been foolish: I have said nothing of it, for it was not

worth while to trouble you. But as Lady Arabella chooses to interfere, I have no right to blame her. He has

said what he should not have said; he has been foolish. Uncle, you know I could not prevent it.'

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

He merely answered her by twining his arm round her waist and pressing her to his side. He was well sure

that she was badly treated; and yet now that she so unaccountably took Lady Arabella's part, he hardly knew

'Besides, uncle, Greshamsbury is in a manner his own; how can he be banished from his father's house? No,

uncle; there is an end of my visits there. They shall find that I will not thrust myself in their way.'

And what might be the feelings of her heart when she so sententiously told her uncle that Frank had been

foolish? She was of the same age with him; as impressionable, though more powerful in hiding such

impressions,as all women should be; her heart was as warm, her blood as full of life, her innate desire for

the companionship of some muchloved object as strong as his. Frank had been foolish in avowing his

passion. No such folly as that could be laid at her door. But had she been proof against the other folly? Had

she been able to walk heartwhole by his side, while he chatted his commonplaces about love? Yes, they are

commonplaces when we read them in novels; common enough, too, to some of us when we write them; but

they are by no means commonplace when first heard by a young girl in the rich, balmy fragrance of July

Nor are they commonplaces when so uttered for the first or second time at least, or perhaps the third. 'Tis a

If it was so that Frank's folly had been listened to with a certain amount of pleasure, Mary did not even admit

so much to herself. But why should it have been otherwise? Why should she have been less prone to love

than he was? Had he not everything which girls do love? which girls should love? which God created noble,

beautiful, all but godlike, in order that women, all but goddesslike, might love? To love thoroughly, truly,

heartily, with her whole body, soul, heart, and strength; should not that be counted for a merit in a woman?

And yet we are wont to make a disgrace of it. We do so most unnaturally, most unreasonably; for we expect

our daughters to get themselves married off our hands. When the period of that step comes, then love is

proper enough; but up to thatbefore thatas regards all those preliminary passages which must, we

suppose, be necessaryin all those it becomes a young lady to be icyhearted as a rivergod in winter.

This is the kind of love which a girl should feel before she puts her hand proudly in that of her lover, and

Mary felt no such love as this. She, too, had some inner perception of that dread destiny by which it behoved

Frank Gresham to be forewarned. She, toothough she had never heard so much said in wordshad an

almost instinctive knowledge that his fate required him to marry money. Thinking over this in her own way,

she was not slow to convince herself that it was out of the question that she should allow herself to love

Frank Gresham. However well her heart might be inclined to such a feeling, it was her duty to repress it. She

resolved, therefore, to do so; and she sometimes flattered herself that she had kept her resolution.

These were bad times for the doctor, and bad times for Mary too. She had declared that she could live without

going to Greshamsbury; but she did not find it so easy. She had been going to Greshambury all her life, and it

was customary with her to be there as at home. Such old customs are not broken without pain. Had she left

the place it would have been far different; but, as it was, she daily passed the gates, daily saw and spoke to

some of the servants, who knew her as well as they did the young ladies of the familywas in hourly

contact, as it were, with Greshamsbury. It was not only that she did not go there, but that every one knew that

she had suddenly discontinued doing so. Yes, she could live without going to Greshamsbury; but for some

time she had but a poor life of it. She felt, nay, almost heard, that every man and woman, boy and girl in the

village was telling his and her neighbour that Mary Thorne no longer went to the house because of Lady

But Beatrice, of course, came to her. What was she to say to Beatrice? The truth! Nay, but it is not always so

'No, indeed,' said Mary; 'that would hardly be pleasant to Lady Arabella, nor to me either. No, Trichy,

dearest; my visits to dear old Greshamsbury are done, done, done: perhaps in some twenty years' time I may

be walking down the lawn with your brother, and discussing the childish daysthat is, always, if the then

This, however, was a light in which Miss Thorne did not take any pleasure, in discussing the matter. Her

ideas of Frank's fault, and unkindness and cruelty, were doubtless different from those of her sister. Such

cruelty was not unnaturally excused in her eyes by many circumstances which Beatrice did not fully

understand. Mary was quite ready to go hand in hand with Lady Arabella and the rest of Greshamsbury fold

in putting an end, if possible, to Frank's passion: she would give not one a right to accuse her of assisting to

ruin the young heir; but she could hardly bring herself to admit that he was so very wrongno, nor yet even

And then the squire came to see her, and this was a yet harder trial than the visit of Beatrice. It was so

difficult for her to speak to him that she could not but wish him away; and yet, had he not come, had he

altogether neglected her, she would have felt it to be unkind. She had ever been his pet, had always received

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

'I don't know,' said he; 'I don't knowit ought to be helped somehowI am quite sure you have not been to

'No,' said she, very quietly, as though the position was one quite a matter of course. 'I don't think I have been

very much to blame. There will be misfortunes sometimes when nobody is to blame.'

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

'Oh! I shall got over all that. Here, you know, Mr Gresham, "I am monarch of all I survey"; and there is a

The squire did not catch her meaning, but a glimmering of it did reach him. It was competent to Lady

Arabella to banish her from Greshamsbury; it was within the sphere of the squire's duties to prohibit his son

from an imprudent match; it was for the Greshams to guard their Greshamsbury treasure as best they could

within their own territories: but let them beware that they did not attack her on hers. In obedience to the first

expression of their wishes, she had submitted herself to this public mark of their disapproval because she had

seen at once, with her clear intellect, that they were only doing that which her conscience must approve.

Without a murmur, therefore, she consented to be pointed at as the young lady who had been turned out of

Greshamsbury because of the young squire. She had no help for it. But let them take care that they did not go

beyond that. Outside those Greshamsbury gates she and Frank Gresham, she and Lady Arabella met on equal

The squire kissed her forehead affectionately and took his leave, feeling somehow, that he had been excused

and pitied, and made much of; whereas he had called on his young neighbour with the intention of excusing,

and pitying, and making much of her. He was not quite comfortable as he left the house; but, nevertheless, he

was sufficiently honesthearted to own to himself that Mary Thorne was a fine girl. Only that it was so

absolutely necessary that Frank should marry moneyand only, also, that poor Mary was such a birthless

foundling in the world's esteemonly, but for these things, what a wife she would have made for that son of

To one person only did she talk freely on the subject, and that one was Patience Oriel; and even with her the

freedom was rather of the mind than of the heart. She never said a word of her feeling with reference to

Frank, but she said much of her position in the village, and of the necessity she was under to keep out of the

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

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

'No, not so, Patience; there is always some little sting of disgrace in punishment: now I am not going to hold

'Meet them! I have not the slightest objection on earth to meet all, or any of them. They are not a whit

dangerous to me, my dear. 'Tis that I am the wild beast, and 'tis that they must avoid me,' and then she added,

after a pauseslightly blushing'I have not the slightest objection even to meet him if chance brings him in

my way. Let them look to that. My undertaking goes no further than this, that I will not be seen within their

But the girls so far understood each other that Patience undertook, rather than promised, to give Mary what

assistance she could; and, despite Mary's bravado, she was in such a position that she much wanted the

After an absence of some six weeks, Frank, as we have seen, returned home. Nothing was said to him, except

by Beatrice, as to those new Greshamsbury arrangements; and he, when he found Mary was not at the place,

went boldly to the doctor's house to seek her. But it has been seen, also, that she discreetly kept out of his

way. This she had thought fit to do when the time came, although she had been so ready with her boast that

After that there had been the Christmas vacation, and Mary had again found discretion the better part of

valour. This was doubtless disagreeable enough. She had no particular wish to spend her Christmas with Miss

Oriel's aunt instead of at her uncle's fireside. Indeed, her Christmas festivities had hitherto been kept at

Greshamsbury, the doctor and herself having a part of the family circle there assembled. This was out of the

question now; and perhaps the absolute change to old Miss Oriel's house was better for her than the lesser

change to her uncle's drawingroom. Besides, how could she have demeaned herself when she met Frank in

their parish church? All this had been fully understood by Patience, and, therefore, had this Christmas visit

And then this affair of Frank and Mary Thorne ceased for a while to be talked of at Greshamsbury, for that

other affair of Mr Moffat and Augusta monopolized the rural attention. Augusta, as we have said, bore it

well, and sustained the public gaze without much flinching. Her period of martyrdom, however, did not last

long, for soon the news arrived of Frank's exploit in Pall Mall; and then the Greshamburyites forgot to think

The tale, as it was first told, declared the Frank had followed Mr Moffat up into his club; had dragged him

thence into the middle of Pall Mall, and had then slaughtered him on the spot. This was by degrees modified

till a sobered fiction became generally prevalent, that Mr Moffat was lying somewhere, still alive, but with all

his bones in a state of compound fracture. This adventure again brought Frank into the ascendant, and

'One cannot wonder at his being very angry,' said Beatrice, discussing the matter with Maryvery

'Wonderno; the wonder would have been if he had not been angry. One might have been quite sure that he

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

'Oh, I suppose a man can't exactly stand measuring how much he does these things. I like your brother for

what he has done, and I may say so franklythough I suppose I ought to eat my tongue out before I should

'I don't know that there's any harm in that,' said Beatrice, demurely. 'If you both liked each other there would

'Wouldn't there?' said Mary, in a low tone of bantering satire; 'that is so kind, Trichy, coming from

'Yes: I am well aware what a paragon of goodness you are. If you could have your way I should be admitted

into heaven again; shouldn't I? Only with this proviso, that if a stray angel should ever whisper to me with

bated breath, mistaking me, perchance, for one of his own class, I should be bound to close my ears to his

whispering, and remind him humbly that I was only a poor mortal. You would trust me so far, wouldn't you,

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

'Into whatever heaven I am admitted, I will go only on this understanding: that I am to be as good an angel as

'Becausebecausebecauseah me! Why, indeed, but because I have no one else to say it to. Certainly

'And so I am; how can I do other than find fault? How can I help being sore? Trichy, you hardly realize my

position; you hardly see how I am treated; how I am forced to allow myself to be treated without a sign of

complaint. You don't see it all. If you did, you would not wonder that I should be sore.'

Beatrice did not quite see it all; but she saw enough of it to know that Mary was to be pitied; so, instead of

scolding her friend for being cross, she threw her arms round her and kissed her affectionately.

But the doctor all this time suffered much more than his niece did. He could not complain out loudly; he

could not aver that his pet lamb had been ill treated; he could not even have the pleasure of openly quarrelling

with Lady Arabella; but not the less did he feel it to be most cruel that Mary should have to live before the

world as an outcast, because it had pleased Frank Gresham to fall in love with her.

But his bitterness was not chiefly against Frank. That Frank had been very foolish he could not but

acknowledge; but it was a kind of folly for which the doctor was able to find excuse. For Lady Arabella's

With the squire he had spoken no word on the subject up to this period of which we are now writing. With

her ladyship he had never spoken on it since that day when she had told him that Mary was to come no more

to Greshamsbury. He never now dined or spent his evenings at Greshamsbury, and seldom was to be seen at

the house, except when called in professionally. The squire, indeed, he frequently met; but he either did so in

When the doctor first heard that Sir Roger had lost his seat, and had returned to Boxall Hill, he resolved to go

over and see him. But the visit was postponed from day to day, as visits are postponed which may be made

any day, and he did not in fact go till summoned there somewhat peremptorily. A message was brought to

him one evening to say that Sir Roger had been struck by paralysis, and that not a moment was to be lost.

'It always happens at night,' said Mary, who had more sympathy for the living uncle whom she did know,

'What matters?therejust give me my scarf. In all probability I may not be home tonightperhaps not

till late tomorrow. God bless you, Mary!' and away the doctor went on his cold bleak ride to Boxall Hill.

'Who is to be his heir?' As the doctor rode along, he could not quite rid his mind of the question. The poor

man now about to die had wealth enough to make many heirs. What if his heart should have softened towards

his sister's child! What if Mary should be found to be possessed of such wealth that the Greshams should be

The doctor was not a lover of moneyand he did his best to get rid of such pernicious thoughts. But his

longings, perhaps, were not so much that Mary should be rich, as that she should have the power of heaping

When Dr Thorne reached Boxall Hill he found Mr Rerechild from Barchester there before him. Poor Lady

Scatcherd, when her husband was stricken by the fit, hardly knew in her dismay what adequate steps to take.

She had, as a matter of course, sent for Dr Thorne; but she had thought it so grave a peril that the medical

skill of no one man could suffice. It was, she knew, quite out of the question for her to invoke the aid of Dr

Fillgrave, whom no earthly persuasion could have brought to Boxall Hill; and as Mr Rerechild was supposed

in the Barchester world to be secondthough at a long intervalto that great man, she had applied for his

Now Mr Rerechild was a follower and humble friend of Dr Fillgrave; and was wont to regard anything that

came from the Barchester doctor as sure as light from the lamp of Aesculapius. He could not therefore be

other than an enemy of Dr Thorne. But he was a prudent, discreet man, with a long family, averse to

professional hostilities, as knowing that he could make more by medical friends than medical foes, and not at

all inclined to take up any man's cudgel to his own detriment. He had, of course, heard of that dreadful affront

which had been put upon his friend, as had all the 'medical world'and all the medical world at least of

Barsetshire; and he had often expressed sympathy with Dr Fillgrave and his abhorrence of Dr Thorne's

antiprofessional practices. But now that he found himself about to be brought in contact with Dr Thorne, he

reflected that the Galen of Greshamsbury was at any rate equal in reputation to him of Barchester; that the

one was probably on the rise, whereas the other was already considered by some as rather antiquated; and he

therefore wisely resolved that the present would be an excellent opportunity for him to make a friend of Dr

Poor Lady Scatcherd had an inkling that Dr Fillgrave and Mr Rerechild were accustomed to row in the same

boat, and she was not altogether free from fear that there might be an outbreak. She therefore took an

'Oh, Lady Scatcherd! I have the greatest respect for Dr Thorne,' said he; 'the greatest possible respect; a most

skilful practitionersomething brusque, certainly, and perhaps a little obstinate. But what then? we have all

'There's my friend FillgraveLady Scatcherd. He cannot bear anything of that sort. Now I think he's wrong;

and so I tell him.' Mr Rerechild was in error here; for he had never yet ventured to tell Dr Fillgrave that he

was wrong in anything. 'We must bear and forbear, you know. Dr Thorne is an excellent manin his way

This little conversation took place after Mr Rerechild's first visit to his patient: what steps were immediately

taken for the relief of the sufferer we need not describe. They were doubtless well intended, and were,

perhaps, as well adapted to stave off the coming evil day as any that Dr Fillgrave, or even the great Sir

'Oh, doctor! doctor!' exclaimed Lady Scatcherd, almost hanging round his neck in the hall. 'What are we to

'No; nothing like a word: he has made one or two muttered sounds; but, poor soul, you could make nothing of

It was easy to see where Lady Scatcherd placed any such faith as she might still have in the healing art. 'Mr

Rerechild is here and has seen him,' she continued. 'I thought it best to send for two, for fear of accidents. He

has done somethingI don't know what. But, doctor, do tell the truth now; I look to you to tell me the truth.'

Dr Thorne went up and saw his patient; and had he literally complied with Lady Scatcherd's request, he might

have told her at once that there was no hope. As, however, he had not the heart to do this, he mystified the

case as doctors so well know how to do, and told her that 'there was cause to fear, great cause for fear; he was

Dr Thorne promised to stay the night there, and, if possible, the following night also; and then Lady

Scatcherd became troubled in her mind as to what she should do with Mr Rerechild. He also declared, with

much medical humanity, that, let the inconvenience be what it might, he too would stay the night. 'The loss,'

he said, 'of such a man as Sir Roger Scatcherd was of such paramount importance as to make other matters

trivial. He would certainly not allow the whole weight to fall on the shoulders of his friend Dr Thorne: he also

would stay at any rate that night by the sick man's bedside. By the following morning some change might be

'I say, Dr Thorne,' said her ladyship, calling the doctor into the housekeepingroom, in which she and

Hannah spent any time that they were not required upstairs; 'just come in, doctor: you wouldn't tell him we

Dr Thorne explained that Mr Rerechild might go away if he pleased; but that it would by no means be proper

for one doctor to tell another to leave the house. And so Mr Rerechild was allowed to share the glories of the

In the meantime the patient remained speechless; but it soon became evident that Nature was using all her

efforts to make one final rally. From time to time he moaned and muttered as though he was conscious, and it

seemed as though he strove to speak. He gradually became awake, at any rate to suffering, and Dr Thorne

'Strong as a horse, Dr Thorne. Lord, what that man would have been if he had given himself a chance! You

'The brain, you see, clean goneand not a particle of coating left to the stomach; and yet what a struggle he

'Very sad, very sad indeed. How Fillgrave would have liked to have seen this case. He is a very clever man, is

'Not that he'd make anything of a case like this nowhe's not, you know, quitequiteperhaps not quite

'Oh, veryvery; and made a tidy lot of money too, has Fillgrave. He's worth six thousand pounds, I suppose;

'What I say to Fillgrave iskeep your eyes open; one should never be too old to learnthere's always

something new worth picking up. But nohe won't believe that. He can't believe that any new ideas can be

And then again they were called to their patient. 'He's doing finely, finely,' said Mr Rerechild to Lady

Scatcherd. 'There's fair ground to hope he'll rally; fair ground, is there not, doctor?'

'Oh, no, certainly not, certainly notthat is not with any certainty; but still he's doing finely, Lady Scatcherd,

'How long will you give him, doctor?' said Mr Rerechild to his new friend, when they were again alone. 'Ten

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

'Quite so; quite so; coating of the stomach clean gone, you know; brain destroyed: did you observe the

periporollida? I never saw them so swelled before: now when the periporollida are swollen like that'

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

'Always, always; I have remarked that always; the periporollida in such cases are always extended; most

interesting case, isn't it? I do wish Fillgrave could have seen it. But, I believe you and Dr Fillgrave don't

'No, not quite,'said Dr Thorne; who, as he thought of his last interview with Dr Fillgrave, and of that

gentleman's exceeding anger as he stood in the hall below, could not keep himself from smiling, sad as the

Nothing would induced Lady Scatcherd to go to bed; but the two doctors agreed to lie down, each in a room

on one side of the patient. How was it possible that anything but good should come to him, being so guarded?

'He's going on finely, Lady Scatcherd, quite finely,' were the last words Mr Rerechild said as he left the room.

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

'Lady Scatcherd,' said he, in his tenderest voiceand his voice could be very tender when occasion required

it'Lady Scatcherd, do not hope; you must not hope; it would be cruel to bid you to do so.'

'Oh, Dr Thorne!' said the wife, looking wildly up into her companion's face, though she hardly yet realized

'Oh, I suppose so; oh yes, oh yes; ah me! ah me! ah me!' And then she began rocking herself backwards and

'Yes, yes, yes; I suppose so. Ah me! ah me! But, Dr Thorne, there must be some chanceisn't there any

'Then why does that chattering magpie tell such lies to a woman? Ah me! ah me! oh, doctor! doctor! what

shall I do? what shall I do?' and poor Lady Scatcherd, fairly overcome by her sorrow, burst out crying like a

And yet what had her husband done for her that she should thus weep for him? Would not her life be much

more blessed when this cause of all her troubles should be removed from her? Would she not then be a free

woman instead of a slave? Might she not then expect to begin to taste the comforts of life? What had that

harsh tyrant of hers done that was good or serviceable for her? Why should she thus weep for him in

We hear a good deal of jolly widows; and the slanderous raillery of the world tell much of conjugal

disturbances as a cure for which women will look forward to a state of widowhood with not unwilling eyes.

The raillery of the world is very slanderous. In our daily jests we attribute to each other vices of which neither

we, nor our neighbours, nor our friends, nor even our enemies are ever guilty. It is our favourite parlance to

talk of the family troubles of Mrs Green on our right, and to tell now Mrs Young on our left is strongly

suspected of having raised her hand to her lord and master. What right have we to make these charges? What

have we seen in our own personal walks through life to make us believe that women are devils? There may

possibly have been Xantippe here and there, but Imogenes are to be found in every bush. Lady Scatcherd, in

'We did that, doctor; we did that todaywe sent up a telegraph. Oh me! oh me! poor boy, what will he do?

I shall never know what to do with him, never! never!' And with such sorrowful wailings she sat rocking

herself through the long night, every now and then comforting herself by the performance of some menial

Sir Roger passed the night much as he had passed the day, except that he appeared gradually to be growing

nearer to a state of consciousness. On the following morning they succeeded at last in making Mr Rerechild

understand that they were not desirous of keeping him longer from his Barchester practice; and at about

twelve o'clock Dr Thorne also went, promising that he would return in the evening, and again pass the night

In the course of the afternoon Sir Roger once more awoke to his senses, and when he did so his son was

standing at his bedside. Louis Philippe Scatcherdor as it may be more convenient to call him, Louiswas

a young man just of the age of Frank Gresham. But there could hardly be two youths more different in their

appearance. Louis, though his father and mother were both robust persons, was short and slight, and now of a

sickly frame. Frank was a picture of health and strength; but, though manly in disposition, was by no means

precocious either in appearance or manners. Louis Scatcherd looked as though he was four years the other's

senior. He had been sent to Eton when he was fifteen, his father being under the impression that this was the

most ready and bestrecognized method of making him a gentleman. Here he did not altogether fail as

regarded the coveted object of his becoming the companion of gentlemen. He had more pocketmoney than

any other lad in the school, and was possessed of a certain effrontery which carried him ahead among boys of

his own age. He gained, therefore, a degree of eclat, even among those who knew, and very frequently said to

each other, that young Scatcherd was not fit to be their companion except on such open occasions as those of

cricketmatches and boat races. Boys, in this respect, are at least as exclusive as men, and understand as

well the difference between an inner and outer circle. Scatcherd had many companions at school who were

glad enough to go up to Maidenhead with him his boat; but there was not one among them who would have

Sir Roger was vastly proud of his son's success, and did his best to stimulate it by lavish expenditure at the

Christopher, whenever he could manage to run down to Eton. But this practice, though sufficiently

unexceptionable to the boys, was not held in equal delight by the masters. To tell the truth, neither Sir Roger

nor his son were favourites with these stern custodians. At last it was felt necessary to get rid of them both;

and Louis was not long in giving them an opportunity, by getting tipsy twice in one week. On the second

occasion he was sent away, and he and Sir Roger, though long talked of, were seen no more at Eton.

But the universities were still open to Louis Philippe, and before he was eighteen he was entered as a

gentlemancommoner at Trinity. As he was, moreover, the eldest son of a baronet, and had almost unlimited

To shine! but very fitfully; and one may say almost with a ghastly glare. The very lads who had eaten his

father's dinners at Eton, and shared his fouroar at Eton, knew much better than to associate with him at

Cambridge now that they had put on the toga virilis. They were still as prone as ever to fun, frolic, and

devilryperhaps more so than ever, seeing that more was in their power; but they acquired an idea that it

behoved them to be somewhat circumspect as to the men with whom their pranks were perpetrated. So, in

But young Scatcherd did not fail to find companions at Cambridge also. There are few places indeed in which

a rich man cannot buy companionship. But the set with whom he lived, were the worst of the place. They

were fast, slang men, who were fast and slang, and nothing elsemen who imitated grooms in more than

their dress, and who looked on the customary heroes of racecourses as the highest lords of the ascendant

upon earth. Among those at college young Scatcherd did shine as long as such lustre was permitted him.

Here, indeed, his father, who had striven only to encourage him at Eton, did strive somewhat to control him.

But that was not now easy. If he limited his son's allowance, he only drove him to do his debauchery on

credit. There were plenty to lend money to the son of a great millionaire; and so, after eighteen months' trial

of a university education, Sir Roger had no alternative but to withdraw his son from his alma mater.

What was he to do with him? Unluckily it was considered quite unnecessary to take any steps towards

enabling him to earn his bread. Now nothing on earth can be more difficult than bringing up well a young

man who has not to earn his own bread, and who has no recognized station among other men similarly

circumstanced. Juvenile dukes, and sprouting earls, find their duties and their places as easily as embryo

clergymen and sucking barristers. Provision is made for their peculiar positions: and, though they may

possibly go astray, they have a fair chance given to them of running within the posts. The same may be said

of such youths as Frank Gresham. There are enough of them in the community to have made it necessary that

their wellbeing should be a matter of care and forethought. But there are but few men turned out in the

world in the position of Louis Scatcherd; and, of those few, but very few enter the real battle of life under

Poor Sir Roger though he had hardly time with all his multitudinous railways to look into this thoroughly,

had a glimmering of it. When he saw his son's pale face, and paid his wine bills, and heard of his doings in

horseflesh, he did know that things were not going well; he did understand that the heir to a baronetcy and a

fortune of some ten thousand a year might be doing better. But what was he to do? he could not watch over

Louis and the tutor got as far as Berlin, with what mutual satisfaction to each other need not be specially

described. But from Berlin Sir Roger received a letter in which the tutor declined to go any further in the task

which he had undertaken. He found that he had no influence over his pupil, and he could not reconcile it to

his conscience to be the spectator of such a life as that which Mr Scatcherd led. He had no power in inducing

Mr Scatcherd to leave Berlin; but he would remain there himself till he should hear from Sir Roger. So Sir

Roger had to leave the huge Government works which he was then erecting on the southern coast, and hurry

The young Hopeful was by no means a fool; and in some matters was more than a match for his father. Sir

Roger, in his anger, threatened to cast him off without a shilling. Louis, with mixed penitence and effrontery,

reminded him that he could not change the descent of the title; promised amendment; declared that he had

done only as do other young men of fortune; and hinted that the tutor was a straitlaced ass. The father and

the son returned together to Boxall Hill, and three months afterwards Mr Scatcherd set up for himself in

And now his life, if not more virtuous, was more crafty than it had been. He had no tutor to watch his doings

and complain of them, and he had sufficient sense to keep himself from absolute pecuniary ruin. He lived, it

is true, where sharpers and blacklegs had too often opportunities of plucking him; but, young as he was, he

had been sufficiently long about the world to take care he was not openly robbed; and as he was not openly

Tidings, however, camecame at least in those last dayswhich cut Sir Roger to the quick; tidings of vice

in the son which the father could not but attribute to his own example. Twice his mother was called up to the

sickbed of her only child, while he lay raving in that horrid madness by which the outraged mind avenges

itself on the body! Twice he was found raging in delirium tremens, and twice the father was told that a

It may easily be conceived that Sir Roger was not a happy man. Lying there with that brandy bottle beneath

his pillow, reflecting in his moments of rest that that son of his had his brandy bottle beneath his pillow, he

could hardly have been happy. But he was not a man to say much about his misery. Though he could restrain

neither himself nor his heir, he could endure in silence; and in silence he did endure, till, opening his eyes to

the consciousness of death, he at last spoke a few words to the only friend he knew.

Louis Scatcherd was not a fool, nor was he naturally, perhaps, of a depraved disposition; but he had to reap

the fruits of the worst education which England was able to give him. There were moments in his life when

he felt that a better, a higher, nay, a much happier career was open to him than that which he had prepared

himself to lead. Now and then, he would reflect what money and rank might have done for him; he would

look with wishful eyes to the proud doings of others of his age; would dream of quiet joys, of a sweet wife, a

house to which might be asked friends who were neither jockeys nor drunkards; he would dream of such

things in his short intervals of constrained sobriety; but the dream would only serve to make him moody.

This was the best side of his character; the worst, probably, was that which was brought into play by the fact

that he was not a fool. He would have a better chance of redemption in this worldperhaps also in

anotherhad he been a fool. As it was, he was no fool: he was not to be done, not he; he knew, no one

better, the value of a shilling; he knew, also, how to keep his shillings, and how to spend them. He consorted

much with blacklegs and suchlike because blacklegs were to his taste. But he boasted daily, nay, hourly to

himself, and frequently to those around him, that the leeches who were stuck round him could draw but little

blood from him. He could spend his money freely; but he would so spend it that he himself might reap the

gratification of the expenditure. He was acute, crafty, knowing, and up to every damnable dodge practised by

men of the class with whom he lived. At oneandtwenty he was that most odious of all odious charactersa

He was a small man, not illmade by Nature, but reduced to unnatural tenuity by dissipationa corporeal

attribute of which he was apt to boast, as it enabled him, as he said, to put himself up at 7st 7lb without any

'd nonsense of not eating and drinking'. The power, however, was one of which he did not often avail

himself, as his nerves were seldom in a fit state for riding. His hair was dark red, and he wore red

moustaches, and a great deal of red beard beneath his chin, cut in a manner to make him look like an

American. His voice also had a Yankee twang, being a cross between that of an American trader and an

Such was the son whom Sir Roger saw standing at his bedside when first he awoke to his consciousness. It

must not be supposed that Sir Roger looked at him with our eyes. To him he was an only child, the heir of his

wealth, the future bearer of his title; the most heartstirring remembrancer of those days, when he had been

so much a poorer, and so much a happier man. Let that boy be bad or good, he was all Sir Roger had; and the

father was still able to hope, when others thought that all ground for hope was gone.

The mother also loved her son with a mother's natural love; but Louis had ever been ashamed of his mother,

and had, as far as possible, estranged himself from her. Her heart, perhaps, fixed itself almost with almost a

warmer love on Frank Gresham, her fosterson. Frank she saw but seldom, but when she did see him he

never refused her embrace. There was, too, a joyous, genial lustre about Frank's face which always endeared

him to women, and made his former nurse regard him as the pet creation of the age. Though she but seldom

interfered with any monetary arrangement of her husband's, yet once or twice she had ventured to hint that a

legacy left to the young squire would make her a happy woman. Sir Roger, however, on these occasions had

'Ah, Louis! is that you?' ejaculated Sir Roger, in tones hardly more than halfformed: afterwards in a day or

two that is, he fully recovered his voice; but just then he could hardly open his jaws, and spoke almost

through his teeth. He managed, however, to put out his hand and lay it on the counterpane, so that his son

'Why, that's well, governor,' said the son; 'you'll be as right as a trivet in a day or twoeh, governor?'

The 'governor' smiled with a ghastly smile. He already pretty well knew that he would never again be 'right'

as his son called it, on that side of the grave. It did not, moreover, suit him to say much just at that moment,

so he contented himself with holding his son's hand. He lay still in this position for a moment, and then,

turning round painfully on his side, endeavoured to put his hand to the place where his dire enemy usually

was concealed. Sir Roger, however, was too weak now to be his own master; he was at length, though too

late, a captive in the hands of nurses and doctors, and the bottle had now been removed.

Then Lady Scatcherd came in, and seeing that her husband was not longer unconscious, she could not but

believe that Dr Thorne had been wrong; she could not but think that there must be some ground for hope. She

threw herself on her knees at the bedside bursting into tears as she did so, and taking Sir Roger's hand in hers

She did not, however, long occupy herself with the indulgence of her feelings; but going speedily to work,

produced such sustenance as the doctors had ordered to be given when the patient might awake. A

breakfastcup was brought to him, and a few drops were put into his mouth; but he soon made it manifest

After some altercation the brandy bottle was brought, and Louis, with what a thought a very sparing hand,

proceeded to pour about half a wineglass into the cup. As he did so, Sir Roger, weak as he was, contrived

That night the doctor stayed at Boxall Hill, and the next night; so that it became a customary thing for him to

sleep there during the latter part of Sir Roger's illness. He returned home to Greshamsbury; for he had his

patients there, to whom he was as necessary as to Sir Roger, the foremost of whom was Lady Arabella. He

had, therefore, no slight work on his hands, seeing that his nights were by no means wholly devoted to rest.

Mr Rerechild had not been much wrong as to the remaining space of life which he had allotted to the dying

man. Once or twice Dr Thorne had thought that the great original strength of his patient would have enabled

him to fight against death for a somewhat longer period; but Sir Roger would give himself no chance.

Whenever he was strong enough to have a will of his own, he insisted on having his very medicine mixed

with brandy; and in the hours of the doctor's absence, he was too often successful in his attempts.

'It does not much matter,' Dr Thorne had said to Lady Scatcherd. 'Do what you can to keep down the quantity,

but do not irritate him by refusing to obey. It does not much signify now.' So Lady Scatcherd still

administered the alcohol, and he from day to day invented little schemes for increasing the amount, over

Two or three times these days Sir Roger essayed to speak seriously to his son; but Louis always frustrated

him. He either got out of the room on some excuse, or made his mother interfere on the score that so much

talking would be bad for his father. He already knew with tolerable accuracy what was the purport of his

father's will, and by no means approved of it; but as he could not now hope to induce his father to alter it so

as to make it more favourable to himself, he conceived that no conversation on matters of business could be

'Louis,' said Sir Roger, one afternoon to his son; 'Louis, I have not done by you as I ought to have doneI

'Nonsense, governor; never mind about it now; I shall do well enough I dare say. Besides, it isn't too late; you

'I do not mean as to money, Louis. There are things besides money which a father ought to look to.'

'Louis, it's that accursed brandyit's that that I'm afraid of: you see me here, my boy, I'm lying here now.'

'Don't you be annoying yourself, governor; I'm all rightquite right; and as for you, why, you'll be up and

'I shall never be off this bed, my boy, till I'm carried into my coffin, on those chairs there. But I'm not

thinking of myself, Louis, but you; think what you may have before you if you can't avoid that accursed

'I'm all right, governor; right as a trivet. It's very little I take, except at an odd time or two.'

'Come, father, cheer up; this sort of thing isn't the thing for you at all. I wonder where mother is: she ought to

The father understood it all. He saw that it was now much beyond his faded powers to touch the heart or

conscience of such a youth as his son had become. What now could he do for his boy except die? What else,

what other benefit, did his son require of him but to die; to die so that his means of dissipation might be

unbounded? He let go the unresisting hand which he held, and, as the young man crept out of the room, he

turned his face to the wall. He turned his face to the wall, and held bitter commune with his own heart. To

what had he brought himself? To what had he brought his son? Oh, how happy would it have been for him

could he have remained all his days a working stonemason in Barchester! How happy could he have died as

such, years ago! Such tears as those which wet the pillow are the bitterest which human eyes can shed.

But while they were dropping, the memoir of his life was in quick course of preparation. It was, indeed,

nearly completed, with considerable detail. He had lingered on four days longer than might have been

expected, and the author had thus had more than usual time for the work. In these days a man is nobody

unless his biography is kept so far posted up that it may be ready for the national breakfasttable on the

morning after his demise. When it chances that the dead hero is one who is taken in his prime of life, of

whose departure from among us the most farseeing, biographical scribe can have no prophetic inkling, this

must be difficult. Of great men, full of years, who are ripe of the sickle, who in the course of Nature must

soon fall, it is of course comparatively easy for an active compiler to have his complete memoir ready in his

desk. But in order that the idea of omnipresent and omniscient information may be kept up, the young must

be chronicled as quickly as the old. In some cases this task must, one would say, be difficult. Nevertheless it

The memoir of Sir Roger Scatcherd was progressing favourably. In this it was told how fortunate had been

his life; now, in his case, industry and genius combined had triumphed over the difficulties which humble

birth and deficient education had thrown in his way; how he had made a name among England's great men;

how the Queen had delighted to honour him, and nobles had been proud to have him as a guest at their

mansions. Then followed a list of all the great works which he had achieved, of the railroads, canals, docks,

harbours, jails, and hospitals which he had constructed. His name was held up as an example to the labouring

classes of his countrymen, and he was pointed at as one who had lived and died happyever happy, said the

biographer, because ever industrious. And so a great moral question was inculcated. A short paragraph was

devoted to his appearance in Parliament; and unfortunate Mr Romer was again held up for disgrace, for the

thirtieth time, as having been the means of depriving our legislative councils of the great assistance of Sir

'Sir Roger,' said the biographer in his concluding passage, 'was possessed of an iron frame; but even iron will

yield to the repeated blows of the hammer. In the latter years of his life he was known to overtask himself;

and at length the body gave way, though the mind remained firm to the last. The subject of this memoir was

And thus Sir Roger's life was written, while the tears were yet falling on his pillow at Boxall Hill. It was a

pity that a proofsheet could not have been sent to him. No man was vainer of his reputation, and it would

have greatly gratified him to know that posterity was about to speak of him in such termsto speak of him

Sir Roger made no further attempt to give counsel to his son. It was too evidently useless. The old dying lion

felt that the lion's power had already passed from him, and that he was helpless in the hands of the young cub

who was so soon to inherit the wealth of the forest. But Dr Thorne was more kind to him. He had something

yet to say as to his worldly hopes and worldly cares; and his old friend did not turn a deaf ear to him.

It was during the night that Sir Roger was most anxious to talk, and most capable of talking. He would lie

through the day in a state halfcomatose; but towards evening would rouse himself, and by midnight he

would be full of fitful energy. One night, as he lay wakeful and full of thought, he thus poured forth his whole

'Yes,' said the other; 'and I have blamed myself greatly that I have not again urged you to alter it. Your illness

'Why should I alter it? It is a good will; as good as I can make. Not but that I have altered it since I spoke to

'Nothat isyesI had done that before; I have said Mary's eldest child: I have not altered that.'

'Must! well then, I won't; but I'll tell you what I have done. I have added a postscripta codicil they call

itsaying that you, and you only, know who is her eldest child. Winterbones and Jack Martin have

Dr Thorne was going to explain how very injudicious such an arrangement appeared to be; but Sir Roger

would not listen to him. It was not about that that he wished to speak to him. To him it was a matter of but

minor interest who might inherit his money if his son should die early; his care was solely for his son's

welfare. At twentyfive the heir might make his own willmight bequeath all this wealth according to his

own fancy. Sir Roger would not bring himself to believe that his son could follow him to the grave in so short

'Never mind that, doctor, now; but about Louis; you will be his guardian, you know.'

'Ah! but doctor, you will be his guardian. The property will not be his till he be twentyfive. You will not

'I will not desert him; but I doubt whether I can do much for himwhat can I do, Scatcherd?'

'Use the power that a strong man has over a weak one. Use the power that my will will give you. Do for him

as you would for a son of your own if you saw him going in bad courses. Do as a friend should do for a friend

that is dead and gone. I would do so for you, doctor, if our places were changed.'

'What can I do, that I will do,' said Thorne, solemnly, taking as he spoke the contractor's own in his own with

'I know you will; I know you will. Oh! doctor, may you never feel as I do now! May you on your deathbed

Doctor Thorne felt that he could not say much in answer to this. The future fate of Louis Scatcherd was, he

could not but own to himself, greatly to be dreaded. What good, what happiness, could be presaged for such a

one as he was? What comfort could he offer to the father? And then he was called on to compare, as it were,

the prospects of this unfortunate with those of his own darling; to contrast all that was murky, foul, and

disheartening, with all that was perfectfor to him she was all but perfect; to liken Louis Scatcherd to the

angel who brightened his own hearthstone. How could he answer to such an appeal?

He said nothing; but merely tightened his grasp of the other's hand, to signify that he would do, as best he

could, all that was asked of him. Sir Roger looked up sadly into the doctor's face, as though expecting some

'I will do what I can,' said the doctor. 'What I can do I will do. But he is not a child, Scatcherd: at his age he

must stand or fall mainly by his own conduct. The best thing for him will be to marry.'

'Exactly; that's just it, Thorne: I was coming to that. If he would marry, I think he would do well yet, for all

that has come and gone. If he married, of course you would let him have the command of his own income.'

'I will be governed entirely by your wishes: under any circumstances his income will, as I understand, be

'Ah!but, Thorne, I should like to think he should shine with the best of them. For what I have made the

money for if not for that? Now if he marriesdecently, that issome woman you know that can assist him

in the world, let him have what he wants. It is not to save the money that I have put it into your hands.'

'No, Scatcherd; not to save the money, but to save him. I think that while you are yet with him you should

'He does not care a straw for what I advise, not one straw. Why should he? How can I tell him to be sober

when I have been a beast all my life? How can I advise him? That's where it is! It is that that now kills me.

'He fears that you are too weak, you know: he thinks that you should not be allowed to talk.'

'Nonsense! he knows better; you know better. Too weak! what signifies? Would I not give all that I have of

strength at one blow if I could open his eyes to see as I see but for one minute?' And the sick man raised

himself in his bed as though he were actually going to expend all that remained to him of vigour in the energy

'Gently, Scatcherd; gently. He will listen to you yet; but do not be so unruly.'

The doctor turned round in his chair; but he hesitated in doing as he was desired.

'Do as I ask you, doctor. It can do no harm now; you know that well enough. Why torture me now?'

'Water! No; the brandy by itself. I tell you I cannot speak without it. What's the use of canting now? You

Sir Roger was right. It could make no difference; and Dr Thorne gave him the half glass of brandy.

'Ah, well; you've a stingy hand, doctor; confounded stingy. You don't measure your medicines out in such

'Before morning! indeed I shall; a pint or two before that. I remember the time, doctor, when I have drunk to

my own cheek above two quarts between dinner and breakfast! aye, and worked all day after it!'

'Aye, wonderful! well, never mind. It's over now. But what was I saying?about Louis, doctor; you'll not

'He's not strong; I know that. How should he be strong, living as he has done? Not that it seemed to hurt me

'That's it. Sometimes I wish that Louis had not a shilling in the world; that he had to trudge about with an

apron round his waist as I did. But it's too late now to think of that. If he would marry, doctor.'

Dr Thorne again expressed an opinion that no step would be so likely to reform the habits of the young heir

as marriage; and repeated his advice to the father to implore his son to take a wife.

'I'll tell you what, Thorne,' said he. And then, after a pause, he went on. 'I have not half told you as yet what is

on my mind; and I'm nearly afraid to tell it; though, indeed, I don't know what I should be.'

'Well, then, I'll not end by turning coward. Now, doctor, tell the truth to me; what do you expect me to do for

'You would not let me see her, you know, though she is my niece as truly as yours.'

'Nothing,' at last said the doctor, slowly. 'I expect nothing. I would not let you see her, and therefore, I expect

'If you intend it so you should put her name into the will,' said the other. 'Not that I ask you or wish you to do

'Thorne, on one condition I will put her name into it. I will alter it on one condition. Let the two cousins be

The proposition for a moment took away the doctor's breath, and he was unable to answer. Not for all the

wealth of India would he have given up his lamb to that young wolf, even though he had had the power to do

so. But that lamblamb though she washad, as he well knew, a will of her own on such a matter. What

alliance could be more impossible, thought he to himself, than one between Mary Thorne and Louis

'I will alter it all if you will give me your hand upon it that you will do your best to bring about this marriage.

Everything shall be his on the day he marries her; and should he die unmarried, it shall all then be hers by

name. Say the word, Thorne, and she shall come here at once. I shall yet have time to see her.'

But Dr Thorne did not say the word; just at the moment he said nothing, but he slowly shook his head.

'What! Scatcherd, that the son might make love to her while the father is so dangerously ill! Bid her come to

'No; not for that: let her come merely that I may see her; that we may all know her. I will leave the matter

'But, my friend, in this matter I cannot do my best. I can do nothing. And, indeed, I may say at once, that it is

'What do you know?' said the baronet, turning on him almost angrily. 'What can you know to make you say

that it is impossible? Is she a pearl of such price that a man may not win her?'

'Perhaps so; I know little about it. But this I do know, that money will not win her. Let us talk of something

'Yes; if you set your face against it obstinately. You must think very poorly of Louis if you suppose that no

'To have the spending of ten thousand a year, and be a baronet's lady! Why, doctor, what is it you expect for

'Thorne, if you will be ruled by me in this, she shall be the most topping woman in this county.'

'My friend, my friend, why thus grieve me? Why should you thus harass yourself? I tell you it is impossible.

They have never seen each other; they have nothing, and can have nothing in common; their tastes, and

wishes, and pursuits are different. Besides, Scatcherd, marriages never answer that are so made; believe me, it

The contractor threw himself back on his bed, and lay for some ten minutes perfectly quiet; so much so that

the doctor began to think that he was sleeping. So thinking, and wearied by the watching, Dr Thorne was

beginning to creep quietly from the room, when his companion again roused himself, almost with

'Do it! It is not for you or me to do such things as that. Such things must be left to those concerned

'Then by , she shall not under any circumstances ever have a shilling of mine. Give me some of that stuff

there,' and he again pointed to the brandy bottle which stood ever within his sight.'

'Nonsense, man; fill the glass. I'll stand no nonsense now. I'll be master of my own house to the last. Give it

here, I tell you. Ten thousand devils are tearing me within. Youyou could have comforted me; but you

'Killing me! killing me! you are always talking of killing me. Do you suppose that I am afraid to die? Do not

I know how soon it is coming? Give me the brandy, I say, or I will be out across the room to fetch it.'

'No, Scatcherd. I cannot give it to you; not while I am here. Do you remember how you were engaged this

morning?'he had that morning taken the sacrament from the parish clergyman'you would not wish to

'Nonsense! You are talking nonsense; habit is second nature. I tell you I shall sink without it. Why, you

know, I always get it directly your back it turned. Come, I will not be bullied in my own house; give me that

bottle, I say!'and Sir Roger essayed, vainly enough, to raise himself from the bed.

'Stop, Scatcherd; I will give it to youI will help you. It may be that habit is second nature.' Sir Roger in his

determined energy had swallowed, without thinking of it, the small quantity which the doctor had before

poured out for him, and still held the empty glass within his hand. This the doctor now took and filled nearly

'Come, Thorne, a bumper; a bumper for this once. "Whatever the drink, it a bumper must be." You stingy

'Try me; try me! my hand is a rock; at least at holding liquor.' And then he drained the contents of the glass,

which were in sufficient quantity to have taken away the breath of any ordinary man.

There was something frightful, almost sickening, in the peculiar hoarse guttural tone of his voice. The sounds

came from him as though steeped in brandy, and told, all too plainly, the havoc which the alcohol had made.

There was a fire too about his eyes which contrasted with his sunken cheeks: his hanging jaw, unshorn beard,

and haggard face were terrible to look at. His hands and arms were hot and clammy, but so thin and wasted!

Of his lower limbs the lost use had not returned to him, so that in all his efforts at vehemence he was

controlled by his own want of vitality. When he supported himself, halfsitting against the pillows, he was in

a continual tremor; and yet, as he boasted, he could still lift his glass steadily to his mouth. Such now was the

hero of whom that ready compiler of memoirs had just finished his correct and succinct account.

After he had had his brandy, he sat glaring a while at vacancy, as though he was dead to all around him, and

'Wait a while, doctor; just one minute longer. So you will do nothing for Louis, then?'

'Ah, yes! everything but the one thing that will save him. Well, I will not ask you again. But remember,

'Do so, by all means; you may well alter it for the better. If I may advise you, you will have down your own

business attorney from London. If you will let me send he will be here before tomorrow night.'

'Thank you for nothing, Thorne: I can manage that matter myself. Now leave me; but remember, you have

The doctor did leave him, and went not altogether happy to his room. He could not but confess to himself that

he had, despite himself as it were, fed himself with hope that Mary's future might be made more secure, aye,

and brighter too, by some small unheeded fraction broken off from the huge mass of her uncle's wealth. Such

hope, if it had amounted to hope, was now all gone. But this was not all, nor was this the worst of it. That he

had done right in utterly repudiating all idea of a marriage between Mary and her cousinof that he was

certain enough; that no earthly consideration would have induced Mary to plight her troth to such a

manthat, with him, was as certain as doom. But how far had he done right in keeping her from the sight of

her uncle? How could he justify it to himself if he had thus robbed her of her inheritance, seeing that he had

done so from a selfish fear lest she, who was now all his own, should be known to the world as belonging to

others rather than to him? He had taken upon him on her behalf to reject wealth as valueless; and yet he had

no sooner done so than he began to consume his hours with reflecting how great to her would be the value of

wealth. And thus, when Sir Roger told him, as he left the room, that he had ruined Mary's fortune, he was

On the next morning, after paying his professional visit to his patient, and satisfying himself that the end was

'How long is this to last, uncle?' said his niece, with sad voice, as he again prepared to return to Boxall Hill.

'No, I do not, uncle. I will say nothing more about it. Is his son with him?' And then, perversely enough, she

'Uncle, you are the worst hand in describing I ever knew. If I'd seen him for five minutes, I'd be bound to

make a portrait of him; and you, if you were describing a dog, you'd only say what colour his hair was.'

'Exactly, just as I should say that Mrs Umbleby had a redhaired little dog. I wish I had known these

Scatcherds, uncle. I do admire people that can push themselves in the world. I wish I had known Sir Roger.'

'I hope I may know her some day. You are so much there now, uncle; I wonder whether you ever mention me

That same night, Dr Thorne again found himself alone with Sir Roger. The sick man was much more tranquil,

and apparently more at ease than he had been on the preceding night. He said nothing about his will, and not

a word about Mary Thorne; but the doctor knew that Winterbones and a notary's clerk from Barchester had

been in the bedroom a great part of the day; and, as he knew also that the great man of business was

accustomed to do his most important work by the hands of such tools as these, he did not doubt but that the

will had been altered and remodelled. Indeed, he thought it more than probable, that when it was opened it

would be found to be wholly different in its provisions from that which Sir Roger had already described.

'Louis is clever enough,' he said, 'sharp enough, I mean. He won't squander the property.'

'Excellent, excellent,' said the father. 'He may do well, very well, if he can only be kept from this;' and Sir

Roger held up the empty wineglass which stood by his bedside. 'What a life he may have before him!and

to throw it away for this!' and as he spoke he took the glass and tossed it across the room. 'Oh, doctor! would

'No, you don't wish it. You ain't worth a shilling, and yet you regret nothing. I am worth half a million in one

'You should not think that way, Scatcherd; you need not think so. Yesterday you told Mr Clarke that you

were comfortable in your mind.' Mr Clarke was the clergyman who had visited him.

'Of course I did. What else could I say when he asked me? It wouldn't have been civil to have told him that

his time and words were all thrown away. But, Thorne, believe me, when a man's heart is sadsadsad to

the core, a few words from a parson at the last moment will never make it right.'

'May He have mercy on you, my friend!if you will think of Him, and look to Him, He will have mercy on

'WellI will try, doctor; but would that it were all to do again. You'll see to the old woman for my sake,

'Lady Devil! If anything angers me now it is that "ladyship"her to be my lady! Why, when I came out of

jail that time, the poor creature had hardly a shoe to her foot. But it wasn't her fault, Thorne; it was none of

'She has been an excellent wife, Scatcherd; and what is more, she is an excellent woman. She is, and ever will

'Thank'ee, doctor, thank'ee. Yes; she has been a good wifebetter for a poor man than a rich one; but then,

that was what she was born to. You won't let her be knocked about by them, will you, Thorne?'

Dr Thorne again assured him, that as long as he lived Lady Scatcherd should never want one true friend; in

making this promise, however, he managed to drop all allusion to the obnoxious title.

'You'll be with him as much as possible, won't you?' again asked the baronet, after lying quite silent for a

'And, doctor, when you see a glass at his mouth, dash it down; thrust it down, though you thrust out the teeth

with it. When you see that, Thorne, tell him of his fathertell him what his father might have been but for

that; tell him how his father died like a beast, because he could not keep himself from drink.'

These, reader, were the last words spoken by Sir Roger Scatcherd. As he uttered them he rose up in bed with

the same vehemence which he had shown on the former evening. But in the very act of doing so he was again

'Oh, my manmy own, own man!' exclaimed the widow, remembering in the paroxysm of her grief nothing

but the loves of their early days; 'the best, the brightest, the cleverest of them all!'

Some weeks after this Sir Roger was buried, with much pomp and ceremony, within the precincts of

Barchester Cathedral; and a monument was put up to him soon after, in which he was portrayed, as

smoothing a block of granite with a mallet and chisel; while his eagle eye, disdaining such humble work, was

fixed upon some intricate mathematical instrument above him. Could Sir Roger have seen it himself, he

would probably have declared, that no workman was ever worth his salt who looked one way while he rowed

Immediately after the funeral the will was opened, and Dr Thorne discovered that the clauses of it were

exactly identical with those his friend had described to him some months back. Nothing had been altered; nor

had the document been unfolded since that strange codicil had been added, in which it was declared that Dr

Thorne knewand only Dr Thornewho was the eldest child of the testator's only sister. At the same time,

however, a joint executor with Dr Thorne had been namedone Mr Stock, a man of railway fameand Dr

Thorne himself was made a legatee to the humble extent of a thousand pounds. A life income of a thousand

We need not follow Sir Roger to his grave, nor partake of the baked meats which were furnished for his

funeral banquet. Such men as Sir Roger Scatcherd are always well buried, and we have already seen that his

glories were duly told to posterity in the graphic diction of his sepulchral monument. In a few days the doctor

had returned to his quite home and Sir Louis found himself reigning at Boxall Hill in his father's steadwith,

however, a much diminished sway, and, as he thought it, but a poor exchequer. We must soon return to him

and say something of his career as a baronet; but for the present, we may go back to our more pleasant friends

But our friends at Greshamsbury had not been making themselves pleasantnot so pleasant to each other as

circumstances would have admitted. In those days which the doctor had felt himself bound to pass, if not

altogether at Boxall Hill, yet altogether away from his own home, so as to admit of his being as much as

possible with his patient, Mary had been thrown more than ever with Patience Oriel, and, also, almost more

than ever with Beatrice Gresham. As regarded Mary, she would doubtless have preferred the companionship

of Patience, though she loved Beatrice far the best; but she had no choice. When she went to the parsonage

Beatrice came there also, and when Patience came to the doctor's house Beatrice either accompanied or

followed her. Mary could hardly have rejected their society, even had she felt it wise to do so. She would in

such case have been all alone, and her severance from the Greshamsbury house and household, from the big

family in which she had for so many years been almost at home, would have made such solitude almost

And then these two girls both knewnot her secret; she had no secretbut the little history of her

illtreatment. They knew that though she had been blameless in this matter, yet she had been the one to bear

the punishment; and, as girls and bosom friends, they could not but sympathize with her, and endow her with

heroic attributes; make her, in fact, as we are doing, their little heroine for the nonce. This was, perhaps, not

The tendency to finding matter for heroworship in Mary's endurance was much stronger with Beatrice than

with Miss Oriel. Miss Oriel was the elder, and naturally less afflicted with the sentimentation of romance.

She had thrown herself into Mary's arms because she had seen that it was essentially necessary for Mary's

comfort that she should do so. She was anxious to make her friend smile, and to smile with her. Beatrice was

quite as true in her sympathy; but she rather wished that she and Mary might weep in unison, shed mutual

Patience had spoken of Frank's love as a misfortune, of his conduct as erroneous, and to be excused only by

his youth, and had never appeared to surmise that Mary also might be in love as well as he. But to Beatrice

the affair was a tragic difficulty, admitting of no solution; a Gordian knot, not to be cut; a misery now and for

ever. She would always talk about Frank when she and Mary were alone; and, to speak the truth, Mary did

As for a marriage between them, that was impossible; Beatrice was well sure of that: it was Frank's

unfortunate destiny that he must marry moneymoney, and, as Beatrice sometimes thoughtlessly added,

cutting Mary to the quick,money and family also. Under such circumstances a marriage between them was

quite impossible; but not the less did Beatrice declare, that she would have loved Mary as her sisterinlaw

had it been possible; and how worthy Frank was of a girl's love, had such love been possible.

'It is so cruel,' Beatrice would say; 'so very, very, cruel. You would have suited him in every way.'

'Nonsense, Trichy; I should have suited him in no possible way at all; nor he me.'

'Yes; and mamma, toothat is, had you had a fortune,' said the daughter, naively. 'She always liked you

'That would not have signified, for Frank cannot endure the De Courcys himself.'

'My dear, it does not matter one straw whom your brother can endure or not endure just at present. His

'Yes, his heart; not the fact of his having a heart. I think he has a heart; but he himself does not yet understand

Such conversations were not without danger to poor Mary's comfort. It came soon to be the case that she

looked rather for this sort of sympathy from Beatrice, than for Miss Oriel's pleasant but less piquant gaiety.

So the days of the doctor's absence were passed, and so also the first week after his return. During this week

it was almost daily necessary that the squire should be with him. The doctor was now the legal holder of Sir

Roger's property, and, as such, the holder also of all the mortgages on Mr Gresham's property; and it was

natural that they should be much together. The doctor would not, however, go up to Greshamsbury on any

other than medical business; and it therefore became necessary that the squire should be a good deal at the

Then the Lady Arabella became unhappy in her mind. Frank, it was true, was away at Cambridge, and had

been successfully kept out of Mary's way since the suspicion of danger had fallen upon Lady Arabella's mind.

Frank was away, and Mary was systematically banished, with due acknowledgement from all the powers in

Greshamsbury. But this was not enough for Lady Arabella as long as her daughter still habitually consorted

with the female culprit, and as long as her husband consorted with the male culprit. It seemed to Lady

Arabella at this moment as though, in banishing Mary from the house, she had in effect banished herself from

the most intimate of the Greshamsbury social circles. She magnified in her own mind the importance of the

conferences between the girls, and was not without some fear that the doctor might be talking the squire over

Her object was to break of all confidential intercourse between Beatrice and Mary, and to interrupt, as far as

she could do it, that between the doctor and the squire. This, it may be said, could be more easily done by

skilful management within her own household. She had, however, tried that and failed. She had said much to

Beatrice as to the imprudence of her friendship with Mary, and she had done this purposely before the squire;

injudiciously howeverfor the squire had immediately taken Mary's part, and had declared that he had no

wish to see a quarrel between his family and that of the doctor; that Mary Thorne was in every way a good

girl, and an eligible friend for his own child; and had ended by declaring, that he would not have Mary

persecuted for Frank's fault. This had not been the end, nor nearly the end of what had been said on the matter

at Greshamsbury; but the end, when it came, came in this wise, that Lady Arabella determined to say a few

words to the doctor as to the expediency of forbidding familiar intercourse between Mary and any of the

With this view Lady Arabella absolutely bearded the lion in his den, the doctor in his shop. She had heard

that both Mary and Beatrice were to pass a certain afternoon at the parsonage, and took that opportunity of

calling at the doctor's house. A period of many years had passed since she had last so honoured that abode.

Mary, indeed, had been so much one of her own family that the ceremony of calling on her had never been

thought necessary; and thus, unless Mary had been absolutely ill, there would have been nothing to bring her

ladyship to the house. All this she knew would add to the importance of the occasion, and she judged it

She was so far successful that she soon found herself teteatete with the doctor in his own study. She was

no whit dismayed by the pair of human thighbones which lay close to his hand, and which, when he was

talking in that den of his own, he was in the constant habit of handling with much energy; nor was she

frightened out of her propriety even by the little child's skull which grinned at her from off the

'Doctor,' she said, as soon as the first complimentary greetings were over, speaking in her kindest and most

wouldbeconfidential tone. 'Doctor, I am still uneasy about that boy of mine, and I have thought it best to

The doctor bowed, and said that he was very sorry that she should have any cause for uneasiness about his

'Indeed, I am very uneasy, doctor; and having, as I do have, such reliance on your prudence, and such perfect

confidence in your friendship, I have thought it best to come and speak to you openly:' thereupon the Lady

'Not so dreadful; not so very dreadful,' said the doctor, mildly: 'that is, as far as I know.'

'Yes they are, doctor; very dreadful; very dreadful indeed. You know how much he owes to this young man: I

do not, for the squire never tells anything to me; but I know that it is a very large sum of money; enough to

'However, I did not come to talk to you about that. As I said before, I know nothing of the squire's affairs,

and, as a matter of course, I do not ask you to tell me. But I am sure you will agree with me in this that, as a

mother, I cannot but be interested about my only son,' and Lady Arabella put her cambric handkerchief to her

'Of course you are; of course you are,' said the doctor; 'and, Lady Arabella, my opinion of Frank is such, that

I feel sure that he will do well;' and, in his energy, Dr Thorne brandished one of the thighbones almost in the

'I hope he will; I am sure I hope he will. But, doctor, he has such dangers to contend with; he is so warm and

impulsive that I fear his heart will bring him into trouble. Now, you know, unless Frank marries money he is

The doctor made no answer to this last appeal, but as he sat and listened a slight frown came across his brow.

'He must marry money, doctor. Now we have, you see, with your assistance, contrived to separate him from

'With my assistance, Lady Arabella! I have given no assistance, nor have I meddled in the matter; nor will I.'

'Well, doctor, perhaps not meddled; but you agreed with me, you know, that the two young people had been

'I agreed to no such thing, Lady Arabella; never, never. I not only never agreed that Mary had been

imprudent, but I will not agree to it now, and will not allow any one to assert it in my presence without

contradicting it:' and then the doctor worked away at the thighbones in a manner that did rather alarm her

'No; neither did I think that: my niece, I felt sure, was safe from danger. I knew that she would do nothing

'Not to shame,' said the lady apologetically, as it were, using the word perhaps not exactly in the doctor's

'I felt no alarm for her,' continued the doctor, 'and desired no change. Frank is your son, and it is for you to

look to him. You thought proper to do so by desiring Mary to absent herself from Greshamsbury.'

'But you did, Lady Arabella; and as Greshamsbury is your home, neither I nor my niece had any ground of

complaint. We acquiesced, not without much suffering, but we did acquiesce; and you, I think, can have no

Lady Arabella had hardly expected that the doctor would reply to her mild and conciliatory exordium with so

much sternness. He had yielded so easily to her on the former occasion. She did not comprehend that when

she uttered her sentence of exile against Mary, she had given an order which she had the power of enforcing;

but that obedience to that order had now placed Mary altogether beyond her jurisdiction. She was, therefore,

a little surprised, and for a few moments overawed by the doctor's manner; but she soon recovered herself,

'I make no complaint, Dr Thorne,' she said, after assuming a tone more befitting a De Courcy than that

'But I think that it is my duty to put a stop, a peremptory stop to anything like a love affair between my son

'I have not the least objection in life. If there is such a love affair, put a stop to itthat is, if you have the

Here the doctor was doubtless imprudent. But he had begun to think that he had yielded sufficiently to the

lady; and he had begun to resolve, also, that though it would not become him to encourage even the idea of

such a marriage, he would make Lady Arabella understand that he thought his niece quite good enough for

her son, and that the match, if regarded as imprudent, was to be regarded as equally imprudent on both sides.

He would not suffer that Mary and her heart and feelings and interest should be altogether postponed to those

of the young heir; and, perhaps, he was unconsciously encouraged in this determination by the reflection that

'It is my duty,' said Lady Arabella, repeating her words with even a stronger De Courcy intonation; 'and your

'My duty!' said he, rising from his chair and leaning on the table with the two thighbones. 'Lady Arabella,

pray understand at once, that I repudiate any such duty, and will have nothing whatever to do with it.'

'But you do not mean to say that you will encourage this unfortunate boy to marry your niece?'

'The unfortunate boy, Lady Arabellawhom, by the by, I regard as a very fortunate young manis your

son, not mine. I shall take no steps about his marriage, either one way or the other.'

'Throw herself in his way! What would you say if I came up to Greshamsbury, and spoke of your daughters

in such language? What would my dear friend, Mr Gresham say, if some neighbour's wife should come and

so speak to him? I will tell you what he would say: he would quietly beg her to go back to her own home and

This was dreadful to Lady Arabella. Even Dr Thorne had never before dared thus to lower her to the level of

common humanity, and liken her to any other wife in the countryside. Moreover, she was not quite sure

whether he, the parish doctor, was not desiring her, the earl's daughter, to go home and mind her own

business. On this first point, however, there seemed to be no room for doubt, of which she gave herself the

'I can only repeat that I mean nothing offensive to our dear Mary; for whom, I think I may say, I have always

'Neither am I, nor is Mary, ungrateful for the kindness she has received at Greshamsbury.'

'And, therefore, I have called on you to say that I think it is imprudent that Beatrice and Mary should be so

The doctor had been standing during the latter part of this conversation, but now he began to walk about, still

'God bless my soul!' he said; 'God bless my soul! Why, Lady Arabella, do you suspect your own daughter as

well as your own son? Do you think that Beatrice is assisting Mary in preparing this wicked clandestine

marriage? I tell you fairly, Lady Arabella, the present tone of your mind is such that I cannot understand it.'

'And old people must be old, I suppose; the more's the pity. Lady Arabella, Mary is the same to me as my

own daughter, and owes me the obedience of a child; but as I do not disapprove of your daughter Beatrice as

an acquaintance for her, but rather, on the other hand, regard with pleasure their friendship, you cannot expect

'I have no objection. Frank is a very nice young fellow, gentlemanlike in his manners, and neighbourly in his

'You are quite right. I have not intended to express any wish; nor do I intend to do so. Mary is at liberty,

within certain boundswhich I am sure she will not passto choose her own friends. I think she has not

chosen badly as regards Miss Beatrice Gresham; and should she even add Frank Gresham to the number'

'I doubt that, Lady Arabella, because I have not heard of it from Mary. But even if it were so, I do not see

'As I said before, Frank is, to my thinking, an excellent young man. Why should I object?'

'Dr Thorne!' said her ladyship, now also rising from her chair in a state of too evident perturbation.

'Why should I object? It is for you, Lady Arabella, to look after your lambs; for me to see that, if possible, no

harm shall come to mine. If you think that Mary is an improper acquaintance for your children, it is for you to

guide them; for you and their father. Say what you think fit to your own daughter; but pray understand, once

'Interfere!' said Lady Arabella, now absolutely confused by the severity of the doctor's manner.

'I will allow no one to interfere with her; no one, Lady Arabella. She has suffered very greatly from

imputations which you have most unjustly thrown on her. It was, however, your undoubted right to turn her

out of your house if you thought fit;though, as a woman who had known her for so many years, you might,

I think, have treated her with more forbearance. That, however, was your right, and you exercised it. There

your privilege stops; yes, and must stop, Lady Arabella. You shall not persecute her here, on the only spot of

'Ah! but I do mean to say so. You do persecute her, and would continue to do so did I not defend her. It is not

sufficient that she is forbidden to enter your domainand so forbidden with the knowledge of all the country

roundbut you must come here also with the hope of interrupting all the innocent pleasures of her life.

Fearing lest she should be allowed even to speak to your son, to hear of word of him through his own sister,

'It never occurs to you to tie him up, to put him in prison. No; he is the heir of Greshamsbury; he is your son,

an earl's grandson. It is only natural, after all, that he should throw a few foolish words at the doctor's niece.

But she! it is an offence not to be forgiven on her part that she should, however, unwillingly, have been

forced to listen to them! Now understand me, Lady Arabella; if any of your family come to my house I shall

be delighted to welcome them; if Mary should meet any of them elsewhere I shall be delighted to hear of it.

Should she tell me tomorrow that she was engaged to marry Frank, I should talk the matter over with her,

quite coolly, solely with a view to her interest, as would be my duty; feeling, at the same time, that Frank

would be lucky in having such a wife. Now you know my mind, Lady Arabella. It is so I should do my

Lady Arabella had by this time perceived that she was not destined, on this occasion to gain any great victory.

She, however, was angry as well as the doctor. It was not the man's vehemence that provoked her so much as

his evident determination to break down the prestige of her rank, and place her on a footing in no respect

superior to his own. He had never before been so audaciously arrogant; and, as she moved towards the door,

she determined in her wrath that she would never again have confidential intercourse with him in any relation

'Dr Thorne,' said she. 'I think you have forgotten yourself. You must excuse me if I say that after what has

'Certainly,' said he, fully understanding what she meant; and bowing low as he opened first the studydoor,

And then the Lady Arabella stalked off, not without full observation from Mrs Yates Umbleby and her friend

And now began the unpleasant things at Greshamsbury of which we have here told. When Lady Arabella

walked away from the doctor's house she resolved that, let it cost what it might, there should be war to the

knife between her and him. She had been insulted by himso at least she said to herself, and so she was

prepared to say to others alsoand it was not to be borne that a De Courcy should allow her parish doctor to

insult her with impunity. She would tell her husband with all the dignity that she could assume, that it had

now become absolutely necessary that he should protect his wife by breaking entirely with his unmannered

neighbour; and, as regarded the young members of her family, she would use the authority of a mother, and

absolutely forbid them to hold any intercourse with Mary Thorne. So resolving, she walked quickly back to

The doctor, when left alone, was not quite satisfied with the part he had taken in the interview. He had spoken

from impulse rather than from judgement, and, as is generally the case with men who do so speak, he had

afterwards to acknowledge to himself that he had been imprudent. He accused himself probably with more

violence than he had really used, and was therefore unhappy; but, nevertheless, his indignation was not at

rest. He was angry with himself; but not on that account the less angry with Lady Arabella. She was cruel of

manners, so he thought; but not on that account was he justified in forgetting the forbearance due from a

gentleman to a lady. Mary, moreover, had owed much to the kindness of this woman, and, therefore, Dr

Thus the doctor walked about his room, much disturbed; now accusing himself for having been so angry with

The only immediate conclusion at which he resolved was this, that it was unnecessary that he should say

anything to Mary on the subject of her ladyship's visit. There was no doubt, sorrow enough in store for his

darling; why should he aggravate it? Lady Arabella would doubtless not stop now in her course; but why

Lady Arabella, when she returned to the house, allowed no grass to grow under her feet. As she entered the

house she desired that Miss Beatrice should be sent to her directly she returned; and she desired also, that as

soon as the squire should be in his room a message to that effect might be immediately brought to her.

'Beatrice,' she said, as soon as the young lady appeared before her, and in speaking she assumed her firmest

tone of authority, 'Beatrice, I am sorry, my dear, to say anything that is unpleasant to you, but I must make it

a positive request that you will for the future drop all intercourse with Dr Thorne's family.'

Beatrice, who had received Lady Arabella's message immediately on entering the house, and had run upstairs

imagining that some instant haste was required, now stood before her mother rather out of breath, holding her

'My dear,' said the mother, 'I cannot really explain to you what has happened; but I must ask you to give me

'Yes, I do, my dear; at any rate, for the present. When I tell you that your brother's interest imperatively

Beatrice did not refuse, but she did not appear too willing to comply. She stood silent, leaning against the end

Lady Arabella had said that she could not exactly explain: but she found it necessary to attempt to do so.

'Dr Thorne has openly declared to me that a marriage between poor Frank and Mary is all he could desire for

his niece. After such unparalleled audacity as that, even your father will see the necessity of breaking with

'My dear, I am not apt to misunderstand people; especially when I am so much in earnest as I was in talking

'And I know what Dr Thorne thinks about it; he, at any rate, has been candid in what he said; there can be no

doubt on earth that he has spoken his true thoughts; there can be no reason to doubt him; of course such a

'Very well, my dear. I know that you are infatuated about these people, and that you are always inclined to

contradict what I say to you; but, remember, I expect that you will obey me when I tell you not to go to Dr

'I expect you to obey me, Beatrice. Though you are so prone to contradict, you have never disobeyed me; and

Lady Arabella had begun by exacting, or trying to exact a promise, but as she found that this was not

forthcoming, she thought it better to give up the point without a dispute. It might be that Beatrice would

absolutely refuse to pay this respect to her mother's authority, and then where would she have been?

At this moment a servant came up to say that the squire was in his room, and Lady Arabella was opportunely

saved the necessity of discussing the matter further with her daughter. 'I am now,' she said, 'going to see your

father on the same subject; you may be quite sure, Beatrice that I should not willingly speak to him on any

This Beatrice knew was true, and she did therefore feel convinced that something terrible must have

While Lady Arabella opened her budget the squire sat quite silent, listening to her with appropriate respect.

She found it necessary that her description to him should be much more elaborate than that which she had

vouchsafed to her daughter, and, in telling her grievance, she insisted most especially on the personal insult

'After what has now happened,' said she, not quite able to repress a tone of triumph as she spoke, 'I do expect,

'You are not afraid that Dr Thorne will come here and attack you? As far as I can understand, he never comes

'No; I do not think that he will come to Greshamsbury any more. I believe I have put a stop to that.'

Lady Arabella paused a minute before she replied. The game which she now had to play was not very easy;

she knew, or thought she knew, that her husband, in his heart of hearts, much preferred his friend to the wife

of his bosom, and that he would, if he could, shuffle out of noticing the doctor's iniquities. It behoved her,

'I do not think there is the slightest chance of such a thing; and I am quite sure that Dr Thorne would not

'Of course; I always misunderstand everything. I know that. I misunderstood it when I told you how you

'I have had other troubles more expensive than the hounds,' said the poor squire, sighing.

'Oh, yes; I know what you mean; a wife and family are expensive, of course. It is a little too late to complain

'My dear, it is always too late to complain of any troubles when they are no longer to be avoided. We need

'But I hope you will not think me unreasonable if I am anxious to know what you intend to do about Dr

'Yes; I suppose you will do something: you do not wish to see your son marry such a girl as Mary Thorne.'

'As far as the girl herself is concerned,' said the squire, turning rather red, 'I am not sure that he could do

much better. I know nothing whatever against Mary. Frank, however, cannot afford to make such a match. It

'Of course it would; utter ruin; he never could hold up his head again. Therefore it is I ask, What do you

The squire was bothered. He had no intention whatever of doing anything, an no belief in his wife's assertion

as to Dr Thorne's iniquity. But he did not know how to get her out of the room. She asked him the same

question over and over again, and on each occasion urged on him the heinousness of the insult to which she

personally had been subjected; so that at last he was driven to ask her what it was she wished him to do.

'Well, then, Mr Gresham, if you ask me, I must say, that I think you should abstain from any intercourse with

'What do you mean? He has been turned out of this house, and I'm not to go to see him at his own.'

'I certainly think that you ought to discontinue your visits to Dr Thorne altogether.'

'Nonsense! Mr Gresham; it is no nonsense. As you speak in that way, I must let you know plainly what I feel.

I am endeavouring to do my duty by my son. As you justly observe, such a marriage as this would be utter

ruin to him. When I found that the young people were actually talking of being in love with each other,

making vows and all that sort of thing, I did think it time to interfere. I did not, however, turn them out of

'Wellwellwell; I know all that. There, they are gone, and that's enough. I don't complain; surely that

'Enough! Mr Gresham. No; it is not enough. I find that, in spite of what has occurred, the closest intimacy

exists between the two families; that poor Beatrice, who is so very young, and not so prudent as she should

be, is made to act as a gobetween; and when I speak to the doctor, hoping that he will assist me in

preventing this, he not only tells me that he means to encourage Mary in her plans, but positively insults me

to my face, laughs at me for being an earl's daughter, and tells meyes, he absolutely told meto get out of

Let it be told with some shame as to the squire's conduct, that his first feeling on hearing this was one of

envyof envy and regret that he could not make the same uncivil request. Not that he wished to turn his

wife absolutely out of his house; but he would have been very glad to have had the power of dismissing her

summarily from his own room. This, however, was at present impossible; so he was obliged to make some

'Oh! of course, Mr Gresham. It is a mistake, of course. It will be a mistake, only a mistake when you find

'Well, my dear, I cannot undertake to quarrel with Dr Thorne.' This was true; for the squire could hardly have

'Then I think it right to tell you that I shall. And, Mr Gresham, I did not expect much cooperation from you;

but I did think that you would have shown some little anger when you heard that I had been so illtreated. I

shall, however, know how to take care of myself; and I shall continue to do the best I can to protect Frank

So saying, her ladyship arose and left the room, having succeeded in destroying to comfort of all our

Greshamsbury friends. It was very well for the squire to declare that he would not quarrel with Dr Thorne,

and of course he did not do so. But he, himself, had no wish whatever that his son should marry Mary

Thorne; and as a falling drop will hollow a stone, so did the continual harping of his wife on the subject give

rise to some amount of suspicion in his own mind. Then as to Beatrice, though she had made no promise that

she would not again visit Mary, she was by no means prepared to set her mother's authority altogether at

Dr Thorne said nothing of the matter to his niece, and she, therefore, would have been absolutely bewildered

by Beatrice's absence, had she not received some tidings of what had taken place at Greshamsbury through

Patience Oriel. Beatrice and Patience discussed the matter fully, and it was agreed between them that it would

be better that Mary should know what sterner orders respecting her had gone forth from the tyrant at

Greshamsbury, and that she might understand that Beatrice's absence was compulsory. Patience was thus

placed in this position, that on one day she walked and talked with Beatrice, and on the next with Mary; and

Very unpleasantly and very uncomfortably did the months of May and June pass away. Beatrice and Mary

occasionally met, drinking tea together at the parsonage, or in some other of the ordinary meetings of the

country society; but there were no more confidentially distressing confidential discourses, no more

whispering of Frank's name, no more sweet allusions to the inexpediency of a passion, which, according to

The squire and the doctor also met constantly; there were unfortunately many subjects on which they were

obliged to meet. Louis Philippeor Sir Louis as we must call himthough he had no power over his own

property, was wide awake to all the coming privileges of ownership, and he would constantly point out to his

guardian the manner in which, according to his ideas, the most should be made of it. The young baronet's

ideas of good taste were not of the most refined description, and he did not hesitate to tell Dr Thorne that his,

the doctor's friendship with Mr Gresham must be no bar to his, the baronet's interest. Sir Louis also had his

own lawyer, who gave Dr Thorne to understand, that, according to his ideas, the sum due on Mr Gresham's

property was too large to be left on its present footing; the titledeeds, he said, should be surrendered or the

mortgage foreclosed. All this added to the sadness which now seemed to envelop the village of

Early in July Frank was to come home. The manner in which the comings and goings of 'poor Frank' were

allowed to disturb the arrangements of all the ladies, and some of the gentlemen, of Greshamsbury was most

abominable. And yet it can hardly be said to have been his fault. He would have been only too well pleased

had things been allowed to go on after their old fashion. Things were not allowed so to go on. At Christmas

Miss Oriel had submitted to be exiled, in order that she might carry Mary away from the presence of the

young Bashaw, an arrangement by which all the winter festivities of the poor doctor had been thoroughly

sacrificed; and now it began to be said that some similar plan for the summer must be arranged.

It must not be supposed that any direction to this effect was conveyed either to Mary or to the doctor. The

suggestion came from them, and was mentioned only to Patience. But Patience, as a matter of course, told

Beatrice, and Beatrice told her mother, somewhat triumphantly, hoping thereby to convince the shedragon

of Mary's innocence. Alas! shedragons are not easily convinced of the innocence of any one. Lady Arabella

quite coincided the propriety of Mary's being sent off,whither she never inquired,in order that the coast

might be clear for 'poor Frank'; but she did not a whit the more abstain from talking of the wicked intrigues of

those Thornes. As it turned out, Mary's absence caused her to talk all the more.

The Boxall Hill property, including the house and furniture, had been left to the contractor's son; it being

understood that the property would not be at present in his own hands, but that he might inhabit the house if

he chose to do so. It would thus be necessary for Lady Scatcherd to find a home for herself, unless she could

remain at Boxall Hill by her son's permission. In this position of affairs the doctor had been obliged to make a

bargain between them. Sir Louis did wish to have the comfort, or perhaps the honour, of a country house; but

he did not wish to have the expense of keeping it up. He was also willing to let his mother live at the house;

but not without a consideration. After a prolonged degree of haggling, terms were agreed upon; and a few

weeks after her husband's death, Lady Scatcherd found herself alone at Boxall Hillalone as regards society

in the ordinary sense, but not quite alone as concerned her ladyship, for the faithful Hannah was still with her.

The doctor was of course often at Boxall Hill, and never left it without an urgent request from Lady

Scatcherd that he would bring his niece over to see her. Now Lady Scatcherd was no fit companion for Mary

Thorne, and though Mary had often asked to be taken to Boxall Hill, certain considerations had hitherto

induced the doctor to refuse the request; but there was about Lady Scatcherd,a kind of homely honesty of

purpose, an absence of all conceit as to her own position, and a strength of womanly confidence in the doctor

as her friend, which by degrees won upon his heart. When, therefore, both he and Mary felt that it would be

better for her again to absent herself for a while from Greshamsbury, it was, after much deliberation, agreed

To Boxall Hill, accordingly, she went, and was received almost as a princess. Mary had all her life been

accustomed to women of rank, and had never habituated herself to feel much trepidation in the presence of

titled grandees; but she had prepared herself to be more than ordinarily submissive to Lady Scatcherd. Her

hostess was a widow, was not a woman of high birth, was a woman of whom her uncle spoke well; and, for

all these reasons, Mary was determined to respect her, and pay to her every consideration. But when she

settled down in the house she found it almost impossible to do so. Lady Scatcherd treated her as a farmer's

wife might have treated a convalescent young lady who had been sent to her charge for a few weeks, in order

that she might benefit by the country air. Her ladyship could hardly bring herself to sit still and eat her dinner

tranquilly in her guest's presence. And then nothing was good enough for Mary. Lady Scatcherd besought

her, almost with tears, to say what she liked best to eat and drink; and was in despair when Mary declared she

didn't care, that she liked anything, and that she was in nowise particular in such matters.

'Bread sauceyes; oh, yesI like bread sauce,'and poor Mary tried hard to show a little interest.

'And just a few sausages. We make them all in the house, Miss Thorne; we know what they are. And mashed

'Very well. But, Miss Thorne, if you like boiled fowl better, with a little bit of ham, you know, I do hope

you'll say so. And there's lamb in the house, quite beautiful; now do'ee say something; do'ee, Miss Thorne.'

So invoked, Mary felt herself obliged to say something, and declared for the roast fowl and sausages; but she

found it very difficult to pay much outward respect to a person who would pay so much outward respect to

her. A day or two after her arrival it was decided that she should ride about the place on a donkey; she was

accustomed to riding, the doctor having generally taken care that one of his own horses should, when

required, consent to carry a lady; but there was no steed at Boxall Hill that she could mount; and when Lady

Scatcherd had offered to get a pony for her, she had willingly compromised matters by expressing the delight

she would have in making a campaign on a donkey. Upon this, Lady Scatcherd had herself set off in quest of

the desired animal, much to Mary's horror; and did not return till the necessary purchase had been effected.

Then she came back with the donkey close at her heels, almost holding its collar, and stood there at the

'I hope she'll do. I don't think she'll kick,' said Lady Scatcherd, patting the head of her purchase quite

'Oh, you are so kind, Lady Scatcherd. I'm sure she'll do quite nicely; she seems very quiet,' said Mary.

'Oh! a he, is it?' said her ladyship; 'but the hedonkeys are quite as quiet as the shes ain't they?'

'I'm so glad of that, Miss Thorne,' said Lady Scatcherd, her eyes bright with joy.

And so Mary was established with her donkey, who did all that could be expected from an animal in his

'But, dear Lady Scatcherd,' said Mary, as they sat together at the open drawingroom window the same

evening, 'you must not go on calling me Miss Thorne; my name is Mary, you know. Won't you call me

Mary?' and she came and knelt at Lady Scatcherd's feet, and took hold of her, looking up into her face.

Lady Scatcherd's cheeks became rather red, as though she was somewhat ashamed of her position.

'You are very kind to me,' continued Mary, 'and it seems so cold to hear you call me Miss Thorne.'

'Well, Miss Thorne, I'm sure I'd call you anything to please you. Only I didn't know whether you'd like it

'My dear Roger always loved that name better than any other; ten times better. I used to wish sometimes that

'He once had a sister called Mary; such a beautiful creature! I declare that sometimes think you are like her.'

'She was very beautiful. I just remember heroh, so beautiful! she was quite a poor girl, you know; and so

was I then. Isn't it odd that I should have to be called "my lady" now. Do you know Miss Thorne'

'Ah, yes; but somehow, I hardly like to make so free; but, as I was saying, I do so dislike being called "my

'Yes they are though: poor dear Roger, he used to call me "my lady" just to make fun of me; I didn't mind it

'Ah, well! I shall do it in time. But, MissMary, ha! ha! ha! never mind, let me alone. But what I want to say

is this: do you think I could drop it? Hannah says, that if I go the right way about it she is sure I can.'

'Oh, no; for your husband's sake you should be proud of it. He gained great honour, you know.'

'Ah, well,' said she, sighing after a short pause; 'if you think it will do him any good, of course I'll put up with

it. And then I know Louis would be mad if I talked of such a thing. But, Miss Thorne, dear, a woman like me

don't like to have to be made a fool of all the days of her life if she can help it.'

'But, Lady Scatcherd,' said Mary, when this question of the title had been duly settled, and her ladyship made

to understand that she must bear the burden for the rest of her life, 'but, Lady Scatcherd, you were speaking of

'Oh, she did very well at last, as Sir Roger did himself; but in early life she was very unfortunatejust at

Historia Augusta time of my marriage to dear Roger,' and then, just as she was about to commence so

much as she knew of the history of Mary Scatcherd, she remembered that the author of her sisterinlaw's

misery had been a Thorne, a brother of the doctor; and, therefore, as she presumed, a relative of her guest;

Poor Lady Scatcherd had very little worldly knowledge, and did not in the least know how to turn the

conversation or escape from the trouble into which she had fallen. All manner of reflections began to crowd

upon her. In her early days she had known very little of the Thornes, nor had she thought much of them since,

except as regarded her friend the doctor; but at this moment she began to think that she had never heard more

than two brothers in the family. Who then could have Mary's father? She felt at once that it would be

improper for to say anything as to Henry Thorne's terrible faults and sudden fate;improper also, to say

more about Mary Scatcherd; but she was quite unable to drop the matter otherwise than abruptly, and with a

'Yes, Miss Thorne; Mary, I meannever mind meI shall do it in time. Yes, she was; but now I think of it,

I had better say nothing more about it. There are reasons, and I ought not to have spoken of it. You won't be

Mary assured her that she would not be provoked, and of course asked no more questions about Mary

Scatcherd; nor did she think much more about it. It was not so however with her ladyship, who could not

keep herself from reflecting that the old clergyman at the Close at Barchester certainly had but two sons, one

of whom was now the doctor at Greshamsbury, and the other of whom had perished so wretchedly at the gate

The days passed very quietly at Boxall Hill. Every morning Mary went out on her donkey, who justified by

his demeanour all that had been said in his praise; then she would read or draw, then walk with Lady

Scatcherd, then dine, then walk again; and so the days passed quietly away. Once or twice a week the doctor

would come over and drink his tea there, riding home in the cool of the evening. Mary also received one visit

So the days passed quietly away till the tranquillity of the house was suddenly broken by tidings from

London. Lady Scatcherd received a letter from her son, contained in three lines, in which he intimated that on

the following day he meant to honour them with a visit. He had intended, he said, to have gone to Brighton

with some friends; but as he felt himself a little out of sorts, he would postpone his marine trip and do his

This news was not very pleasant to Mary, by whom it had been understood, as it had been also by her uncle,

that Lady Scatcherd would have had the house to herself; but as there was no means of preventing the evil,

Mary could only inform the doctor, and prepare herself to meet Sir Louis Scatcherd.

Sir Louis Scatcherd had told his mother that he was rather out of sorts, and when he reached Boxall Hill it

certainly did not appear that he had given any exaggerated statement of his own maladies. He certainly was a

good deal out of sorts. He had had more than one attack of delirium tremens after his father's death, and had

Nothing had been said about this by Dr Thorne at Boxall Hill; but he was by no means ignorant of his ward's

state. Twice he had gone up to London to visit him; twice he had begged him to go down into the country and

place himself under his mother's care. On the last occasion, the doctor had threatened him with all manner of

pains and penalties: with pains, as to his speedy departure from this world and all its joys; and with penalties,

in the shape of poverty if that departure should by any chance be retarded. But these threats had at the

moment been in vain, and the doctor had compromised matters by inducing Sir Louis to promise that he

would go to Brighton. The baronet, however, who was at length frightened by some renewed attack, gave up

his Brighton scheme, and, without notice to the doctor, hurried down to Boxall Hill.

Mary did not see him on the first day of his coming, but the doctor did. He received such intimation of the

visit as enabled him to be at the house soon after the young man's arrival; and, knowing that his assistance

might be necessary, he rode over to Boxall Hill. It was a dreadful task to him, this of making the same

fruitless endeavour for the son that he had made for the father, and in the same house. But he was bound by

every consideration to perform the task. He had promised the father that he would do for the son all that was

in his power; and he had, moreover, the consciousness, that should Sir Louis succeed in destroying himself,

He found Sir Louis in a low, wretched, miserable state. Though he was a drunkard as his father was, he was

not at all such a drunkard as his father. The physical capacities of the men were very different. The daily

amount of alcohol which the father had consumed would have burnt up the son in a week; whereas, though

the son was continually tipsy, what he swallowed would hardly have had an injurious effect upon the father.

'You are all wrong, quite wrong,' said Sir Louis petulantly; 'it isn't that at all. I have taken nothing this week

Dr Thorne wanted no one to tell him what was the matter with his ward. It was his liver; his liver, and his

head, and his stomach, and his heart. Every organ in his body had been destroyed, or was in the course of

destruction. His father had killed himself with brandy; the son more elevated in his tastes, was doing the same

'Sir Louis,' said the doctorhe was obliged to be much more punctilious with him than he had been with the

contractor'the matter is in your hands entirely: if you cannot keep your lips from that accursed poison, you

Mary proposed to return with her uncle to Greshamsbury, and he was at first inclined that she should do so.

But this idea was overruled, partly in compliance with Lady Scatcherd's entreaties, and partly because it

would have seemed as though they had both thought the presence of the owner had made the house an unfit

habitation for decent people. The doctor, therefore, returned, leaving Mary there; and Lady Scatcherd busied

On the next day Sir Louis was able to come down to a late dinner, and Mary was introduced to him. He had

dressed himself in his best array; and as he hadat any rate for the present momentbeen frightened out of

his libations, he was prepared to make himself as agreeable as possible. His mother waited on him almost as a

slave might have done; but she seemed to do so with the fear of a slave rather than the love of a mother. She

was fidgety in her attentions, and worried him by endeavouring to make her evening sittingroom agreeable.

But Sir Louis, though he was not very sweetly behaved under these manipulations from his mother's hands,

was quite complaisant to Miss Thorne; nay, after the expiration of a week he was almost more than

complaisant. He piqued himself on his gallantry, and now found that, in the otherwise dull seclusion of

Boxall Hill, he had a good opportunity of exercising it. To do him justice it must be admitted that he would

not have been incapable of a decent career had he stumbled on some girl who could have loved him before he

stumbled upon his maraschino bottle. Such might have been the case with many a lost rake. The things that

are bad are accepted because the things that are good do not come easily in his way. How many a miserable

father reviles with bitterness of spirit the low tastes of his son, who has done nothing to provide his child with

Sir Louispartly in the hopes of Mary's smiles, and partly frightened by the doctor's threatsdid, for a

while, keep himself within decent bounds. He did not usually appear before Mary's eyes till three or four in

the afternoon; but when he did come forth, he came forth sober and resolute to please. His mother was

delighted, and was not slow to sing his praises; and even the doctor, who now visited Boxall Hill more

One constant subject, I must not say of conversation, on the part of Lady Scatcherd, but rather of

declamation, had hitherto been the beauty and manly attributes of Frank Gresham. She had hardly ceased to

talk to Mary of the infinite good qualities of the young squire, and especially of his prowess in the matter of

Mr Moffat. Mary had listened to all this eloquence, not perhaps with inattention, but without much reply. She

had not been exactly sorry to hear Frank talked about; indeed, had she been so minded, she could herself have

said something on the same subject; but she did not wish to take Lady Scatcherd altogether into her

confidence, and she had been unable to 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

'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

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 pursestrings 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 timetwo or three weeks, perhapsbefore 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

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 rodeon a donkey only, it is truebut

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

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

'Lady Scatcherd,' said he, as they were standing at the door previous to mountinghe always called his

mother Lady Scatcherd'why don't you take a horse for Miss Thorne? This donkey isisreally is, so

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 muchI do indeed.'

'But he won't go,' said Sir Louis. 'And for a person who rides like you, Miss Thornesuch a horsewoman

you knowwhy, 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

'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, and 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

'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 obstaclenone 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.

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

'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

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

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

'Doctor,'said he, one day, at Boxall Hill'how about those Greshamsbury titledeeds?'

'Ohahyes; 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 titledeeds of a large portion of Greshamsbury estate will be placed with the mortgagedeeds before the

'Oh, that's all right. I choose to know about these things; for though my father did make such a confounded

'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.'

'Yes, I'm not going to make way for my faraway cousin yet; not if I know it, at least. I shall soon be all right

'"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

'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

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

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

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

'Something that will really make you look about; and something, too, that will be very much to the hearer's

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

'I should be delighted to hear of itmore delighted than I can express; that is, of course, if you were to marry

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

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

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

'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 speechesperhaps 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 instanceand the kisses

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

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

What a question was this that was asked him! What would he think of a marriage between Mary Thornehis

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

'Well, wouldn't she be a good wife?' said Sir Louis, rather in a tone of disgust at the evident disapproval

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

'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

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

'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 advantagesfor great they undoubtedly arewhich 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.'

'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

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 sayfor his pursuit in this case was certainly not an evil one,and he at once made up his mind

'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,

'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;

'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,

'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

'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.'

'If you marry a decent woman you shall not want the means of supporting her decently,' and so saying the

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,

He did not, however, do this till he had been in a measure provoked by it by the sharptongued 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

'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

'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.

'I don't call you cruel; but you wrong her cruelly, most cruelly. When I have spoken to her about thisfor I

have spoken to hershe 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,

'Frank,' said his mother, raising herself up with energy to make one last appeal. 'Frank, do you wish to see me

'If you wish to see me ever happy again, if you do not wish to see me sink brokenhearted 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

'I hate the estateat least I shall hate it if I am expected to buy it at such a price as that. The estate is my

'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 tomorrow. 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

Frank, it will be remembered, was twentyone when he was first introduced to the reader; he is now

twentytwo. 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

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

'You, at any rate, have some decent feeling for Mary. I believe you have some regard for her; and therefore I

'Oh, yes; my best, best love; that is if you will see her; but, Frank, you are very foolish, very; and she will be

'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

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 backbut not from fear of his mother; not from prudential motives; not because

that oftenrepeated lesson as to marrying money was beginning to take effect; not from such causes as these;

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 neverceasing 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 ownyour own and

another's; whatever may go to the moneylenders, 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

'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

Nor had either of them the courage to do so now. 'Yes,' said Frank, blushing, 'I am going to Lady Scatcherd's.

'Yes; Lady Scatcherd is there; but Sir Louis is there alsoan invalid: perhaps you would not wish to meet

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

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

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 halfjoking 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 chamberwept, 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

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 wouldbe 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 donkeyrides at Boxall Hill, in those solitary

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 daughterinlaw. 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

refolding, and putting up again, a heap of household linen which was kept in a huge press for the express

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

'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

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,

'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

'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

'She's just gone out on her donkeysomewhere about the place. She rides on a donkey mostly every day.

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 dinnertime. He said, therefore,

Lady Scatcherd then began making apologies for Sir Louis. She was an invalid; the doctor had been with him

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

greensward, 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

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

'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

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

'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?'

'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

'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

'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

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

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

'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

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 bornas well born as any gentleman in England. She was basely bornas 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 himof what would make him happy? Then of

her unclewhat he would approve? Then of herselfwhat 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

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

'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

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

'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 heand 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

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 mindhad he, that is, been fortytwo instead of twentytwo 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 fortytwo

instead of twentytwo, he would not have been so ready to risk the acres of Greshamsbury for the smiles of

'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 staynot even for dinner.'

On a sudden he stood still, and pulling the donkey's rein, caused him to stand still also. The beast required

'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

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

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

'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

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.

'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

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

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

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

To Mary, also, the same ideas no doubt occurredwith 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

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 dinnerbell 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

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 crossquestion him sternly on the subject. Now she departed,

'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 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 everrising dust of his

'Well, Frank, what have you been after today? 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 roadwork. Legs

'Why, sir, I was obliged to go out today, 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

'My dear boy, he is quite at your service; for goodness' sake do let me have a little wine, Frankquite 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,

'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 moneynot 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.

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 necessarytoo necessary through his own defaultthat Frank should marry money!

'At Boxall Hill, Frank! Has that been prudent? Or, indeed, has it been generous to Miss Thorne, who has been

'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.'

'The fact is, sir, that I have made up my mind that Mary Thorne shall be my wifesooner or later, that is,

unless, of course, she should utterly refuse. Hitherto, she has utterly refused me. I believe I may now say that

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 twentyone. Nature, it seems, had postponed the ceremony till he was twentytwo. 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

'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,

'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

'It is impossible, Frank, in the usual sense. What are you to live upon? What would you do with your

'You would not wish to begin life as an embarrassed man and end it as a ruined man. If you were now to

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

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

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

'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 hernot 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

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

'Yes, sad enough,' said Frank, rising from his chair and standing with it before him, leaning on the back of it.

'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

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

'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 sowhich it can't in the least, not in the leastbut could it

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 drawingroom 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 diningroom. 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 postprandial hour, which, though no

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 oneandtwenty,' said Frank. Yes and repented before I was

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

'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 had utterly gone by.

He told he, almost with sangfroid, 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 beautifulwomen of

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

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 himwent

his way also from Greshamsbury, and was absent for the full period of the allotted banishmenttwelve

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

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 Marythat is, not at

presentif he would go away for a year. Then, at the end of the year, the matter should again be discussed.

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 goodbye, he betook himself

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

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

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

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

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 teaparties 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

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

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 countryside 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 hehe 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

But Lady Arabella had been very active. It suited her better that it should be known, far and wide, that a

nameless pauperLady Arabella only surmised that her foe was nameless; but she did not scruple to declare

itwas 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

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

'Well, dearest, and what was your answer?' said her uncle, drawing her close to him, and speaking in his

'No, uncle,' and then she paused;he had never known her tremble as she now trembled. 'But if you say that

'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,

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 possessionof

course as a trustee onlyof the titledeeds 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 twentyfive. 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

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

And then he had his own individual annoyances, and very aggravating annoyances they were. The

carriageor rather the postchaiseof 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

And then, also, the oldfashioned phaeton, of oldfashioned 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

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

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

'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

'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 seriousas Dr Century has probably told

you;' and Dr Fillgrave made a bow to the old man, who sat quiet in one of the diningroom armchairs.

'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

The doctor this time did his bowing merely with his eyes and mouth. The former he closed for a moment, the

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

'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

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

'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 histhat is, Dr Thorne'sconduct to her ladyship had been suchso

very outrageous, I may say, thatthatthatof 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

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 pigheaded 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 sand 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 knownespecially at that humble house in the corner of the streetthat 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 wellperhaps 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

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

'I don't know how you may take it, Bell; but I think it very good news:' the squire never called his wife Bell,

'Well?' she said again. She was not overanxious 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

'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

'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

Lady Arabella gave a little snuffle, which might be taken as a not very eloquent expression of thanks for the

'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

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

I must now, shortlyas shortly as it is in my power to do itintroduce a new character to my reader.

Mention has been made of the rectory of Greshamsbury; but, hitherto, no opportunity has offered itself for the

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 HighChurch principles, and had gone into orders influenced by a

feeling of enthusiastic love for the priesthood. He was by no means an asceticsuch men, indeed, seldom

arenor 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

He delighted in lecterns and credencetables, 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 morningshe did so, at least, all through his first winter at

Greshamsburyhe was not made of that stuff which is necessary for a staunch, burning, selfdenying

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

But certain lengths in selfprivation 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

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

Mr Oriel soon became popular. He was a darkhaired, goodlooking man, of polished manners, agreeable in

society, not given to monkish austeritiesexcept in the matter of Fridaysnor yet to the LowChurch

severity of demeanour. He was thoroughly a gentleman, goodhumoured, inoffensive, and sociable. But he

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 selfhe 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

There were around Greshamsbury very many unmarried ladiesI 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 HighChurch 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

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 thisthat 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 seenno, not seen, but heardentering 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 churchporch, 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

'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!'

'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

'Oh, certainly, a most imperative duty; but so delicious at the same time. I spoke to Mrs Umbleby about it, but

'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

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 WestonsuperMare, 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

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

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 imputationthis had usually

been made by Mary in their happy dayswith 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

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 drawingroom 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

From the day that Miss Gushing heard of itwhich was not however for some considerable time after

thisshe 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 credencetable 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 credencetable 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

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 matchesembryo, or not embryo, those,

namely, of Augusta with Mr Moffat, and Frank with Mary Thorne. All Barsetshire had heard of them; but

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

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

'I declare she is very pretty,' said Beatrice, who could afford to be goodnatured. Now Miss Gushing

certainly was pretty; and would have been very pretty had her nose not turned up so much, and could she

'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.

'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

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

'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

Patience undertook the commission, and did tell Mary; did give her also the message which Beatrice had sent.

And Mary was rejoiced to hear it; for though, as Patience had said of her, she had never herself felt any

inclination to fall in love with Mr Oriel, she believed him to be one in whose hands her friend's happiness

would be secure. Then, by degrees, the conversation changed from the loves of Mr Oriel and Beatrice to the

'Ah, yes, dear Trichy! that was settled between us in auld lang syne; but those settlements are all unsettled

now, and must be broken. No, I cannot be her bridesmaid; but I shall yet hope to see her once before her

'Lady Arabella!' said Mary, curling up her lip with deep scorn. 'I do not care that for Lady Arabella,' and she

let her silver thimble fall from her fingers onto the table. 'If Beatrice invited me to her wedding, she might

She remained silent for a while, and then boldly answered. 'Though I do not care for Lady Arabella, I do care

'Yes, and therefore I will not be there to vex his sight. I will tell you the truth, Patience. I can never be in that

house again till Frank Gresham is a married man, or till I am about to be a married woman. I do not think

'I will endeavour not to do so; and, therefore, will go to none of their fetes! No, Patience.' And then she

turned her head to the arm of the sofa, and silently, without audible sobs, hiding her face, she endeavoured to

get rid of the tears unseen. For one moment she had all but resolved to pour out the whole truth of her love

into her friend's ears; but suddenly she changed her mind. Why should she talk of her own unhappiness? Why

should she speak of her own love when she was fully determined not to speak of Frank's promises.

'Anything, but pity, Patience; anything but that,' said she, convulsively, swallowing her sobs, and rubbing

away her tears. 'I cannot bear that. Tell Beatrice from me, that I wish her every happiness; and, with such a

husband, I am sure she will be happy. I wish her every joy; give her my kindest love; but tell her that I cannot

be at her marriage. Oh, I should like to see her; not there, you know, but here, in my own room, where I still

'Now, or this day twelvemonth, can make no difference. I will not go into that house again, unlessbut

never mind; I will not go into it all; never, never again. If I could forgive her for myself, I could not forgive

her for my uncle. But tell me, Patience, might not Beatrice now come here? It is so dreadful to see her every

Sunday in church and never to speak to her, never to kiss her. She seems to look away from me as though she

Miss Oriel promised to do her best. She could not imagine, she said, that such a visit could be objected to on

such an occasion. She would not advise Beatrice to come without telling her mother; but she could not think

that Lady Arabella would be so cruel as to make any objection, knowing, as she could not but know, that her

'That's just it: you are so ferocious in your scorn, so unbending, so determined to take all the punishment that

'What I do take, I'll take without complaint,' said Mary; and then they kissed each other and parted.

It must be remembered that Mary, among her miseries, had to suffer this: that since Frank's departure, now

nearly twelve months ago, she had not heard a word about him; or rather, she had only heard that he was very

much in love with some lady in London. This news reached her in a manner so circuitous, and from such a

doubtful source; it seemed to her to savour so strongly of Lady Arabella's precautions, that she attributed it at

once to malice, and blew it to the winds. It might not improbably be the case that Frank was untrue to her; but

she would not take it for granted because she was now told so. It was more than probable that he should

amuse himself with some one; flirting was his prevailing sin; and if he did flirt, the most would of course be

But she found it to be very desolate to be thus left alone without a word of comfort or a word of love; without

being able to speak to any one of what filled her heart; doubting, nay, more than doubting, being all but sure

that her passion must terminate in misery. Why had she not obeyed her conscience and her better instinct int

hat moment when the necessity for deciding had come upon her? Why had she allowed him to understand

that he was master of her heart? Did she not know that there was everything against such a marriage as that

which was proposed? Had she not done wrong, very wrong, even to think of it? Had she not sinned deeply,

against Mr Gresham, who had ever been so kind to her? Could she hope, was it possible, that a boy like Frank

should be true to his first love? And, if he were true, if he were ready to go to the altar with her tomorrow,

There was, alas! some truth about the London lady. Frank had taken his degree, as arranged, and had then

gone abroad for the winter, doing the fashionable things, going up the Nile, crossing over to Mount Sinai,

thence over the long desert to Jerusalem, and home by Damascus, Beyrout, and Constantinople, bringing

back a long beard, a red cap, and a chibook, just as our fathers used to go through Italy and Switzerland, and

our grandfathers to spend a season in Paris. He had then remained for a couple of months in London, going

through all the society which the De Courcys were able to open to him. And it was true that a certain belle of

the season, of that season and some others, had been captivatedfor the tenth timeby the silken sheens of

his long beard. Frank had probably been more demonstrative, perhaps, ever more susceptible, than he should

have been; and hence the rumour, which had all too willingly been forwarded to Greshamsbury.

But young Gresham had also met another lady in London, namely Miss Dunstable. Mary would indeed have

been grateful to Miss Dunstable, could she have know all that lady did for her. Frank's love was never

allowed to flag. When he spoke of the difficulties in his way, she twitted him by being overcome by straws;

and told him that no one was ever worth having who was afraid of every lion he met in his path. When he

spoke of money, she bade him earn it; and always ended by offering to smooth for him any real difficulty

'No,' Frank used to say to himself, when these offers were made, 'I never intended to take her and her money

A day or two after Miss Oriel's visit, Mary received the following note from Beatrice.

'I shall be so happy to see you, and will come tomorrow at twelve. I have asked mamma, and she says that,

for once, she has no objection. You know it is not my fault that I have never been with you; don't you? Frank

comes home on the twelfth. Mr Oriel wants the wedding to be on the first of September; but that seems to be

so very, very soon; doesn't it? However, mamma and papa are all on his side. I won't write about this, though,

for we shall have such a delicious talk. Oh, Mary! I have been so unhappy without you. 'Ever your own

Though Mary was delighted at the idea of once more having her friend in her arms, there was, nevertheless,

something in the letter which oppressed her. She could not put up with the idea that Beatrice should have

permission given to come to herjust for once. She hardly wished to be seen by permission. Nevertheless,

she did not refuse the proffered visit, and the first sight of Beatrice's face, the first touch of the first embrace,

And then Beatrice fully enjoyed the delicious talk which she had promised herself. Mary let her have her

way, and for two hours all the delights and all the duties, all the comforts and all the responsibilities of a

parson's wife were discussed with almost equal ardour on both sides. The duties and responsibilities were not

exactly those which too often fall to the lot of the mistress of an English vicarage. Beatrice was not doomed

to make her husband comfortable, to educate her children, dress herself like a lady, and exercise

openhanded charity on an income of two hundred pounds a year. Her duties and responsibilities would have

to spread themselves over seven or eight times that amount of worldly burden. Living also close to

Greshamsbury, and not far from Courcy Castle, she would have the full advantage and all the privileges of

county society. In fact, it was all couleur de rose, and so she chatted deliciously with her friend.

But it was impossible that they should separate without something having been said as to Mary's own lot. It

would, perhaps, have been better that they should do so; but this was hardly within the compass of human

'And Mary, you know, I shall be able to see you as often as I like;you and Dr Thorne, too, when I have a

'You know how happy that will make me,' continued Beatrice. 'Of course mamma won't expect me to be led

by her then; if he likes it, there can be no objection; and he will like it, you may be sure of that.'

'You are very kind, Trichy,' said Mary; but she spoke in a tone very different from that she would have used

'I do not know, dearest; that must depend on circumstances. To see you, you yourself, your own dear, sweet,

'All that alone would be pleasant enough, Trichy. But what if there should be circumstances which should

still make us enemies; should make your friends and my friendsfriend, I should say, for I have only

'Pleasant! happy! yes, very pleasant; very happy. But, Mary, I am not at all in such a hurry as he is,' said

'And, suppose I should wish to be married to the man that I love?' Mary said this slowly and gravely, and as

Beatrice was somewhat astonished, and for the moment hardly understood. 'I am sure I hope you will some

'No, Trichy; no, you hope the other way. I love your brother; I love Frank Gresham; I love him quite as well,

'Do you?' said Beatrice, staring with all her eyes, and giving one long sigh, as this new subject for sorrow was

'It that so odd?' said Mary. 'You love Mr Oriel, though you have been intimate with him hardly more than two

years. Is it so odd that I should love your brother, whom I have known almost all my life?'

'But, Mary, I thought it was always understood between us thatthatI mean that you were not to care

about him; not in the way of loving him, you knowI thought you always said soI have always told

'Beatrice, do not tell anything to Lady Arabella as though it came from me; I do not want anything to be told

to her, either of me or from me. Say what you like to me yourself; whatever you say will not anger me.

Indeed, I know what you would sayand yet I love you. Oh, I love you, TrichyTrichy, I do love you so

There was such a mixture in Mary's manner of tenderness and almost ferocity, that poor Beatrice could hardly

follow her. 'Turn away from you, Mary! no never; but this does make me unhappy.'

'It is better that you should know it all, and then you will not be led into fighting my battles again. You cannot

fight them so that I should win; I do love your brother; love him truly, fondly, tenderly. I would wish to have

'Why not?' said she, in a loud voice. 'Why can I not marry him? If the priest says a blessing over us, shall we

'Moneymoney; and he is to sell himself for money? Oh, Trichy! do not you talk about money. It is

horrible. But, Trichy, I will grant itI cannot marry him; but still, I love him. He has a name, a place in the

world, and fortune, family, high blood, position, everything. He has all this, and I have nothing. Of course I

'It is not impossible: it is the castI am pledged to him; but he is not pledged to me.'

'But, Mary, don't look at me in that way. I do not quite understand you. What is the good of your being

'Good! there is no good. But can I help it, if I love him? Can I make myself not love him by just wishing it?

Oh, I would do it if I could. But now you will understand why I shake my head when you talk of coming to

Beatrice was startled, and, for a time, silenced. What Mary said of the difference of their ways was quite true.

Beatrice had dearly loved her friend, and had thought of her with affection through all this long period in

which they had been separated; but she had given her love and her thoughts on the understanding, as it were,

She had always spoken, with a grave face, of Frank and his love as of a great misfortune, even to Mary

herself; and her pity for Mary had been founded on the conviction of her innocence. Now all those ideas had

to be altered. Mary owned her fault, confessed herself to be guilty of all that Lady Arabella so frequently laid

to her charge, and confessed herself anxious to commit every crime as to which Beatrice had been ever so

Had Beatrice up to this dreamed that Mary was in love with Frank, she would doubtless have sympathized

with her more or less sooner or later. As it was, is was beyond all doubt that she would soon sympathize with

her. But, at the moment, the suddenness of the declaration seemed to harden her heart, and she forgot, as it

She was silent, therefore, and dismayed; and looked as though she thought that her ways and Mary's ways

Mary saw all that was passing in the other's mind: no, not all; all the hostility, the disappointment, the

disapproval, the unhappiness, she did see; but not the undercurrent of love, which was strong enough to well

'I am so glad to have told you,' said Mary, curbing herself, 'for deceit and hypocrisy are detestable.'

'Well, now we understand each other; now you know that I have a heart within me, which like those of some

others has not always been under my own control. Lady Arabella believes that I am intriguing to be the

mistress of Greshamsbury. You, at any rate, will not think that of me. If it could be discovered tomorrow

'If I have a fever, I will get rid of it if I can; in such a case I must do so, or die.'

'I fear,' continued Beatrice, 'you hardly know, perhaps do not think, what is Frank's real character. He is not

made to settle down early in life; even now, I believe he is attached to some lady in London, whom, of

Beatrice had said this in perfect trueness of heart. She had heard of Frank's new loveaffair, and believing

what she had heard, thought it best to tell the truth. But the information was not of a kind to quiet Mary's

'Oh, Mary, do not be so cold with me! you know how delighted I should be to have you for a sisterinlaw, if

'Yes, Trichy; but it is impossible, is it not? Impossible that Francis Gresham of Greshamsbury should

disgrace himself by marrying such a poor creature as I am. Of course I know it; of course, I am prepared for

unhappiness and misery. He can amuse himself as he likes with me or otherswith anybody. It is his

privilege. It is quite enough to say that he is not made for settling down. I know my own position;and yet I

'You ask homequestions, Beatrice. Let me ask you one; has he ever told you that he has done so?'

At this moment Beatrice was not disposed to repeat all that Frank had said. A year ago, before he went away,

he had told his sister a score of times that he meant to marry Mary Thorne if she would have him; but

Beatrice now looked on all that as idle, boyish vapouring. The pity was, that Mary should have looked on it

'We will each keep our secret,' said Mary. 'Only remember this: should Frank marry tomorrow, I shall have

no ground for blaming him. He is free as far I as am concerned. He can take the London lady if he likes. You

may tell him so from me. But, Trichy, what else I have told you, I have told you only.'

'Oh, yes!' said Beatrice, sadly; 'I shall say nothing of it to anybody. It is very sad, very, very; I was so happy

when I came here, and now I am so wretched.' This was the end of that delicious talk to which she had looked

'Don't be wretched about me, dearest; I shall get through it. I sometimes think I was born to be unhappy, and

that unhappiness agrees with me best. Kiss me now, Trichy, and don't be wretched any more. You owe it to

Beatrice, as she went out, saw Dr Thorne in his little shop on the righthand side of the passage deeply

engaged in some derogatory branch of an apothecary's mechanical trade; mixing a dose, perhaps, for a little

child. She would have passed him without speaking, if she could have been sure of doing so without notice,

for her heart was full, and her eyes were red with tears; but it was so long since she had been in his house that

she was more than ordinarily anxious not to appear uncourteous or unkind to him.

'Good morning, doctor,' she said, changing her countenance as best she might, and attempting a smile.

'Ah, my fairy!' said he, leaving his villainous compounds, and coming out to her; 'and you, too, are about to

'Indeed, I am not, doctor; I don't mean to be either steady or old, for the next ten years. But who has told you?

'Well, I will confess Mary was the traitor. But hadn't I a right to be told, seeing how often I have brought you

sugarplums in my pocket? But I wish you joy with all my heartwith all my heart. Oriel is an excellent,

'He thought that clergymen should not marry. But you have cured that, and now he's perfect.'

'Thank you, doctor. I declare that you say the prettiest things of all my friends.'

'And none of your friends wish prettier things for you. I do congratulate you, Beatrice, and hope you may be

happy with the man you have chosen;' and taking both her hands in his, he pressed them warmly, and bade

'Oh, doctor! I do so hope the time will come when we shall all be friends again.'

'I hope it as well, my dear. But let it come, or let it not come, my regard for you will be the same:' and then

Nothing was spoken of that evening between Dr Thorne and his niece excepting Beatrice's future happiness;

nothing, at least, having reference to what had passed that morning. But on the following morning,

At the usual breakfasthour the doctor entered the parlour with a harassed face. He had an open letter in his

hand, and it was at once clear to Mary that he was going to speak on some subject that vexed him.

'That unfortunate fellow is again in trouble. Here is a letter from Greyson.' Greyson was a London

apothecary, who had been appointed as medical attendant to Sir Louis Scatcherd, and whose real business

consisted in keeping a watch on the baronet, and reporting to Dr Thorne when anything was very much

amiss. 'Here is a letter from Greyson; he has been drunk for the last three days, and is now laid up in a

'I hardly know what to do. No, I think not. He talks of coming down here to Greshamsbury.'

'Yes, Sir Louis. Greyson says that he will be down as soon as he can get out of his room.'

They sat down to breakfast, and Mary gave him his tea in silence. 'I am going over to Boxall Hill before

'Message! no, I have no message; not especially: give her my love, of course,' she said listlessly. And then, as

though a thought had suddenly struck her, she spoke with more energy. 'But, couldn't I go to Boxall Hill

'What! to run away from Sir Louis? No, dearest, we will have no more running away. He will probably also

'No; we will have no more running away: I am sorry that you ever did so. It was my fault, altogether my fault;

'Uncle, I am not happy here.' As she said this, she put down the cup which she had held, and, leaning her

'And would you be happier at Boxall Hill? It is not the place that makes the happiness.'

'No, I know that; it is not the place. I do not look to be happy in any place; but I should be quieter, more

'I also sometimes think that it would be better for us to take up our staves and walk away from

Greshamsbury;leave it altogether, and settle elsewhere; miles, miles, miles away from here. Should you

Miles, miles, miles away from Greshamsbury! There was something in the sound that fell very cold on

Mary's ears, unhappy as she was. Greshamsbury had been so dear to her; in spite of all that had passed, was

still so dear to her! Was she prepared to take up her staff, as her uncle said, and walk forth from the place

with the full understanding that she was to return to it no more; with a mind resolved that there should be an

inseparable gulf between her and its inhabitants? Such she knew was the proposed nature of the walking

away of which her uncle spoke. So she sat there, resting on her arms, and gave no answer to the question that

'No, we will stay here a while yet,' said her uncle. 'It may come to that, but this is not the time. For one season

longer let us faceI will not say our enemies; I cannot call anybody my enemy who bears the name of

Gresham.' And then he went on for a moment with his breakfast. 'So Frank will be here on the twelfth?'

'Well, dearest, I have no questions to ask you; no directions to give. I know how good you are, and how

'I hope not. It is never out of the question, never can be out of the question. But, as I was saying, I am quite

satisfied your conduct will be good, and, therefore, I have no questions to ask. We will remain here; and,

She sat for a while again silent; collecting her courage on the subject that was nearest her heart. She would

have given the world that he should ask her questions; but she could not bid him to do so; and she found it

impossible to talk openly to him about Frank unless he did so. 'Will he come here?' at last she said, in a

'Ah! my darling, that I cannot tell; but will it be well that he should come here?'

'I do not know,' she said. 'No, I suppose not. But, uncle, I don't think he will come.'

She was now sitting on a sofa, away from the table, and he got up sat down beside her, and took her hands in

his. 'Mary,' said he, 'you must be strong now; strong to endure, not to attack. I think that you have that

'I will be strong,' said she, rising up and going towards the door. 'Never mind me, uncle; don't follow me; I

will be strong. It will be base, cowardly, mean to run away; very base in me to make you do so.'

'No,' said she, 'I will not run away from Lady Arabella. And, as for himif he loves this other one, he shall

hear no reproach from me. Uncle, I will be strong;' and running back to him, she threw her arms around him

and kissed him. And, still restraining her tears, she got safely to her bedroom. In what way she may there

During the last twelve months Sir Louis Scatcherd had been very efficacious in bringing trouble, turmoil, and

vexation upon Greshamsbury. Now that it was too late to take steps to save himself, Dr Thorne found that the

will left by Sir Roger was so made as to entail upon him duties that he would find it almost impossible to

perform. Sir Louis, though his father had wished to make him still a child in the eye of the law, was no child.

He knew his own rights and was determined to exact them; and before Sir Roger had been dead three months,

the doctor found himself in continual litigation with a low Barchester attorney, who was acting on behalf of

And if the doctor suffered so did the squire, and so did those who had hitherto had the management of the

squire's affairs. Dr Thorne soon perceived that he was to be driven into litigation, not only with Mr Finnie,

the Barchester attorney, but with the squire himself. While Finnie harassed him, he was compelled to harass

Mr Gresham. He was no lawyer himself; and though he had been able to manage very well between the

squire and Sir Roger, and had perhaps given himself some credit for his lawyerlike ability in so doing, he

He had, therefore, to employ a lawyer on his own account, and it seemed probable that the whole amount of

Sir Roger's legacy to himself would by degrees be expended in this manner. And then the squire's lawyers

had to take up the matter; and they did so greatly to the detriment of poor Mr Yates Umbleby, who was found

to have made a mess of the affairs entrusted to him. Mr Umbleby's accounts were incorrect; his mind was

anything but clear, and he confessed, when put to it by the very sharp gentleman that came down from

London, that he was 'bothered'; and so, after a while, he was suspended from his duties, and Mr Gazebee, the

sharp gentleman from London, reigned over the diminished rentroll of the Greshamsbury estate.

Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsburywith the one exception of Mr Oriel and his lovesuit.

Miss Gushing attributed the deposition of Mr Umbleby to the narrowness of the victory which Beatrice had

won in carrying off Mr Oriel. For Miss Gushing was a relation of the Umblebys, and had been for many years

one of their family. 'If she had only chosen to exert herself as Miss Gresham had done, she could have had

Mr Oriel, easily; oh, too easily! but she had despised such work,' so she said. 'But though she had despised it,

the Greshams had not been less irritated, and, therefore, Mr Umbleby had been driven out of his house.' We

can hardly believe this, as victory generally makes men generous. Miss Gushing, however, stated it as a fact

Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury, and the squire himself was especially a sufferer.

Umbleby had at any rate been his own man, and he could do what he liked with him. He could see him when

he liked, and where he liked, and now he liked; could scold him if in an illhumour, and laugh at him when

in a good humour. All this Mr Umbleby knew, and bore. But Mr Gazebee was a very different sort of

gentleman; he was the junior partner in the firm of Gumption, Gazebee Gazebee of Mount Street, a house that

never defiled itself with any other business than the agency business, and that in the very highest line. They

drew out leases, and managed property both for the Duke of Omnium and Lord De Courcy; and ever since

her marriage, it had been one of the objects dearest to Lady Arabella's heart that the Greshamsbury acres

should be superintended by the polite skill and polished legal ability of that all but elegant firm in Mount

The squire had long stood firm, and had delighted in having everything done under his own eye by poor Mr

Yates Umbleby. But now, alas! he could stand it no longer. He had put off the evil day as long as he could; he

had deferred the odious work of investigation till things had seemed resolved on investigating themselves;

and then, when it was absolutely necessary that Mr Umbleby should go, there was nothing for him left but to

It must not be supposed that Messrs Gumption, Gazebee and Gazebee were in the least like the ordinary run

of attorneys. They wrote no letters for sixandeightpence each: they collected no debts, filed no bills, made

no charge per folio for 'whereases' and 'as aforesaids'; they did no dirty work, and probably were as ignorant

of the interior of a court of law as any young lady living in their Mayfair vicinity. No; their business was to

manage the property of great people, draw up leases, make legal assignments, get the family marriage

settlements made, and look after wills. Occasionally, also, they had to raise money; but it was generally

The firm had been going on for a hundred and fifty years, and the designation had often been altered; but it

always consisted of Gumptions and Gazebees differently arranged, and no less hallowed names had ever been

permitted to appear. It had been Gazebee, Gazebee and Gumption; then Gazebee and Gumption; then

Gazebee, Gumption and Gumption; then Gumption, Gumption and Gazebee; and now it was Gumption,

Mr Gazebee, the junior member of this firm, was a very elegant young man. While looking at him riding in

Rotten Row, you would hardly have taken him for an attorney; and had he heard that you had so taken him,

he would have been very much surprised indeed. He was rather bald; not being, as people say, quite so young

as he was once. His exact age was thirtyeight. But he had a really remarkable pair of jetblack whiskers,

which fully made up for his deficiency as to his head; he had also dark eyes, and a beaked nose, what may be

called a distinguished mouth, and was always dressed in fashionable attire. The fact was, that Mr Mortimer

Gazebee, junior partner in the firm Gumption, Gazebee, and Gazebee, by no means considered himself to be

When this great firm was applied to get Mr Gresham through his difficulties, and when the state of his affairs

was made known to them, they at first expressed rather a disinclination for the work. But at last, moved

doubtless by their respect for the De Courcy interest, they assented; and Mr Gazebee, junior, went down to

Greshamsbury. The poor squire passed many a sad day after that before he again felt himself to be master

Nevertheless, when Mr Mortimer Gazebee visited Greshamsbury, which he did on more than one or two

occasions, he was always received en grand seigneur. To Lady Arabella he was by no means an unwelcome

guest, for she found herself able, for the first time in her life, to speak confidentially on her husband's

pecuniary affairs with the man who had the management of her husband's property. Mr Gazebee also was a

pet with Lady De Courcy; and being known to be a fashionable man in London, and quite a different sort of

person from poor Mr Umbleby, he was always received with smiles. He had a hundred little ways of making

himself agreeable, and Augusta declared to her cousin, the Lady Amelia, after having been acquainted with

him for a few months, that he would be a perfect gentleman, only, that his family had never been anything but

attorneys. The Lady Amelia smiled in her own peculiarly aristocratic way, shrugged her shoulders slightly,

and said, 'that Mr Mortimer Gazebee was a very good sort of person, very.' Poor Augusta felt herself

snubbed, thinking perhaps of the tailor's son; but as there was never any appeal against the Lady Amelia, she

All these evilsMr Mortimer Gazebee being the worst of themhad Sir Louis Scatcherd brought down on

the poor squire's head. There may be those who will say that the squire had brought them on himself, by

running into debt; and so, doubtless, he had; but it was not the less true that the baronet's interference was

unnecessary, vexatious, and one might almost say, malicious. His interest would have been quite safe in the

doctor's hands, and he had, in fact, no legal right to meddle; but neither the doctor nor the squire could

prevent him. Mr Finnie knew very well what he was about, if Sir Louis did not; and so the three went on,

each with his own lawyer, and each of them distrustful, unhappy, and ill at ease. This was hard upon the

There was not much reason to suppose that the visit of Sir Louis to Greshamsbury would much improve

matters. It must be presumed that he was not coming with any amicable views, but with the object rather of

looking after his own; a phrase which was now constantly in his mouth. He might probably find it necessary

while looking after his own at Greshamsbury, to say some very disagreeable things to the squire; and the

When last he saw Sir Louis, now nearly twelve months since, he was intent on making a proposal of marriage

to Miss Thorne. This intention he carried out about two days after Frank Gresham had done the same thing.

He had delayed doing so till he had succeeded in purchasing his friend Jenkins's Arab pony, imagining that

such a present could not but go far in weaning Mary's heart from her other lover. Poor Mary was put to the

trouble of refusing both the baronet and the pony, and a very bad time she had of it while doing so. Sir Louis

was a man easily angered, and not very easily pacified, and Mary had to endure a good deal of annoyance;

from any other person, indeed, she would have called it impertinence. Sir Louis, however, had to bear his

rejection as best he could, and, after a perseverance of three days, returned to London in disgust; and Mary

Mr Greyson's first letter was followed by a second; and the second was followed by the baronet in person. He

also required to be received en grand seigneur, perhaps more imperatively than Mr Mortimer Gazebee

himself. He came with four posters from the Barchester Station, and had himself rattled up to the doctor's

door in a way that took the breath away from all Greshamsbury. Why! the squire himself for a many long

year had been contented to come home with a pair of horses; and four were never seen in the place, except

when the De Courcys came to Greshamsbury, or Lady Arabella, with all her daughters returned from her

Sir Louis, however, came with four, and very arrogant looked, leaning back in the barouche belonging to the

George and Dragon, and wrapped up in fur, although it was now midsummer. And up in the dicky behind

was a servant, more arrogant, if possible, than his masterthe baronet's own man, who was the object of Dr

Thorne's special detestation and disgust. He was a little fellow, chosen originally on account of his light

weight on horseback; but if that may be considered a merit, it was the only one he had. His outdoor show

dress was a little tight frockcoat, round which a polished strap was always buckled tightly, a stiff white

choker, leather breeches, topboots, and a hat, with a cockade, stuck on one side of his head. His name was

Jonah, which his master and his master's friends shortened to Joe; none, however, but those who were very

This Joe was Dr Thorne's special aversion. In his anxiety to take every possible step to keep Sir Louis from

poisoning himself, he had at first attempted to enlist the baronet's 'own man' in the cause. Joe had promised

fairly, but had betrayed the doctor at once, and had become the worst instrument of his master's dissipation.

When, therefore, his hat and the cockade were seen, as the carriage dashed up to the door, the doctor's

Sir Louis was now twentythree years old, and was a great deal too knowing to allow himself to be kept

under the doctor's thumb. It had, indeed, become his plan to rebel against his guardian in almost everything.

He had at first been decently submissive, with the view of obtaining increased supplies of ready money; but

he had been sharp enough to perceive that, let his conduct be what it would, the doctor would keep him out of

debt; but that the doing so took so large a sum that he could not hope for any further advances. In this respect

Mary, when she saw the carriage, at once ran up to her own bedroom. The doctor, who had been with her in

the drawingroom, went down to meet his ward, but as soon as he saw the cockade he darted almost

involuntarily into his shop and shut the door. This protection, however, lasted only for a moment; he felt that

decency required him to meet his guest, and so he went forth and faced the enemy.

'I say,' said Joe, speaking to Janet, who stood curtsying at the gate, with Bridget, the other maid, behind her, 'I

say, are there any chaps about the place to take the thingseh? come, look sharp here.'

It so happened that the doctor's groom was not on the spot, and 'other chaps' the doctor had none.

'Take those things, Bridget,' he said, coming forward and offering his hand to the baronet. Sir Louis, when he

saw his host, roused himself slowly from the back of his carriage. 'How do, doctor?' said he. 'What terrible

bad roads you have here! and, upon my word, it's as cold as winter:' and, so saying, he slowly proceeded to

Sir Louis was a year older than when we last saw him, and, in his generation, a year wiser. He had then been

somewhat humble before the doctor; but now he was determined to let his guardian see that he knew how to

act the baronet; that he had acquired the manners of a great man; and that he was not to be put upon. He had

learnt some lessons from Jenkins in London, and other friends of the same sort, and he was about to profit by

The doctor showed him to his room, and then proceeded to ask after his health. 'Oh, I'm right enough,' said

Sir Louis. 'You mustn't believe all that fellow Greyson tells you: he wants me to take salts and senna,

opodeldoc, and all that sort of stuff; looks after his bill, you knoweh? like all the rest of you. But I won't

'I'm glad to see you are able to travel,' said Dr Thorne, who could not force himself to tell his guest that he

'Oh, travel; yes, I can travel well enough. But I wish you had some better sort of trap down in these country

parts. I'm shaken to bits. And, doctor, would you tell your people to send that fellow of mine up here with hot

So dismissed, the doctor went his way, and met Joe swaggering in one of the passages, while Janet and her

'Janet,' said he, 'go downstairs and get Sir Louis some hot water, and Joe, do you take hold of your master's

Joe sulkily did as he was bid. 'Seems to me,' said he, turning to the girl, and speaking before the doctor was

out of hearing, 'seems to me, my dear, you be rather shorthanded here; lots of work and nothing to get; that's

about the ticket, ain't it?' Bridget was too demurely modest to make any answer upon so short an

acquaintance; so, putting her end of the burden down at the strange gentleman's door, she retreated into the

Sir Louis in answer to the doctor's inquiries, had declared himself to be all right; but his appearance was

anything but all right. Twelve months since, a life of dissipation, or rather, perhaps, a life of drinking, had not

had upon him so strong an effect but that some of the salt of youth was still left; some of the freshness of

young years might still be seen in his face. But this was now all gone; his eyes were sunken and watery, his

cheeks were hollow and wan, his mouth was drawn and his lips dry; his back was even bent, and his legs

were unsteady under him, so that he had been forced to step down from his carriage as an old man would do.

Mary had secluded herself in her bedroom as soon as the carriage had driven up to the door, and there she

remained till dinnertime. But she could not shut herself up altogether. It would be necessary that she should

appear at dinner; and, therefore, a few minutes before the hour, she crept out into the drawingroom. As she

opened the door, she looked in timidly, expecting Sir Louis to be there; but when she saw that her uncle was

the only occupant of the room, her brow cleared, and she entered with a quick step.

Mary spoke of him as though he were some wild beast, whom her uncle insisted on having in his house.

'Goodness knows what he will do! Come up? Yes. He will not stay in the diningroom all night.'

The doctor was saved the trouble of answering by the entrance of the baronet. He was dressed in what he

considered the most fashionable style of the day. He had on a new dresscoat lined with satin, new

dresstrousers, a silk waistcoat covered with chains, a white cravat, polished pumps, and silk stockings, and

he carried a scented handkerchief in his hand; he had rings on his fingers, and carbuncle studs in his shirt, and

he smelt as sweet as patchouli could make him. But he could hardly do more than shuffle into the room, and

Mary, in spite of her aversion, was shocked and distressed when she saw him. He, however, seemed to think

himself perfect, and was no whit abashed by the unfavourable reception which twelve months since had been

paid to his suit. Mary came up and shook hands with him, and he received her with a compliment which no

doubt he thought must be acceptable. 'Upon my word, Miss Thorne, every place seems to agree with you; one

better than another. You were looking charming at Boxall Hill; but, upon my word, charming isn't half strong

Mary sat down quietly, and the doctor assumed a face of unutterable disgust. This was the creature for whom

all his sympathies had been demanded, all his best energies put in requisition; on whose behalf he was to

quarrel with his oldest friends, lose his peace and quietness of life, and exercise all the functions of a loving

friend! This was his selfinvited guest, whom he was bound to foster, and whom he could not turn from his

The dinner came, and Mary had to put her hand upon his arm. She certainly did not lean upon him, and once

or twice felt inclined to give him some support. They reached the diningroom, however, the doctor

'I say, doctor,' said the baronet, 'hadn't my man better come in and help? He's got nothing to do, you know.

'Oh, you'd better have Joe; there's nothing like a good servant at table. I say, Janet, just send that fellow in,

'We shall do very well without him,' said the doctor, becoming rather red about the cheekbones, and with a

slight gleam of determination about the eye. Janet, who saw how matters stood, made no attempt to obey the

'Oh, nonsense, doctor; you think he's an uppish sort of fellow, I know, and you don't like to trouble him; but

'Sir Louis,' said the doctor, 'I'm accustomed to none but my own old woman here in my own house, and if you

will allow me, I'll keep my old ways. I shall be sorry if you are not comfortable.' The baronet said nothing

When Mary had eaten her fruit and escaped, the doctor got into one armchair and the baronet into another,

The doctor loved his port wine, and thawed a little in his manner. He loved it not as a toper, but as a collector

loves his pet pictures. He liked to talk about it, and think about it; to praise it, and hear it praised; to look at it

turned towards the light, and to count over the years it had lain in his cellar.

'Yes,' said he, 'it's pretty fair wine. It was, at least, when I got it, twenty years ago, and I don't suppose time

has hurt it;' and he held the glass up to the window, and looked at the evening light through the rosy tint of

'A good thing won't last for ever. I'll tell you what now; I wish I had brought down a dozen or two of claret.

I've some prime stuff in London; got it from Muzzle and Drug, at ninetysix shillings; it was a great favour,

though. I'll tell you what now, I'll send up for a couple of dozen tomorrow. I mustn't drink you out of the

'I don't think I need trouble you,' said he; 'I never drink claret, at least not here; and there's enough of the old

Sir Louis drank two or three glasses of wine very quickly after each other, and they immediately began to tell

upon his weak stomach. But before he was tipsy, he became more impudent and more disagreeable.

'Doctor,' said he, 'when are we going to see any of this Greshamsbury money? That's what I want to know.'

'Interest yes; but how do I know how long it will be paid? I should like to see the principal. A hundred

thousand pounds, or something like it, is a precious large stake to have in one man's hands, and he is

preciously hard up himself. I'll tell you what, doctorI shall look the squire up myself.'

'Yes; look him up; ferret him out; tell him a bit of my mind. I'll thank you to pass the bottle. D me doctor;

'Your money is quite safe,' repeated the doctor, 'and, to my mind, could not be better invested.'

'Mean! why I mean that I'll sell the squire up; that's what I meanhallobeg pardon. I'm blessed if I haven't

broken the waterjug. That comes of having water on the table. Oh, d me, it's all over me.' And then,

getting up, to avoid the flood he himself had caused, he nearly fell into the doctor's arms.

The doctor rang the bell, and, on this occasion, did request that Joe might be sent for. Joe came in, and,

though he was much steadier than his master, looked as though he also had found some bin of which he had

'Sir Louis wishes to go to bed,' said the doctor; 'you had better give him your arm.'

'Oh, yes; in course I will,' said Joe, standing immoveable about halfway between the door and the table.

'I'll just take one more glass of the old porteh, doctor?' said Sir Louis, putting out his hand and clutching

It is very hard for any man to deny his guest in his own house, and the doctor, at the moment, did not know

how to do it; so Sir Louis got his wine, after pouring half of it over the table.

'So I will in course, if my master tells me; but, if you please, Dr Thorne' and Joe put his hand up to his hair

in a manner that a great deal more impudence than reverence in it'I just want to ax one question; where be

Now this was a question which the doctor was not prepared to answer on the spur of the moment, however

'Sleep,' said he, 'I don't know where you are to sleep, and don't care; ask Janet.'

'Hold your tongue, sirrah!' said Sir Louis. 'What the devil do you want of sleep?come here,' and then, with

his servant's help, he made his way up to his bedroom, and was no more heard of that night.

'Did he get tipsy,' asked Mary, almost in a whisper, when her uncle joined her in the drawingroom.

'Don't talk of it,' said he. 'Poor wretch! poor wretch! Let's have some tea now, Molly, and pray don't talk any

more about him tonight.' Then Mary did make the tea, and did not talk any more about Sir Louis that night.

What on earth were they to do with him? He had come there selfinvited; but his connexion with the doctor

was such, that it was impossible he should be told to go away, either he himself, or that servant of his. There

was no reason to disbelieve him when he declared that he had come down to ferret out the squire. Such was,

doubtless, his intention. He would ferret out the squire. Perhaps he might ferret out Lady Arabella also. Frank

But the matter took a very singular turn, and one quite unexpected on the doctor's part. On the morning

following the little dinner of which we have spoken, one of the Greshamsbury grooms rode up to the doctor's

door with two notes. One was addressed to the doctor in the squire's wellknown large handwriting, and the

other was for Sir Louis. Each contained an invitation do dinner for the following day; and that to the doctor

Do come and dine here tomorrow, and bring Sir Louis Scatcherd with you. If you're the man I take you to

be, you won't refuse me. Lady Arabella sends a note for Sir Louis. There will be nobody here but Oriel, and

'PSI make a positive request that you'll come, and I think you will hardly refuse me.'

The doctor read it twice before he could believe it, and then ordered Janet to take the other note up to Sir

Louis. As these invitations were rather in opposition to the then existing Greshamsbury tactics, the cause of

Mr Mortimer Gazebee was now at the house, and therefore, it must be presumed, that things were not allowed

to go on after their old fashion. Mr Gazebee was an acute as well as fashionable man; one who knew what he

was about, and who, moreover, had determined to give his very best efforts on behalf of the Greshamsbury

property. His energy, in this respect, will explain itself hereafter. It was not probable that the arrival in the

village of such a person as Sir Louis Scatcherd should escape attention. He had heard of it before dinner, and,

Her ladyship was not at first inclined to make much of Sir Louis, and expressed herself as but little inclined

to agree with Mr Gazebee when that gentleman suggested that he should be treated with civility at

Greshamsbury. But she was at last talked over. She found it pleasant enough to have more to do with the

secret management of the estate than Mr Gresham himself; and when Mr Gazebee proved to her, by sundry

nods and winks, and subtle allusions to her own infinite good sense, that it was necessary to catch this

obscene bird which had come to prey upon the estate, by throwing a little salt upon his tail, she also nodded

'Oh, we must have the doctor, too, Lady Arabella; by all means ask the doctor also.'

Lady Arabella's brow grew dark. 'Mr Gazebee,' she said, 'you can hardly believe how that man has behaved to

'I don't know: in one way he may be, but not in another. I really do not think I can sit down to table with

But, nevertheless, Mr Gazebee gained his point. It was now about a week since Sir Omicron Pie had been at

Greshamsbury, and the squire had, almost daily, spoken to his wife as to that learned man's advice. Lady

Arabella always answered in the same tone: 'You can hardly know, Mr Gresham, how that man has insulted

me.' But, nevertheless, the physician's advice had not been disbelieved: it tallied too well with her own

inward convictions. She was anxious enough to have Doctor Thorne back at her bedside, if she could only get

him there without damage to her pride. Her husband, she thought, might probably send the doctor there

without absolute permission from herself; in which case she would have been able to scold, and show that she

was offended; and, at the same time, profit by what had been done. But Mr Gresham never thought of taking

so violent a step as this, and, therefore, Dr Fillgrave still came, and her ladyship's finesse was wasted in vain.

But Mr Gazebee's proposition opened a door by which her point might be gained. 'Well,' said she, at last, with

infinite selfdenial, 'if you think it is for Mr Gresham's advantage, and if he chooses to ask Dr Thorne, I will

Mr Gazebee's next task was to discuss the matter with the squire. Nor was this easy, for Mr Gazebee was no

favourite with Mr Gresham. But the task was at last performed successfully. Mr Gresham was so glad at heart

to find himself able, once more, to ask his old friend to his own house; and, though it would have pleased him

better that this sign of relenting on his wife's part should have reached him by other means, he did not refuse

The doctor, as we have said, read it twice; and he at once resolved stoutly that he would not go.

'Oh, do, do, do go!' said Mary. She well knew how wretched this feud had made her uncle. 'Pray, pray go!'

'Indeed, I will not,' said he. 'There are some things a man should bear, and some he should not.'

'You must go,' said Mary, who had taken the note from her uncle's hand, and read it. 'You cannot refuse him

'I also am angry, uncle; very angry with Lady Arabella; but for him, for the squire, I would go to him on my

'Oh! now I shall be so wretched. It is his invitation, not hers: Mr Gresham could not ask me. As for her, do

not think of her; but do, do go when he asks you like that. You will make me so miserable if you do not. And

then Sir Louis cannot go without you,'and Mary pointed upstairs'and you may be sure that he will go.'

This colloquy was cut short by a message praying the doctor to go up to Sir Louis's room. The young man

was sitting in his dressinggown, drinking a cup of coffee at his toilettable, while Joe was preparing his

razor and hot water. The doctor's nose immediately told him that there was more in the coffeecup than had

'Just a little chassecafe,' said he, not exactly understanding the word he used. 'It's all the go now; and a

'It's not a capital thing for your stomach;about the least capital thing you can take; that is, if you wish to

'Never mind about that now, doctor, but look here. This is what we call the civil thingeh?' and he showed

the Greshamsbury note. 'Not but that they have an object, of course. I understand all that. Lots of girls

'Well; I shall go, of course. I don't bear malice because he can't pay me the money he owes me. I'll eat his

'Step downstairs a moment,' said the doctor, turning to the servant, 'and wait till you are called for. I wish to

speak to your master.' Joe, for a moment, looked up at the baronet's face, as though he wanted but the

slightest encouragement to disobey the doctor's orders; but not seeing it, he slowly retired, and placed

And then, the doctor began a long and very useless lecture. The first object of it was to induce his ward not to

get drunk at Greshamsbury; but having got so far, he went on, and did succeed in frightening his unhappy

guest. Sir Louis did not possess the iron nerves of his fathernerves which even brandy had not been able to

subdue. The doctor spoke, strongly, very strongly; spoke of quick, almost immediate death in case of further

excesses; spoke to him of the certainty there would be that he could not live to dispose of his own property if

he could not refrain. And thus he did frighten Sir Louis. The father he had never been able to frighten. But

there are men who, though they fear death hugely, fear present suffering more; who, indeed, will not bear a

moment of pain if there by any mode of escape. Sir Louis was such: he had no strength of nerve, no courage,

no ability to make a resolution and keep it. He promised the doctor that he would refrain; and, as he did so, he

swallowed down his cup of coffee and brandy, in which the two articles bore about equal proportions.

The doctor did, at last, make up his mind to go. Whichever way he determined, he found that he was not

contented with himself. He did not like to trust Sir Louis by himself, and he did not like to show that he was

angry. Still less did he like the idea of breaking bread in Lady Arabella's house till some amends had been

made to Mary. But his heart would not allow him to refuse the petition contained in the squire's postscript,

This visit of his ward's was, in every way, pernicious to the doctor. He could not go about his business,

fearing to leave such a man alone with Mary. On the afternoon of the second day, she escaped to the

parsonage for an hour or so, and then, walked away among the lanes, calling on some of her old friends

among the farmers' wives. But even then, the doctor was afraid to leave Sir Louis. What could such a man do,

left alone in a village like Greshamsbury? So he stayed at home, and the two together went over their

accounts. The baronet was particular about his accounts, and said a good deal as to having Finnie over to

The evening passed off better than the preceding one; at least the early part of it. Sir Louis did not get tipsy;

he came up to tea, and Mary, who did not feel so keenly on the subject as her uncle, almost wished that he

But after that new troubles came on. The doctor had gone downstairs into his study to make up some of the

time which he had lost, and had just seated himself at his desk, when Janet, without announcing herself, burst

into the room; and Bridget, dissolved in hysterical tears, with her apron to her eyes, appeared behind the

'Please, sir,' said Janet, driven by excitement much beyond her usual place of speaking, and becoming

unintentionally a little less respectful than usual, 'please sir, that 'ere young man must go out of this here

house; or else no respectable young 'ooman can't stop here; no, indeed, sir; and we be sorry to trouble you, Dr

'Man!' sobbed Bridget from behind. 'He an't no man, no nothing like a man. If Tummas had been here, he

wouldn't have dared; so he wouldn't.' Thomas was the groom, and, if all Greshamsbury reports were true, it

was probable, that on some happy, future day, Thomas and Bridget would become one flesh and one bone.

'Please sir,' continued Janet, 'there'll be bad work here if there 'ere young man doesn't quit this here house this

very night, and I'm sorry to trouble you, doctor; and so I am. But Tom, he be given to fight a'most for nothin'.

He's out now; but if that there young man be's here when Tom comes home, Tom will be punching his head; I

'He wouldn't stand by and see a poor girl put upon; no more he wouldn't,' said Bridget, through her tears.

After many futile inquiries, the doctor ascertained that Mr Jonah had expressed some admiration for Bridget's

youthful charms, and had, in the absence of Janet, thrown himself at the lady's feet in a manner which had not

been altogether pleasing to her. She had defended herself stoutly and loudly, and in the middle of the row

'Why, sir,' said Janet, 'the poor girl was so put about that she did give him one touch across the face with the

rollingpin, and he be all bloody now, in the back kitchen.' At hearing this achievement of hers thus spoken

of, Bridget sobbed more hysterically than ever; but the doctor, looking at her arm as she held her apron to her

face, thought in his heart that Joe must have had so much the worst of it, that there could be no possible need

And such turned out to be the case. The bridge of Joe's nose was broken; and the doctor had to set it for him

in a little bedroom at the village publichouse, Bridget having positively refused to go to bed in the same

'Quiet now, or I'll be serving thee the same way; thee see I've found the trick of it.' The doctor could not but

hear so much as he made into his own house by the back door, after finishing his surgical operation. Bridget

was recounting to her champion the fracas that had occurred; and he, as was so natural, was expressing his

The next day Joe did not make his appearance, and Sir Louis with many execrations, was driven to the

terrible necessity of dressing himself. Then came an unexpected difficulty: how were they to get up to the

house? Walking out to dinner, though it was merely through the village and up the avenue seemed to Sir

Louis to be a thing impossible. Indeed, he was not well able to walk at all, and positively declared that he

should never be able to make his way over the gravel in pumps. His mother would not have thought half as

much of walking from Boxall Hill to Greshamsbury and back again. At last, the one village fly was sent for,

When they reached the house, it was easy to see that there was some unwonted bustle. In the drawingroom

there was no one but Mr Mortimer Gazebee, who introduced himself to them both. Sir Louis, who knew that

he was only an attorney, did not take much notice of him, but the doctor entered into conversation.

'Mr Gresham, junior, I mean.' No, indeed; the doctor had not heard. Frank had returned unexpectedly, just

before dinner, and was now undergoing his father's smiles, his mother's embraces, and his sisters' questions.

'Quite unexpectedly,' said Mr Gazebee. 'I don't know what has brought him back before his time. I suppose he

'Deuced hot,' said the baronet. 'I found it so, at least. I don't know what keeps men in London when it's so hot;

Mr Mortimer Gazebee looked at him. He was managing an estate which owed Sir Louis an enormous sum of

money, and, therefore, he could not afford to despise the baronet; but he thought to himself, what a very

abject fellow the man would be if he were not a baronet, and had not a large fortune!

And the squire came in. His broad, honest face was covered with a smile when he saw the doctor.

'Thorne,' said he, almost in a whisper, 'you're the best fellow breathing; I have hardly deserved this.' The

doctor, as he took his old friend's hand, could not but be glad that he had followed Mary's counsel.

'Oh, yes; quite unexpectedly. He was to have stayed a week longer in London. You would hardly know him if

you met him. Sir Louis, I beg your pardon.' And the squire went up to his other guest, who had remained

somewhat sullenly standing in one corner of the room. He was the man of highest rank present, or to be

'I am happy to have the pleasure of making your acquaintance, Mr Gresham,' said the baronet, intending to be

very courteous. 'Though we have not met before, I very often see your name in my accountsha! ha! ha!'

The meeting between Lady Arabella and the doctor was rather distressing to the former; but she managed to

get over it. She shook hands with him graciously, and said that it was a fine day. The doctor said that it was

fine, only perhaps a little rainy. And then they went into different parts of the room.

When Frank came in, the doctor hardly did know him. His hair was darker than it had been, and so was his

complexion; but his chief disguise was in a long silken beard, which hung down over his cravat. The doctor

had hitherto not been much in favour of long beards, but he could not deny that Frank looked very well with

'Oh, doctor, I am so delighted to find you here,' said he, coming up to him; 'so very, very glad:' and, taking

the doctor's arm, he led him away into a window, where they were alone. 'And how is Mary?' said he, almost

in a whisper. 'Oh, I wish she were here! But, doctor, it shall all come in time. But tell me, doctor, there is no

The doctor said that he would. What else could he say? It appeared quite clear to him that some of Mary's

Frank was again very much altered. It has been said, that though he was a boy at twentyone, he was a man

at twentytwo. But now, at twentythree, he appeared to be almost a man of the world. His manners were

easy, his voice under his control, and words were at his command: he was no longer either shy or noisy; but,

perhaps, was open to the charge of seeming, at least, to be too conscious of his own merits. He was, indeed,

very handsome; tall, manly, and powerfully built, his form was such as women's eyes have ever loved to look

upon. 'Ah, if he would but marry money!' said Lady Arabella to herself, taken up by a mother's natural

admiration for her son. His sisters clung around him before dinner, all talking to him at once. How proud a

'You don't mean to tell me, Frank, that you are going to eat soup with that beard?' said the squire, when they

were seated round the table. He had not ceased to rally his son as to this patriarchal adornment; but,

nevertheless, any one could have seen, with half and eye, that he was as proud of it as were the others.

'Don't I, sir? All I require is a relay of napkins for every course;' and he went to work, covering it with every

'Oh, papa, you wouldn't have him cut it off,' said one of the twins. 'It is so handsome.'

'I should like to work it into a chairback instead of flosssilk,' said the other twin.

'Doesn't it look nice, and grand, and patriarchal?' said Beatrice, turning to her neighbour.

'Patriarchal, certainly,' said Mr Oriel. 'I should grow one myself if I had not the fear of the archbishop before

'Doctor, did you know Wildman of the Ninth. He was left as surgeon at Scutari for two years. Why, my beard

'Yes,' said Frank, resolutely set against laughing at Mr Gazebee's pun. 'Why, his beard descends to his ankles,

and he is obliged to tie it in a bag at night, because his feet get entangled in it when he is asleep!'

This was all very well for the squire, and Lady Arabella, and the girls. They were all delighted to praise

Frank, and talk about him. Neither did it come amiss to Mr Oriel and the doctor, who had both a personal

interest in the young hero. But Sir Louis did not like it at all. He was the only baronet in the room, and yet

nobody took any notice of him. He was seated in the post of honour, next to Lady Arabella; but even Lady

Arabella seemed to think more of her own son than of him. Seeing he was illused, he meditated revenge; but

Lady Arabella had not been in London at all this year, and it was a sore subject with her. 'No,' said she, very

'Ah, indeed! I am very sorry for that; that must be very distressing to a person like your ladyship. But things

Lady Arabella did not in the least understand him. 'Mending!' she said, in her peculiar tone of aristocratic

Sir Louis was not going to stand this. He was the first man in the room, and he knew his own importance. It

was not to be borne that Lady Arabella should turn to talk to a dirty attorney, and leave him, a baronet, to eat

his dinner without notice. If nothing else would move her, he would let her know who was the real owner of

'I think I saw your ladyship out today, taking a ride,' Lady Arabella had driven through the village in her

'In the onehorse carriage, I mean, my lady. I was delighted with the way you whipped him up round the

Whipped him up round the corner! Lady Arabella could make no answer to this; so she went on talking to Mr

Gazebee. Sir Louis, repulsed, but not vanquishedresolved not to be vanquished by any Lady Arabella

'I never take wine at dinner,' said Lady Arabella. The man was becoming intolerable to her, and she was

beginning to fear that it would be necessary for her to fly the room to get rid of him.

The baronet was again silent for a moment; but he was determined not to be put down.

'Yes; very nice,' said Mr Gazebee, endeavouring to relieve the lady of the mansion.

'I hardly know which I like best; this, or my own place at Boxall Hill. You have the advantage here in trees,

and those sort of things. But, as to the house, why, my box there is very comfortable, very. You'd hardly

know the place now, Lady Arabella, if you haven't seen it since my governor bought it. How much do you

think he spent about the house and grounds, pineries included, you know, and those sort of things.'

'Now guess, my lady,' said he. But it was not to be supposed that Lady Arabella should guess on such a

'What! for a house! You can't know much about money, nor yet about building, I think, Mr Gazebee.'

'Well, my lady, if you won't guess, I'll tell you. It cost twentytwo thousand four hundred and nineteen

pounds four shillings and eightpence. I've all the accounts exact. Now, that's a tidy lot of money for a house

Sir Louis spoke this in a loud tone, which at least commanded the attention of the table. Lady Arabella,

vanquished, bowed her head, and said that it was a large sum; Mr Gazebee went on sedulously eating his

dinner; the squire was struck momentarily dumb in the middle of a long chat with the doctor; even Mr Oriel

ceased to whisper; and the girls opened their eyes with astonishment. Before the end of his speech, Sir Louis's

'Yes, indeed,' said Frank; 'a very tidy lot of money. I'd have generously dropped the four and eightpence if I'd

'It wasn't on one bill; but that's the tot. I can show the bills;' and Sir Louis, well pleased with his triumph,

Almost immediately after the cloth was removed, Lady Arabella escaped, and the gentlemen clustered

together. Sir Louis found himself next to Mr Oriel, and began to make himself agreeable.

Now Mr Oriel was a modest man, and, when thus addressed as to his future wife, found it difficult to make

'You parsons always have your own luck,' said Sir Louis. 'You get all the beauty, and generally all the money,

Mr Oriel was dumbfounded. He had never said a word any creature as to Beatrice's dowry; and when Mr

Gresham had told him, with sorrow, that his daughter's portion must be small, he had at once passed away

from the subject as one that was hardly fit for conversation, even between him and his future fatherinlaw;

and now he was abruptly questioned on the subject by a man he had never seen before in his life. Of course,

'The squire has muddled his matters most uncommonly,' continued Sir Louis, filling his glass for the second

time before he passed the bottle. 'What do you suppose now he owes me alone; just at one lump, you know?'

Mr Oriel had nothing for it but to run. He could make no answer, nor would he sit there for tidings as to Mr

Gresham's embarrassments. So he fairly retreated, without having said one word to his neighbour, finding

'Oh, no; nothing particular. I'm not just quiteI think I will go out for a few minutes.'

'See what it is to be in love,' said the squire, halfwhispering to Dr Thorne. 'You're not in the same way, I

Sir Louis then shifted his seat again, and found himself next to Frank. Mr Gazebee was opposite to him, and

'Oh, yes,' said Frank, laughing. 'He's got what will buy him bread and cheese when the Rads shut up the

'Ah, there's nothing like land,'said Sir Louis: 'nothing like dirty acres; is there, squire?'

'The best going,' said the other, who was now, as people say when they mean to be goodnatured, slightly

Mr Gazebee gathered himself up, and turned away his head, looking out of the window.

'You lawyers never like to give an opinion without money, ha! ha! ha! Do they, Mr Gresham? You and I have

had to pay for plenty of them, and will have to pay plenty more before they let us alone.'

Here Mr Gazebee got up, and followed Mr Oriel out of the room. He was not, of course, on such intimate

terms in the house as was Mr Oriel; but he hoped to be forgiven by the ladies in consequence of the severity

of the miseries to which he was subjected. He and Mr Oriel were soon to be seen through the diningroom

window, walking about the grounds with the two eldest Miss Greshams. And Patience Oriel, who had also

been of the party, was also to be seen with the twins. Frank looked at his father with almost a malicious

smile, and began to think that he too might be better employed out among the walks. Did he think then of a

former summer evening, when he had half broken Mary's heart by walking there too lovingly with Patience

Sir Louis, if he continued his brilliant career of success, would soon be left the cock of the walk. The squire,

to be sure, could not bolt, nor could the doctor very well; but they might be equally vanquished, remaining

there in their chairs. Dr Thorne, during all this time, was sitting with tingling ears. Indeed, it may be said that

his whole body tingled. He was in a manner responsible for this horrible scene; but what could he do to stop

it? He could not take Sir Louis up bodily and carry him away. One idea did occur to him. The fly had been

'You're not going to leave me?' said the squire, in a voice of horror, as he saw the doctor rising from his chair.

'Oh, no, no, no,' said the doctor; and then he whispered the purpose of his mission. 'I will be back in two

minutes.' The doctor would have given twenty pounds to have closed the scene at once; but he was not the

'He's a wellmeaning fellow, the doctor,' said Sir Louis, when his guardian was out of the room, 'very; but

'Up to trapwell, I should say he was; that is, if I know what trap means,' said Frank.

'Ah, but that's just the ticket. Do you know? Now I say Dr Thorne's not a man of the world.'

'He's about the best man I know, or ever heard of,' said the squire. 'And if any man ever had a good friend,

you have got one in him; and so have I:' and the squire silently drank the doctor's health.

'If you don't mind, sir,' said Frank, 'I've got something very particularperhaps, however'

'Excuse me, doctor,' said he, 'but I've something very particular to say; I'll explain tomorrow.' And then the

Sir Louis was no becoming almost drunk, and was knocking his words together. The squire had already

attempted to stop the bottle; but the baronet had contrived to get hold of a modicum of Madeira, and there

'As we were saying about lawyers,' continued Sir Louis. 'Let's see, what were we saying? Why, squire, it's

just here. These fellows will fleece us both if we don't mind what we are after.'

'Ah, but I do mind; most particularly. That's all very well for you, doctor; you've nothing to lose. You've no

great stake in the matter. Why, now, what sum of money of mine do you think those d doctors are

'Lawyers, I mean, of course. Why, now, Gresham, we're all totted now, you see; you're down in my books, I

'Sir Louis Scatcherd,' said the squire, slowly rising from his chair, 'we will not, if you please, talk about

This latter proposition had certainly not come from the squire's heart: going to the ladies was the very last

thing for which Sir Louis was now fit. But the squire had said it as being the only recognised formal way he

'Oh, very well,' hiccupped the baronet, 'I'm always ready for the ladies,' and he stretched out his hand to the

'No,' said the doctor, rising stoutly, and speaking with a determined voice. 'No; you will have no more wine.'

'Of course he cannot go into the drawingroom, Mr Gresham. If you will leave him here with me, I will stay

with him, till the fly comes. Pray tell Lady Arabella from me how sorry I am that this has occurred.'

The squire took him by the hand affectionately. 'I've seen a tipsy man before tonight,' said he.

'Yes,' said the doctor, 'and so have I, but' He did not express the rest of his thoughts.

Long before the doctor returned home after the little dinnerparty above described, Mary had learnt that

Frank was already at Greshamsbury. She had heard nothing of him, not a word, nothing in the shape of a

message, for twelve months; and at her age twelve months is a long period. Would he come and see her in

spite of his mother? Would he send her any tidings of is return, or notice her in any way? If he did not, what

would she do? and if he did, what then would she do? It was so hard to resolve; so hard to be deserted; and so

hard to dare to wish that she might not be deserted! She continued to say to herself, that it would be better

that they should be strangers; and she could hardly keep herself from tears in the fear that they might be so.

What chance could there be that he should care for her, after an absence spent in travelling over the world?

No; she would forget that affair of his hand; and then, immediately after having so determined, she would

confess to herself that it was a thing not to be forgotten, and impossible of oblivion.

On her uncle's return, she would hear some word about him; and so she sat alone, with a book before her, of

which she could not read a line. She expected them about eleven, and was, therefore, rather surprised when

She immediately heard her uncle's voice, loud and angry, calling for Thomas. Both Thomas and Bridget were

unfortunately out, being, at this moment, forgetful of all sublunary cares, and seated in happiness under a

beechtree in the park. Janet flew to the little gate, and there found Sir Louis insisting that he would be taken

at once to his own mansion at Boxall Hill, and positively swearing that he would not longer submit to the

In the absence of Thomas, the doctor was forced to apply for assistance to the driver of the fly. Between them

the baronet was dragged out of the vehicle, the windows suffered much, and the doctor's hat also. In this way,

he was taken upstairs, and was at last put to bed, Janet assisting: nor did the doctor leave the room till his

guest was asleep. Then he went into the drawingroom to Mary. It may easily be conceived that he was

'What am I to do with him?' said he, almost in tears: 'what am I to do with him?'

'Yes; to kill himself there! But it is no matter; he will kill himself somewhere. Oh! what that family have

done for me!' And then, suddenly remembering a portion of their doings, he took Mary in his arms, and

kissed and blessed her; and declared that, in spite of all this, he was a happy man.

There was no word about Frank that night. The next morning the doctor found Sir Louis very weak, and

begging for stimulants. He was worse than weak; he was in such a state of wretched misery and mental

prostration; so low in heart, in such collapse of energy and spirit, that Dr Thorne thought it prudent to remove

'For God's sake do let me have a little chassecafe; I'm always used to it; ask Joe if I'm not! You don't want to

kill me, do you?' And the baronet cried piteously, like a child, and, when the doctor left him for the

breakfasttable, abjectly implored Janet to get him some curacoa which he knew was in one of his

The doctor did give him some wine; and then, having left strict orders as to his treatmentBridget and

Thomas being now both in the housewent forth to some of his too much neglected patients.

Then Mary was again alone, and her mind flew away to her lover. How should she be able to compose herself

when she should first see him? See him she must. People cannot live in the same village without meeting. If

she passed him at the churchdoor, as she often passed Lady Arabella, what should she do? Lady Arabella

always smiled a peculiar, little, bitter smile, and this, with half a nod of recognition, carried off the meeting.

Should she try the bitter smile, the halfnod with Frank? Alas! she knew it was not in her to be so much

As she thus thought, she stood in the drawingroom window, looking out into her garden; and, as she leant

against the sill, her head was surrounded by the sweet creepers. 'At any rate, he won't come here,' she said:

There he was, Frank Gresham himself standing there in her immediate presence, beautiful as Apollo. Her

next thought was how she might escape from out of his arms. How it happened that she had fallen into them,

'Mary! my own, own love! my own one! sweetest! dearest! best! Mary! dear Mary! have you not a word to

No; she had not a word, though her life depended on it. The exertion necessary for not crying was quite

enough for her. This, then, was the bitter smile and the halfnod that was to pass between them; this was the

manner in which estrangement was to grow into indifference; this was the mode of meeting by which she was

to prove that she was mistress of her conduct, if not her heart! There he held her close bound to his breast,

and she could only protect her face, and that all ineffectually, with her hands. 'He loves another,' Beatrice had

said. 'At any rate, he will not love me,' her own heart had said also. Here now was the answer.

'You know you cannot marry him,' Beatrice had said, also. Ah! if that really were so, was not this embrace

deplorable for them both? And yet how could she not be happy? She endeavoured to repel him; but with what

a weak endeavour! Her pride had been wounded to the core, not by Lady Arabella's scorn, but by the

conviction which had grown on her, that though she had given her own heart absolutely away, had parted

with it wholly and for ever, she had received nothing in return. The world, her world, would know that she

had loved, and loved in vain. But here now was the loved one at her feet; the first moment that his enforced

They all said that she could not marry him. Well, perhaps it might be so; nay, when she thought of it, must

not that edict too probably be true? But if so, it would not be his fault. He was true to her, and that satisfied

her pride. He had taken from her, by surprise, a confession of her love. She had often regretted her weakness

in allowing him to do so; but she could not regret it now. She could endure to suffer; nay, it would not be

'Not one word, Mary? Then after all my dreams, after all my patience, you do not love me at last?'

Oh, Frank! notwithstanding what has been said in thy praise, what a fool thou art! Was any word necessary

for thee? Had not her heart beat against thine? Had she not borne thy caresses? Had there been one touch of

anger when she warded off thy threatened kisses? Bridget, in the kitchen, when Jonah became amorous,

smashed his nose with the rollingpin. But when Thomas sinned, perhaps as deeply, she only talked of doing

so. Miss Thorne, in the drawingroom, had she needed selfprotection, could doubtless have found the

At last Mary succeeded in her efforts at enfranchisement, and she and Frank stood at some little distance from

each other. She could not but marvel at him. That long, soft beard, which just now had been so close to her

face, was all new; his whole look was altered; his mien, and gait, and very voice were not the same. Was this,

indeed, the very Frank who had chattered of his boyish love, two years since, in the gardens at

'Mr Gresham! Tell me, Marytell me at oncehas anything happened? I could not ask up there.'

'Frank,' she said, and then stopped; not being able at the moment to get any further.

'Speak to me honestly, Mary; honestly and bravely. I offered you my hand once before; there it is again. Will

She looked wistfully up in his eyes; and would fain have taken it. But though a girl may be honest in such a

He still held out his hand. 'Mary,' said he, 'if you can value it, it shall be yours through good fortune or ill

fortune. There may be difficulties; but if you can love me, we will get over them. I am a free man; free to do

as I please with myself, except so far as I am bound to you. There is my hand. Will you have it?' And then he,

too, looked into her eyes, and waited composedly, as though determined to have an answer.

She slowly raised her hand, and, as she did so, her eyes fell to the ground. It then drooped again, and was

again raised; and, at last, her light tapering fingers rested on his broad open palm.

They were soon clutched, and the whole hand brought absolutely within his grasp. 'There, now you are my

'Imprudent! I am sick of prudence. I hate prudence. And as for wrongno. I say it is not wrong; certainly not

He would not excuse her, or allow her to escape from saying it in so many words; and when the words did

come at last, they came freely. 'Yes, Frank, I do love you; if that were all you would have no cause for fear.'

'Ah; but your father, Frank, and my uncle. I can never bring myself to do anything that shall bring either of

Frank, of course, ran through all his arguments. He would go into a profession, or take a farm and live in it.

He would wait; that is, for a few months. 'A few months, Frank!' said Mary. 'Well, perhaps six.' 'Oh, Frank!'

But Frank would not be stopped. He would do anything that his father might ask him. Anything but the one

thing. He would not give up the wife he had chosen. It would not be reasonable, or proper, or righteous that

Mary had no arguments which she could bring from her heart to offer in opposition of all this. She could only

leave her hand in his, and feel that she was happier than she had been at any time since the day of the

'But, Mary,' continued he, becoming very grave and serious. 'We must be true to each other, and firm in this.

Nothing that any of them can say shall drive me from my purpose; will you say as much?'

Her hand was still in his, and so she stood, thinking for a moment before she answered him. But she could not

do less for him than he was willing to do for her. 'Yes,' said shesaid in a very low voice, and with a manner

perfectly quiet'I will be firm. Nothing that they can say shall shake me. But, Frank, it cannot be soon.'

Nothing further occurred in this interview which needs recording. Frank had been three times told by Mary

that he had better go before he did go; and, at last, she was obliged to take the matter into her own hands, and

'Who cares what they think? Let them think the truth: that's after a year's absence, I have much to say to you.'

Frank, although he had been so slow to move, had a thousand other things to do, and went about them at

once. He was very much in love, no doubt; but that did not interfere with his interest in other pursuits. In the

first place, he had to see Harry Baker, and Harry Baker's stud. Harry had been specially charged to look after

the black horse during Frank's absence, and the holiday doings of that valuable animal had to be inquired

into. Then the kennel of the hounds had to be visited, andas a matter of secondrate importancethe

master. This could not be done on the same day; but a plan for doing so must be concocted with Harryand

Frank, when he left his betrothed, went about these things quite as vehemently as though he were not in love

at all; quite as vehemently as though he had said nothing as to going into some profession which must

necessarily separate him from horses and dogs. But Mary sat there at her window, thinking of her love, and

thinking of nothing else. It was all in all to her now. She had pledged herself not to be shaken from her troth

by anything, by any person; and it would behove her to be true to this pledge. True to it, though all the

Greshams but one should oppose her with all their power; true to it, even though her own uncle should

And how could she have done any other than to pledge herself, invoked to it as she had been? How could she

do less for him than he was so anxious to do for her? They would talk to her of maiden delicacy, and tell her

that she had put a stain on that snowwhite coat of proof, in confessing her love for one whose friends were

unwilling to receive her. Let them so talk. Honour, honesty, and truth, outspoken truth, selfdenying truth,

and fealty from man to man, are worth more than maiden delicacy; more, at any rate, than the talk of it. It was

not for herself that this pledge had been made. She knew her position, and the difficulties of it; she knew also

the value of it. He had much to offer, much to give; she had nothing but herself. He had name, and old repute,

family, honour, and what eventually would at least be wealth to her. She was nameless, fameless, portionless.

He had come there with all his ardour, with the impulse of his character, and asked her for her love. It was

already his own. He had then demanded her troth, and she acknowledged that he had a right to demand it. She

But there let the bargain end. She would always remember, that though it was in her power to keep her

pledge, it might too probably not be in his power to keep his. That doctrine, laid down so imperatively by the

great authorities of Greshamsbury, that edict, which demanded that Frank should marry money, had come

home also to her with a certain force. It would be sad that the fame of Greshamsbury should perish, and that

the glory should depart from the old house. It might be, that Frank also should perceive that he must marry

money. It would be a pity that he had not seen it sooner; but she, at any rate, would not complain.

And so she stood, leaning on the open window, with her book unnoticed lying beside her. The sun had been

in the midsky when Frank had left her, but its rays were beginning to stream into the room from the west

before she moved from her position. Her first thought in the morning had been this: Would he come to see

her? Her last now was more soothing to her, less full of absolute fear: Would it be right that he should come

The first sounds she heard were the footsteps of her uncle, as he came up to the drawingroom, three steps at

a time. His step was always heavy; but when he was disturbed in spirit, it was slow; when merely fatigued in

'What a broiling day!' he said, and he threw himself into a chair. 'For mercy's sake, give me something to

drink.' Now the doctor was a great man for summerdrinks. In his house, lemonade, currantjuice,

orangemixtures, and raspberryvinegar were used by the quart. He frequently disapproved of these things

for his patients, as being apt to disarrange the digestion; but he consumed enough himself to throw a large

'She's getting better, because she has ten children to look after, and twins to suckle. What has he been doing?'

Mary's conscience struck her that she had not even asked. She had hardly remembered, during the whole day,

that the baronet was in the house. 'I do not think he has been doing much,' she said. 'Janet has been with him

'Upon my word, I don't know, uncle. I think not, for Janet has been with him. But, uncle'

Mary prepared the tumbler, and as she handed it to him, she said, 'Frank Gresham has been here today.'

The doctor swallowed his draught, and put down the glass before he made any reply, and even then he said

Dr Thorne had nothing more to say, so he got up and went to his patient in the next room.

'If he disapproves of it, why does he not say so?' said Mary to herself. 'Why does he not advise me?'

But it was not so easy to give advice while Sir Louis Scatcherd was lying there in that state.

Janet had been sedulous in her attentions to Sir Louis, and had not troubled her mistress; but she had not had

an easy time of it. Her orders had been, that either she or Thomas should remain in the room the whole day,

Immediately after breakfast, the baronet had inquired after his own servant. 'His confounded nose must be

'It was very bad, Sir Louis,' said the old woman, who imagined that it might be difficult to induce Jonah to

'A man in such a place as his has no business to be laid up,' said his master, with a whine. 'I'll see and get a

Thomas was sent to the inn three or four times, but in vain. The man was sitting up, well enough, in the

taproom; but the middle of his face was covered with streaks of plaster, and he could not bring himself to

Sir Louis began by ordering the woman to bring him chassecafe. She offered him coffee, as much as he

would; but no chasse. 'A glass of port wine,' she said, at twelve o'clock, and another at three had been ordered

'I don't care afor the orders,' said Sir Louis; 'send me my own man.' The man was again sent for; but would

not come. 'There's a bottle of that stuff that I take, in that portmanteau, in the lefthand cornerjust hand it

But Janet was not to be done. She would give him no stuff, except what the doctor had ordered, till the doctor

Sir Louis swore a good deal, and stormed as much as he could. He drank, however, his two glasses of wine,

and he got no more. Once or twice he essayed to get out of bed and dress; but, at every effort, he found that

he could not do it without Joe: and there he was, still under the clothes when the doctor returned.

'I'll tell you what it is,' said he, as soon as his guardian entered the room, 'I'm not going to be made a prisoner

'It seems very much like it at present. Your servant herethat old womantakes it upon her to say she'll do

'Right! I don't know what you call right; but I won't stand it. You are not going to make a child of me, Dr

And then there was a long quarrel, between them, and but an indifferent reconciliation. The baronet said that

he would go to Boxall Hill, and was vehement in his intention to do so because the doctor opposed it. He had

not, however, as yet ferreted out the squire, or given a bit of his mind to Mr Gazebee, and it behoved him to

do this before he took himself off to his own country mansion. He ended, therefore, by deciding to go on the

'Well enough!' said the other, with a sneer. 'There's nothing to make me ill that I know of. It certainly won't

On the next day, Sir Louis was in a different mood, and in one more distressing for the doctor to bear. His

compelled absence from intemperate drinking had, no doubt, been good for him; but his mind had so much

sunk under the pain of the privation, that his state was piteous to behold. He had cried for his servant, as a

child cries for its nurse, till at last the doctor, moved to pity, had himself gone out and brought the man in

from the publichouse. But when he did come, Joe was of but little service to his master, as he was altogether

prevented from bringing him either wine or spirits; and when he searched for the liqueurcase, he found that

'I believe you want me to die,' he said, as the doctor, sitting by his bedside, was tyring, for the hundredth

The doctor was not in the least irritated. It would have been as wise to be irritated by the want of reason in a

'I am doing what I can to save your life,' he said calmly; 'but as you said just now, I have no power over you.

As long as you are able to move and remain in my house, you certainly shall not have the means of

destroying yourself. You will be very wise to stay here for a week or ten days: a week or ten days of healthy

Sir Louis again declared that the doctor wished him to die, and spoke of sending for his attorney Finnie, to

'Send for him if you choose,' said the doctor. 'His coming will cost you three or four pounds, but can do no

It was certainly hard upon Dr Thorne that he should be obliged to entertain such a guest in the house;to

entertain him, and foster him, and care for him, almost as though he were a son. But he had no alternative; he

had accepted the charge from Sir Roger, and he must go through with it. His conscience, moreover, allowed

him no rest in the matter: it harassed him day and night, driving him on sometimes to great wretchedness. He

could not love this incubus that was on his shoulders; he could not do other than be very far from loving him.

Of what use or value was he to any one? What could the world make of him that would be good, or he of the

world? Was not an early death his certain fate? The earlier it might be, would it not be better? Were he to

linger on yet for two years longerand such a space of life was possible for himhow great would be the

mischief that he might do; nay, certainly would do! Farewell then to all hopes for Greshamsbury, as far as

Mary was concerned. Farewell then to that dear scheme which lay deep in the doctor's heart, that hope that he

might in his niece's name, give back to the son the lost property of his father. And might not one yearsix

months be as fatal. Frank, they all said, must marry money; and even hehe the doctor himself, much as he

despised the idea for money's sakeeven he could not but confess that Frank, as the heir to an old, but

grievously embarrassed property, had no right to marry, at his early age, a girl without a shilling. Mary, his

niece, his own child, would probably be the heiress of this immense wealth; but he could not tell this to

Frank; no, nor to Frank's father, while Sir Louis was yet alive. What, if by so doing he should achieve this

marriage for his niece, and that then Sir Louis should live to dispose of his own? How then would he face the

'I will never hanker after a dead man's shoes, neither for myself nor for another,' he had said to himself a

hundred times; and as often did he accuse himself of doing so. One path, however, was plainly open before

him. He would keep his peace as to the will; and would use such efforts as he might use for a son of his own

loins to preserve the life that was so valueless. His wishes, his hopes, his thoughts, he could not control; but

'I say, doctor, you don't really think that I'm going to die?' Sir Louis said, when Dr Thorne again visited him.

'I don't think at all; I am sure you will kill yourself if you continue to live as you have lately done.'

'But suppose I go all right for a while, and livelive just as you tell me, you know?'

'All of us are in God's hands, Sir Louis. By so doing you will, at any rate, give yourself the best chance.'

'Best chance? Why, dn, doctor! there are fellows have done ten times worse than I; and they are not going

'It's very hard on a fellow like me; I have nobody to say a kind word to me; no, not one.' And Sir Louis, in his

wretchedness, began to weep. 'Come, doctor; if you'll put me once more on my legs, I'll let you draw on the

The doctor went away to his dinner, and the baronet also had his in bed. He could not eat much, but he was

allowed two glasses of wine, and also a little brandy in his coffee. This somewhat invigorated him, and when

Dr Thorne again went to him, in the evening, he did not find him so utterly prostrated in spirit. He had,

indeed, made up his mind to a great resolve; and thus unfolded his final scheme for his own reformation:

The doctor had forgotten the particular annoyance to which Sir Louis alluded; and informed him that his

'Well, now, I'll tell you what: I've been thinking about it a great deal today; indeed, I have, and I want to do

what is right. Mightn't I have a little drop of that stuff, just in a cup of coffee?'

The doctor poured him out a cup of coffee, and put about a teaspoonful of brandy in it. Sir Louis took it with

a disconsolate face, not having been accustomed to such measures in the use of his favourite beverage.

'I do wish to do what is rightI do, indeed; only, you see, I'm lonely. As to those fellows up in London, I

Dr Thorne was of the same way of thinking, and he said so. He could not but feel some sympathy with the

unfortunate man as he thus spoke of his own lot. It was true that he had been thrown on the world without any

'My dear friend, I will do the best I can in every way; I will, indeed. I do believe that your companions in

town have been too ready to lead you astray. Drop them, and you may yet do well.'

'May I though, doctor? Well, I will drop them. There's Jenkins; he's the best of them; but even he is always

wanting to make money of me. Not but what I'm up to the best of them in that way.'

'You had better leave London, Sir Louis, and change your mode of life. Go to Boxall Hill for a while; for two

'Yes; that's what all country gentlemen do: take the land there into your own hand, and occupy your mind

Dr Thorne sat still and listened. He had no idea what the condition might be, but he was not prepared to

The doctor's brow grew black, and promised no help to the poor wretch. Bad in every way, wretched, selfish,

sensual, unfeeling, purseproud, ignorant as Sir Louis Scatcherd was still, there was left to him the power of

feeling something like sincere love. It may be presumed that he did love Mary Thorne, and that he was at the

time earnest in declaring that if she could be given to him, he would endeavour to live according to her

uncle's counsel. It was only a trifle he asked; but, alas! that trifle could not be vouchsafed.

'I should much approve of your getting married, but I do not know how I can help you.'

'It is quite impossible, Sir Louis; quite. You do my niece much honour; but I am able to answer for her,

'I will not hear a word on the subject: you are very welcome to the use of my house as long as it may suit you

to remain here; but I must insist that my niece shall not be troubled on this matter.'

This was too much for the doctor's patience. 'Sir Louis,' said he, 'I can forgive you much for your father's

sake. I can also forgive something on the score of your own illhealth. But you ought to know, you ought by

this time to have learnt, that there are some things which a man cannot forgive. I will not talk to you about

my niece; and remember this, also, I will not have her troubled by you:' and, so saying, the doctor left him.

On the next day the baronet was sufficiently recovered to be able to resume his braggadocio airs. He swore at

Janet; insisted on being served by his own man; demanded in a loud voice, but in vain, that his liqueurcase

should be restored to him; and desired that posthorses might be ready for him on the morrow. On that day

he got up and ate his dinner in his bedroom. On the next morning he countermanded the horses, informing the

doctor that he did so because he had little bit of business to transact with Squire Gresham before he left the

place! With some difficulty, the doctor made him understand that the squire would not see him on business;

and it was at last decided, that Mr Gazebee should be invited to call on him at the doctor's house; and this Mr

Gazebee agreed to do, in order to prevent the annoyance of having the baronet up at Greshamsbury.

On this day, the evening before Mr Gazebee's visit, Sir Louis condescended to come down to dinner. He

dined, however, teteatete with the doctor. Mary was not there, nor was anything said as to her absence. Sir

He bore himself arrogantly on that evening, having resumed the airs and wouldbe dignity which he thought

belonged to him as a man of rank and property. In his periods of low spirits, he was abject and humble

enough; abject and fearful of the lamentable destiny which at these moments he believed to be in store for

him. But it was one of the peculiar symptoms of his state, that as he partially recovered his bodily health, the

tone of his mind recovered itself also, and his fears for the time were relieved.

There was very little said between him and the doctor that evening. The doctor sat, guarding the wine, and

thinking when he should have his house to himself again. Sir Louis sat moody, every now and then uttering

some impertinence as to the Greshams and the Greshamsbury property, and, at an early hour, allowed Joe to

The horses were ordered on the next day for three, and, as two, Mr Gazebee came to the house. He had never

been there before, nor had he ever met Dr Thorne except at the squire's dinner. On this occasion he asked

'Ah! ah! I'm glad you're come, Mr Gazebee; very glad,' said Sir Louis; acting the part of the rich, great man

with all the power he had. 'I want to ask you a few questions so as to make it all clear sailing between us.'

'As you have asked to see me, I have come, Sir Louis,' said the other, putting on much dignity as he spoke.

'But would it not be better that any business there may be should be done among the lawyers?'

'The lawyers are very well, I dare say; but when a man has so large a stake at interest as I have in this

Greshamsbury property, why, you see, Mr Gazebee, he feels a little inclined to look after it himself. Now, do

Mr Gazebee, of course, did know very well; but he was not going to discuss the subject with Sir Louis, if he

'Whatever claim your father's estate may have on that of Mr Gresham is, as far as I understand, vested in Dr

Thorne's hands as trustee. I am inclined to believe that you have not yourself at present any claim on

Greshamsbury. The interest, as it becomes due, is paid to Dr Thorne; and if I may be allowed to make a

suggestion, I would say that it will not be expedient to make any change in that arrangement till the property

'I differ from you entirely, Mr Gazebee; in toto as we used to say at Eton. What you mean to say isI can't

go to law with Mr Gresham; I'm not so sure of that; but perhaps not. But I can compel Dr Thorne to look after

my interests. I can force him to foreclose. And to tell you the truth, Gazebee, unless some arrangement is

proposed to me which I shall think advantageous, I shall do so at once. There is near a hundred thousand

pounds owing to me; yes to me. Thorne is only a name in the matter. The money is my money; and, by , I

'Yes, I have. It isn't so easy to have a hundred thousand pounds secured. The squire is a poor man, and I don't

choose to allow a poor man to owe me such a sum as that. Besides, I mean to invest in land. I tell you fairly,

Mr Gazebee, using all the perspicuity which his professional education had left to him, tried to make Sir

'No power! Mr Gresham shall see whether I have no power. When a man has a hundred thousand pounds

owing to him he ought to have some power; and, as I take it, he has. But we will see. Perhaps you know

Mr Gazebee, with a good deal of scorn in his face, said that he had not that pleasure. Mr Finnie was not in his

'Well, you will know him then, and you'll find he's sharp enough; that is, unless, I have some offer made to

me that I may choose to accept.' Mr Gazebee declared that he was not instructed to make any offer, and so he

On that afternoon, Sir Louis went off to Boxall Hill, transferring the miserable task of superintending his

selfdestruction from the shoulders of the doctor to those of his mother. Of Lady Scatcherd, the baronet took

no account in his proposed sojourn in the country, nor did he take much of the doctor in leaving

Greshamsbury. He again wrapped himself in his furs, and, with tottering steps, climbed up into the barouche

'Is my man up behind?' he said to Janet, while the doctor was standing at the little front gardengate, making

'I shall come over to Boxall Hill and see you,' said the doctor, whose heart softened towards the man, in spite

'I shall be happy to see you if you like to come, of course; that is, in the way of visiting, and that sort of thing.

As for doctoring, if I want any I shall send for Fillgrave.' Such were his last words as the carriage, with a

The doctor, as he reentered the house, could not avoid smiling, for he thought of Dr Fillgrave's last patient at

Boxall Hill. 'It's a question to me,' said he to himself, 'whether Fillgrave will ever be induced to make another

visit to that house, even with the object of rescuing a baronet out of my hands.'

'He may be a poor fellow, uncle; but he's a very disagreeable inmate in a house. I have not had any dinner

'And I haven't had what can be called a cup of tea since he's been in the house. But I'll make up for that

There is a mode of novelwriting which used to be much in vogue, but which has now gone out of fashion. It

is, nevertheless, one which is very expressive when in good hands, and which enables the author to tell his

story, or some portion of his story, with more natural trust than any other, I mean that of familiar letters. I

trust I shall be excused if I attempt it as regards this one chapter; though, it may be, that I shall break down

and fall into the commonplace narrative, even before the one chapter be completed. The correspondents are

the Lady Amelia De Courcy and Miss Gresham. I, of course, give precedence to the higher rank, but the first

epistle originated with the latternamed young lady. Let me hope that they will explain themselves.

'I wish to consult you on a subject which, as you will perceive, is of a most momentous nature. You know

how much reliance I place in your judgement and knowledge of what is proper, and, therefore, I write to you

before speaking to any other living person on the subject: not even to mamma; for, although her judgement is

good too, she has so many cares and troubles, that it is natural that it should be a little warped when the

interests of her children are involved. Now that it is all over, I feel that it may possibly have been so in the

'You are aware that Mr Mortimer Gazebee is now staying here, and that he has been here for nearly two

months. He is engaged in managing poor papa's affairs, and mamma, who likes him very much, says that he

is a most excellent man of business. Of course, you know that he is a junior partner in the very old firm of

Gumption, Gazebee, and Gazebee, who, I understand, do not undertake any business at all, except what

'I soon perceived, dearest Amelia, that Mr Gazebee paid me more than ordinary attention, and I immediately

became very guarded in my manner. I certainly liked Mr Gazebee from the first. His manners are quite

excellent, his conduct to mamma is charming, and, as regards myself, I must say that there has been nothing

in his behaviour of which even you could complain. He has never attempted the slightest familiarity, and I

will do him the justice to say, that, though he has been very attentive, he has also been very respectful.

'I must confess that, for the last three weeks, I have thought that he meant something. I might, perhaps, have

done more to repel him; or I might have consulted you earlier as to the propriety of keeping altogether out of

his way. But you know, Amelia, how often these things lead to nothing, and though I thought all along that

Mr Gazebee was in earnest, I hardly liked to say anything about it even to you till I was quite certain. If you

had advised me, you know, to accept his offer, and if, after that, he had never made it, I should have felt so

'But now he has made it. He came to me yesterday just before dinner, in the little drawingroom, and told me,

in the most delicate manner, in words that even you could not have but approved, that his highest ambition

was to be thought worthy of my regard, and that he felt for me the warmest love, and the most profound

admiration, and the deepest respect. You may say, Amelia, that he is only an attorney, and I believe that he is

an attorney; but I am sure you would have esteemed him had you heard the very delicate way in which he

'Something had given me a presentiment of what he was going to do when I saw him come into the room, so

that I was on my guard. I tried very hard to show no emotion; but I suppose I was a little flurried, as I once

detected myself calling him Mr Mortimer: his name, you know, is Mortimer Gazebee. I ought not to have

done so, certainly; but it was not so bad as if I had called him Mortimer without the Mr, was it? I don't think

there could possibly be a prettier Christian name than Mortimer. Well, Amelia, I allowed him to express

himself without interruption. He once attempted to take my hand; but even this was done without any

assumption of familiarity; and when he saw that I would not permit it, he drew back, and fixed his eyes on the

'Of course, I had to give him an answer; and though I had expected that something of this sort would take

place, I had not made up my mind on the subject. I would not, certainly, under any circumstances, accept him

without consulting you. If I really disliked him, of course there would be no doubt; but I can't say, dearest

Amelia, that I do absolutely dislike him; and I really think that we would make each other very happy, if the

'I collected myself as well as I could, and I really do think that you would have said that I did not behave

badly, though the position was rather trying. I told him that, of course, I was flattered by his sentiments,

though much surprised at hearing them; that since I knew him, I had esteemed and valued him as an

acquaintance, but that, looking on him as a man of business, I had never expected anything more. I then

endeavoured to explain to him, that I was not perhaps privileged as some other girls might be, to indulge my

feelings altogether: perhaps that was saying too much, and might make him think that I was in love with him;

but, from the way I said it, I don't think he would, for I was very much guarded in my manner, and very

collected; and then I told him, that in any proposal of marriage that might be made to me, it would be my

'He said, of course; and asked whether he might speak to papa. I tried to make him understand, that in talking

of my family, I did not exactly mean papa, or even mamma. Of course I was thinking what was due to the

name of Gresham. I know very well what papa would say. He would give his consent in half a minute; he is

so brokenhearted by these debts. And, to tell you the truth, Amelia, I think mamma would too. He did not

seem quite to comprehend what I meant; but he did say that he knew it was a high ambition to marry into the

family of the Greshams. I am sure you would confess that he has the most proper feelings; and as for

'He owned that it was ambition to ally himself with a family above his own rank in life, and that he looked to

doing so as a means of advancing himself. Now this was at any rate honest. That was one of his motives, he

said; though, of course, not his first: and then he declared how truly he was attached to me. In answer to this,

I remarked that he had known me only a very short time. This, perhaps, was giving him too much

encouragement; but, at that moment, I hardly knew what to say, for I did not wish to hurt his feelings. He

then spoke of his income. He has fifteen hundred a year from the business, and that will be greatly increased

when his father leaves it; and his father is much older then Mr Gumption, though he is only a second partner.

Mortimer Gazebee will be the senior partner himself before very long; and perhaps that does alter his position

'He has a very nice place down somewhere in Surrey; I have mamma say it quite a gentleman's place. It is let

now; but he will live there when he is married. And he has property of his own besides which he can settle.

So, you see, he is quite as well off as Mr Oriel; better, indeed; and if a man is in a profession, I believe it is

considered that it does not matter much what. Of course, a clergyman can be a bishop; but then, I think I have

heard that one attorney did once become Lord Chancellor. I should have my carriage, you know; I remember

'I told him, at last, that I was so much taken by surprise that I could not give him an answer then. He was

going up to London, he said, on the next day, and might he be permitted to address me on the same subject

when he returned? I could not refuse him, you know; and so now I have taken the opportunity of his absence

to write to you for your advice. You understand the world so very well, and know exactly what one ought to

'I hope I have made it intelligible, at least, as to what I have written about. I have said nothing as to my own

feelings, because I wish you to think on the matter without consulting them. If it would be derogatory to

accept Mr Gazebee, I certainly would not do so because I happen to like him. If we were to act in that way,

what would the world come to, Amelia? Perhaps my ideas may be overstrained; if so, you will tell me.

'When Mr Oriel proposed to Beatrice, nobody seemed to make any objection. It all seemed to go as a matter

of course. She says that his family is excellent; but as far as I can learn, his grandfather was a general in

India, and came home very rich. Mr Gazebee's grandfather was a member of the firm, and so, I believe, was

his greatgrandfather. Don't you think this ought to count for something? Besides, they have no business

except with the most aristocratic persons, such as uncle De Courcy, and the Marquis of Kensington Gore, and

that sort. I mention the marquis because Mr Mortimer Gazebee is there now. And I know that one of the

Gumptions was once in Parliament; and I don't think that any of the Oriels ever were. The name of attorney is

certainly very bad, is it not, Amelia? but they certainly do not seem to be all the same, and I do think that this

ought to make a difference. To hear Mr Mortimer Gazebee talk of some attorney at Barchester, you would

say that there is quite as much difference between them as between a bishop and a curate. And so I think

'I don't wish at all to speak of my own feelings; but if he were not an attorney, he is, I think, the sort of man I

should like. He is very nice in every way, and if you were not told, I don't think you would know he was an

attorney. But, dear Amelia, I will be guided by you altogether. He is certainly much nicer than Mr Moffat,

and has a great deal more to say for himself. Of course, Mr Moffat having been in Parliament, and having

been taken up by uncle De Courcy, was in a different sphere; but I really felt almost relieved when he

'I shall wait so impatiently for your answer, so do pray write at once. I hear some people say that these sort of

things are not so much thought of now as they were once, and that all manner of marriages are considered to

be comme il faut. I do not want, you know, to make myself foolish by being too particular. Perhaps all these

changes are bad, and I rather think they are; but if the world changes, one must change too; one can't go

'So do write and tell me what you think. Do not suppose that I dislike the man, for I really cannot say that I

do. But I would not for anything make an alliance for which any one bearing the name of De Courcy would

'PSI fear Frank is going to be very foolish with Mary Thorne. You know it is absolutely important that

'It strikes me as quite possible that Mr Mortimer Gazebee may be in Parliament some of these days. He is just

Poor Augusta prayed very hard for her husband; but she prayed to a bosom that on this subject was as hard as

a flint, and she prayed in vain. Augusta Gresham was twentytwo, Lady Amelia was thirtyfour; was it likely

that Lady Amelia would permit Augusta to marry, the issue having thus been left in her hands? Why should

Augusta derogate from her position by marrying beneath herself, seeing that Lady Amelia had spent so many

more years in the world without having found it necessary to do so? Augusta's letter was written on two

sheets of notepaper, crossed all over; and Lady Amelia's answer was almost equally formidable.

'I received your letter yesterday morning, but I have put off answering it till this evening, as I have wished to

give it very mature consideration. The question is one which concerns, not only your own character, but

happiness for life, and nothing less than very mature consideration would justify me in giving a decided

'In the first place, I may tell you, that I have not a word to say against Mr Mortimer Gazebee.' (When Augusta

had read as far as this, her heart sank within her; the rest was all leather and prunella; she saw at once that the

fiat had gone against her, and that her wish to become Mrs Mortimer Gazebee was not to be indulged.) 'I have

known him for a long time, and I believe him to be a very respectable person, and I have no doubt a good

man of business. The firm of Messrs Gumption and Gazebee stands probably quite among the first attorneys

'All of these would be excellent arguments to use in favour of Mr Gazebee as a suitor, had his proposals been

made to any one in his own rank in life. But you, in considering the matter, should, I think, look on it in a

very different light. The very fact that you pronounce him to be so much superior to other attorneys, shows in

how very low esteem you hold the profession in general. It shows also, dear Augusta, how well aware you are

that they are a class of people among whom you should not seek a partner for life.

'My opinion is, that you should make Mr Gazebee understand very courteously, of coursethat you cannot

accept his hand. You observe that he himself confesses that in marrying you he would seek a wife in a rank

above his own. Is it not, therefore, clear, that in marrying him, you would descend to a rank below you own?

'I shall be very sorry if it grieves you; but still it will be better that you should bear the grief of overcoming a

temporary fancy, than take a step which may so probably make you unhappy; and which some of your friends

'It is not permitted to us, my dear Augusta, to think of ourselves in such matters. As you truly say, if we were

to act in this way, what would the world come to? It has been God's pleasure that we should be born with

high blood in our veins. This is a great boon which we both value, but the boon has its responsibilities as well

as its privileges. It is established by law, that the royal family shall not intermarry with subjects. In our case

there is no law, but the necessity is not the less felt; we should not intermarry with those who are probably of

a lower rank. Mr Mortimer Gazebee is, after all, only an attorney; and, although you speak of his

greatgrandfather, he is a man of no blood whatsoever. You must acknowledge that such an admixture

should be looked on by a De Courcy, or even a Gresham, as a pollution.' (Here Augusta got very red, and she

felt almost inclined to be angry with her cousin.) 'Beatrice's marriage with Mr Oriel is different; though,

remember, I am by no means defending that; it may be good or bad, and I have had no opportunity of

inquiring respecting Mr Oriel's family. Beatrice, moreover, has never appeared to me to feel what was due to

herself in such matters; but, as I said, her marriage with Mr Oriel is very different. Clergymenparticularly

the rectors and vicars of country parishesdo become privileged above other professional men. I could

'Your feelings on the subject altogether do you great credit. I have no doubt that Mr Gresham, if asked, would

accede to the match; but that is just the reason why he should not be asked. It would not be right that I should

say anything against your father to you; but it is impossible for any of us not to see that all through life he has

thrown away every advantage, and sacrificed his family. Why is he now in debt, as you say? Why is he not

holding the family seat in Parliament? Even though you are his daughter, you cannot but feel that you would

'As to dear aunt, I feel sure, that were she in good health, and left to exercise her own judgement, she would

not wish to see you married to the agent for the family estate. For, dear Augusta, that is the real truth. Mr

Gazebee often comes here in the way of business; and though papa always receives him as a gentlemanthat

is, he dines at table and all thathe is not on the same footing in the house as the ordinary guests and friends

of the family. How would you like to be received at Courcy Castle in the same way?

'You will say, perhaps, that you would still be papa's niece; so you would. But you know how strict in such

matters papa is, and you must remember, that the wife always follows the rank of the husband. Papa is

accustomed to the strict etiquette of a court, and I am sure that no consideration would induce him to receive

the estateagent in the light of a nephew. Indeed, were you to marry Mr Gazebee, the house to which he

'Even were Mr Gazebee in Parliamentand I do not see how it is probable that he should get thereit

would not make any difference. You must remember, dearest, that I never was an advocate for the Moffat

match. I acquiesced in it, because mamma did so. If I could have had my own way, I would adhere to all our

old prescriptive principles. Neither money nor position can atone to me for low birth. But the world, alas! is

retrograding; and, according to the newfangled doctrines of the day, a lady of blood is not disgraced by

allying herself to a man of wealth, and what may be called quasi aristocratic position. I wish it were

otherwise; but so it is. And, therefore, the match with Mr Moffat was not disgraceful, though it could not be

'But with Mr Gazebee the matter would be altogether different. He is a man earning his bread; honestly, I

dare say, but in a humble position. You say he is very respectable: I do not doubt it; and so is Mr Scraggs, the

'I dare say he may be nicer than Mr Moffat, in one way. That is, he may have more smalltalk at his

command, and be more clever in all those little pursuits and amusements which are valued by ordinary young

ladies. But my opinion is, that neither I nor you would be justified in sacrificing ourselves for such

amusements. We have high duties before us. It may be that the performance of those duties will prohibit us

from taking a part in the ordinary arena of the feminine world. It is natural that girls should wish to marry;

and, therefore, those who are weak, take the first that come. Those who have more judgement, make some

sort of selection. But the strongestminded are, perhaps, those who are able to forgo themselves and their

own fancies, and to refrain from any alliance that does not tend to the maintenance of high principles. Of

course, I speak of those who have blood in their veins. You and I need not dilate as to the conduct of others.

'I hope what I have said will convince you. Indeed, I know that it only requires that you and I should have a

little cousinly talk on this matter to be quite in accord. You must now remain at Greshamsbury till Mr

Gazebee shall return. Immediately that he does so, seek an interview with him; do not wait till he asks for it;

then tell him, that when he addressed you, the matter had taken you so much by surprise, that you were not at

the moment able to answer him, with that decision that the subject demanded. Tell him, that you are

flatteredin saying this, however, you must keep a collected countenance, and be very cold in your

mannerbut that family reasons would forbid you to avail yourself of his offer, even did no other cause

'And then, dear Augusta, come to us here. I know you will be a little downhearted after going through this

struggle; but I will endeavour to inspirit you. When we are both together, you will feel more sensibly the

value of that high position which you will preserve by rejecting Mr Gazebee, and will regret less acutely

'PS.I am greatly grieved about Frank; but I have long feared that he would do some very silly thing. I have

heard lately that Miss Mary Thorne is not even the legitimate niece of your Dr Thorne, but is the daughter of

some poor creature who was seduced by the doctor, in Barchester. I do not know how true this may be, but I

Poor Augusta! She was in truth to be pitied, for her efforts were made with the intention of doing right

according to her lights. For Mr Moffat she had never cared a straw; and when, therefore, she lost the piece of

gilding for which she had been instructed by her mother to sell herself, it was impossible to pity her. But Mr

Gazebee she would have loved with that sort of love which it was in her power to bestow. With him she

She had her written her letter with great care. When the offer was made to her, she could not bring herself to

throw Lady Amelia to the winds and marry the man, as it were, out of her own head. Lady Amelia had been

the tyrant of her life, and so she strove hard to obtain her tyrant's permission. She used all her little cunning in

showing that, after all, Mr Gazebee was not so very plebeian. All her little cunning was utterly worthless.

Lady Amelia's mind was too strong to be caught with such chaff. Augusta could not serve God and Mammon.

She must either be true to the god of her cousin's idolatry, and remain single, or serve the Mammon of her

When refolding her cousin's letter, after the first perusal, she did for a moment think of rebellion. Could she

not be happy at the nice place in Surrey, having, as she would have, a carriage, even though all the De

Courcys should drop her? It had been put to her that she would not like to be received at Courcy Castle with

the scant civility which would be considered due to a Mrs Mortimer Gazebee; but what if she could put up

without being received at Courcy Castle at all? Such ideas did float through her mind, dimly.

But her courage failed her. It is so hard to throw off a tyrant; so much easier to yield, when we have been in

the habit of yielding. This third letter, therefore, was written; and it is the end of the correspondence.

'I did not answer your letter before, because I thought it better to delay doing so till Mr Gazebee had been

here. He came the day before yesterday, and yesterday I did, as nearly as possible, what you advised.

Perhaps, on the whole, it will be better. As you say, rank has its responsibilities as well as its privileges.

'I don't quite understand what you mean about clergymen, but we can talk that over when we meet. Indeed, it

seems to me that if one is to be particular about familyand I am sure I think we oughtone ought to be so

without exception. If Mr Oriel be a parvenu, Beatrice's children won't be well born merely because their

father was a clergyman, even though he is a rector. Since my former letter, I have heard that Mr Gazebee's

greatgreatgreatgrandfather established the firm; and there are many people who were nobodies then who

'But I do not say this because I differ from you. I agree with you so fully, that I at once made up my mind to

'When I told him I could not accept him from family considerations, he asked me whether I had spoken to

papa. I told him, no; and that it would be no good, as I had made up my own mind. I don't think he quite

understood me; but it did not perhaps much matter. You told me to be very cold, and I think that perhaps he

thought me less gracious than before. Indeed, I fear that when he first spoke, I may seem to have given him

too much encouragement. However, it is all over now; quite over!' (As Augusta wrote this, she barely

managed to save the paper beneath her hand from being moistened with the tear which escaped from her eye.)

'I do not mind confessing now,' she continued, 'at any rate to you, that I did like Mr Gazebee a little. I think

his temper and disposition would have suited me. But I am quite satisfied that I have done right. He tried very

hard to make me change my mind. That is, he said a great many things as to whether I would not put off my

decision. But I was quite firm. I must say that he behaved very well, and that I really do think he liked me

honestly and truly; but, of course, I could not sacrifice family considerations on that account.

'Yes, rank has its responsibilities as well as its privileges. I will remember that. It is necessary to do so, as

otherwise one would be without consolation for what one has to suffer. For I find that one has to suffer,

Amelia. I know papa would have advised me to marry this man; and so, I dare say, mamma would, and

Frank, and Beatrice, if they knew that I liked him. It would not be so bad if we all thought alike about it; but

'But I will go over to you, and you will comfort me. I always feel stronger on this subject at Courcy than at

Greshamsbury. We will have a long talk about it, and then I shall be happy again. I purpose going on next

Friday, if that will suit you and dear aunt. I have told mamma that you all wanted me, and she made no

objection. Do write at once, dearest Amelia, for to hear from you now will be my only comfort.

'PS.I told mamma what you said about Mary Thorne, and she said, "Yes; I suppose all the world knows it

now; and if all the world did know it, it makes no difference to Frank." She seemed very angry; so you see it

Though, by so doing, we shall somewhat anticipate the end of our story, it may be desirable that the full tale

of Mr Gazebee's loves should be told here. When Mary is breaking her heart on her deathbed in the last

chapter, or otherwise accomplishing her destiny, we shall hardly find a fit opportunity of saying much about

For he did succeed at last in obtaining a bride in whose veins ran the noble De Courcy blood, in spite of the

high doctrine preached so eloquently by the Lady Amelia. As Augusta had truly said, he had failed to

understand her. He was led to think, by her manner of receiving his first proposaland justly so,

enoughthat she liked him, and would accept him; and he was therefore rather perplexed by his second

interview. He tried again and again, and begged permission to mention the matter to Mr Gresham; but

Augusta was very firm, and he at last retired in disgust. Augusta went to Courcy Castle, and received from

Four years afterwardslong after the fate of Mary Thorne had fallen, like a thunderbolt, on the inhabitants

of Greshamsbury; when Beatrice was preparing for her second baby, and each of the twins had her accepted

loverMr Mortimer Gazebee went down to Courcy Castle; of course, on a matter of business. No doubt he

dined at the table, and all that. We have the word of Lady Amelia, that the earl, with his usual goodnature,

But on this occasion, Mr Gazebee stayed a long time at the castle, and singular rumours as to the cause of his

prolonged visit became current in the little town. No female scion of the present family of Courcy had, as yet,

found a mate. We may imagine that eagles find it difficult to pair when they become scarce in their localities;

and we all know how hard it has sometimes been to get comme il faut husbands when there has been any

Some little difficulty had, doubtless, brought it about that the countess was still surrounded by her full bevy

of maidens. Rank has its responsibilities as well as its privileges, and these young ladies' responsibilities

seemed to have consisted in rejecting any suitor who may have hitherto kneeled to them. But now it was told

through Courcy, that one suitor had kneeled, and not in vain; from Courcy the rumour flew to Barchester, and

thence came down to Greshamsbury, startling the inhabitants, and making one poor heart throb with a

violence that would have been piteous had it been known. The suitor, so named, as Mr Mortimer Gazebee.

Yes; Mr Mortimer Gazebee had now awarded to him many other privileges than those of dining at the table,

and all that. He rode with the young ladies in the park, and they all talked to him very familiarly before

company; all except Lady Amelia. The countess even called him Mortimer, and treated him quite as one of

At last came a letter from the countess to her dear sister Arabella. It should be given at length, but that I fear

to introduce another epistle. It is such an easy mode of writing, and facility is always dangerous. In this letter

it was announced with much preliminary ambiguity, that Mortimer Gazebeewho had been found to be a

treasure in every way; quite a paragon of menwas about to be taken into the De Courcy bosom as a child

of that house. On that day fortnight, he was destined to lead to the altarthe Lady Amelia.

The countess then went on to say, that dear Amelia did not write herself, being so much engaged by her

coming dutiesthe responsibilities of which she doubtless fully realized, as well as the privileges; but she

had begged her mother to request that the twins should come and act as bridesmaids on the occasion. Dear

Augusta, she knew, was too much occupied in the coming event in Mr Oriel's family to be able to attend.

Mr Mortimer Gazebee was taken into the De Courcy family, and did lead the Lady Amelia to the altar; and

the Gresham twins did go there and act as bridesmaids. And, which is much more to say for human nature,

Augusta did forgive her cousin, and, after a certain interval, went on a visit to that nice place in Surrey which

she had hoped would be her own home. It would have been a very nice place, Augusta thought, had not Lady

We must presume that there was some explanation between them. If so, Augusta yielded to it, and confessed

it to be satisfactory. She had always yielded to her cousin, and loved her with that sort of love which is

begotten between fear and respect. Anything was better than quarrelling with her cousin Amelia.

And Mr Mortimer Gazebee did not altogether make a bad bargain. He never received a shilling of dowry, but

that he had not expected. Nor did he want it. His troubles arose from the overstrained economy of his noble

wife. She would have it, that as she had married a poor manMr Gazebee, however, was not a poor manit

behoved her to manage her house with great care. Such a match as that she had madethis she told in

But, on the whole, Mr Gazebee did not repent his bargain; when he asked his friends to dine, he could tell

them that Lady Amelia would be glad to see them; his marriage gave him some eclat at his club, and some

additional weight in the firm to which he belonged; he gets his share of the Courcy shooting, and is asked

about to Greshamsbury, and other Barsetshire houses, not only 'to dine at table and all that', but to take his

part in whatever delights country society there has to offer. He lives with the great hope that his noble

'Beatrice,' said Frank, rushing suddenly into his sister's room, 'I want you to do me one especial favour.' This

was three or four days after he had spoken to Mary Thorne. Since that time he had spoken to none of his

family on the subject; but he was only postponing from day to day the task of telling his father. He had now

completed his round of visits to the kennel, master huntsman, and stables of the county hunt, and was at

liberty to attend to his own affairs. So he had decided on speaking to the squire that very day; but he first

'I want you to do me one especial favour.' The day for Beatrice's marriage had now been fixed, and it was not

to be very distant. Mr Oriel had urged that their honeymoon trip would lose half its delights if they did not

take advantage of the fine weather; and Beatrice had nothing to allege in answer. The day had just been fixed,

and when Frank ran into her room with his special request, she was not in a humour to refuse him anything.

'Wish you to be there! You must be there, of course. Oh, Frank! what do you mean? I'll do anything you ask;

Frank was too much in earnest to joke. 'You must have Mary for one of your bridesmaids,' he said. 'Now,

mind; there may be some difficulty, but you must insist on it. I know what has been going on; but it is not to

be borne that she should be excluded on such a day as that. You that have been like sisters all your lives till a

'Now, Beatrice, don't have any buts; say that you will do it, and it will be done: I am sure Oriel will approve,

'And I went to Mary on purpose; and told her just as you tell me now, that she must come. I meant to make

mamma understand that I could not be happy unless it were so; but Mary positively refused.'

'I could not tell you what she said; indeed, it would not be right if I could; but she positively declined. She

seemed to feel, that after all that had happened, she never could come to Greshamsbury again.'

'But, Frank, those are her feelings; and, to tell the truth, I could not combat them. I know she is not happy; but

'What do you take me for? Of course, I have. The very first day I went to her. And now, Beatrice, you may

believe me or not, as you like; but if I ever marry, I shall marry Mary Thorne; and if she ever marries, I think

she may marry me. At any rate, I have her promise. And now, you cannot be surprised that I should wish her

to be at your wedding; or that I should declare, that if she is absent, I will be absent. I don't want any secrets,

and you may tell my mother if you like itand all the De Courcys too, for anything I care.'

Frank had ever been used to command his sisters: and they, especially Beatrice, had ever been used to obey.

On this occasion, she was well inclined to do so, if she only knew how. She again remembered how Mary had

once sworn to be at her wedding, to be near her, and to touch hereven though all the blood of the De

'I should be happy that she should be there; but what am I to do, Frank, if she refuses? I have asked her, and

'Go to her again; you need not have any scruples with her. Do not I tell you she will be your sister? Not come

here again to Greshamsbury! Why, I tell you that she will be living here while you are living there at the

Beatrice promised that she would go to Mary again, and that she would endeavour to talk her mother over if

Mary would consent to come. But she could not yet make herself believe that Mary Thorne would ever be

mistress of Greshamsbury. It was so indispensably necessary that Frank should marry money! Besides, what

were these horrid rumours which were now becoming rife as to Mary's birth; rumours more horrid than any

Augusta had said hardly more than the truth when she spoke of her father being brokenhearted by his debts.

His troubles were becoming almost too many for him; and Mr Gazebee, though no doubt he was an excellent

man of business, did not seem to lessen them. Mr Gazebee, indeed, was continually pointing out how much

he owed, and in what a quagmire of difficulties he had entangled himself. Now, to do Mr Umbleby justice, he

Mr Gazebee had been doubtless right, when he declared that Sir Louis Scatcherd had not himself the power to

take any steps hostile to the squire; but Sir Louis had also been right, when he boasted that, in spite of his

father's will, he could cause others to move in the matter. Others did move, and were moving, and it began to

be understood that a moiety, at least, of the remaining Greshamsbury property must be sold. Even this,

however, would by no means leave the squire in undisturbed possession of the other moiety. And thus, Mr

Frank had now been at home a week, and his father had not as yet spoken to him about the family troubles;

nor had a word as yet been said between them as to Mary Thorne. It had been agreed that Frank should go

away for twelve months, in order that he might forget her. He had been away the twelvemonth, and had now

It generally happens, that in every household, one subject of importance occupies it at a time. The subject of

importance now mostly thought of in the Greshamsbury household, was the marriage of Beatrice. Lady

Arabella had to supply the trousseau for her daughter; the squire had to supply the money for the trousseau;

Mr Gazebee had the task of obtaining the money for the squire. While this was going on, Mr Gresham was

not anxious to talk to his son, either about his own debts or his son's love. There would be time for these

So thought the father, but the matter was precipitated by Frank. He also had put off the declaration which he

had to make, partly from a wish to spare the squire, but partly also with a view to spare himself. We have all

some of that cowardice which induces us to postpone an inevitably evil day. At this time the discussions as to

Beatrice's wedding were frequent in the house, and at one of them Frank had heard his mother repeat the

names of the proposed bridesmaids. Mary's name was not among them, and hence had arisen the attack on his

Lady Arabella had had her reason for naming the list before her son; but she overshot her mark. She wished

to show him how Mary was forgotten at Greshamsbury; but she only inspired him with a resolve that she

should not be forgotten. He accordingly went to his sister; and then, the subject being full on his mind, he

'Sir, are you at leisure for five minutes?' he said, entering the room in which the squire was accustomed to sit

majestically, to receive his tenants, scold his dependants, and in which, in former happy days, he had always

Mr Gresham was quite at leisure: when was he not so? But had he been immersed in the deepest business of

'I don't like to have any secret from you, sir,' said Frank; 'nor, for the matter of that, from anybody else'the

anybody else was intended to have reference to his mother'and, therefore, I would rather tell you at once

Frank's address was very abrupt, and he felt it was so. He was rather red in the face, and his manner was

fluttered. He had quite made up his mind to break the whole affair to his father; but he had hardly made up

'Good heavens, Frank! what do you mean? you are not going to do anything rash? What is it you mean,

'Nothing immediately, sir,' said he, rather abashed; 'but as I have made up my mind about Mary Thorne'

And then Frank, in voluble language, which he hardly, however, had quite under his command, told his father

all that had passed between him and Mary. 'You see, sir,' said he, 'that it is fixed now, and cannot be altered.

Nor must it be altered. You asked me to go away for twelve months, and I have done so. It has made no

difference, you see. As to our means of living, I am quite willing to do anything that may be best and most

prudent. I was thinking, sir, of taking a farm somewhere near here, and living on that.'

The squire sat quite silent for some moments after this communication had been made to him. Frank's

conduct, as a son, in this special matter of his love, how was it possible for him to find fault? He himself was

almost as fond of Mary as of a daughter; and, though he too would have been desirous that his son should

receive the estate from its embarrassment by a rich marriage, he did not at all share Lady Arabella's feelings

on the subject. No Countess de Courcy had ever engraved it on the tablets of his mind that the world would

come to ruin if Frank did not marry money. Ruin there was, and would be, but it had been brought about by

'Yes, sir; everything. She told me all she knew; and Dr Thorne finished the story.'

'It is a pity and a misfortune. It might, perhaps, have been a reason why you or my mother should not have

Frank had not meant to lean so heavily on his father; but he did so. The story had never been told to Lady

Arabella; was not even known to her now, positively, and on good authority. But Mr Gresham had always

known it. If Mary's birth was so great a stain upon her, why had he brought her into his house among his

'It is a misfortune, Frank; a very great misfortune. It will not do for you and me to ignore birth; too much of

'But what was Mr Moffat's birth?' said Frank, almost with scorn; 'or what Miss Dunstable's?' he would have

added, had it not been that his father had not been concerned in that sin of wedding him to the oil of Lebanon.

'True, Frank. But yet, what you would mean to say is not true. We must take the world as we find it. Were

'Don't call her poor Mary, father; she is not poor. My wife will have a right to take rank in the world, however

'Well,poor in that way. But were she an heiress, the world would forgive her birth on account of her

'You must take it as you find it, Frank. I only say that such is the fact. If Porlock were to marry the daughter

of a shoeblack, without a farthing, he would make a mesalliance; but if the daughter of the shoeblack had half

a million of money, nobody would dream of saying so. I am stating no opinion of my own: I am only giving

'That is a mistake, my boy; you do care for it, and would be very foolish if you did not. What you mean is,

that, on this particular point, you value your love more than the world's opinion.'

But the squire, though he had been very lucid in his definition, had not got nearer to his object; had not even

yet ascertained what his own object was. This marriage would be ruinous to Greshamsbury; and yet, what

was he to say against it, seeing that the ruin had been his fault, and not his son's?

'You could let me have a farm; could you not, sir? I was thinking of about six or seven hundred acres. I

'Yes, sir. I must do something for my living. I should make less of a mess of that than anything else. Besides,

it would take such a time to be an attorney, or a doctor, or anything of that sort.'

Do something for his living! And was the heir of Greshamsbury come to thisthe heir and his only son?

Whereas, he, the squire, had succeeded at an earlier age than Frank's to an unembarrassed income of fourteen

'Yes: I dare say you could have a farm:' and then he threw himself back in his chair, closing his eyes. Then,

after a while, rose again, and walked hurriedly about the room. 'Frank,' he said, at last, standing opposite to

'Yes; what do you think of me, for having thus ruined you. I wonder whether you hate me?'

Frank, jumping up from his chair, threw his arms round his father's neck. 'Hate you, sir? How can you speak

so cruelly? You know well that I love you. And, father, do not trouble yourself about the estate for my sake. I

do not care for it; I can be just as happy without it. Let the girls have what is left, and I will make my own

way in the world, somehow. I will go to Australia; yes, sir, that will be the best. I and Mary will both go.

Nobody will care about her birth there. But, father, never say, never think, that I do not love you!'

The squire was too much moved to speak at once, so he sat down again and covered his face with his hands.

Frank went on pacing the room, till, gradually, his first idea recovered possession of his mind, and the

remembrance of his father's grief faded away. 'May I tell Mary,' he said at last, 'that you consent to our

But the squire was not prepared to say this. He was pledged to his wife to do all that he could to oppose it;

and he himself thought, that if anything could consummate the family ruin, it would be this marriage.

'I cannot say that, Frank; I cannot say that. What would you both live on? It would be madness.'

'Oh, no, my boy; you cannot do that. You must not throw up the old place altogether. There is no other one

'But for this scheme of yours, we might do. I will give up everything to you, the management of the estate,

the park, all the land we have in hand, if you will give up this fatal scheme. For, Frank, it is fatal. You are

Frank was again severe on his father, unwittingly. 'Yes, I did,' said Mr Gresham; 'and see what has come of

it! Had I waited ten years longer, how different would everything have been! No, Frank, I cannot consent to

'It is your consent that I ask, sir; and I am asking for nothing but your consent.'

'It would be sheer madness; madness for you both. My own Frank, my dear boy, do not drive me to

'Yes; for four years. I ask it as a personal favour; as an obligation to myself, in order that we may be saved

from ruin; you, your mother, and sisters, your family name, and the old house. I do not talk about myself; but

Frank found it very hard to resist his father, who now had hold of his hand and arm, and was thus half

retaining him, and half embracing him. 'Frank, say that you will forget this for four yearssay for three

But Frank would not say so. To postpone his marriage for four years, or for three, seemed to him to be

tantamount to giving up Mary altogether; and he would not acknowledge that any one had the right to

'But I will see her, Frank;and her uncle. She was always reasonable. I am sure she will not wish to bring

'Her old friends at Greshamsbury have done but little lately to deserve her consideration. She has been treated

shamefully. I know it has not been by you, sir; but I must say so. She has already been treated shamefully; but

'Well, Frank, I can say no more to you. I have destroyed the estate which should have been yours, and I have

Frank was greatly distressed. He had not any feeling of animosity against his father with reference to the

property, and would have done anything to make the squire understand this, short of giving up his

engagement to Mary. His feeling rather was, that, as each had a case against the other, they should cry quits;

that he should forgive his father for his bad management, on condition that he himself was to be forgiven

with regard to his determined marriage. Not that he put it exactly in that shape, even to himself; but could he

have unravelled his own thoughts, he would have found that such was the web on which they were based.

'Father, I do regard what you say; but you would not have me be false. Had you doubled the property instead

'Do not feel it any more, sir; say what you wish, as you would have said it under any other circumstances; and

pray believe this, the idea never occurs to me, that I have ground for complaint as regards the property; never.

Soon after this Frank left him. What more was there that could be said between them? They could not be of

one accord; but even yet it might not be necessary that they should quarrel. He went out, and roamed by

If he did marry, how was he to live? He talked of a profession; but had he meant to do as others do, who

make their way in professions, he should have thought of that a year or two ago!or, rather, have done more

than think of it. He spoke also of a farm, but even that could not be had in a moment; nor, if it could, would it

produce a living. Where was his capital? Where was his skill? and he might have asked also, where the

industry so necessary for such a trade? He might have set his father at defiance, and if Mary were equally

As he walked slowly about, cutting off the daisies with his stick, he met Mr Oriel, going up to the house, as

'How I envy you, Oriel!' he said. 'What would I not give to have such a position in the world as yours!'

'Thou shalt not covet a man's house, nor his wife,' said Mr Oriel; 'perhaps it ought to have been added, nor his

'It wouldn't have made much difference. When a man is tempted, the Commandments, I believe, do not go for

'Do they not, Frank? That's a dangerous doctrine; and one which, if you had my position, you would hardly

admit. But what makes you so much out of sorts? Your own position is generally considered about the best

'Is it? Then let me tell you that the world has very little to give. What can I do? Where can I turn? Oriel, if

there be an empty, lying humbug in the world, it is the theory of high birth and pure blood which some of us

endeavour to maintain. Blood, indeed! If my father had been a baker, I should know by this time where to

look for my livelihood. As it is, I am told of nothing but my blood. Will my blood ever get me half a crown?'

And then the young democrat walked on again in solitude, leaving Mr Oriel in doubt as to the exact line of

Dr Fillgrave still continued his visits to Greshamsbury, for Lady Arabella had not yet mustered the courage

necessary for swallowing her pride and sending once more for Dr Thorne. Nothing pleased Dr Fillgrave more

He habitually attended grander families, and richer people; but then, he had attended them habitually.

Greshamsbury was a prize taken from the enemy; it was his rock of Gibraltar, of which he thought much

more than of any ordinary Hampshire or Wiltshire which had always been within his own kingdom.

He was just starting one morning with his posthorses for Greshamsbury, when an impudentlooking groom,

with a crooked nose, trotted up to his door. For Joe still had a crooked nose, all the doctor's care having been

inefficacious to remedy the evil effects of Bridget's little tap with the rollingpin. Joe had no written

credentials, for his master was hardly equal to writing, and Lady Scatcherd had declined to put herself to

further personal communication with Dr Fillgrave; but he had effrontery enough to deliver any message.

'Yes,' said Dr Fillgrave, with one foot on the step of the carriage, but pausing at the sight of the

'Yes; Boxall Hill: my master's placemy master is Sir Louis Scatcherd, baronet. You've heard of him, I

Dr Fillgrave had not his mind quite ready for such an occasion. So he withdrew his foot from the carriage

step, and rubbing his hands one over another, looked at his own hall door for inspiration. A single glance at

his face was sufficient to show that no ordinary thoughts were being turned over within his breast.

'Well!' said Joe, thinking that his master's name had not altogether produced the magic effect which he had

expected; remembering, also, now submissive Greyson had always been, who, being a London doctor, must

be supposed to be a bigger man than this provincial fellow. 'Do you know my master is dying, very like,

'What is your master's disease?' said the doctor, facing Joe, slowly, and still rubbing his hands. 'What ails

'Oh; the matter with him? Well, to say it out at once then, he do take a drop too much at times, and then he

has the horrorswhat is it they call it? Delicious beamends, or something of that sort.'

'Greyson!' and the doctor looked as though a name so medicinally humble had never struck the tympanum of

'Yes; Greyson. And then, down at what's a the man of the place, there was Thorne.'

'Yes; Greshamsbury. But he and Thorne didn't hit it off; and so since that he has had no one but myself.'

'I will be at Boxall Hill in the course of the morning,' said Dr Fillgrave; 'or, rather, you may say, that I will be

there at once: I will take it in my way.' And having thus resolved, he gave his orders that the posthorses

should make such a detour as would enable him to visit Boxall Hill on his road. 'It is impossible,' said he to

He was not, however, altogether in a comfortable frame of mind as he was driven up to the hall door. He

could not but remember the smile of triumph with which his enemy had regarded him in that hall; he could

not but think how he had returned feeless to Barchester, and how little he had gained in the medical world

by rejecting Lady Scatcherd's banknote. However, he also had had his triumphs since that. He had smiled

scornfully at Dr Thorne when he had seen him in the Greshamsbury street; and had been able to tell, at

twenty houses through the county, how Lady Arabella had at last been obliged to place herself in his hands.

And he triumphed again when he found himself really standing by Sir Louis Scatcherd's bedside. As for Lady

Scatcherd, she did not even show herself. She kept in her own little room, sending out Hannah to ask him up

the stairs; and she only just got a peep at him through the door as she heard the medical creak of his shoes as

We need say but little of his visit to Sir Louis. It mattered nothing now, whether it was Thorne, or Greyson,

or Fillgrave. And Dr Fillgrave knew that it mattered nothing: he had skill at least for thatand heart enough

also to feel that he would fain have been relieved from this task; would fain have left the patient in the hands

The name which Joe had given to his master's illness was certainly not a false one. He did find Sir Louis 'in

the horrors'. If any father have a son whose besetting sin was a passion for alcohol, let him take his child to

the room of a drunkard when possessed by 'the horrors'. Nothing will cure him if not that.

I will not disgust my reader by attempting to describe the poor wretch in his misery: the sunken, but yet

glaring eyes; the emaciated cheeks; the fallen mouth; the parched, sore lips; the face, now dry and hot, and

then suddenly clammy with drops of perspiration; the shaking hand, and all but palsied limbs; and worse than

this, the fearful mental efforts, and the struggles for drink; struggles to which it is often necessary to give

Dr Fillgrave soon knew what was to be the man's fate; but he did what he might to relieve it. There, in one

big, best bedroom, looking out to the north, lay Sir Louis Scatcherd, dying wretchedly. There, in the other

big, best bedroom, looking out to the south, had died the other baronet about twelvemonth since, and each a

victim of the same sin. To this had come the prosperity of the house of Scatcherd!

And then Dr Fillgrave went on to Greshamsbury. It was a long day's work, both for himself and the horses;

but then, the triumph of being dragged up that avenue compensated for both the expense and the labour. He

always put on his sweetest smile as he came near the hall door, and rubbed his hands in the most complaisant

manner of which he knew. It was seldom that he saw any of the family but Lady Arabella; but then he desired

to see none other, and when he left her in a good humour, was quite content to take his glass of sherry and eat

On this occasion, however, the servant at once asked him to go into the diningroom, and there he found

himself in the presence of Frank Gresham. The fact was, that Lady Arabella, having at last decided, had sent

for Dr Thorne; and it had become necessary that some one should be entrusted with the duty of informing Dr

Fillgrave. That some one must be the squire, or Frank. Lady Arabella would doubtless have preferred a

messenger more absolutely friendly to her own side of the house; but such messenger there was none: she

could not send Mr Gazebee to see the doctor, and so, of the two evils, she chose the least.

'Dr Fillgrave,' said Frank, shaking hands with him very cordially as he came up, 'my mother is so much

obliged to you for all your care and anxiety on her behalf! and, so indeed, are we all.'

The doctor shook hands with him very warmly. This little expression of a family feeling on his behalf was the

more gratifying, as he had always thought that the males of the Greshamsbury family were still wedded to

'It has been awfully troublesome to you, coming over all this way, I am sure. Indeed, money could not pay for

'Not at all, Mr Gresham; not at all,' said the Barchester doctor, rising up on his toes proudly as he spoke. 'A

person of your mother's importance, you know! I should be happy to go any distance to see her.'

'Oh, yes; but I must,' said Frank, who thought that he had done enough for civility, and was now anxious to

come to the point. 'The fact is, doctor, that we are very much obliged for what you have done; but, for the

future, my mother thinks that she can trust to such assistance as she can get here in the village.'

Frank had been particularly instructed to be very careful how he mentioned Dr Thorne's name, and, therefore,

Get what assistance she wanted in the village! What words were those that he heard? 'Mr Gresham,

ehhemperhaps I do not completely' Yes, alas! he had completely understood what Frank had meant

that he should understand. Frank desired to be civil, but he had no idea of beating unnecessarily about the

'It's by Sir Omicron's advice, Dr Fillgrave. You see, this man here'and he nodded his head towards the

doctor's house, being still anxious not to pronounce the hideous name'has known my mother's constitution

'Yes, Dr Fillgrave, it is wished. Lunch is coming directly:' and Frank rang the bell.

'I will return at once, if you please, Mr Gresham.' And the doctor did return, taking with him, on this

occasion, the fee that was offered to him. His experience had at any rate taught him so much.

But though Frank could do this for Lady Arabella, he could not receive Dr Thorne on her behalf. The

bitterness of that interview had to be borne by herself. A messenger had been sent for him, and he was

upstairs with her ladyship while his rival was receiving his conge downstairs. She had two objects to

accomplish, if it might be possible: she had found that high words with the doctor were of no avail; but it

might be possible that Frank could be saved by humiliation on her part. If she humbled herself before this

man, would he consent to acknowledge that his niece was not the fit bride for the heir of Greshamsbury?

The doctor entered the room where she was lying on her sofa, and walking up to her with a gentle, but yet not

constrained step, took the seat beside her little table, just as he had always been accustomed to do, and as

'Well, doctor, you see that I have come back to you,' she said, with a faint smile.

'Or, rather I have come back to you. And, believe me, Lady Arabella, I am very happy to do so. There need

be no excuses. You were, doubtless, right to try what other skill could do; and I hope it has not been tried in

She had meant to have been so condescending; but now all that was put quite beyond her power. It was not

easy to be condescending to the doctor: she had been trying all her life, and had never succeeded.

'So I was glad to hear. Sir Omicron is a clever man, and has a good name. I always recommend Sir Omicron

'And Sir Omicron returns the compliment,' said she, smiling gracefully, 'for he recommends you. He told Mr

Gresham that I was very foolish to quarrel with my best friend. So now we are friends again, are we not? You

The doctor took her hand cordially, and assured her that he bore her no illwill; that he fully understood her

conductand that he had never accused her of selfishness. This was all very well and very gracious; but,

nevertheless, Lady Arabella felt that the doctor kept the upper hand in those sweet forgivenesses. Whereas,

she had intended to keep the upper hand, at least for a while, so that her humiliation might be more effective

And then the doctor used his surgical lore, as he well knew how to use it. There was an assured confidence

about him, an air which seemed to declare that he really knew what he was doing. These were very

comfortable to his patients, but they were wanting in Dr Fillgrave. When he had completed his examinations

and questions, and she had completed her little details and made her answer, she was certainly more at ease

He declared that he was not in the least in a hurry. He desired nothing better, he said, than to sit there and talk

'A sincere apology!' said she, becoming a little red. Was he going to say anything about Mary? Was he going

'Yes, indeed. I ought not to have brought Sir Louis Scatcherd here: I ought to have known that he would have

'Oh! it does not signify,' said her ladyship in a tone almost of disappointment. 'I had forgotten it. Mr Gresham

'He is an unfortunate, wretched manmost unfortunate; with an immense fortune which he can never live to

This was a question for which Dr Thorne was hardly prepared. 'Go to?' he repeated. 'Oh, some member of the

'Probably to one, I think. Sir Roger had a strong idea of leaving it all in one hand.' If it should happen to be a

girl, thought Lady Arabella, what an excellent opportunity would that be for Frank to marry money!

'And now, doctor, I want to say one word to you; considering the very long time that we have known each

other, it is better that I should be open with you. This estrangement between us and dear Mary has given us

The doctor bowed. And though he could hardly be said to do so stiffly, he did it coldly. His bow seemed to

say, 'Certainly; if you choose to make a proper amende it can be done. But I think it is very unlikely that you

'Beatrice is just going to be married, you know that, doctor.' The doctor said that he did know it. 'And it will

be so pleasant that Mary should make one of us. Poor Beatrice; you don't know what she has suffered.'

'Yes,' said the doctor, 'there has been suffering, I am sure; suffering on both sides.'

'You cannot wonder that we should be so anxious about Frank, Dr Thorne; an only son, and the heir to an

estate that has been so very long in the family:' and Lady Arabella put her handkerchief to her eyes, as though

these facts were themselves melancholy, and not to be thought of by a mother without some soft tears. 'Now I

wish you could tell me what your views are, in a friendly manner, between ourselves. You won't find me

'Yes, doctor; about your niece, you know: you must have views of some sort; that's of course. It occurs to me,

that perhaps were all in the dark together. If so, a little candid speaking between you and me may set it all

Lady Arabella's career had not hitherto been conspicuous for candour, as far as Dr Thorne had been able to

judge of it; but that was no reason why he should not respond to so very becoming an invitation on her part.

He had no objection to a little candid speaking; at least, so he declared. As to his views with regard to Mary,

they were merely these: that he would make her as happy and comfortable as he could while she remained

with him; and that he would give her his blessingfor he had nothing else to give herwhen she left

Now, it will be said that the doctor was not very candid in this; not more so, perhaps, than was Lady Arabella

herself. But when one is specially invited to be candid, one is naturally set upon one's guard. Those who by

disposition are most open, are apt to become crafty when so admonished. When a man says to you, 'Let us be

candid with each other,' you feel instinctively that he desires to squeeze you without giving a drop of water

'About Frank!' said the doctor, with an innocent look, which her ladyship could hardly interpret.

'What I mean is this: can you give me your word that these young people do not intend to do anything rash?

One word like that from you will set my mind quite at rest. And then we could be so happy together again.'

'Ah! who is to answer for what rash things a young man will do?' said the doctor, smiling.

Lady Arabella got up from the sofa, and pushed away the little table. The man was false, hypocritical, and

cunning. Nothing could be made of him. They were all in a conspiracy together to rob her of her son; to make

him marry without money! What should she do? Where should she turn for advice and counsel? She had

nothing more to say to the doctor; and he, perceiving that this was the case, took his leave. This little attempt

Dr Thorne had answered Lady Arabella as had seemed best to him on the spur of the moment; but he was by

no means satisfied with himself. As he walked away through the gardens, he bethought himself whether it

would be better for all parties if he could bring himself to be really candid. Would it not be better for him at

once to tell the squire what were the future prospects of his niece, and let the father agree to the marriage, or

not agree to it, as he might think fit. But then, if so, if he did do this, would he not in fact say, 'There is my

niece, there is this girl of whom you have been talking for the last twelvemonth, indifferent to what agony of

mind you may have occasioned to her; there she is, a probable heiress! It may be worth your son's while to

wait a little time, and not cast her off till he shall know whether she be an heiress or no. If it shall turn out that

she is rich, let him take her; if not, why, he can desert her then as well as now.' He could not bring himself to

put his niece into such a position as this. He was anxious enough that she should be Frank Gresham's wife,

for he loved Frank Gresham; he was anxious enough, also, that she should give to her husband the means of

saving the property of his family. But Frank, though he might find her rich, was bound to take her while she

Then, also, he doubted whether he would be justified in speaking of this will at all. He almost hated the will

for the trouble and vexation it had given him, and the constant stress it had laid on his conscience. He had

spoken of it as yet to no one, and he thought that he was resolved not to do so while Sir Louis should yet be

On reaching home, he found a note from Lady Scatcherd, informing him that Dr Fillgrave had once more

been at Boxall Hill, and that, on this occasion, he had left the house without anger.

'I don't know what he has said about Louis,' she added, 'for, to tell the truth, doctor, I was afraid to see him.

But he comes again tomorrow, and then I shall be braver. But I fear that my poor boy is in a bad way.'

At this period there was, as it were, a truce to the ordinary little skirmishes which had been so customary

between Lady Arabella and the squire. Things had so fallen out, that they neither of them had must spirit for a

contest; and, moreover, on that point which at the present moment was most thought of by both of them, they

were strangely in unison. For each of them was anxious to prevent the threatened marriage of their only son.

It must, moreover, be remembered, that Lady Arabella had carried a great point in ousting Mr Yates Umbleby

and putting the management of the estate into the hands of her own partisan. But then the squire had not done

less in getting rid of Fillgrave and reinstating Dr Thorne in possession of the family invalids. The losses,

And it must be confessed, also, that Lady Arabella's taste for grandeur was on the decline. Misfortune was

coming too near to her to leave her much anxiety for the gaieties of a London season. Things were not faring

well with her. When her eldest daughter was going to marry a man of fortune, and a member of Parliament,

she had thought nothing of demanding a thousand pounds or so for the extraordinary expenses incident to

such an occasion. But now, Beatrice was to become the wife of a parish parson, and even that was thought to

'The quieter we can do it the better,' she wrote to her countesssister. 'Her father wanted to give him at least a

thousand pounds; but Mr Gazebee has told me confidentially that it literally cannot be done at the present

moment! Ah, my dear Rosina! how things have been managed! If one or two of the girls will come over, we

shall all take it as a favour. Beatrice would think it very kind of them. But I don't think of asking you or

Amelia.' Amelia was always the grandest of the De Courcy family, being almost on an equality withnay, in

some respect superior tothe countess herself. But this, of course, was before the days of the place in

Such, and so humble being the present temper of the lady of Greshamsbury, it will not be thought surprising

that she and Mr Gresham should at last come together in their efforts to reclaim their son.

At first Lady Arabella urged upon the squire the duty of being very peremptory and very angry. 'Do as other

fathers do in such cases. Make him understand that he will have no allowance to live on.' 'He understands that

'Threaten to cut him off with a shilling,' said her ladyship, with spirit. 'I haven't a shilling to cut him off with,'

But Lady Arabella herself soon perceived, that this line would not do. As Mr Gresham himself confessed, his

own sins against his son had been to great to allow of his taking a high hand with him. Besides, Mr Gresham

was not a man who could ever be severe with a son whose individual conduct had been so good as Frank's.

This marriage, was, in his view, a misfortune to be averted if possible,to be averted by any possible means;

but, as far as Frank was concerned, it was to be regarded rather as a monomania than a crime.

'I did feel so certain that he would have succeeded with Miss Dunstable,' said the mother, almost crying.

'I thought it impossible but that at his age a twelvemonth knocking about the world would cure him,' said the

'I never heard of a boy being so obstinate about a girl,' said the mother. 'I'm sure he didn't get it from the De

'But what are they to live upon?' said Lady Arabella, appealing, as it were, to some impersonation of reason.

'I wonder whether De Courcy could get him into some embassy?' said the father. 'He does talk of a

'What! with the girl and all?' asked Lady Arabella with horror, alarmed at the idea of such an appeal being

'Nothing will break him,' said the wretched mother; 'nothingnothing. For my part, I think that he is

possessed. Why was she brought here? Oh, dear! oh, dear! Why was she ever brought into this house?'

This last question Mr Gresham did not think it necessary to answer. That evil had been done, and it would be

useless to dispute it. 'I'll tell you what I'll do,' said he. 'I'll speak to the doctor myself.'

'It's not the slightest use,' said Lady Arabella. 'He will not assist us. Indeed, I firmly believe it's all his own

'Very well, Mr Gresham. What I say is always nonsense, I know; you have always told me so. But yet, see

how things have turned out. I knew how it would be when she was first brought into the house.' This assertion

'Well, it is nonsense to say that Frank is in love with the girl at the doctor's bidding.'

'I think you know, Mr Gresham, that I don't mean that. What I say is this, that Dr Thorne, finding what an

'Very well, have it your own way. I'll not say a word more. I'm struggling to do my best, and I'm browbeaten

on every side. God knows I am not in a state of health to bear it!' And Lady Arabella bowed her head into her

'I think, my dear, if you were to see Mary herself it might do some good,' said the squire, when the violence

'Yes; you can send Beatrice to give her notice, you know. She never was unreasonable, and I do not think that

'Yes, my love; I'm sure you would; nobody better. But what I mean is, that if you are to do any good, you

should be kind in your manner. Mary Thorne has a spirit that you cannot break. You may perhaps lead, but

As this scheme originated with her husband, Lady Arabella could not, of course, confess that there was much

in it. But, nevertheless, she determined to attempt it, thinking that if anything could be efficacious for good in

their present misfortunes, it would be her own diplomatic powers. It was, therefore, at last settled between

them, that he should endeavour to talk over the doctor, and that she would do the same with Mary.

'And then I will speak to Frank,' said Lady Arabella. 'As yet he has never had the audacity to open his mouth

to me about Mary Thorne, though I believe he declares his love openly to every one else in the house.'

'I think Patience might do more good. I did once think he was getting fond of Patience, and I was quite

And thus it was arranged that all the artillery of Greshamsbury was to be brought to bear at once on Frank's

It may be imagined that the squire would have less scruple in addressing the doctor on this matter than his

wife would feel; and that his part of their present joint undertaking was less difficult than hers. For he and the

doctor had ever been friends at heart. But, nevertheless, he did feel much scruple, as, with his stick in hand,

This feeling was so strong, that he walked on beyond this door to the entrance, thinking of what he was going

to do, and then back again. It seemed to be his fate to be depending always on the clemency or consideration

of Dr Thorne. At this moment the doctor was imposing the only obstacle which was offered to the sale of a

great part of his estate. Sir Louis, through his lawyer, was loudly accusing the doctor to sell, and the lawyer

was loudly accusing the doctor of delaying to do so. 'He has the management of your property,' said Mr

Finnie; 'but he manages it in the interest of his own friend. It is quite clear, and we will expose it.' 'By all

When he reached the doctor's house, he was shown into the drawingroom, and found Mary there alone. It

had always been the habit to kiss her forehead when he chanced to meet her about the house at

Greshamsbury. She had been younger and more childish then; but even now she was but a child to him, so he

kissed her as he had been wont to do. She blushed slightly as she looked up into his face, and said: 'Oh, Mr

As he looked at her he could not but acknowledge that it was natural that Frank should love her. He had never

before seen that she was attractive;had never had an opinion about it. She had grown up as a child under

his eye; and as she had not had the name of being especially a pretty child, he had never thought on the

subject. Now he saw before him a woman whose every feature was full of spirit and animation; whose eye

sparkled with more than mere brilliancy; whose face was full of intelligence; whose very smile was eloquent.

Miss Thorne wanted but one attribute which many consider essential to feminine beauty. She had no

brilliancy of complexion, no pearly whiteness, no vivid carnation; nor, indeed, did she possess the dark

brilliance of a brunette. But there was a speaking earnestness in her face; and expression of mental faculty

And then he knew how good she was. He knew well what was her nature; how generous, how open, how

affectionate, and yet how proud! Her pride was her fault; but even that was not a fault in his eyes. Out of his

own family there was no one whom he had loved, and could love, as he loved her. He felt, and

acknowledged, that no man could have a better wife. And yet he was there with the express object of rescuing

'You are looking very well, Mary,' he said, almost involuntarily. 'Am I?' she answered, smiling. 'It's very nice

at any rate to be complimented. Uncle never pays me any compliments of that sort.'

In truth, she was looking well. She would say to herself over and over again, from morning to night, that

Frank's love for her would be, must be, unfortunate; could not lead to happiness. But, nevertheless, it did

make her happy. She had before his return made up her mind to be forgotten, and it was so sweet to find that

he had been so far from forgetting her. A girl may scold a man in words for rashness in his love, but her heart

never scolds him for such an offence as that. She had not been slighted, and her heart, therefore, still rose

The doctor entered the room. As the squire's visit had been expected by him, he had of course not been out of

the house. 'And now I suppose I must go,' said Mary; 'for I know you are going to talk about business. But,

uncle, Mr Gresham says I'm looking very well. Why have you not been able to find that out?'

'She's a dear, good girl,' said the squire, as the door shut behind her; 'a dear good girl!' and the doctor could

'I think she is,' said he, quietly. And then they both sat silent, as though each was waiting to hear whether the

other had anything more to say on that subject. The doctor, at any rate, had nothing more to say.

'Yes, doctor; about her and Frank: something must be done, some arrangement made: if not for our sakes, at

'Ah! that's the question. I take it for granted that either Frank or Mary has told you that they have engaged

'Not exactly that. But, never mind; she has, I believe, no secret from me. Though I have said but little to her, I

The doctor shook his head and put up his hands. He had nothing to say; no proposition to make; no

arrangement to suggest. The thing was so, and he seemed to say that, as far as he was concerned, there was an

The squire sat looking at him, hardly knowing how to proceed. It seemed to him, that the fact of a young man

and a young lady being in love with each other was not a thing to be left to arrange itself, particularly seeing

the rank in life in which they were placed. But the doctor seemed to be of a different opinion.

'But, Dr Thorne, there is no man on God's earth who knows my affairs as well as you do; and in knowing

mine, you know Frank's. Do you think it possible that they should marry each other?'

'At present, it certainly would be. I have never spoken to either of them on the subject; but I presume they do

'But, doctor' The squire was certainly taken aback by the coolness of the doctor's manner. After all, he, the

squire, was Mr Gresham of Greshamsbury, generally acknowledged to be the first commoner in Barsetshire;

after all, Frank was his heir, and, in process of time, he would be Mr Gresham of Greshamsbury. Crippled as

the estate was, there would be something left, and the rank at any rate remained. But as to Mary, she was not

even the doctor's daughter. She was not only penniless, but nameless, fatherless, worse than motherless! It

was incredible that Dr Thorne, with his generally exalted ideas as to family, should speak in this cold way as

to a projected marriage between the heir of Greshamsbury and his brother's bastard child!

The doctor put one leg over the other, and began to rub his calf. 'Squire,' said he. 'I think I know all that you

would say, all that you mean. And you don't like to say it, because you would not wish to pain me by alluding

'But, independently of that, what would they live on?' said the squire, energetically. 'Birth is a great thing, a

very great thing. You and I think exactly the alike about that, so we need have no dispute. You are quite as

'But you are. It is no use arguing. But, putting that aside altogether, what would they live on? If they were to

marry, what would they do? Where would they go? You know what Lady Arabella thinks of such things;

would it be possible that they should live up at the house with her? Besides, what a life would that be for both

The squire looked at the doctor for an answer; but he still went rubbing his calf. Mr Gresham, therefore, was

'When I am dead there will still, I hope, be something;something left for the poor fellow. Lady Arabella

and the girls would be better off, perhaps, than now, and I sometimes wish, for Frank's sake, that the time had

The doctor could not now go on rubbing his knees. He was moved to speak, and declared that, of all events,

that was the one which would be furthest from Frank's heart. 'I know no son,' said he, 'who loves his father

'I do believe it,' said the squire; 'I do believe it. But yet, I cannot but feel that I am in his way.'

'No, squire, no; you are in no one's way. You will find yourself happy with your son yet, and proud of him.

And proud of his wife, too. I hope so, and I think so: I do, indeed, or I should not say so, squire; we will have

many a happy day yet together, when we shall talk of all these things over the diningroom fire at

The squire felt it kind in the doctor that he should thus endeavour to comfort him; but he could not

understand, and did not inquire, on what basis these golden hopes was founded. It was necessary, however, to

return to the subject which he had come to discuss. Would the doctor assist him in preventing this marriage?

'But, doctor, about the young people; of course they cannot marry, you are aware of that.'

'That is quite another question. I have said nothing about that either to you or to anybody else. The truth is,

squire, I have never interfered in this matter one way or the other; and I have no wish to do so now.'

Dr Thorne hardly knew how to answer this. He was aware that his argument about not interfering was in fact

absurd. Mary could not marry without his interference; and had it been the case that she was in danger of

making an improper marriage, of course he would interfere. His meaning was, that he would not at the

present moment express any opinion; he would not declare against a match which might turn out to be in

every way desirable; nor, if he spoke in favour of it, could he give his reasons for doing so. Under these

circumstances, he would have wished to say nothing, could that only have been possible.

But as it was not possible, and as he must say something, he answered the squire's last question by asking

'Then I understand, that if that difficulty were over, you would not refuse your consent merely because of

This was a manner in which the squire had by no means expected to have the affair presented to him. It

seemed so impossible that any soundminded man should take any but his view of the case, that he had not

prepared himself for argument. There was every objection to his son marrying Miss Thorne; but the fact of

their having no income between them did certainly justify him in alleging that first.

'But that difficulty can't be got over, doctor. You know, however, that it would be cause of grief to us all to

see Frank marry much beneath his station; that is, I mean, in family. You should not press me to say this, for

'But, my dear friend, it is necessary. Wounds sometimes must be opened in order that they may be healed.

What I mean is this;and, squire, I'm sure I need not say to you that I hope for an honest answer,were

Mary Thorne an heiress; had she, for instance, such wealth as that Miss Dunstable that we hear of; in that

When the doctor declared that he expected an honest answer the squire listened with all his ears; but the

'Come, squire, speak your mind faithfully. There was some talk of Frank's marrying Miss Dunstable; did you

'Oh, Mr Gresham! has it come to that? Miss Dunstable, then, would have satisfied your ideas of high birth?'

Mr Gresham was rather posed, and regretted, at the moment, his allusion to Miss Dunstable's presumed

legitimacy. But he soon recovered himself. 'No,' said he, 'it would not. And I am willing to admit, as I have

admitted before, that the undoubted advantages arising from wealth are taken by the world as atoning for

'You admit that, do you? You acknowledge that as your conviction on the subject?'

'Yes. But' The squire was going on to explain the propriety of this opinion, but the doctor uncivilly would

'Pray excuse me, Mr Gresham; but my mind is now quite made up. It was very nearly so before. I will do

'That is the most singular resolution that a man of sense like you ever came to.'

The squire went on for some time, but it was all to no purpose; and at last he left the house, considerably in

dudgeon. The only conclusion to which he could come was, that Dr Thorne had thought the chance on his

niece's behalf too good to be thrown away, and had, therefore, resolved to act in a very singular way.

'I would not have believed it of him, though all Barsetshire had told me,' he said to himself as he entered the

great gates; and he went on repeating the same words till he found himself in his own room. 'No, not if all

He did not, however, communicate the ill result of his visit to the Lady Arabella.

In spite of the family troubles, these were happy days for Beatrice. It so seldom happens that young ladies on

the eve of their marriage have their husbands living near them. This happiness was hers, and Mr Oriel made

the most of it. She was constantly being coaxed down to the parsonage by Patience, in order that she might

give her opinion, in private, on some domestic arrangement, some piece of furniture, or some new carpet; but

this privacy was always invaded. What Mr Oriel's parishioners did in these halcyon days, I will not ask. His

morning services, however, had been altogether given up, and he had provided himself with a very excellent

But one grief did weigh heavily on Beatrice. She continually heard her mother say things which made her feel

that it would be more than ever impossible that Mary should be at her wedding; and yet she had promised her

brother to ask her. Frank had also repeated his threat, that if Mary were not present, he would absent himself.

Beatrice did what most girls do in such a case; what all would do who are worth anything; she asked her

'Oh! but Frank can't be in earnest,' said the lover. 'Of course he'll be at our wedding.'

'You don't know him, Caleb. He is so changed that no one hardly would know him. You can't conceive how

much in earnest he is, how determined and resolute. And then, I should like to have Mary so much if mamma

'Well, I suppose I must do that; but I know what she'll say, and Frank will never believe that I have done my

best.' Mr Oriel comforted her with such little whispered consolations as he was able to afford, and then she

She was indeed surprised at the manner in which her prayer was received. She could hardly falter forth her

'Well my dear, I have no objection, none the least; that is, of course, if Mary is disposed to behave herself

'Oh, mamma! of course she will,' said Beatrice; 'she always did and always does.'

'I hope she will, my love. But, Beatrice, when I say that I shall be glad to see her, of course I mean under

certain conditions. I never disliked Mary Thorne, and if she would only let Frank understand that she will not

listen to his mad proposals, I should be delighted to see her at Greshamsbury just as she used to be.'

Beatrice could say nothing in answer to this; but she felt very sure that Mary, let her intention be what it

might, would not undertake to make Frank understand anything at anybody's bidding.

'I will tell you what I will do, my dear,' continued Lady Arabella; 'I will call on Mary myself.'

'Yes; why not? I have been at Dr Thorne's house before now.' And Lady Arabella could not but think of her

last visit thither, and the strong feeling she had, as she came out, that she would never again enter those

doors. She was, however, prepared to do anything on behalf of her rebellious son.

'I will call upon her, and I can possibly manage it, I will ask her myself to make one of your party. If so, you

can go to her afterwards and make your own arrangements. Just write her a note, my dear, and say that I will

Beatrice did as she was bid, but with a presentiment that no good would come of it. The note was certainly

unnecessary for the purpose assigned by Lady Arabella, as Mary was not given to be flustered by such

occurrences; but, perhaps, it was as well as that it was written, as it enabled her to make up her mind steadily

as to what information should be given, and what should not be given to her coming visitor.

On the next morning, at the appointed hour, Lady Arabella walked down to the doctor's house. She never

walked about the village without making some little disturbance among the inhabitants. With the squire,

himself, they were quite familiar, and he could appear and reappear without creating any sensation; but her

ladyship had not made herself equally common in men's sight. Therefore, when she went through all the

Greshamsbury in ten minutes, and before she had left the house, Mrs Umbleby and Miss Gushing had quite

The doctor, when he had heard what was going to happen, carefully kept out of the way: Mary, therefore, had

the pleasure of receiving Lady Arabella alone. Nothing could exceed her ladyship's affability. Mary thought

that it perhaps might have savoured less of condescension; but then on this subject, Mary was probably

prejudiced. Lady Arabella smiled and simpered, and asked after the doctor, and the cat, and Janet, and said

'And now, Mary, I'll tell you why I have called.' Mary bowed her head slightly, as much to say, that she

would be glad to receive any information that Lady Arabella could give her on that subject. 'Of course you

'Yes: we think it will be in Septemberearly in Septemberand that is coming very soon now. The poor

girl is anxious that you should be at her wedding.' Mary turned slightly red; but she merely said, and that

'I can assure you, Mary, that she is very fond of you, as much as ever; and so, indeed, am I, and all of us are

'Yes, he always was, and I am grateful to Mr Gresham,' answered Mary. It was well for Lady Arabella that

she had her temper under command, for had she spoken her mind out there would have been very little

'Yes, indeed he was; and I think we all did what little we could to make you welcome at Greshamsbury,

'And Beatrice is so very anxious on this point,' said her ladyship, ignoring for the moment Mary's question.

'You two have been so much together, that she feels she cannot be quite happy if you are not near her when

'Dear Beatrice!' said Mary, warmed for the moment to an expression of genuine feeling.

'She came to me yesterday, begging that I would waive any objection I might have to your being there. I have

Mary was astounded at this question, and hesitated in her reply. 'What answer do you think I ought to make

'Yes, Mary. What answer to you think I ought to give? I wish to ask you the question, as you are the person

Mary considered for a while, then did give her opinion on the matter in a firm voice. 'I think you should tell

Beatrice, that as you cannot at present receive me cordially in your house, it will be better that you should not

This was certainly not the sort of answer that Lady Arabella expected, and she was now somewhat astounded

in her turn. 'But, Mary,' she said, 'I should be delighted to receive you cordially if I could do so.'

'On, but I do not know that:' and she smiled her sweetest smile. 'I do not know that. I want to put an end to all

'Yes, upon one thing. You won't be angry if I ask you another questioneh, Mary?'

Mary made no immediate answer to this; but sat quite silent, looking at Lady Arabella in the face; not but that

she had made up her mind as to what answer she would give, but the exact words failed her at the moment.

'Yes, and you have noticed it, and I must say very properly. When you went to Boxall Hill, and before that

with Miss Oriel's to her aunt's, I thought you behaved extremely well.' Mary felt herself glow with

indignation, and began to prepare the words that should be sharp and decisive. 'But, nevertheless, people talk;

and Frank, who is still quite a boy' (Mary's indignation was not softened by this allusion to Frank's folly),

'seems to have got some nonsense in his head. I grieve to say it, but I feel myself in justice bound to do so,

that in this matter he has not acted as well as you have done. Now, therefore, I merely ask you whether there

is any truth in the report. If you tell me that there is none, I shall be quite contented.'

What was to say or do now? Nothing could be more plain, more decided, or less embarrassed with doubt than

Mary's declaration. And as she made it she looked her visitor full in the face, blushing indeed, for her cheeks

were now suffused as well as her forehead; but boldly, and, as it were, with defiance.

'And why not? Did you not ask me the question; and would you have my answer you with a falsehood? I am

engaged to him. As you would put the question to me, what other could I make? The truth is, I am engaged to

The decisive abruptness with which Mary declared her own iniquity almost took away her ladyship's breath.

She had certainly believed that they were engaged, and had hardly hoped that Mary would deny it; but she

had not expected that the crime would be acknowledged, or, at any rate, if acknowledged, that the confession

would be made without some show of shame. On this Lady Arabella could have worked; but there was no

such expression, nor was there the slightest hesitation. 'I am engaged to Frank Gresham,' and having so said,

'At present, quite so, no doubt: in saying so, Lady Arabella, you only repeat the answer I made to your first

question. I can now go to Greshamsbury only in one light: that of Mr Gresham's accepted daughterinlaw.'

'And that is perfectly out of the question; altogether out of the question, now and for ever.'

'I will not dispute with you about that; but, as I said before, my being at Beatrice's wedding is not to be

Lady Arabella sat for a while silent, that she might meditate, if possible, calmly as to what line of argument

she had now better take. It would be foolish in her, she thought, to return home, having merely expressed her

anger. She had now an opportunity of talking to Mary which might not again occur: the difficulty was in

deciding in what special way she should use the opportunity. Should she threaten, or should she entreat? To

do her justice, it should be stated, that she did actually believe that the marriage was all but impossible; she

did not think that it would take place. But the engagement might be the ruin of her son's prospects, seeing

Having considered all this as well as her hurry would allow her, she determined first to reason, then to

'I am astonished! you cannot be surprised at that, Miss Thorne: I am astonished at hearing so singular

'Do you think my confession singular, or is it the fact of my being engaged to your son?'

'We will pass over that for the present. But do let me ask you, do you think it possible, I say possible, that you

'Nor will he have were he to do anything so utterly hostile to his father's wishes. The property, as you are

'I am aware of nothing about the property, and can say nothing about it except this, that it has not been, and

will not be inquired after by me in this matter. If I marry Frank Gresham, it will not be for the property. I am

'On what then are you to live? You are too old for love in a cottage, I suppose?'

Impudent hussy! forward, illconditioned saucy minx! such were the epithets which rose to Lady Arabella's

'Miss Thorne, this subject is of course to me very serious; very illadapted for jesting. I look upon such a

'Oh, yes; Mr Oriel would manage that for us. We are his parishioners, and he would be bound to do it.'

'I beg your pardon; I believe that under all the circumstances it would be illegal.'

Mary smiled; but she said nothing. 'You may laugh, Miss Thorne, but I think you will find that I am right.

There are still laws to prevent such fearful distress as would be brought about by such a marriage.'

'Ah, but it would; don't you know that it would? Think of it, Miss Thorne. Think of Frank's state, and of his

father's state. You know enough of that, I am sure, to be well aware that Frank is not in a condition to marry

without money. Think of the position which Mr Gresham's only son should hold in the county; think of the

old name, and the pride we have in it; you have lived among us enough to understand all this; think of these

things, and then say whether it is possible that such a marriage should take place without family distress of

the deepest kind. Think of Mr Gresham; if you truly love my son, you could not wish to bring on him all this

Mary now was touched, for there was truth in what Lady Arabella said. But she had no power of going back;

her troth was plighted, and nothing any human being could say should take her from it. If he, indeed, chose to

'Lady Arabella,' she said, 'I have nothing to say in favour of this engagement, except that he wishes it.'

'I hope not. Our engagement, unless he shall choose to break it off, must necessarily be a long one; but the

'There is no probability of it. And because he is headstrong, you, who have always had credit for so much

'No, Lady Arabella; I will not hold him to anything to which he does not wish to be held. Nothing that you

can say shall move me: nothing that anybody can say shall induce me to break my promise to him. But a

word from himself will do it. One look will be sufficient. Let him give me to understand, in any way, that his

love for me is injurious to himthat he has learnt to think soand then I will renounce my part in this

There was much in this promise, but still not so much as Lady Arabella wished to get. Mary, she knew, was

obstinate, yet reasonable; Frank, she thought, was both obstinate and unreasonable. It might be possible to

work on Mary's reason, but quite impossible to touch Frank's irrationality. So she perseveredfoolishly.

'I will tell you the truth, Lady Arabella: for some considerable time past I have not thought you so.'

'Then you have wronged me. But I will go on with what I was saying. You quite acknowledge that this is a

'I don't know who has more right; however, you promise that if Frank wishes it, you will release him from his

'Very well; at any rate, you give him permission to do so. But will it not be more honourable for you to

'Ah, but it would. If he, in his position, should be the first to speak, the first to suggest that this affair between

'Ah, that I do not know. It is according as that may be, that he will or will not act at your bidding.'

'Exactly; and because you know him to be highminded, because you think that he, having so much to give,

will not break his word to youto you who have nothing to give in returnit is, therefore, that you say that

Then Mary rose from her seat, for it was no longer possible for her to speak what it was in her to say, sitting

there leisurely on her sofa. Lady Arabella's worship of money had not hitherto been so brought forward in the

conversation as to give her unpardonable offence; but now she felt that she could no longer restrain her

indignation. 'To you who have nothing to give in return!' Had she not given all that she possessed? Had she

not emptied his store into her lap? that heart of hers, beating with such genuine life, capable of such perfect

love, throbbing with so grand a pride; had she not given that? And was it not that, between him and her, more

than twenty Greshamsburys, nobler than any pedigree? 'To you who have nothing to give,' indeed! This to her

'Lady Arabella,' she said, 'I think that you do not understand me, and that it is not likely that you should. If so,

our further talking will be worse than useless. I have taken no account of what will be given between your

son and me in your sense of the word giving. But he has professed toto love me'as she spoke, she still

looked on the lady's face, but her eyelashes screened her eyes, and her colour was a little heightened'and I

have acknowledged that I also love him, and so we are engaged. To me my promise is sacred. I will not be

threatened into breaking it. If, however, he shall wish to change his mind, he can do so. I will not upbraid

him; will not, if I can help it, think harshly of him. So much you may tell him if it suits you; but I will not

listen to your calculations as to how much or how little each of us may have to give to the other.'

She was still standing when she finished speaking, and so she continued to stand. Her eyes were fixed on

Lady Arabella, and her position seemed to say that sufficient words had been spoken, and that it was time that

her ladyship should go; and so Lady Arabella felt it. Gradually she also rose; slowly, but tacitly, she

acknowledged that she was in the presence of a spirit superior to her own; and so she took her leave.

'Very well,' she said, in a tone that was intended to be grandiloquent, but which failed grievously; 'I will tell

him that he has your permission to think a second time on this matter. I do not doubt that he will do so.' Mary

would not condescend to answer, but curtsied low as her visitor left the room. And so the interview was over.

The interview was over, and Mary was alone. She remained standing as long as she heard the footsteps of

Frank's mother on the stairs; not immediately thinking of what had passed, but still buoying herself up with

her hot indignation, as though her work with Lady Arabella was not yet finished; but when the footfall was

no longer heard, and the sound of the closing door told her that she was in truth alone, she sank back in her

All that doctrine about money was horrible to her; that insolent pretence, that she had caught at Frank because

of his worldly position, made her all but ferocious; but Lady Arabella had not the less spoken much that was

true. She did think of the position which the heir of Greshamsbury should hold in the county, and of the fact

that such a marriage would mar that position so vitally; she did think of the old name, and the old Gresham

pride; she did think of the squire and his deep distress: it was true that she had lived among them long enough

to understand these things, and to know that it was not possible that this marriage should take place without

And then she asked herself whether, in consenting to accept Frank's hand, she had adequately considered this;

and she was forced to acknowledge that she had not considered it. She had ridiculed Lady Arabella for saying

that Frank was still a boy; but was it not true that his offer had been made with a boy's energy, rather than a

man's forethought? If so, if she had been wrong to accede to that offer when made, would she not be doubly

It was doubtless true that Frank himself could not be the first to draw back. What would people say of him?

She could now calmly ask herself the question that had so angered her, when asked by Lady Arabella. If he

could not do it, and if, nevertheless, it behoved them to break off this match, by whom was it to be done if not

by her? Was not Lady Arabella right throughout, right in her conclusions, though so foully wrong in her

And then she did think for one moment of herself. 'You who have nothing to give in return!' Such had been

Lady Arabella's main accusation against her. Was it in fact true that she had nothing to give? Her maiden

love, her feminine pride, her very life, and spirit, and beingwere these things nothing? Were they to be

weighed against pounds sterling per annum? and, when so weighed, were they ever to kick the beam like

feathers? All these things had been nothing to her when, without reflection, governed wholly by the impulse

of the moment, she had first allowed his daring hand to lie for an instant in her own. She had thought nothing

of these things when that other suitor came, richer far than Frank, to love whom it was impossible to her as it

Her love had been pure from all such thoughts; she was conscious that it ever would be pure from them. Lady

Arabella was unable to comprehend this, and, therefore, was Lady Arabella so utterly distasteful to her.

Frank had once held her close to his warm breast; and her very soul had thrilled with joy to feel that he so

loved her,with a joy which she hardly dared to acknowledge. At that moment, her maidenly efforts had

been made to push him off, but her heart had grown to his. She had acknowledged him to be master of her

spirit; her bosom's lord; the man whom she had been born to worship; the human being to whom it was for

her to link her destiny. Frank's acres had been of no account; nor had his want of acres. God had brought

them two together that they should love each other; that conviction had satisfied her, and she had made it a

duty to herself that she would love him with her very soul. And now she was called upon to wrench herself

Well, she would wrench herself asunder, as far as such wrenching might be done compatibly with her solemn

promise. It might be right that Frank should have an opportunity offered him, so that he might escape from

his position without disgrace. She would endeavour to give him this opportunity. So, with one deep sigh, she

arose, took herself pen, ink, and paper, and sat herself down again so that the wrenching might begin.

And then, for a moment, she thought of her uncle. Why had he not spoken to her of all this? Why had he not

warned her? He who had ever been so good to her, why had he now failed her so grievously? She had told

him everything, had had no secret from him; but he had never answered her a word. 'He also must have

known' she said to herself, piteously, 'he also must have known that I could give nothing in return.' Such

accusation, however, availed her not at all, so she sat down and slowly wrote her letter.

'Dearest Frank,' she began. She had first written 'dear Mr Gresham'; but her heart revolted against such

'Your mother has been here talking to me about our engagement. I do not generally agree with her about such

matters; but she has said some things today which I cannot but acknowledge to be true. She says, that our

marriage would be distressing to your father, injurious to all your family, and ruinous to yourself. If this be

'I remember my promise, and have kept it. I would not yield to your mother when she desired me to disclaim

our engagement. But I do think it will be more prudent if you will consent to forget all that has passed

between usnot, perhaps, to forget it; that may not be possible for usbut to let it pass by as though it had

never been. If so, if you think so, dear Frank, do not have any scruples on my account. What will be best for

you, must be best for me. Think what a reflection it would ever be to me, to have been the ruin of one that I

'Let me have but one word to say that I am released from my promise, and I will tell my uncle that the matter

between us is over. It will be painful for us at first; those occasional meetings which must take place will

distress us, but that will wear off. We shall always think well of each other, and why should we not be

friends? This, doubtless, cannot be done without inward wounds; but such wounds are in God's hands, and He

'I know your first feelings will be on reading this letter; but do not answer it in obedience to such feelings.

Think over it, think of your father, and all you owe him, of your old name, your old family, and what the

world expects of you.' (Mary was forced to put her hand to her eyes, to save the paper from her falling tears,

as she found herself thus repeating, nearly word for word, the arguments that had been used by Lady

Arabella.) 'Think of these things coolly, if you can, but, at any rate, without passion: and then let me have one

'I have but to add this: do not allow yourself to think that my heart will ever reproach you. It cannot reproach

you for doing that which I myself suggest.' (Mary's logic in this was very false; but she was not herself aware

of it.) 'I will never reproach you either in word or thought; and as for all others, it seems to me that the world

agrees that we have hitherto been wrong. The world, I hope, will be satisfied when we have obeyed it.

'Go bless you, dearest Frank! I shall never call you so again; but it would be a pretence were I to write

'PS.Of course I cannot be at dear Beatrice's marriage; but when they come back to the parsonage, I shall

see her. I am sure they will both be happy, because they are so good. I need hardly say that I shall think of

When she finished the letter, she addressed it plainly, in her own somewhat bold handwriting, to Francis N.

Gresham, Jun., Esq., and then took it herself to the little village postoffice. There should be nothing

underhand about her correspondence: all the Greshamsbury world should know of itthat world of which

she had spoken in her letterif that world so pleased. Having put her penny label on it, she handed it, with

an open brow and an unembarrassed face, to the baker's wife, who was Her Majesty's postmistress at

Greshamsbury; and, having so finished her work, she returned to see the table prepared for her uncle's dinner.

'I will say nothing to him,' she said to herself, 'till I get the answer. He will not talk to me about it, so why

It will not be imagined, at any rate by feminine readers, that Mary's letter was written off at once, without

alterations and changes, or the necessity for a fair copy. Letters from one young lady to another are doubtless

written in this manner, and even with them it might sometimes be better if more patience had been taken; but

with Mary's first letter to her loverher first loveletter, if loveletter it can be calledmuch more care was

used. It was copied and recopied, and when she returned from posting it, it was read and reread.

'It is very cold,' she said to herself; 'he will think I have no heart, that I have never loved him!' And then she

all but resolved to run down to the baker's wife, and get back her letter, that she might alter it. 'But it will be

better so,' she said again. 'If I touched his feelings now, he would never bring himself to leave me. It is right

that I should be cold with him. I should be false to myself if I tried to move his loveI, who have nothing to

give him in return for it.' And so she made no further visit to the postoffice, and the letter went on its way.

We will now follow its fortunes for a short while, and explain how it was that Mary received no answer for a

week; a week, it may well be imagined, of terrible suspense to her. When she took it to the postoffice, she

doubtless thought that the baker's wife had nothing to do but to send it up to the house at Greshamsbury, and

that Frank would receive it that evening, or, at latest, early on the following morning. But this was by no

means so. The epistle was posted on a Friday afternoon, and it behoved the baker's wife to send it into

SilverbridgeSilverbridge being the posttownso that all due formalities, as ordered by the Queen's

Government, might there be perfected. Now, unfortunately the postboy had taken his departure before Mary

reached the shop, and it was not, therefore, dispatched till Saturday. Sunday was always a dies non with the

Greshamsbury Mercury, and, consequently, Frank's letter was not delivered at the house till Monday

morning; at which time Mary had for two long days been waiting with weary heart for the expected answer.

Now Frank had on that morning gone up to London by the early train, with his future brotherinlaw, Mr

Oriel. In order to accomplish this, they had left Greshamsbury for Barchester exactly as the postboy was

'I should like to wait for my letters,' Mr Oriel had said, when the journey was being discussed.

'Nonsense,' Frank had answered. 'Who ever got a letter that was worth waiting for?' and so Mary was doomed

When the postbag arrived at the house on Monday morning it was opened as usual by the squire himself at

the breakfasttable. 'Here is a letter for Frank,' said he, 'posted in the village. You had better send it to him:'

'It's from Mary,' said Beatrice, out loud, taking the letter up and examining the address. And having said so,

she repented what she had done, as she looked first at her father and then at her mother.

A cloud came over the squire's brow as for a minute he went on turning over the letters and newspapers. 'Oh,

'Frank said that if any letters came they were to be kept,' said his sister Sophy. 'He told me so particularly. I

'Mr Oriel is to have all his letters addressed to Long's Hotel, Bond Street, and this one can very well be sent

with them,' said Beatrice, who knew all about it, and intended herself to make free use of the address.

'Yes, you had better send it,' said the squire; and then nothing further was said at the table. But Lady Arabella,

though she said nothing, had not failed to mark what had passed. Had she asked for the letter before the

squire, he would probably have taken possession of it himself; but as soon as she was alone with Beatrice, she

did demand it, 'I shall be writing to Frank himself,' she said, 'and will send it to him.' And so, Beatrice, with a

The letter lay before Lady Arabella's eyes all that day, and many a wistful glance was cast at it. She turned it

over and over, and much desired to know its contents; but she did not dare to break the seal of her son's letter.

All that day it lay upon her desk, and all the next, for she could hardly bring herself to part with it; but on the

'Dearest, dearest Frank, I send you a letter which has come by the post from Mary Thorne. I do not know

what it may contain; but before you correspond with her, pray, pray think of what I said to you. For my sake,

That was all, but it was enough to make her word to Beatrice true. She did send it to Frank enclosed in a letter

from herself. We must reserve for the next chapter what had taken place between Frank and his mother; but,

Mary said not a word to him about the letter; but, keeping silent on the subject, she felt wretchedly estranged

from him. 'Is anything the matter, Mary?' he said to her on the Sunday afternoon.

'What Mary! Be unhappy and not to talk about it to me? That's something new, is it not?'

'One has presentiments sometimes, and is unhappy without knowing why. Besides, you know'

'I know! What do I know? Do I know anything that will make my pet happier?' and he took her into his arms

and they sat together on the sofa. Her tears were now falling fast, and she no longer made an effort to hide

them. 'Speak to me, Mary; this is something more than a presentiment. What is it?'

'Oh, uncle, why have you not spoken to me? Why have you not told me what to do? Why have you not

Why, indeed? What was he to say to this? It was true that he had never counselled her; never shown her what

course she should take; had never even spoke to her about her lover. And it was equally true that he was not

now prepared to do so, even in answer to such an appeal as this. He had a hope, a strong hope, more than a

hope, that Mary's love would yet be happy; but he could not express or explain his hope; nor could he even

acknowledge to himself a wish that would seem to be based on the death of him to whose life he was bound,

'My love,' he said, 'it is a matter in which you must judge for yourself. Did I doubt your conduct, I should

'Conduct! Is conduct everything? One may conduct oneself excellently, and yet break one's heart.'

This was too much for the doctor; his sternness and firmness instantly deserted him. 'Mary,' he said, 'I will do

anything that you would have me. If you wish it, I will make arrangements for leaving this place at once.'

'When you tell me of a broken heart, you almost break my own. Come to me, darling; do not leave me so. I

will say all that I can say. I have thought, do still think, that circumstances will admit of your marriage with

'You think so,' said she, unconsciously sliding her hand into his, as though to thank him by its pressure for the

'I do think so now more than ever. But I only think so; I have been unable to assure you. There, darling, I

must not say more; only that I cannot bear to see you grieving, I would not have said this:' and then he left

If you can be patient! Why, a patience of ten years would be as nothing to her. Could she but live with the

knowledge that she was first in his estimation, dearest in his heart; could it be also granted to her to feel that

she was regarded as his equal, she could be patient for ever. What more did she want than to know and feel

But what could these circumstances be to which her uncle had alluded? 'I do think that circumstances will

admit of your marriage.' Such was his opinion, and she had never known him to be wrong. Circumstances!

What circumstances? Did he perhaps mean that Mr Gresham's affairs were not so bad as they had been

thought to be? If so, that alone would hardly alter the matter, for what could she give in return? 'I would give

him the world for one word of love,' she said to herself, 'and never think that he was my debtor. Ah! how

But there was her uncle's opinion: he still thought that they might be married. Oh, why had she sent her

letter? and why had she made it so cold? With such a letter as that before him, Frank could not do other than

On the Sunday afternoon there arrived at Greshamsbury a man and a horse from Boxall Hill, bearing a letter

from Lady Scatcherd to Dr Thorne, earnestly requesting the doctor's immediate attendance. 'I fear everything

is over with poor Louis,' wrote the unhappy mother. 'It has been dreadful. Do come to me; I have no other

friend, and I am nearly worn through with it. The man from the city'she meant Dr Fillgrave'comes every

day, and I dare say he is all very well, but he has never done much good. He has not had spirit enough to keep

the bottle from him; and it was that, and that only, that most behoved to be done. I doubt you won't find him

Dr Thorne started immediately. Even though he might have to meet Dr Fillgrave, he could not hesitate, for he

went not as a doctor to the dying man, but as the trustee under Sir Roger's will. Moreover, as Lady Scatcherd

had said, he was only her friend, and he could not desert her at such a moment for an army of Fillgraves. He

told Mary he should not return that night; and taking with him a small saddlebag, he started at once for

As he rode to the hall door, Dr Fillgrave was getting into his carriage. They had never met so as to speak to

each other since that memorable day, when they had their famous passage of arms in the hall of that very

house before which they both now stood. But, at the present moment, neither of them was disposed to renew

'What news of your patient, Fillgrave?' said our doctor, still seated on his sweating horse, and putting his

Dr Fillgrave could not refrain from one moment of supercilious disdain: he gave one little chuck to his head,

one little twist to his neck, one little squeeze to his lips, and then the man within him overcame the doctor.

'His death is a release; for his last days have been very frightful. Your coming, Dr Thorne, will be a comfort

to Lady Scatcherd.' And then Dr Fillgrave, thinking that even the present circumstances required no further

'His last days have been very dreadful! Ah, me, poor fellow! Dr Fillgrave, before you go, allow me to say

this: I am quite aware that when he fell into your hands, no medical skill in the world could save him.'

Dr Fillgrave bowed low from the carriage, and after this unwonted exchange of courtesies, the two doctors

parted, not to meet againat any rate, in the pages of this novel. Of Dr Fillgrave, let it now be said, that he is

Lady Scatcherd was found sitting alone in her little room on the groundfloor. Even Hannah was not with

her, for Hannah was now occupied upstairs. When the doctor entered the room, which he did unannounced,

he found her seated on a chair, with her back against one of the presses, her hands clasped together over her

knees, gazing into vacancy. She did not ever hear him or see him as he approached, and his hand had lightly

touched her shoulder before she knew that she was not alone. Then, she looked up at him with a face so full

She seemed at first hardly to understand him, but still regarding him with that wan face, shook her head

slowly and sadly. One might have thought that she was twenty years older than when Dr Thorne last saw her.

He drew a chair to her side, and sitting by her, took her hand in his. 'It is better so, Lady Scatcherd; better so,'

he repeated. 'The poor lad's doom had been spoken, and it is well for him, and for you, that it should be over.'

'They are both gone now,' said she, speaking very low; 'both gone now. Oh, doctor! To be left alone here, all

He said some few words trying to comfort her; but who can comfort a widow bereaved of her child? Who can

console a heart that has lost all it possessed? Sir Roger had not been to her a tender husband; but still he had

been the husband of her love. Sir Louis had not been to her an affectionate son; but still he had been her

child, her only child. Now they were both gone. Who can wonder that the world should be a blank to her?

Still the doctor spoke soothing words, and still he held her hand. He knew that his words could not console

her; but the sounds of his kindness at such desolate moments are, to such minds as hers, some alleviation of

grief. She hardly answered him, but sat there staring out before her, leaving her hand passively to him, and

swaying her head backwards and forwards as though her grief were too heavy to be borne.

At last, her eye rested upon an article which stood upon the table, and she started up impetuously from her

chair. She did this so suddenly, that the doctor's hand fell beside him before he knew that she had risen. The

table was covered with all those implements which become so frequent about a house when severe illness is

an inhabitant there. There were little boxes and apothecaries' bottles, cups and saucers standing separate, and

bowls, in which messes have been prepared with the hope of suiting a sick man's failing appetite. There was a

small saucepan standing on a plate, a curiously shaped glass utensil left by the doctor, and sundry pieces of

flannel, which had been used in rubbing the sufferer's limbs. But in the middle of the debris stood one blank

'There,' she said, rising up, and seizing it in a manner that would have been ridiculous had it not been so truly

tragic. 'There, that has robbed me of everythingof father and son; that has swallowed them

bothmurdered them both! Oh, doctor! that such a thing as that should ever cause such bitter sorrow! I have

hated it always, but nowOh, woe is me! weary me!' And then she let the bottle drop from her hand as

'This comes of barroniting,' she continued. 'If they had let him alone, he would have been here now, and so

would the other one. Why did they do it? why did they do it? Ah, doctor! people such as us should never

The doctor could not remain with her long, as it was necessary that he should take upon himself the direction

of the household, and give orders for the funeral. First of all, he had to undergo the sad duty of seeing the

corpse of the deceased baronet. This, at any rate, may be spared to my readers. It was found to be necessary

that the internment should be made very quickly, as the body was nearly destroyed by alcohol. Having done

all this, and sent back his horse to Greshamsbury, with directions that clothes for a journey might be sent to

him, and a notice that he should not be home for some days, he again returned to Lady Scatcherd.

Of course he could not but think much of the immense property which was now, for a short time, altogether

in his own hands. His resolution was soon made to go at once to London and consult the best lawyer he could

findor the best dozen lawyers should such be necessaryas to the validity of Mary's claims. This must be

done before he said a word to her or to any of the Gresham family; but it must be done instantly, so that all

suspense might be at an end as soon as possible. He must, of course, remain with Lady Scatcherd till the

funeral should be over; but when that office should be complete, he would start instantly for London.

In resolving to tell no one as to Mary's fortune till after he had fortified himself with legal warranty, he made

one exception. He thought it rational that he should explain to Lady Scatcherd who was now the heir under

her husband's will; and he was more inclined to do so, from feeling that the news would probably be

gratifying to her. With this view, he had once or twice endeavoured to induce her to talk about the property,

but she had been unwilling to do so. She seemed to dislike all allusions to it, and it was not until she had

incidentally mentioned the fact that she would have to look for a home, that he was able to fix her to the

subject. This was on the evening before the funeral; on the afternoon of which day he intended to proceed to

'It may probably be arranged that you may continue to live here,' said the doctor.

'I don't wish it at all,' said she, rather sharply. 'I don't wish to have any arrangements made. I would not be

indebted to any of them for anything. Oh, dear! if money could make it all right, I should have enough of

'Indebted to whom, Lady Scatcherd? Who do you think will be the owner of Boxall Hill?'

'Indeed, then, Dr Thorne, I don't much care: unless it be yourself, it won't be any friend of mine, or any one I

shall care to make a friend of. It isn't so easy for an old woman like me to make new friends.'

'I wish it did, with all my heart. But even then, I would not live here. I have had too many troubles here to

'That shall be as you like, Lady Scatcherd; but you will be surprised to hear that the place willat least I

think it willbelong to a friend of yours: to one to whom you have been very kind.'

'And who is he, doctor? Won't it go to some of those Americans? I am sure I never did anything kind to them;

though, indeed, I did love poor Mary Scatcherd. But that's years upon years ago, and she is dead, and gone

now. Well, I begrudge nothing to Mary's children. As I have none of my own, it is right that they should have

'The property will, I think, go to Mary Scatcherd's eldest child. It is she whom you have known as Mary

'Doctor!' And then Lady Scatcherd, as she made the exclamation, put both her hands down to hold her chair,

'Yes; Mary Thornemy Maryto whom you have been so good, who loves you so well; she, I believe, will

be Sir Roger's heiress. And it was so that Sir Roger intended on his deathbed, in the event of poor Louis's life

being cut short. If this be so, will you be ashamed to stay here as the guest of Mary Thorne? She has not been

But Lady Scatcherd was now too much interested in the general tenor of the news which she had heard to

care much about the house which she was to inhabit in future. Mary Thorne, the heiress of Boxall Hill! Mary

Thorne, the still living child of that poor creature who had so nearly died when they were all afflicted with

their early grief! Well; there was consolation, there was comfort in this. There were but three people left in

the world that she could love: her fosterchild, Frank GreshamMary Thorne, and the doctor. If the money

went to Mary, it would of course go to Frank, for she now knew that they loved each other; and if it went to

them, would not the doctor have his share also; such share as he might want? Could she have governed the

matter, she would have given all to Frank; and now it would be as well bestowed.

Yes; there was consolation in this. They both sat up more than half the night talking over it, and giving and

receiving explanations. If only the council of lawyers would not be adverse! That was now the point of

The doctor, before he left her, bade her hold her peace, and say nothing of Mary's fortune to any one till her

rights have been absolutely acknowledged. 'It will be nothing not to have it,' said the doctor; 'but it would be

On the next morning, Dr Thorne deposited the remains of Sir Louis in the vault prepared for the family in the

parish church. He laid the son where a few months ago he had laid the father,and so the title of Scatcherd

After the funeral, the doctor hurried up to London, and there we will leave him.

We must now go back a little and describe how Frank had been sent off on special business to London. The

household at Greshamsbury was at this time in but a doleful state. It seemed to be pervaded, from the squire

down to the scullerymaid, with a feeling that things were not going well; and men and women, in spite of

Beatrice's coming marriage, were grimvisaged, and dolorous. Mr Mortimer Gazebee, rejected though he had

been, still, went and came, talking much to the squire, much also to her ladyship, as to the illdoings which

were in the course of projection by Sir Louis; and Frank went about the house with clouded brow, as though

Poor Beatrice was robbed of half her joy; over and over again her brother asked her whether she had yet seen

Mary, and she was obliged as often to answer that she had not. Indeed, she did not dare to visit her friend, for

it was hardly possible that they should sympathize with each other. Mary was, to say the least, stubborn in her

pride; and Beatrice, though she could forgive her friend for loving her brother, could not forgive the

obstinacy with which Mary persisted in a course which, as Beatrice thought, she herself knew to be wrong.

And then Mr Gazebee came down from town, with an intimation that it behoved the squire himself to go up

that he might see certain learned pundits, and be badgered in his own person at various dingy, dismal

chambers in Lincoln's Inn Fields, the Temple, and Gray's Inn Lane. It was an invitation exactly of that sort

'Will you, will youwill you, will youcome and be killed?' Although Mr Gazebee urged the matter with

such eloquence, the squire remained steady to his objection, and swam obstinately about his Greshamsbury

This occurred on the very evening of that Friday which had witnessed the Lady Arabella's last visit to Dr

Thorne's house. The question of the squire's necessary journey to the great fountains of justice was, of course,

discussed between Lady Arabella and Mr Gazebee; and it occurred to the former, full as she was of Frank's

iniquity and of Mary's obstinacy, that if Frank were sent up in lieu of his father, it would separate them at

least for a while. If she could only get Frank away without seeing his love, she might yet so work upon him,

by means of the message which Mary had sent, as to postpone, if not break off, this hateful match. It was

inconceivable that a youth of twentythree, and such a youth as Frank, should be obstinately constant to a girl

possessed of no great beautyso argued Lady Arabella to herselfand who had neither wealth, birth, nor

And this it was at last settledthe squire being a willing partner to the agreementthat Frank should go up

and be badgered in lieu of his father. At his age it was possible to make a thing desirable, if not

necessaryon account of the importance conveyedto sit day after day in the chambers of Messrs Slow

Bideawhile, and hear musty law talk, and finger dusty law parchments. The squire had made many visits to

Messrs Slow Bideawhile, and he knew better. Frank had not hitherto been there on his own bottom, and thus

Mr Oriel was also going to London, and this was another reason for sending Frank. Mr Oriel had business of

great importance, which it was quite necessary that he should execute before his marriage. How much of this

business consisted in going to his tailor, buying a weddingring, and purchasing some other more costly

present for Beatrice, we need not here inquire. But Mr Oriel was quite on Lady Arabella's side with reference

to this mad engagement, and as Frank and he were now fast friends, some good might be done in that way. 'If

we all caution him against it, he can hardly withstand us all!' said Lady Arabella to herself.

The matter was broached to Frank on the Saturday evening, and settled between them all on the same night.

Nothing, of course, was at that moment said about Mary; but Lady Arabella was too full of the subject to let

him go to London without telling him that Mary was ready to recede if only he would allow her to do so.

About eleven o'clock, Frank was sitting in his own room, coming over the difficulties of the

situationthinking of his father's troubles, his own positionwhen he was roused from his reverie by a

'Come in,' he said somewhat loudly. He thought it was one of his sisters, who were apt to visit him at all

hours and for all manner of reasons; and he, though he was usually gentle to them, was not at present exactly

The door gently opened, and he saw his mother standing hesitating in the passage.

'Oh, yes, mother; by all means:' and then, with some surprise marked in his countenance, he prepared a seat

for her. Such a visit as this from Lady Arabella was very unusual; so much so, that he had probably not seen

her in his own room since the day when he first left school. He had nothing, however, to be ashamed of;

nothing to conceal unless it were an open letter from Miss Dunstable which he had in his hand when she

'I wanted to say a few words to you, Frank, before you start for London about this business.' Frank signified

'I am so glad to see your father putting the matter into your hands. You are younger than he is; and thenI

don't know why, but somehow your father has never been a good man of businesseverything has gone

'No, Frank, I will not; I do not wish it. Things have been unfortunate, certainly. Ah me! I little thought when I

marriedbut I don't mean to complainI have excellent children, and I ought to be thankful for that.'

Frank began to fear that no good would be coming when his mother spoke in that strain. 'I will do the best I

can,' said he, 'up in town. I can't help thinking myself that Mr Gazebee might have done as well, but'

'Oh, dear no; by no means. In such cases the principal must show himself. Besides, it is right you should

know how matters stand. Who is so much interested in it as you are? Poor Frank! I do so often feel for you

'Pray do not mind me, mother. Why should you talk of it as my matter while my father is not yet fortyfive?

His life, so to speak, is as good as mine. I can do very well without it; all I want is to be allowed to settle to

'They are all so slow, dear Frank. You, who speak French so wellI should think my brother might get you

'Well, we'll talk about that some other time. But I came about something else, and I do hope you will hear

Frank's brow again grew black, for he knew that his mother was about to say something which it would be

'Don't be angry with me, Frank; you can't but know that the fate of an only son must be a subject of anxiety to

a mother.' Ah! how singularly altered was Lady Arabella's tone since first she had taken upon herself to

discuss the marriage prospects of her son! Then how autocratic had she been as she went him away, bidding

him, with full command, to throw himself into the golden embraces of Miss Dunstable! But now, how

humble, as she came suppliantly to his room, craving that she might have leave to whisper into his ear a

mother's anxious fears! Frank had laughed at her stern behests, though he had half obeyed them; but he was

He drew his chair nearer to her, and took her by the hand. But she, disengaging hers, parted the hair from off

his forehead, and kissed his brow. 'Oh, Frank,' she said, 'I have been so proud of you, am still so proud of

you. It will send me to my grave if I see you sink below your proper position. Not that it will be your fault. I

am sure it will not be your fault. Only circumstanced as you are, you should be doubly, trebly, careful. If your

Before we go on we must say one word further as to Lady Arabella's character. It will probably be said that

she was a consummate hypocrite; but at the present moment she was not hypocritical. She did love her son;

was anxiousvery, very anxious for him; was proud of him, and almost admired the obstinacy which so

vexed her inmost soul. No grief would be to her so great as that of seeing him sink below what she conceived

to be his position. She was as genuinely motherly, in wishing that he should marry money, as another woman

might be in wishing to see her son a bishop; or as the Spartan matron, who preferred that her offspring should

return on his shield, to hearing that he had come back whole in limb but tainted in honour. When Frank spoke

of a profession, she instantly thought of what Lord de Courcy might do for him. If he would not marry

money, he might, at any rate, be attache at an embassy. A professionhard work, as a doctor, or as an

engineerwould, according to her ideas, degrade him; cause him to sink below his proper position; but to

dangle at a foreign court, to make small talk at evening parties of a lady ambassadress, and occasionally,

perhaps, to write demiofficial notes containing demiofficial tittletattle; this would be in proper

We may not admire the direction taken by Lady Arabella's energy on behalf of her son, but that energy was

'And now, Frank' She looked wistfully into his face as she addressed him, as though half afraid to go on,

and begging that he would receive with complaisance whatever she found herself forced to say.

'No, Frank; you wrong me. I have no feelings against hernone, indeed; none but this: that she is not fit to

'Ah, yes; but how fit? Think of your position, Frank, and what means you have of keeping her. Think of what

you are. Your father's only son; the heir to Greshamsbury. If Greshamsbury be ever again more than a name,

it is you that must redeem it. Of all men living you are the least able to marry a girl like Mary Thorne.'

'Who asks you? I do not ask you; nobody asks you. I do not want you to marry any one. I did think

oncebut let that pass. You are now twentythree. In ten years' time you will still be a young man. I only

'I mean as regards money, Frank; you know I mean that; how are you to live? Where are you to go? And then,

'Birth! I hate such pretence. What wasbut I won't talk about it. Mother, I tell you my word is pledged, and

'Ah, that's just it; that's just the point. Now, Frank, listen to me. Pray listen to me patiently for one minute.'

Frank promised that he would listen patiently; but he looked anything but patient as he said so.

'I have seen Mary, as it was certainly my duty to do. You cannot be angry with me for that.'

'Well, I have seen her, and I must own, that though she was not disposed to be courteous to me, personally,

she said much that marked her excellent good sense. But the gist of it was this; that as she had made you a

'Wait a moment, Frank, and listen to me. She confessed that this marriage was one which would necessarily

bring distress on all your family; that it was one which would probably be ruinous to yourself; that it was a

match which could not be approved of: she did, indeed; she confessed all that. "I have nothing", she

saidthose were her own words"I have nothing to say in favour of this engagement, except that he wishes

it." That is what she thinks of it herself. "His wishes are not a reason; but a law," she said'

'It is not deserting, Frank: it would not be deserting: you would be doing that which she herself approves of.

She feels the impropriety of going on; but she cannot draw back because of her promise to you. She thinks

'I do believe she does, because she has sense to feel the truth of all that your friends say. Oh, Frank, I will go

'You should think twice, Frank, before you refuse the only request your mother ever made you. And why do I

ask you? why do I come to you thus? Is it for my own sake? Oh, my boy! my darling boy! will you lose

everything in life, because you love the child with whom you played with as a child?'

'Whose fault is it that we were together as children? She is now more than a child. I look on her already as my

'But she is not your wife, Frank; and she knows that she ought not to be. It is only because you hold her to it

Lady Arabella would probably have said this, also, had she dared; but she felt that in doing so, she would be

going too far. It was useless for her to say anything that would be utterly contradicted by an appeal to Mary

'No, Frank; I do not mean to say that you do not love her. What I do mean is this: that it is not becoming in

you to give up everythingnot only yourself, but all your familyfor such a love as this; and that she, Mary

herself acknowledges this. Every one is of the same opinion. Ask your father: I need not say that he would

'Yes, they are my relations, I know that.' Lady Arabella could not quite drop the tone of bitterness which was

natural to her in saying this. 'But ask your sisters; ask Mr Oriel, whom you esteem so much; ask your friend

Frank sat silent for a moment or two while his mother, with a look almost of agony, gazed into his face. 'I

'And you will sacrifice all to such a love as that, all; her, also, whom you say that you so love? What

happiness can you give her as your wife? Oh, Frank! is that the only answer you will make to your mother on

'No, Frank, I will not let you ruin yourself; I will not let you destroy yourself. Promise this, at least, that you

'Ah, but think of it in earnest. You will be absent now in London; you will have the business of the estate to

manage; you will have heavy cares upon your hands. Think of it as a man, and not as a boy.'

'No, Frank, no; grant me that trifle, at any rate. Think upon this without seeing her. Do not proclaim yourself

so weak that you cannot trust yourself to think over what your mother says to you without asking her leave.

Though you be in love, do not be childish with it. What I have told you as coming from her is true, word for

word; if it were not, you would soon learn so. Think now of what I have said, and of what she says, and when

To so much Frank consented after some further parley; namely, that he would proceed to London on the

following Monday morning without again seeing Mary. And in the meantime, she was waiting with sore

heart for his answer to that letter that was lying, and was still to lie for so many hours, in the safe protection

It may seem strange; but, in truth, his mother's eloquence had more effect on Frank than that of his father: and

yet, with his father he had always sympathized. But his mother had been energetic; whereas, his father, if not

lukewarm, had, at any rate, been timid. 'I will ask no one,' Frank had said in the strong determination of his

heart; and yet the words were hardly out of his mouth before he bethought himself that he would talk the

thing over with Harry Baker. 'Not,' said he to himself, 'that I have any doubt: I have no doubt; but I hate to

have all the world against me. My mother wishes me to ask Harry Baker. Harry is a good fellow, and I will

The following day was Sunday. After breakfast Frank went with the family to church, as was usual; and

there, as usual, he saw Mary in Dr Thorne's pew. She, as she looked at him, could not but wonder why he had

not answered the letter which was still at Silverbridge; and he endeavoured to read into her face whether it

was true, as his mother told him, that she was quite ready to give him up. The prayers of both of them were

There was a separate door opening from the Greshamsbury pew out into the Greshamsbury grounds, so that

the family were not forced into unseemly community with the village multitude in going to and from their

prayers; for the front door of the church led out into a road which had no connexion with the private path. It

was not unusual with Frank and his father to go round, after the service, to the chief entrance, so that they

might speak to their neighbours, and get rid of some of the exclusiveness which was intended for them. On

this morning the squire did so; but Frank walked home with his mother and sisters, so that Mary saw no more

I have said that he walked home with his mother and sisters; but he rather followed in their path. He was not

inclined to talk much, at least, not to them; and he continued asking himself the questionwhether it could

be possible that he was wrong in remaining true to his promise? Could it be that he owed more to his father

After church, Mr Gazebee tried to get hold of him, for there was still much to be said, and many hints to be

given, as to how Frank should speak, and, more especially, as to how to hold his tongue among the learned

pundits in and about Chancery Lane. 'You must be very wide awake with Messrs Slow and Bideawhile,' said

Mr Gazebee. But Frank would not hearken to him just at that moment. He was going to ride over to Harry

Baker, so he put Mr Gazebee off till the halfhour before dinner,or else the halfhour after tea.

On the previous day he had received a letter from Miss Dunstable, which he had hitherto read but once. His

mother had interrupted him as he was about to refer to it; and now, as his father's nag was being saddledhe

Miss Dunstable had written in excellent humour. She was in great distress about the oil of Lebanon, she said.

'I have been trying to get a purchaser for the last two years; but my lawyer won't let me sell it, because the

wouldbe purchasers offer a thousand pounds or so less than the value. I would give ten to get rid of the bore;

but I am as little able to act myself as Sancho was in his government. The oil of Lebanon! Did you hear

anything of it when you were in those parts? I thought of changing the name to "London particular"; but my

'I was going down to your neighbourhoodto your friend the duke's, at least. But I am prevented by my poor

doctor, who is so weak that I must take him to Malvern. It is a great bore; but I have the satisfaction that I do

'Your cousin George is to be married at last. So I hear, at least. He loves wisely, if not well; for his widow has

the name of being prudent and fairly well to do in the world. She has got over the caprices of her youth. Dear

Aunt De Courcy will be so delighted. I might perhaps have met her at Gatherum Castle. I do so regret it.

'Mr Moffat has turned up again. We all thought you had finally extinguished him. He left a card the other

day, and I have told the servant always to say that I am at home, and that you are with me. He is going to

stand for some borough in the west of Ireland. He's used to shillelaghs by this time.

'By the by, I have a cadeau for a friend of yours. I won't tell you what it is, nor permit you to communicate

the fact. But when you tell me that in sending it I may fairly congratulate her on having so devoted a slave as

'If you have nothing better to do at present, do come and see my invalid at Malvern. Perhaps you might have

a mind to treat for the oil of Lebanon. I'll give you all the assistance I can in cheating my lawyers.'

There was not much about Mary in this; but still, the little that was said made him again declare that neither

father nor mother should move him from his resolution. 'I will write to her and say that she may send her

present when she pleases. Or I will run down to Malvern for a day. It will do me good to see her.' And so he

resolved, he rode away to Mill Hill, thinking, as he went, how he would put the matter to Harry Baker.

Harry was at home; but we need not describe the whole interview. Had Frank been asked beforehand, he

would have declared, that on no possible subject could he have had the slightest hesitation in asking Harry

any question, or communicating to him any tidings. But when the time came, he found that he did hesitate

much. He did not want to ask his friend if he should be wise to marry Mary Thorne. Wise or not, he was

determined to do that. But he wished to be quite sure that his mother was wrong in saying that all the world

At last, seated on a stile at the back of the Mill Hill stables, while Harry stood close before him with both his

hands in his pockets, he did get his story told. It was by no means the first time that Harry Baker had heard

about Mary Thorne, and he was not, therefore, so surprised as he might have been, had the affair been new to

him. And thus, standing there in the position we have described, did Mr Baker, junior, give utterance to such

'You see, Frank, there are two sides to every question; and, as I take it, fellows are so apt to go wrong because

they are so fond of one side, they won't look at the other. There's no doubt about it, Lady Arabella is a very

clever woman, and knows what's what; and there's no doubt about this either, that you have a very ticklish

'Well and good, my dear fellow. That's the best game always. But what is straightforward? Between you and

me, I fear there's no doubt that your father's property has got into a deuce of a mess.'

'Yes, but it has. If the estate was all right, and your father could give you a thousand a year to live on without

feeling it, and if your eldest child would be cocksure of Greshamsbury, it might be very well that you

should please yourself as to marrying at once. But that's not the case; and yet Greshamsbury is too good a

'Ah! you think so,' said Harry the Wise. 'But if you were to hear tomorrow that Sir Louis Scatcherd were

master of the whole place, and be dd to him, you would feel very uncomfortable.' Had Harry known how

near Sir Louis was to his last struggle, he would not have spoken of him in this manner. 'That's all very fine

talk, but it won't bear wear and tear. You do care for Greshamsbury if you are the fellow I take you to be:

care for it very much; and you care too much for your father being Gresham of Greshamsbury.'

'Ah, but it will affect him very much. If you were to marry Miss Thorne tomorrow, there would at once be

'And do you mean to say I'm to be a liar to her for such reasons as that? Why, Harry, I should be as bad as

'I must differ from you there altogether; but mind, I don't mean to say anything. Tell me that you have made

up your mind to marry her, and I'll stick to you through thick and thin. But if you ask my advice, why, I must

give it. It is quite a different affair to that of Moffat's. He had lots of tin, everything he could want, and there

could be no reason why he should not marry,except that he was a snob, of whom your sister was well quit.

But this is very different. If I, as your friend, were to put it to Miss Thorne, what do you think she would say

'Exactly: because she is a trump. And I say the same. There can be no doubt about it, Frank, my boy: such a

marriage would be very foolish for you both; very foolish. Nobody can admire Miss Thorne more than I do;

but you oughtn't to be a marrying man for the next ten years, unless you get a fortune. If you tell her the truth,

and if she's the girl I take her to be, she'll not accuse you of being false. She'll peak for a while; and so will

you, old chap. But others have had to do that before you. They have got over it and so will you.'

Such was the spoken wisdom of Harry Baker, and who can say that he was wrong? Frank sat a while on his

rustle seat, paring his nails with his penknife, and then looking up, he thus thanked his friend:

'I'm sure you mean well, Harry; and I'm much obliged to you. I dare say you're right too. But, somehow, it

doesn't come home to me. And what is more, after what has passed, I could not tell her that I wish to part

from her. I could not do it. And besides, I have that sort of feeling, that if I heard she was to marry any one

'Well, Frank, you may count on me for anything, except the last proposition:' and so they shook hands, and

On the Monday morning at six o'clock, Mr Oriel and Frank started together; but early as it was, Beatrice was

up to give them a cup of coffee, Mr Oriel having slept that night in the house. Whether Frank would have

received the coffee from his sister's fair hands had not Mr Oriel been there, may be doubted. He, however,

loudly asserted that he should not have done so, when she laid claim to great merit for rising on his behalf.

Mr Oriel had been specially instigated by Lady Arabella to use the opportunity of their joint journey, for

pointing out to Frank the iniquity as well as madness of the course he was pursuing; and he had promised to

obey her ladyship's request. But Mr Oriel was perhaps not an enterprising man, and was certainly not a

presumptuous one. He did intend to do as he was bid; but when he began, with the object of leading up to the

subject of Frank's engagement, he always softened down into some much easier enthusiasm in the matter of

his own engagement with Beatrice. He had not that perspicuous, but not oversensitive strength of mind

which had enabled Harry Baker to express his opinion out at once; and boldly as he did it, yet to do so

Four times before the train arrived in London, he made some little attempt; but four times he failed. As the

subject was matrimony, it was his easiest course to begin about himself; but never could he get any further.

'No man was ever more fortunate in a wife than I shall be,' he said, with a soft, euphuistic selfcomplacency,

which would have been silly had it been adopted to any other person than the bride's brother. His intention,

however, was very good, for he meant to show, that in his case marriage was prudent and wise, because his

'Yes,' said Frank. 'She is an excellent good girl:' he had said it three times before, and was not very energetic.

'Yes, and so exactly suited to me; indeed, all that I could have dreamed of. How very well she looked this

'You mustn't expect her to look like that always at six o'clock a.m.,' said Frank, laughing. 'Young ladies only

take that trouble on very particular occasions. She wouldn't have come down like that if my father or I had

been going alone. No, and she won't do that for you in a couple of years' time.'

'Oh, but she's always nice. I have seen her at home as much almost as you could do; and then she's so

'Oh, yes, of course; that is, I am sure she is,' said Frank, looking solemn as became him.

'A married life, I'm sure, the happiest in the worldif people are only in a position to marry,' said Mr Oriel,

'Yes; quite so. Do you know, Oriel, I never was so sleepy in my life. What with all that fuss of Gazebee's, and

one thing and another, I could not get to bed till one o'clock; and then I couldn't sleep. I'll take a snooze now,

if you won't think it uncivil.' And then, putting his feet on the opposite seat, he settled himself comfortably to

his rest. And so Mr Oriel's last attempt for lecturing Frank in the railwaycarriage faded away and was

By twelve o'clock Frank was with Messrs Slow Bideawhile. Mr Bideawhile was engaged at the moment, but

he found the managing Chancery clerk to be a very chatty gentleman. Judging from what he saw, he would

have said that the work to be done at Messrs Slow Bideawhile's was not very heavy.

'Excellent security; no better; and yet he will foreclose; but you see he has no power himself. But the question

is, can the trustee refuse? Then, again, trustees are so circumscribed nowadays that they are afraid to do

anything. There has been so much said lately, Mr Gresham, that a man doesn't know where he is, or what he

is doing. Nobody trusts anybody. There have been such terrible things that we can't wonder at it. Only think

of the case of those Hills! How can any one expect that any one else will ever trust a lawyer again after that?

But that's Mr Bideawhile's bell. How can one expect it? He will see you now, I dare say, Mr Gresham.'

So it turned out, and Frank was ushered into the presence of Mr Bideawhile. He had got his lesson by heart,

and was going to rush into the middle of his subject; such a course, however, was not in accordance with Mr

Bideawhile's usual practice. Mr Bideawhile got up from his large woodenseated Windsor chair, and, with a

soft smile, in which, however, was mingled some slight dash of the attorney's acuteness, put out his hand to

his young client; not, indeed, as though he were going to shake hands with him, but as though the hand were

some ripe fruit all but falling, which his visitor might take and pluck if he thought proper. Frank took hold of

the hand, which returned no pressure, and then let it go again, not making any attempt to gather the fruit.

'I have a great regard for your father. So I had for your grandfather; a very good man indeed. You, perhaps,

'Oh, yes; no, you of course, can't remember him; but I do well: he used to be very fond of some port wine I

had. I think it was "11"; and if I don't mistake, I have a bottle or two of it yet; but it is not worth drinking

now. Port wine, you know, won't keep beyond a certain time. That was very good wine. I don't exactly

remember what it stood me a dozen then; but such wine can't be had now. As for the Madeira, you know

'I'm sorry for that, for it's a fine wine; but then there's none of it left, you know. I have a few dozen, I'm told

they're growing pumpkins where the vineyards were. I wonder what they do with all the pumpkins they grow

'It's a beautiful country; my girls made me go there last year. They said it would do me good; but then you

know, they wanted to see it themselves; ha! ha! ha! However, I believe I shall go again this autumn. That is to

Aix, or some of those places; just for three weeks. I can't spare any more time, Mr Gresham. Do you like that

'One would get tired of iteh! But they gave us capital dinners at Zurich. I don't think much of their soup.

But they had fish, and about seven kinds of meats and poultry, and three or four puddings, and things of that

sort. Upon my word, I thought we did very well, and so did my girls, too. You see a great many ladies

'Upon my word, I think they are right; that is, if they can afford time. I can't afford time. I'm here every day

till five, Mr Gresham; then I go out and dine in Fleet Street, and then back to work till nine.'

'Well, yes it is hard work. My boys don't like it; but I manage somehow. I get down to my little place in the

Frank, thinking it would be outrageous on his part to take up much of the time of the gentleman who was

constrained to work so unreasonably hard, began again to talk about his mortgages, and, in so doing, had to

'Ah, poor Umblelby!' said Mr Bideawhile; 'what is he doing now? I am quite sure your father was right, or he

wouldn't have done it; but I used to think that Umbleby was a decent sort of man enough. Not so grand, you

know, as your Gazebees and Gumptionseh, Mr Gresham? They do say young Gazebee is thinking of

getting into Parliament. Let me see: Umbleby marriedwho was it he married? That was the way your father

got hold of him; not your father, but your grandfather. I used to know all about it. Well, I was sorry for

Frank said that he believed Mr Yates Umbleby had something wherewith to keep the wolf from the door.

'So you have got Gazebee down there now? Gumption, Gazebee Gazebee: very good people, I'm sure; only,

'Well, about Sir Louis; a very bad sort of fellow, isn't he? Drinkseh? I knew his father a little. He was a

rough diamond, too. I was once down in Northamptonshire, about some railway business; let me see; I almost

forget whether I was with him, or against him. But I know he made sixty thousand pounds by one hour's

work; sixty thousand pounds! And then he got so mad with drinking that we all thought'

And so Mr Bideawhile went on for two hours, and Frank found no opportunity of saying one word about the

business which had brought him up to town. What wonder that such a man as this should be obliged to stay at

During these two hours, a clerk had come in three or four times, whispering something to the lawyer, who, on

the last of such occasions, turned to Frank, saying, 'Well, perhaps that will do for today. If you'll manage to

call tomorrow, say about two, I will have the whole thing looked up; or, perhaps Wednesday or Thursday

would suit you better.' Frank, declaring that the morrow would suit him very well, took his departure,

wondering much at the manner in which business was done at the house of Messrs Slow and Bideawhile.

When he called the next day, the office seemed to be rather disturbed, and he was shown quickly into Mr

Bideawhile's room. 'Have you heard this?' said that gentleman, putting a telegram into his hands. It contained

tidings of the death of Sir Louis Scatcherd. Frank immediately knew that these tidings must be of importance

to his father; but he had no idea how vitally they concerned his own more immediate interests.

'Dr Thorne will be up in town on Thursday evening after the funeral,' said the talkative clerk. 'And nothing of

course can be done till he comes,' said Mr Bideawhile. And so Frank, pondering on the mutability of human

He could do nothing now but wait for Dr Thorne's arrival, and so he amused himself in the interval by

running down to Malvern, and treating with Miss Dunstable in person for the oil of Lebanon. He went down

on the Wednesday, and thus, failed to receive, on the Thursday morning, Mary's letter, which reached

London on that day. He returned, however, on the Friday, and then got it; and perhaps it was well for Mary's

happiness that he had seen Miss Dunstable in the interval. 'I don't care what your mother says,' said she, with

emphasis. 'I don't care for any Harry, whether it be Harry Baker or old Harry himself. You made her a

promise, and you are bound to keep it; if not on one day, then on another. What! because you cannot draw

back yourself, get out of it by inducing her to do so! Aunt de Courcy herself could not improve upon that.'

Fortified in this manner, he returned to town on the Friday morning, and then got Mary's letter. Frank also got

a note from Dr Thorne, stating that he had taken up his temporary domicile at the Gray's Inn Coffeehouse,

It has been suggested that the modern English writers of fiction should among them keep a barrister, in order

that they may be set right on such legal points as will arise in their little narratives, and thus avoid the

exposure of their own ignorance of the laws, which, now, alas! they too often make. The idea as worthy of

consideration, and I can only say, that if such an arrangement can be made, and if a counsellor adequately

skilful can be found to accept the office, I shall be happy to subscribe my quota; it would be but a modest

But as the suggestion has not yet been carried out, and as there is at present no learned gentleman whose duty

would induce him to set me right, I can only plead for mercy if I be wrong allotting all Sir Roger's vast

possessions in perpetuity to Miss Thorne, alleging also, in excuse, that the course of my narrative absolutely

demands that she shall be ultimately recognized as Sir Roger's undoubted heiress.

Such, after a not immoderate delay, was the opinion expressed to Dr Thorne by his law advisers; and such, in

fact, turned out to be the case. I will leave the matter so, hoping that my very absence of defence may serve to

protect me from severe attack. If under such a will as that described as having been made by Sir Roger, Mary

But it was not quite at once that those tidings made themselves absolutely certain to Dr Thorne's mind; nor

was he able to express any such opinion when he first met Frank in London. At that time Mary's letter was in

Frank's pocket; and Frank, though his real business appertained much more to the fact of Sir Louis's death,

and the effect that would immediately have on his father's affairs, was much more full of what so much more

nearly concerned himself. 'I will show it Dr Thorne himself,' said he, 'and ask him what he thinks.'

Dr Thorne was stretched fast asleep on the comfortless horsehair sofa in the dingy sittingroom at the

Gray's Inn Coffeehouse when Frank found him. The funeral, and his journey to London, and the lawyers

had together conquered his energies, and he lay and snored, with nose upright, while heavy London summer

flies settled on his head and face, and robbed his slumbers of half their charms.

'I beg your pardon,' said he, jumping up as though he had been detected in some disgraceful act. 'Upon my

word, Frank, I beg your pardon; butwell, my dear fellow, all well at Greshamsburyeh?' and as he shook

himself, he made a lunge at one uncommonly disagreeable fly that had been at him for the last ten minutes. It

'At Malvern, eh? Ah! so Oriel told me. The death of poor Sir Louis was very suddenwas it not?'

'Poor fellowpoor fellow! His fate has for some time been past hope. It is a madness, Frank; the worst of

madness. Only think of itfather and son! And such a career as the father hadsuch a career as the son

'May it be all forgiven him! I sometimes cannot but believe in a special Providence. That poor fellow was not

able, never would have been able, to make proper use of the means which fortune had given him. I hope they

may fall into better hands. There is no use in denying it, his death will be an immense relief to me, and a

relief also to your father. All this law business will now, of course, be stopped. As for me, I hope I may never

Frank had put his hand four or five times into his breastpocket, and had as often taken out and put back

again Mary's letter before he could find himself able to bring Dr Thorne to the subject. At last there was a lull

in the purely legal discussion, caused by the doctor intimating that he supposed Frank would now soon return

'No, I shall go tomorrow. I'm not fit for company for any one. Nor am I fit for anything. Read that, doctor.

It's no use putting it off any longer. I must get you to talk this over with me. Just read that, and tell me what

you think about it. It was written a week ago, but somehow I have only got it today.' And putting the letter

into the doctor's hands, he turned away to the window, and looked out among the Holborn omnibuses. Dr

Thorne took the letter and read it. Mary, after she had written it, had bewailed to herself that the letter was

cold; but it had not seemed cold to her lover, nor did it appear so to her uncle. When Frank turned round from

the window, the doctor's handkerchief was up to his eyes; who, in order to hide the tears that were there, was

Well! what did well mean? Was it well? or would it be well were he, Frank, to comply with the suggestion

'It is impossible,' he said, 'that matters should go on like that. Think what her sufferings must have been

'And it is out of the question that she should be sacrificed; nor will I consent to sacrifice my own happiness. I

am quite willing to work for my bread, and I am sure that I am able. I will not submit toDoctor, what

answer do you think I ought to give to that letter? There can be no person so anxious for her happiness as you

areexcept myself.' And as he asked the question, he again put into the doctor's hands, almost

'You see, Frank, I have never interfered in this matter, otherwise than to tell you the whole truth about Mary's

'Circumstanced as you are nowthat is, just at the present momentyou could hardly marry immediately.'

'Why not let me take a farm? My father could, at any rate, manage a couple of thousand pounds or so for me

to stock it. That would not be asking much. If he could not give it me, I would not scruple to borrow so much

'Then why not marry immediately; say in six months or so? I am not unreasonable; though, Heaven knows, I

have been kept in suspense long enough. As for her, I am sure she must be suffering frightfully. You know

her best, and, therefore, I ask you what answer I ought to make: as for myself, I have made up my own mind;

Frank, as he spoke, was walking rapidly about the room; and h brought out his different positions, one after

the other, with a little pause, while waiting for the doctor's answer. The doctor was sitting, with the letter still

in his hands, on the head of the sofa, turning over in his mind the apparent absurdity of Frank's desire to

borrow two thousand pounds for a farm, when, in all human probability, he might in a few months be in

possession of almost any sum he should choose to name. And yet he would not tell him of Sir Roger's will. 'If

'No. How can I wish it? How can I expect a better match for her? Besides, Frank, I love no man in the world

'Against! no, not against anybody. But will you tell Mary she has your consent?'

'Look here, Frank; you ask me for my advice, and I will give it you: go home, though, indeed, I would rather

'Very well, go home: as for seeing Mary, I think you had better put it off for a fortnight.'

'Well, that's my advice. But, at any rate, make up your mind to nothing for a fortnight. Wait for one fortnight,

and I then will tell you plainlyyou and her toowhat I think you ought to do. At the end of a fortnight

come to me, and tell the squire that I will take it as a great kindness if he will come with you. She has

suffered terribly, terribly; and it is necessary that something should be settled. But a fortnight can make no

'Tell her to wait a fortnight. And, Frank, mind you bring your father with you.'

Frank could draw nothing further from his friend save constant repetitions of this charge to him to wait a

'Well, I will come to you at any rate,' said Frank; 'and, if possible, I will bring my father. But I shall write to

On the Saturday morning, Mary, who was then nearly brokenhearted at her lover's silence, received a short

'I shall be home tomorrow. I will by no means release you from your promise. Of course you will perceive

Short as it was, this sufficed Mary. It is one thing for a young lady to make prudent, heartbreaking

suggestions, but quite another to have them accepted. She did call him dearest Frank, even on that one day,

Frank returned home, and his immediate business was of course with his father, and with Mr Gazebee, who

'But who is the heir?' asked Mr Gazebee, when Frank had explained that the death of Sir Louis rendered

Mr Gazebee looked rather solemn. 'I wonder at that,' said he; 'for everything depends on the hands the

property will go into. Let me see; I think Sir Roger had a married sister. Was not that so, Mr Gresham?' And

then it occurred for the first time, both to the squire and to his son, that Mary Thorne was the eldest child of

this sister. But it never occurred to either of them that Mary could be the baronet's heir.

Dr Thorne came down for a couple of days before the fortnight was over to see his patients, and then returned

again to London. But during this short visit he was utterly dumb on the subject of the heir. He called at

Greshamsbury to see Lady Arabella, and was even questioned by the squire on the subject. But he obstinately

refused to say anything more than nothing certain could be known for a few days.

Immediately after his return, Frank saw Mary, and told her all that had happened. 'I cannot understand my

uncle,' said she, almost trembling as she stood close to him in her own drawingroom. 'He usually hates

mysteries, and yet now he is so mysterious. He told me, Frankthat was after I had written that unfortunate

'Unfortunate indeed! I wonder what you really thought of me when you were writing it?'

'If you had heard what your mother said, you would not be surprised. But, after that, uncle said'

'He seemed to thinkI don't remember what it was he said. But he said, he hoped that things might yet turn

'Of course you were sorry, and so you ought to have been. To say that you would never call me Frank again!'

'I have told him that I will wait a fortnight, and so I will. After that, I shall take the matter into my own

It may be supposed that Lady Arabella was not well pleased to learn that Frank and Mary had been again

together; and, in the agony of her spirit, she did say some illnatured things before Augusta, who had now

returned home from Courcy Castle, as to the gross impropriety of Mary's conduct. But to Frank she said

Nor was there much said between Frank and Beatrice. If everything could really be settled at the end of that

fortnight which was to witness the disclosure of the doctor's mystery, there would still be time to arrange that

Mary should be at the wedding. 'It shall be settled then,' he said to himself; 'and if it be settled, my mother

will hardly venture to exclude my affianced bride from the house.' It was now the beginning of August, and it

But though he said nothing to his mother or to Beatrice, he did say much to his father. In the first place, he

showed him Mary's letter. 'If your heart be not made of stone it will be softened by that,' he said. Mr

Gresham's heart was not of stone, and he did acknowledge that the letter was a very sweet letter. But we

know how the drop of water hollows stone. It was not by the violence of his appeal that Frank succeeded in

obtaining from his father a sort of halfconsent that he would no longer oppose the match; but by the

assiduity with which the appeal was repeated. Frank, as we have said, had more stubbornness of will than his

father; and so, before the fortnight was over, the squire had been talked over, and promised to attend at the

'I suppose you had better take the Hazlehurst farm,' said he to his son, with a sigh. 'It joins the park and the

homefields, and I will give you them up also. God knows, I don't care about farming any moreor about

'Well, well! But, Frank, where will you live? The old house is big enough for us all. But how would Mary get

At the end of this fortnight, true to his time, the doctor returned to the village. He was a bad correspondent;

and though he had written some short notes to Mary, he had said no word to her about his business. It was

late in the evening when he got home, and it was understood by Frank and the squire that they were to be

with him on the following morning. Not a word had been said to Lady Arabella on the subject.

It was late in the evening when he got home, and Mary waited for him with a heart almost sick with

expectation. As soon as the fly had stopped at the little gate she heard his voice, and heard at once that it was

quick, joyful, and telling much of inward satisfaction. He had a goodnatured word for Janet, and called

'He'll have his nose put out of joint some day; won't he?' said the doctor. Bridget blushed and laughed again,

Mary was in his arms before he was yet within the door. 'My darling,' said he, tenderly kissing her. 'You are

'Well, well; let me have some tea, at any rate, for I'm in a fever of thirst. They may call that tea at the Junction

if they will; but if China were sunk under the sea it would make no difference to them.'

Dr Thorne always was in a fever of thirst when he got home from the railway, and always made complaint as

to tea at the Junction. Mary went about her usual work with almost more than her usual alacrity, and so they

She soon found that his manner was more than ordinarily kind to her; and there was moreover something

about him which seemed to make him sparkle with contentment, but he said no word about Frank, nor did he

'Yes; thoroughly, I think. But I am very tired, and so are you too, darling, with waiting for me.'

'Oh, no, I am not tired,' said she, as she went on continually filling his cup; 'but I am so happy to have you

'Ah, yes; well I suppose I shall not go away any more now. It will be somebody else's turn now.'

'Uncle, I think you are going to take up writing mystery romances, like Mrs Radciffe's.'

'Yes; and I'll begin tomorrow, certainly withBut, Mary, I will not say another word tonight. Give me a

Mary did kiss him, and he did go. But as she was still lingering in the room, putting away a book, or a reel of

thread, and then sitting down to think what the morrow would bring forth, the doctor again came into the

'You and I, Mary, have always affected a good deal of indifference as to money, and all that sort of thing.'

'I suppose, uncle, you think that we are like the fox that lost his tail, or rather some unfortunate fox that might

'I wonder how we should either of us bear it if we found ourselves suddenly rich. It would be a great

temptationa sore temptation. I fear, Mary, that when poor people talk disdainfully of money, they often are

like your fox, born without a tail. If nature suddenly should give that beast a tail, would he not be prouder of

'Well, I suppose he would. That's the very meaning of the story. But how moral you've become all of a

sudden, at twelve o'clock at night! Instead of being Mrs Radcliffe, I shall think you're Mr Aesop.'

He took up the article which he had come to seek, and kissing her again on the forehead, went away to his

bedroom without further speech. 'What can he mean by all this about money?' said Mary to herself. 'It

cannot be that by Sir Louis's death he will get any of all this property;' and then she began to bethink herself

whether, after all, she would wish him to be a rich man. 'If he were very rich, he might do something to assist

There never was a fox yet without a tail who would not be delighted to find himself suddenly possessed of

that appendage. Never; let the untailed fox have been ever so sincere in his advice to his friends! We are all

of us, the good and the bad, looking for tailsfor one tail, or for more than one; we do so too often by ways

that are mean enough: but perhaps there is no tailseeker more mean, more sneakingly mean than he who

The doctor was up very early the next morning, long before Mary was ready with her teacups. He was up, and

in his own study behind the shop, arranging dingy papers, pulling about tin boxes which he had brought down

with him from London, and piling on his writingtable one set of documents in one place, and one in another.

'I think I understand it all,' said he; 'but yet I know I shall be bothered. Well, I never will be anyone's trustee

again. Let me see!' and then he sat down, and with bewildered look recapitulated to himself sundry heavy

items. 'What those shares are really worth I cannot understand, and nobody seems to be able to tell one. They

must make it out among them as best they can. Let me see; that's Boxall Hill, and this is Greshamsbury. I'll

put a newspaper over Greshamsbury, or the squire will know it!' and then, having made his arrangements, he

I know I am wrong, my much and truly honoured critic, about these titledeeds and documents. But when

we've got a barrister in hand, then if I go wrong after that, let the blame be on my own shouldersor on his.

The doctor ate his breakfast quickly; and did not talk much to his niece. But what he did say was of a nature

to make her feel strangely happy. She could not analyse her own feelings, or give a reason for her own

confidence; but she certainly did feel, and even trust, that something was going to happen after breakfast

'Janet,' said he, looking at his watch, 'if Mr Gresham and Mr Frank call, show them into my study. What are

'I don't know, uncle; you are so mysterious, and I am in such a twitter, that I don't know what to do. Why is

'Because I have business with him about the Scatcherd property. You know that he owed Sir Louis money.

But don't go out, Mary. I want you to be in the way if I should have to call for you. You can stay in the

'No, dearest; go into the drawingroom.' Mary obediently did as she was bid; and there she sat, for the next

three hours, wondering, wondering, wondering. During the greater part of that time, however, she well knew

that Mr Gresham, senior, and Mr Gresham, junior, were both with her uncle, below.

At eleven the doctor's visitors came. he had expected them somewhat earlier, and was beginning to become

fidgety. He had so much on his hands that he could not sit still for a moment till he had, at any rate,

commenced it. The expected footsteps were at last heard on the gravelpath, and moment or two afterwards

The squire did not look very well. He was worn and sorrowful, and rather pale. The death of his young

creditor might be supposed to have given him some relief from his more pressing cares, but the necessity of

yielding to Frank's wishes had almost more than balanced this. When a man has daily to reflect that he is

But Frank was well; both in health and spirits. He also felt as Mary did, that the day was to bring forth

something which should end his present troubles; and he could not but be happy to think that he could now

The doctor shook hands with them both, and then they sat down. They were all rather constrained in their

manner; and at first it seemed that nothing but little speeches of compliment were to be made. At last, the

'Yes; about Mary,' said the squire, correcting himself. It was quite unnecessary that he should use so cold a

'I suppose it must be so, doctor. He has set his heart upon it, and God knows, I have nothing to say against

heragainst her personally. No one could say a word against her. She is a sweet, good girl, excellently

brought up; and, as for myself, I have always loved her.' Frank drew near to his father, and pressed his hand

against the squire's arm, by way of giving him, in some sort, a filial embrace for his kindness.

'Thank you, squire, thank you,' said the doctor. 'It is very good of you to say that. She is a good girl, and if

The squire felt himself perhaps a little ruffled at the way in which the doctor received his gracious intimation;

but he did now show it as he went on. 'They cannot, you know, doctor, look to be rich people'

'I have told Frank so, and I think that you should tell Mary. Frank means to take some land into his hand, and

he must farm it as a farmer. I will endeavour to give him three, or perhaps four hundred a year. But you know

'Stop, squire; stop a minute. We will talk about that presently. This death of poor Sir Louis will make a

'And now, Frank,' said the doctor, not attending to the squire's last words, 'what do you say?'

'What do I say? I say what I said to you in London the other day. I believe Mary loves me; indeed, I won't be

affectedI know she does. I have loved herI was going to say always; and, indeed, I almost might say so.

My father knows that this is no light fancy of mine. As to what he says about our being poor, why'

'Mr Gresham,' said he, interrupting Frank, 'of course I am well aware how very little suited Mary is by birth

'It is not too late for me to justify myself,' replied the doctor. 'We have long known each other, Mr Gresham,

and you said here the other day, that this is a subject as to which we have been of one mind. Birth and blood

'Stop a moment, my dear boy,' said the doctor. 'As your father says, one can't have everything. My dear

friend' and he gave his hand to the squire'do not be angry if I alluded for a moment to the estate. It has

grieved me to see it melting awaythe old family acres that have so long been the heritage of the Greshams.'

'We need not talk about that now, Dr Thorne,' said Frank, in an almost angry tone.

'But I must, Frank, for one moment, to justify myself. I could not have excused myself in letting Mary think

'Well; good will come of it,' said Frank, who did not quite understand at what the doctor was driving.

'I hope so. I have had much doubt about this, and have been sorely perplexed; but now I do hope so.

FrankMr Gresham' and then Dr Thorne rose from his chair; but was, for a moment, unable to go on with

'Yes; I hope it is. I do think it is; I am sure it is, Frank. Mary will not come to you emptyhanded. I wish for

your sakeyes, and for hers toothat her birth were equal to her fortune, as her worth is superior to both.

Mr Gresham, this marriage will, at any rate, put an end to your pecuniary embarrassmentsunless, indeed,

The doctor, as soon as he made the announcement, began to employ himself sedulously about the papers on

the table; which, in the confusion caused by his own emotion, he transferred hither and thither in such a

manner as to upset all his previous arrangements. 'And now,' he said, 'I might as well explain, as well as I

'But, Dr Thorne,' said the squire, now perfectly pale, and almost gasping for breath, 'what is it you mean?'

'There's not a shadow of doubt,' said the doctor. 'I've had Sir Abraham Haphazard, and Sir Rickety Giggs, and

old Neversaye Dis, and Mr Snilam; and they are all of the same opinion. There is not the smallest doubt about

it. Of course, she must administer, and all that; and I'm afraid there'll be a very heavy sum to pay for the tax;

for she cannot inherit as a niece, you know. Mr Snilam pointed out that particularly. But, after all that, there'll

beI've got it down on a piece of paper, somewherethree grains of blue pill. I'm really so bothered,

squire, with all these papers, and all those lawyers, that I don't know whether I'm sitting or standing. There's

ready money enough to pay all the tax and all the debts. I know that, at any rate.'

'You don't mean to say that Mary Thorne is now possessed of all Sir Roger Scatcherd's wealth?' at last

'But that's exactly what I do mean to say,' said the doctor, looking up from his papers with a tear in his eye,

and a smile on his mouth; 'and what is more, squire, you owe her at the present moment exactlyI've got

that down too, somewhere, only I am so bothered with all these papers. Come, squire, when do you mean to

pay her? She's in a great hurry, as young ladies are when they want to get married.'

The doctor was inclined to joke if possible, so as to carry off, as it were, some of the great weight of

obligation which it might seem that he was throwing on the father and son; but the squire was by no means in

a state to understand a joke: hardly as yet in a state to comprehend what was so very serious in this matter.

'Indeed I do,' said the doctor; and he was just going to add, 'and of Greshamsbury also,' but he stopped

'That's only a small portion,' said the doctor. 'I almost wish it were all, for then I would not be so bothered.

Look here; these are the Boxall Hill titledeeds; that's the simplest part of the whole affair; and Frank may go

'Stop a moment, Dr Thorne,' said Frank. These were the only words which he had yet uttered since the tidings

'And these, squire, are the Greshamsbury papers:' and the doctor, with considerable ceremony, withdrew the

covering newspapers. 'Look at them; there they all are once again. When I suggested to Mr Snilam that I

supposed they might now all go back to the Greshamsbury muniment room, I thought he would have fainted.

As I cannot return them to you, you will have to wait till Frank shall give them up.'

'The change is so great and so sudden, so immense in its effects, that Mary may wish perhaps'

'I shall not think of holding her to her engagementthat is, ifI mean to say, she should have time at any

'Oh, I understand,' said the doctor. 'She shall have time for consideration. How much shall we give her,

Frank went to the door, and then hesitated, and returned. 'I could not do it,' said he. 'I don't think that I

understand it all yet. I am so bewildered that I could not tell her;' and he sat down at the table, and began to

'Not a word. I thought that I would keep the pleasure of telling her for Frank.'

'Come, Frank, go up to her,' again urged the doctor. 'You've been ready enough with your visits when you

'I cannot do it,' said Frank, after a pause of some moments; 'nor is it right that I should. It would be taking

After some further slight delay, the doctor got up, and did go upstairs. He, even, was half afraid of the task. 'It

must be done,' he said to himself, as his heavy steps mounted the stairs. 'But how to tell it?'

When he entered, Mary was standing halfway up the room, as though she had risen to meet him. Her face

was troubled, and her eyes were almost wild. The emotion, the hopes, the fears of the morning had almost

been too much for her. She had heard the murmuring of the voices in the room below, and had known that

one of them was that of her lover. Whether that discussion was to be for her good or ill she did not know; but

she felt that further suspense would almost kill her. 'I could wait for years,' she said to herself, 'if I did but

know. If I lost him, I suppose I should bear it, if I did but know.'Well; she was going to know.

Her uncle met her in the middle of the room. His face was serious, though not sad; too serious to confirm her

hopes at that moment of doubt. 'What is it, uncle?' she said, taking one of his hands between both of her own.

'What is it? Tell me.' And as she looked up into his face with her wild eyes, she almost frightened him.

'Mary,' he said gravely, 'you have heard much, I know of Sir Roger Scatcherd's great fortune.'

'To Frank! to Mr Gresham, to the squire!' exclaimed Mary, whe felt, with an agony of doubt, that this sudden

'To me!' she cried, and putting both her hands to her forehead, she seemed to be holding her temples together.

'Yes, Mary; it is all your own now. To do as you like best with it allall. May God, in His mercy, enable

She had so far moved as to find the nearest chair, and there she was now seated, staring at her uncle with

fixed eyes. 'Uncle,' she said, 'what does it mean?' Then he came, and sitting beside her, he explained, as best

he could, the story of her birth, and her kinship with the Scatcherds. 'And where is he, uncle?' she said. 'Why

'I wanted him to come, but her refused. They are both there now, the father and son; shall I fetch them?'

'Is it true? are you sure? For his sake, you know; not for my own. The squire, you knowOh, uncle! I cannot

Nono. I have gone to him such hundreds of times; I will never allow that he shall be sent to me. But, uncle,

The doctor, as he went downstairs, muttered something about Sir Abraham Haphazard, and Sir Rickety

Giggs; but these great names were much thrown away upon poor Mary. The doctor entered the room first,

and the heiress followed him with downcast eyes and timid steps. She was at first afraid to advance, but when

she did look up, and saw Frank standing alone by the window, her lover restored her courage, and rushing up

to him, she threw herself into his arms. 'Oh, Frank; my own Frank! my own Frank! we shall never be

CHAPTER XLVII. HOW THE BRIDE WAS RECEIVED, AND WHO WERE ASKED TO THE WEDDING 335

And thus after all did Frank perform his duty; he did marry money; or rather, as the wedding has not yet

taken place, and is, indeed, as yet hardly talked of, we should more properly say that he had engaged himself

to marry money. And then, such a quantity of money! the Scatcherd wealth greatly exceeded the Dunstable

wealth; so that our hero may be looked on as having performed his duties in a manner deserving the very

And he received it. But that was nothing. That he should be feted by the De Courcys and the Greshams, now

that he was about to do his duty by his family in so exemplary a manner: that he should be patted on the back,

now that he no longer meditated that vile crime which had been so abhorrent to his mother's soul; this was

only natural; this is hardly worthy of remark. But there was another to be feted, another person to be made a

personage, another blessed human mortal about to do her duty by the family of Gresham in a manner that

Dear Mary! It was, indeed, not singular that she should be prepared to act so well, seeing that in early youth

she had had the advantage of an education in the Greshamsbury nursery; but not on that account was it the

less fitting that her virtue should be acknowledged, eulogized, nay, all but worshipped.

How the party at the doctor's got itself broken up, I am not prepared to say. Frank, I know, stayed, and dined

there, and his poor mother, who would not retire to rest till she had kissed him, and blessed him, and thanked

him for all he was doing for the family, was kept waiting in her dressingroom till a very unreasonable hour

It was the squire who brought the news up to the house. 'Arabella,' he said, in a low, but somewhat solemn

voice, 'you will be surprised at the news I bring you. Mary Thorne is the heiress to all the Scatcherd property!'

'Yes, indeed,' continued the squire. 'So it is; it is very, very' But Lady Arabella had fainted. She was a

woman who generally had her feelings and her emotions much under her own control; but what she now

heard was too much for her. When she came to her senses, the first words that escaped her lips were, 'Dear

But the household had to sleep on the news before it could be fully realized. The squire was not by nature a

mercenary man. If I have at all succeeded in putting his character before the reader, he will be recognized as

one not over attached to money for money's sake. But things had gone so hard with him, the world had

become so rough, so ungracious, so full of thorns, the want of means had become an evil so keenly felt in

every hour, that it cannot be wondered at that his dreams that night should be of a golden Elysium. The

wealth was not coming to him. True. But his chief sorrow had been for his son. Now that son would be his

only creditor. It was as though mountains of marble had been taken off his bosom.

But Lady Arabella's dreams flew away at once into the seventh heaven. Sordid as they certainly were, they

were not absolutely selfish. Frank would now certainly be the first commoner in Barsetshire; of course he

would represent the county; of course there would be the house in town; it wouldn't be her house, but she was

contented that the grandeur should be that of her child. He would have heaven knows what to spend per

annum. And that it should come through Mary Thorne! What a blessing she had allowed Mary to be brought

'She will of course be one now,' said Beatrice to her sister. With her, at the present moment, 'one' of course

meant one of the bevy that was to attend her at the altar. 'Oh dear! how nice! I shan't know what to say to her

CHAPTER XLVII. HOW THE BRIDE WAS RECEIVED, AND WHO WERE ASKED TO THE WEDDING 336

'She will be as mild and meek as a little dove. If she and the doctor had lost every shilling in the world, she

would have been proud as an eagle.' It must be acknowledged that Beatrice had had the wit to read Mary's

But Augusta was not quite pleased with the whole affair. Not that she begrudged her brother his luck, or

Mary her happiness. But her ideas of right and wrongperhaps we should rather say Lady Amelia's

'After all, Beatrice, this does not alter her birth. I know it is useless saying anything to Frank.'

'I don't want to break their hearts, certainly. But there are those who put their dearest and warmest feelings

under restraint rather than deviate from what they know to be proper.' Poor Augusta! she was the stern

professor of the order of this philosophy; the last in the family who practised with unflinching courage its

And how slept Frank that night? With him, at least, let us hope, nay, let us say boldly, that his happiest

thoughts were not with the wealth which he was to acquire. But yet it would be something to restore Boxall

Hill to Greshamsbury; something to give back to his father those rumpled vellum documents, since the

departure of which the squire had never had a happy day; nay, something to come forth again to his friends as

a gay, young country squire, instead of a farmer, clodcompelling for his bread. We would not have him

thought to be better than he was, nor would we wish him to make him of other stuff than nature generally

uses. His heart did exult at Mary's wealth; but it leaped higher still when he thought of purer joys.

And what shall we say of Mary's dreams? With her, it was altogether what she should give, not at all what

she should get. Frank had loved her so truly when she was so poor, such an utter castaway; Frank, who with

his beauty, and spirit, and his talents might have won the smiles of the richest, the grandest, the noblest! What

lady's heart would not have rejoiced to be allowed to love her Frank? But he had been true to her through

everything. Ah! how often she thought of that hour, when suddenly appearing before her, he had strained her

to his breast, just as she had resolved how best to bear the deathlike chill of his supposed estrangements!

She was always thinking of that time. She fed her love by recurring over and over to the altered feeling of

that moment. Any now she could pay him for his goodness. Pay him! No, that would be a base word, a base

thought. Her payment must be made, if God would so grant it, in many, many years to come. But her store,

such as it was, should be emptied into his lap. It was soothing to her pride that she would not hurt him by her

love, that she would bring no injury to the old house. 'Dear, dear Frank' she murmured, as her waking dream,

But she thought not only of Frank; dreamed not only of him. What had he not done for her, that uncle of hers,

who had been more loving to her than any father! How was he, too, to be paid? Paid, indeed! Love can only

be paid in its own coin: it knows of no other legal tender. Well, if her home was to be Greshamsbury, at any

What the doctor dreamed of that, neither he or anyone ever knew. 'Why, uncle, I think you've been asleep,'

said Mary to him that evening as he moved for a moment uneasily on the sofa. He had been asleep for the last

threequarters of an hour;but Frank, his guest, had felt no offence. 'No, I've not been exactly asleep,' said

he; 'but I'm very tired. I wouldn't do it all again, Frank, to double the money. You haven't got any more tea,

CHAPTER XLVII. HOW THE BRIDE WAS RECEIVED, AND WHO WERE ASKED TO THE WEDDING 337

On the following morning, Beatrice was of course with her friend. There was no awkwardness between them

in meeting. Beatrice had loved her when she was poor, and though they had not lately thought alike on one

very important subject, Mary was too gracious to impute that to Beatrice as a crime.

'Oh, Mary; let you! Do you remember what you said once about coming, and being near me? I have so often

thought of it. And now, Mary, I must tell you about Caleb;' and the young lady settled herself on the sofa, so

as to have a comfortable long talk. Beatrice had been quite right. Mary was as meek with her, and as mild as a

And then Patience Oriel came. 'My fine, young darling, magnificent, overgrown heiress,' said Patience,

embracing her. 'My breath deserted me, and I was nearly stunned when I heard of it. How small we shall all

be, my dear! I am quite prepared to toady to you immensely; but pray be a little gracious to me, for the sake

Mary gave a long, long kiss. 'Yes, for auld lang syne, Patience; when you took me away under your wing to

Richmond.' Patience also had loved her when she was in trouble, and that love, too, should never be

But the great difficulty was Lady Arabella's first meeting with her. 'I think I'll go down to her after breakfast,'

said her ladyship to Beatrice, as the two were talking over the matter while the mother was finishing her

'She is entitled to every courtesyas Frank's accepted bride, you know,' said Lady Arabella. 'I would not for

'He will be glad enough for her to come, I am sure,' said Beatrice. 'I was talking to Caleb this morning, and he

The matter was of importance, and Lady Arabella gave it her most mature consideration. The manner of

receiving into one's family an heiress whose wealth is cure all one's difficulties, disperse all one's troubles,

give a balm to all the wounds of misfortune, must under any circumstances, be worthy of much care. But

'Oh, certainly; yes, I must see my sisterinlaw now. You don't seem to realize the importance, my dear, of

Frank's marriage. He will be in a great hurry about it, and, indeed, I cannot blame him. I expect they will all

'Yes, of course. I shall be very much surprised if the earl does not come now. And I must consult my

CHAPTER XLVII. HOW THE BRIDE WAS RECEIVED, AND WHO WERE ASKED TO THE WEDDING 338

'And I think it will perhaps be better,' continued Lady Arabella, 'that we should have a larger party than

intended at your affair. The countess, I'm sure, would come now. We couldn't put it off for ten days; could

'I don't think Mr Oriel would like that at all, mamma. You know he has made all his arrangements for his

Pshaw! The idea of the parson's Sundays being allowed to have any bearing on such a matter as Frank's

wedding would now become! Why, they would havehow much? Between twelve and fourteen thousand a

year! Lady Arabella, who had made her calculations a dozen times during the night, had never found it to be

After much doubt, Lady Arabella acceded to her daughter's suggestion, that Mary should be received at

Greshamsbury instead of being called on at the doctor's house. 'If you think she won't mind the coming up

first,' said her ladyship. 'I certainly could receive her better here. I should be moremoremore able, you

know, to express what I feel. We had better go into the big drawingroom today, Beatrice. Will you

'Oh, certainly,' was Mary's answer when Beatrice, with a voice a little trembling, proposed her to walk up to

the house. 'Certainly I will, if Lady Arabella will receive me;only, one thing, Trichy.'

'Never mind what he thinks. To tell you the truth, Mary, I often call on Patience for the sake of finding Caleb.

Mary very quietly got put on her straw bonnet, and said she was ready to go up to the house. Beatrice was a

little fluttered, and showed it. Mary was, perhaps, a good deal fluttered, but she did not show it. She had

thought a good deal about her first interview with Lady Arabella, of her first return to the house; but she had

resolved to carry herself as though the matter were easy to her. She would not allow it to be seen that she felt

So she put on her straw bonnet and walked up with Beatrice. Everybody about the place had already heard

the news. The old woman at the lodge curtsied low to her; the gardener, who was mowing the lawn. The

butler, who opened the front doorhe must have been watching Mary's approachhad manifestly put on a

'God bless you once more, Miss Thorne!' said the old man, in a halfwhisper. Mary was somewhat troubled,

for everything seemed, in a manner, to bow down before her. And why should not everything bow down

And then a servant in livery would open the big drawingroom door. This rather upset both Mary and

Beatrice. It became almost impossible for Mary to enter the room just as she would have done two years ago;

CHAPTER XLVII. HOW THE BRIDE WAS RECEIVED, AND WHO WERE ASKED TO THE WEDDING 339

Nor was Lady Arabella quite mistress of herself, although she had studied minutely how to bear herself.

'Oh, Mary, dear Mary; what can I say to you?' and then, with a handkerchief to her eyes, she ran forward and

hid her face in Miss Thorne's shoulders. 'What can I saycan you forgive my anxiety for my son?'

'My daughter! my child! my Frank's own bride! Oh, Mary! oh, my child! If I have seemed unkind to you, it

'All these things are over now,' said Mary. 'Mr Gresham told me yesterday that I should be received as

Frank's future wife; and so, you see, I have come.' And then she slipped through Lady Arabella's arms, and

sat down, meekly down, on a chair. In five minutes she had escaped with Beatrice into the schoolroom, and

was kissing the children, and turning over the new trousseau. They were, however, soon interrupted, and

'See what he has done to my poplin; I hope you won't have your things treated so cruelly. He'll be careful

'He is, at any rate, too wellbehaved to spoil it.' Thus Mary was again made at home on the household of

Lady Arabella did not carry out her little plan of delaying the Oriel wedding. Her idea had been to add some

grandeur to it, in order to make it a more fitting precursor of that other greater wedding which was to follow

soon in its wake. But this, with the assistance of the countess, she found herself able to do without interfering

with poor Mr Oriel's Sunday arrangements. The countess herself, with the Ladies Alexandrina and

Margaretta, now promised to come, even to the first affair; and for the other, the whole De Courcy family

would turn out, count and countess, lords and ladies, Honourable Georges and Honourable Johns. What

honour, indeed, could be too great to show to a bride who had fourteen thousand a year in her own right, or to

'If the duke be in the country, I am sure he will be happy to come,' said the countess. 'Of course, he will be

talking to Frank about politics. I suppose the squire won't expect Frank to belong to the old school now.'

'Frank, of course, will judge for himself, Rosina;with his position, you know!' And so things were settled

And then Beatrice was wedded and carried off to the Lakes. Mary, as she had promised, did stand near her;

but not exactly in the gingham frock of which she had once spoken. She wore on that occasionBut it will

be too much, perhaps, to tell the reader what she wore as Beatrice's bridesmaid, seeing that a couple of pages,

at least, must be devoted to her marriagedress, and seeing, also, that we have only a few pages to finish

CHAPTER XLVII. HOW THE BRIDE WAS RECEIVED, AND WHO WERE ASKED TO THE WEDDING 340

everything; the list of visitors, the marriage settlements, the dress, and all included.

It was in vain that Mary endeavoured to repress Lady Arabella's ardour for grand doings. After all, she was to

be married from the doctor's house, and not from Greshamsbury, and it was the doctor who should have

invited the guests; but, in this matter, he did not choose to oppose her ladyship's spirit, and she had it all her

'What can I do?' said he to Mary. 'I have been contradicting her in everything for the last two years. The least

But there was one point on which Mary would let nobody have his or her own way; on which the way to be

taken was very manifestly to be her own. This was touching the marriage settlements. It must not be

supposed, that if Beatrice were married on a Tuesday, Mary could be married on the Tuesday week

following. Ladies with twelve thousand a year cannot be disposed of in that way: and bridegrooms who do

their duty by marrying money often have to be kept waiting. It was spring, the early spring, before Frank was

But a word about the settlements. On this subject the doctor thought he would have been driven mad. Messrs

Slow and Bideawhile, as the lawyers of the Greshamsbury familyit will be understood that Mr Gazebee's

law business was of quite a different nature, and his work, as regarded Greshamsbury, was now nearly

overMessrs Slow and Bideawhile declared that it would never do for them to undertake alone to draw out

the settlements. An heiress, such as Mary, must have lawyers of her own; half a dozen at least, according to

the apparent opinion of Messrs Slow and Bideawhile. And so the doctor had to go to other lawyers, and they

If Frank became tenant in tail, in right of his wife, but under his father, would he be able to grant leases for

more than twentyone years? and, if so, to whom would the right of trover belong? As to flotsam and

jetsamthere was a little property, Mr Critic, on the seashorethat was a matter that had to be left

unsettled at the last. Such points as these do take a long time to consider. All this bewildered the doctor sadly,

and Frank himself began to make accusations that he was to be done out of his wife altogether.

But, as we have said, there was one point on which Mary would have her own way. The lawyers might tie up

as they would on her behalf all the money, and shares, and mortgages which had belonged to the late Sir

Roger, with this exception, all that had ever appertained to Greshamsbury should belong to Greshamsbury

again; not in perspective, not to her children, or to her children's children, but at once. Frank should be lord of

Boxall Hill in his own right; and as to those other liens on Greshamsbury, let Frank manage that with his

father as he might think fit. She would only trouble herself to see that he was empowered to do as he did

'But,' argued the ancient, respectable family attorney to the doctor, 'that amounts to twothirds of the whole

estate. Twothirds, Dr Thorne! It is preposterous; I should almost say impossible.' And the scanty hairs on

the poor man's head almost stood on end as he thought of the outrageous manner in which the heiress

'It will all be the same in the end,' said the doctor, trying to make things smooth. 'Of course, their joint object

'But, my dear sir,'and then, for twenty minutes, the lawyer went on proving that it would be no means be

CHAPTER XLVII. HOW THE BRIDE WAS RECEIVED, AND WHO WERE ASKED TO THE WEDDING 341

In the course of the winter, Lady de Courcy tried very hard to induce the heiress to visit Courcy Castle, and

this request was so backed by Lady Arabella, that the doctor said he thought she might as well go there for

'I don't see it at all,' she said. 'If you make a point of it, or Frank, or Mr Gresham, I will go; but I can't see any

possible reason.' The doctor, when so appealed to, would not absolutely say that he made a point of it, and

Mary was tolerably safe as regarded Frank or the squire. If she went, Frank would be expected to go, and

Frank disliked Courcy Castle almost more than ever. His aunt was now more than civil to him, and, when

they were together, never ceased to compliment him on the desirable way in which he had done his duty by

And soon after Christmas a visitor came to Mary, and stayed a fortnight with her: one whom neither she nor

the doctor had expected, and of whom they had not much more than heard. This was the famous Miss

Dunstable. 'Birds of a feather flock together,' said Mrs Rantawaylate Miss Gushingwhen she heard of

the visit. 'The railway man's nieceif you can call her a nieceand the quack's daughter will do very well

And in fact, Mary and Miss Dunstable did get on very well together; and Miss Dunstable made herself quite

happy at Greshamsbury, although some peopleincluding Mrs Rantawaycontrived to spread a report, that

'I shall certainly come and see you turned off,' said Miss Dunstable, taking leave of her new friend. Miss

Dunstable, it must be acknowledged, was a little too fond of slang; but then, a lady with her fortune, and of

And so by degrees the winter wore awayvery slowly to Frank, as he declared often enough; and slowly,

perhaps, to Mary also, but she did not say so. The spring came round. The comic almanacs give us dreadful

pictures of January and February; but, in truth, the months which should be made to look gloomy in England

are March and April. Let no man boast himself that he has got through the perils of winter till at least the

It was early in April, however, that the great doings were to be done at Greshamsbury. Not exactly on the

first. It may be presumed, that in spite of the practical, commonsense spirit of the age, very few people do

choose to have themselves united on that day. But some day in the first week of that month was fixed for the

ceremony, and from the end of February all through March, Lady Arabella worked and strove in a manner

It was at last settled that the breakfast should be held in the large diningroom at Greshamsbury. There was a

difficulty about it which taxed Lady Arabella to the utmost, for, in making the proposition, she could not but

seem to be throwing some slight on the house in which the heiress had lived. But when the affair was once

'Of course,' said Mary, 'all the rooms in our house would not hold half the people you are talking aboutif

Lady Arabella looked so beseechingly, nay, so piteously, that Mary had not another word to say. It was

evident that they must all come: the De Courcys to the fifth generation; the Duke of Omnium himself, and

CHAPTER XLVII. HOW THE BRIDE WAS RECEIVED, AND WHO WERE ASKED TO THE WEDDING 342

'But will your uncle be angry if we have the breakfast up there? He has been so very handsome to Frank, that

'If you don't tell him anything about it, Lady Arabella, he'll think that it is all done properly. He will never

'Won't he, my dear?' And Lady Arabella looked her admiration for this very talented suggestion. And so that

matter was arranged. The doctor never knew, till Mary told him some year or so afterwards, that he had been

And who was asked to the wedding? In the first place, we have said that the Duke of Omnium was there. This

was, in fact, the one circumstance that made this wedding so superior to any other that had ever taken place in

that neighbourhood. The Duke of Omnium never went anywhere; and yet he went to Mary's wedding! And

Mary, when the ceremony was over, absolutely found herself kissed by a duke. 'Dearest Mary!' exclaimed

Lady Arabella, in her ecstasy of joy, when she saw the honour that was done to her daughterinlaw.

'I hope we shall induce you to come to Gatherum Castle soon,' said the duke to Frank. 'I shall be having a few

friends there in the autumn. Let me see; I declare, I have not seen you since you were good enough to come

to my collection. Ha! ha! ha! It wasn't bad fun, was it?' Frank was not very cordial with his answer. He had

not quite reconciled himself to the difference of his position. When he was treated as one of the 'collection' at

It would be vain to enumerate all the De Courcys that were there. There was the earl, looking very gracious,

and talking to the squire about the county. And there was Lord Porlock, looking very ungracious, and not

talking to anybody about anything. And there was the countess, who for the last week had done nothing but

pat Frank on the back whenever she could catch him. And there were the Ladies Alexandrina, Margaretta,

and Selina, smiling at everybody. And the Honourable George, talking in whispers to Frank about his

widow'Not such a catch as yours, you know; but something extremely snug;and have it all my own way,

too, old fellow, or I shan't come to the scratch.' And the Honourable John prepared to toady Frank about his

string of hunters; and the Lady Amelia, by herself, not quite contented with these democratic nuptials'After

all, she is so absolutely nobody; absolutely, absolutely,' she said confidentially to Augusta, shaking her head.

But before Lady Amelia had left Greshamsbury, Augusta was quite at a loss to understand how there could be

And the bishop of the diocese, and Mrs Proudie were there. A hint had even been given, that his lordship

would himself condescend to perform the ceremony, if this should be wished; but that work had already been

anticipated by a very old friend of the Greshams. Archdeacon Grantly, the rector of Plumstead Episcopi, had

long since undertaken this part of the business; and the knot was eventually tied by the joint efforts of himself

and Mr Oriel. Mrs Grantly came with him, and so did Mrs Grantly's sister, the new dean's wife. The dean

And all the Bakers and the Jacksons were there. The last time they had all met together under the squire's

roof, was on the occasion of Frank's coming of age. The present gala doings were carried on a very different

spirit. That had been a very poor affair, but this was worthy of the best of Greshamsbury.

Occasion also had been taken of this happy moment to make up, or rather to get rid of the last shreds of the

last feud that had so long separated Dr Thorne from his own relatives. The Thornes of Ullathorne had made

many overtures in a covert way. But our doctor had contrived to reject them. 'They would not receive Mary

as their cousin,' said he, 'and I will go nowhere that she cannot go.' But now all this was altered. Mrs Gresham

CHAPTER XLVII. HOW THE BRIDE WAS RECEIVED, AND WHO WERE ASKED TO THE WEDDING 343

would certainly be received in any house in the county. And thus, Mr Thorne of Ullathorne, an amiable,

popular old bachelor, came to the wedding; and so did his maiden sister Miss Thorne, than whose no kinder

'My dear,' said she to Mary, kissing her, and offering her some little tribute, 'I am very glad to make your

acquaintance; very. It was not her fault,' she added, speaking to herself. 'And now that she will be a Gresham,

that need not be any longer be thought of.' Nevertheless, could Miss Thorne have spoken her inward thoughts

out loud, she would have declared, that Frank would have done better to have borne his poverty than marry

wealth without blood. But then, there are but few so stanch as Miss Thorne; perhaps none in the

And Miss Dunstable, also, was a bridesmaid. 'Oh, no' said she, when asked; 'you should have them young and

pretty.' But she gave way when she found that Mary did not flatter her by telling her that she was either the

one or the other. 'The truth is,' said Miss Dunstable, 'I have always been a little in love with your Frank, and

so I shall do it for his sake.' There were but four: the other two were the Gresham twins. Lady Arabella

exerted herself greatly in framing hints to induce Mary to ask some of the De Courcy ladies to do her so

much honour; but on this head Mary would please herself. 'Rank,' she said to Beatrice, with a curl on her lip,

And now I find that I have not one pagenot half a pagefor the weddingdress. But what matters? Will it

And thus Frank married money, and became a great man. Let us hope that he will be a happy man. As the

time of the story has been brought down so near to the present era, it is not practicable for the novelist to tell

much of his future career. When I last heard from Barsetshire, it seemed to be quite settled that he is to take

the place of one of the old members at the next election; and they say, also, that there is no chance of any

opposition. I have heard, too, that there have been many very private consultations between him and various

gentlemen of the county, with reference to the hunt; and the general feeling is said to be that the hounds

At Boxall Hill the young people established themselves on their return from the continent. And that reminds

'You will always stay here with us,' said Mary to her, caressing her ladyship's rough hand, and looking kindly

But Lady Scatcherd would not consent to this. 'I will come and see you sometimes, and then I shall enjoy

myself. Yes, I will come and see you, and my own dear boy.' The affair was ended by her taking Mrs Opie

Green's cottage, in order that she might be near the doctor; Mrs Opie Green having marriedsomebody.

And of whom else must we say a word? Patience, also, of course, got a husbandor will do so. Dear

Patience! it would be a thousand pities that so good a wife should be lost to the world. Whether Miss

Dunstable will ever be married, or Augusta Gresham, or Mr Moffat, or any of the tribe of the De

Courcysexcept Lady AmeliaI cannot say. They have all of them still their future before them. That

Bridget was married to Thomasthat I am able to assert; for I know that Janet was much put out by their

Lady Arabella has not yet lost her admiration for Mary, and Mary, in return, behaves admirably. Another

event is expected, and her ladyship is almost as anxious about that as she was about the wedding. 'A matter,

CHAPTER XLVII. HOW THE BRIDE WAS RECEIVED, AND WHO WERE ASKED TO THE WEDDING 344

Nothing can be more happy than the intercourse between the squire and his son. What their exact

arrangements are, we need not specially inquire; but the demon of pecuniary embarrassment has lifted his

And now we have but one word left for the doctor. 'If you don't come and dine with me,' said the squire to

him, when they found themselves both deserted, 'mind I shall come and dine with you.' And on this principle

they seem to act. Dr Thorne continues to extend his practice, to the great disgust of Dr Fillgrave; and when

Mary suggested to him that he should retire, he almost boxed her ears. He knows the way, however, to Boxall

Hill as well as he ever did, and is willing to acknowledge, that the tea there is almost as good as it ever was at

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