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 man—Mr Gazebee, however, was not a poor man—it behoved her to manage her house with great care. Such a match as that she had made—this she told in confidence to Augusta—had its responsibilities as well as its privileges.
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 very glad to see them; his marriage gave him some éclat 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 father-in-law may some day be able to bring him into Parliament.
"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 Frank had seen 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 made his request to his sister.
"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.
"If you wish me to be at your wedding, you must do it," said he.
"Wish you to be there! You must be there, of course. Oh, Frank! what do you mean? I'll do anything you ask; if it is not to go to the moon, or anything of that sort."
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 year ago!"
"But, Frank—"
"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 so will my father."
"But, Frank, you won't hear me."
"Not if you make objections; I have set my heart on your doing it."
"But I had set my heart on the same thing."
"Well?"
"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."
"Refused! What did she say?"
"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."
"Fiddlestick!"
"But, Frank, those are her feelings; and, to tell the truth, I could not combat them. I know she is not happy; but time will cure that. And, to tell you the truth, Frank—"
"It was before I came back that you asked her, was it not?"
"Yes; just the day before you came, I think."
"Well, it's all altered now. I have seen her since that."
"Have you Frank?"
"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 ever she marries, I think I may say, she will 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 it—and 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 her—even though all the blood of the de Courcys should be crowded before the altar railings.
"I should be so happy that she should be there; but what am I to do, Frank, if she refuses? I have asked her, and she has refused."
"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 parsonage, for years and years to come."
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 those horrid rumours which were now becoming rife as to Mary's birth; rumours more horrid than any which had yet been heard?
Augusta had said hardly more than the truth when she spoke of her father being broken-hearted 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 Yates Umbleby justice, he had never made himself disagreeable in this manner.
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 Gresham was nearly broken-hearted.
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 returned, not having forgotten her.
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 things when the marriage-feast should be over.
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 his attack on his sister.
Lady Arabella had had her reason for naming the list before her son; but she overshot her mark. She wished to show him how totally 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 resolved at once to discuss it with his father.
"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 arranged the meets of the Barsetshire hunt.
Mr Gresham was quite at leisure: when was he not so? But had he been immersed in the deepest business of which he was capable, he would gladly have put it aside at his son's instance.
"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 what I have made up my mind to do."
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 his mind as to the best mode of doing so.
"Good heavens, Frank! what do you mean? you are not going to do anything rash? What is it you mean, Frank?"
"I don't think it is rash," said Frank.
"Sit down, my boy; sit down. What is it that you say you are going to do?"
"Nothing immediately, sir," said he, rather abashed; "but as I have made up my mind about Mary Thorne,—quite made up my mind, I think it right to tell you."
"Oh, about Mary," said the squire, almost relieved.
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, had been such that he could not find fault with it; and, 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 relieve the estate from its embarrassments 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 no sin of Frank's.
"Do you remember about her birth, Frank?" he said, at last.
"Yes, sir; everything. She told me all she knew; and Dr Thorne finished the story."
"And what do you think of it?"
"It is a pity, and a misfortune. It might, perhaps, have been a reason why you or my mother should not have had Mary in the house many years ago; but it cannot make any difference now."
Frank had not meant to lean so heavily on his father; but he did do 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 children?
"It is a misfortune, Frank; a very great misfortune. It will not do for you and me to ignore birth; too much of the value of one's position depends upon it."
"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 you to marry a rich heiress, were her birth even as low as that of poor Mary—"
"Don't call her poor Mary, father; she is not poor. My wife will have a right to take rank in the world, however she was born."
"Well,—poor in that way. But were she an heiress, the world would forgive her birth on account of her wealth."
"The world is very complaisant, sir."
"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 amésalliance; 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 you the world's opinion."
"I don't give a straw for the world."
"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."
"Well, yes, that is what I mean."
But the squire, though he had been very lucid in his definition, had got no 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 suppose it could be managed somehow?"
"A farm?" said the father, abstractedly.
"Yes, sir. I must do something for my living. I should make less of a mess of that than of 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 this—the heir and only son? Whereas, he, the squire, had succeeded at an earlier age than Frank's to an unembarrassed income of fourteen thousand pounds a year! The reflection was very hard to bear.
"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 his son, "I wonder what you think of me?"
"Think of you, sir?" ejaculated Frank.
"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 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 marriage? It will make her so happy."
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."
"We would go to Australia," answered he, bitterly. "I have just said so."
"Oh, no, my boy; you cannot do that. You must not throw the old place up altogether. There is no other one but you, Frank; and we have lived here now for so many, many years."
"But if we cannot live here any longer, father?"
"But for this scheme of yours, we might do so. 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 only twenty-three; why should you be in such a hurry to marry?"
"You married at twenty-one, sir."
Frank was again severe on his father, but 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 such a marriage; nor will your mother."
"It is your consent 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, dear boy, do not drive me to distraction! Give it up for four years."
"Four years!"
"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 were such a marriage to take place, I should be driven to despair."
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 years—say for three years."
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 demand of him to do that.
"My word is pledged, sir," he said.
"Pledged! Pledged to whom?"
"To Miss Thorne."
"But I will see her, Frank;—and her uncle. She was always reasonable. I am sure she will not wish to bring ruin on her old friends at Greshamsbury."
"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 I will not treat her falsely."
"Well, Frank, I can say no more to you. I have destroyed the estate which should have been yours, and I have no right to expect you should regard what I say."
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 of lessening it, I could not regard what you say any more."
"I should be able to speak in a very different tone; I feel that, Frank."
"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 of complaint as regards the property; never. Whatever troubles we may have, do not let that trouble you."
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 himself through the grounds, rather more in meditation than was his wont.
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 his skill? and he might have asked also, where the industry so necessary for such a trade? He might set his father at defiance, and if Mary were equally headstrong with himself, he might marry her. But, what then?
As he walked slowly about, cutting off the daisies with his stick, he met Mr Oriel, going up to the house, as was now his custom, to dine there and spend the evening, close to Beatrice.
"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 position."
"It wouldn't have made much difference. When a man is tempted, the Commandments, I believe, do not go for much."
"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 which the world has to give."
"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 argument which he had meant to inculcate.
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 than those visits.
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 post-horses for Greshamsbury, when an impudent-looking 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 rolling-pin. Joe had no written credentials, for his master was hardly equal to writing, and Lady Scatcherd had declined to put herself into further personal communication with Dr Fillgrave; but he had effrontery enough to deliver any message.
"Be you Dr Fillgrave?" said Joe, with one finger just raised to his cocked hat.
"Yes," said Dr Fillgrave, with one foot on the step of the carriage, but pausing at the sight of so well-turned-out a servant. "Yes; I am Dr Fillgrave."
"Then you be to go to Boxall Hill immediately; before anywhere else."
"Boxall Hill!" said the doctor, with a very angry frown.
"Yes; Boxall Hill: my master's place—my master is Sir Louis Scatcherd, baronet. You've heard of him, I suppose?"
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, how 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 as how my master is dying, very like, while you stand there?"
"What is your master's disease?" said the doctor, facing Joe, slowly, and still rubbing his hands. "What ails him? What is the matter with him?"
"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 horrors—what is it they call it? delicious beam-ends, or something of that sort."
"Oh, ah, yes; I know; and tell me, my man, who is attending him?"
"Attending him? why, I do, and his mother, that is, her ladyship."
"Yes; but what medical attendant: what doctor?"
"Why, there was Greyson, in London, and—"
"Greyson!" and the doctor looked as though a name so medicinally humble had never before struck the tympanum of his ear.
"Yes; Greyson. And then, down at what's the name of the place, there was Thorne."
"Greshamsbury?"
"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 post-horses should make such a detour as would enable him to visit Boxall Hill on his road. "It is impossible," said he to himself, "that I should be twice treated in such a manner in the same house."
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 fee-less to Barchester, and how little he had gained in the medical world by rejecting Lady Scatcherd's bank-note. 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 he again descended.
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 that—and heart enough also to feel that he would fain have been relieved from this task; would fain have left this patient in the hands even of Dr Thorne.
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 is 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 way.
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 a twelvemonth since, and each a victim to 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 his lunch by himself.
On this occasion, however, the servant at once asked him to go into the dining-room, 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 her 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 that pseudo-doctor, that half-apothecary who lived in the village.
"It has been awfully troublesome to you, coming over all this way, I am sure. Indeed, money could not pay for it; my mother feels that. It must cut up your time so much."
"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."
"Ah! but, Dr Fillgrave, we cannot allow that."
"Mr Gresham, don't mention it."
"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 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, cleverly avoided it.
Get what assistance she wanted in the village! What words were those that he heard? "Mr Gresham, eh—hem—perhaps 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 bush on such an occasion as this.
"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 for so many years."
"Oh, Mr Gresham; of course, if it is wished."
"Yes, Dr Fillgrave, it is wished. Lunch is coming directly:" and Frank rang the bell.
"Nothing, I thank you, Mr Gresham."
"Do take a glass of sherry."
"Nothing at all, I am very much obliged to you."
"Won't you let the horses get some oats?"
"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 hiscongédownstairs. 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 though there had been no break in their intercourse.
"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 vain."
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.
"I have had Sir Omicron Pie," she said.
"So I was glad to hear. Sir Omicron is a clever man, and has a good name. I always recommend Sir Omicron myself."
"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 see how selfish I am." And she put out her hand to him.
The doctor took her hand cordially, and assured her that he bore her no ill-will; that he fully understood her conduct—and 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 when it did come.
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 certainly was more at ease than she had been since the doctor had last left her.
"Don't go yet for a moment," she said. "I have one word to say to you."
He declared that he was not the least in a hurry. He desired nothing better, he said, than to sit there and talk to her. "And I owe you a most sincere apology, Lady Arabella."
"A sincere apology!" said she, becoming a little red. Was he going to say anything about Mary? Was he going to own that he, and Mary, and Frank had all been wrong?
"Yes, indeed. I ought not to have brought Sir Louis Scatcherd here: I ought to have known that he would have disgraced himself."
"Oh! it does not signify," said her ladyship in a tone almost of disappointment. "I had forgotten it. Mr Gresham and you had more inconvenience than we had."
"He is an unfortunate, wretched man—most unfortunate; with an immense fortune which he can never live to possess."
"And who will the money go to, doctor?"
This was a question for which Dr Thorne was hardly prepared. "Go to?" he repeated. "Oh, some member of the family, I believe. There are plenty of nephews and nieces."
"Yes; but will it be divided, or all go to one?"
"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 all so much pain. Cannot we do anything to put an end to it?"
"Well, what can I say, Lady Arabella? That depends so wholly on yourself."
"If it depends on me, it shall be done at once."
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 properamendeit can be done. But I think it is very unlikely that you will do so."
"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 in 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 unreasonable."
"My views, Lady Arabella?"
"Yes, doctor; about your niece, you know: you must have views of some sort; that's of course. It occurs to me, that perhaps we are all in the dark together. If so, a little candid speaking between you and me may set it all right."
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 blessing—for he had nothing else to give her—when she left him;—if ever she should do so.
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 himself.
"Yes; but about Frank," said Lady Arabella.
"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 or counsel? She had nothing more to say to the doctor; and he, perceiving that this was the case, took his leave. This little attempt to achieve candour had not succeeded.
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 was poor.
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 in the land of the living.
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 to-morrow, 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 much 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, therefore, had been equal; the victories equal; and there was a mutual object.
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 be a fortunate event; she had, therefore, no heart for splendour.
"The quieter we can do it the better," she wrote to her countess-sister. "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 with—nay, in some respect superior to—the countess herself. But this, of course, was before the days of the nice place in Surrey.
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 well enough," said Mr Gresham.
"Threaten to cut him off with a shilling," said her ladyship, with spirit. "I haven't a shilling to cut him off with," answered the squire, bitterly.
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 too 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's knocking about the world would cure him," said the father.
"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 Courcys:" and then, again, they talked it over in all its bearings.
"But what are they to live upon?" said Lady Arabella, appealing, as it were, to some impersonation of reason. "That's what I want him to tell me. What are they to live upon?"
"I wonder whether de Courcy could get him into some embassy?" said the father. "He does talk of a profession."
"What! with the girl and all?" asked Lady Arabella with horror, alarmed at the idea of such an appeal being made to her noble brother.
"No; but before he marries. He might be broken of it that way."
"Nothing will break him," said the wretched mother; "nothing—nothing. 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 himself."
"It's not the slightest use," said Lady Arabella. "He will not assist us. Indeed, I firmly believe it's all his own doing."
"Oh, nonsense! that really is nonsense, my love."
"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 was rather a stretch on the part of Lady Arabella.
"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 easy fool Frank is—"
"I don't think he's at all easy, my love; and certainly is not a fool."
"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 pocket-handkerchief.
"I think, my dear, if you were to see Mary herself it might do some good," said the squire, when the violence of his wife's grief had somewhat subsided.
"What! go and call upon this girl?"
"Yes; you can send Beatrice to give her notice, you know. She never was unreasonable, and I do not think that you would find her so. You should tell her, you know—"
"Oh, I should know very well what to tell her, Mr Gresham."
"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 nobody can drive her."
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."
"And I will get Oriel to speak to him," said the squire.
"I think Patience might do more good. I did once think he was getting fond of Patience, and I was quite unhappy about it then. Ah, dear! I should be almost pleased at that now."
And thus it was arranged that all the artillery of Greshamsbury was to be brought to bear at once on Frank's love, so as to crush it, as it were, by the very weight of metal.
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, he walked down to the little gate which opened out near the doctor's house.
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 pressing 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 means," said Sir Louis. "It is a d––––d shame, and it shall be exposed." Of all this the squire was aware.
When he reached the doctor's house, he was shown into the drawing-room, and found Mary there alone. It had always been his 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 Gresham, I am so glad to see you here again."
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. Was it to be wondered at that Frank should have learned to love her?
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; an expression of mental faculty which the squire now for the first time perceived to be charming.
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 his son from such a marriage!
"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 buoyant within her breast.
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 not fail to see that his eyes were filled with tears.
"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.
"I have come here specially to speak to you about her," said the squire.
"About Mary?"
"Yes, doctor; about her and Frank: something must be done, some arrangement made: if not for our sakes, at least for theirs."
"What arrangement, squire?"
"Ah! that is the question. I take it for granted that either Frank or Mary has told you that they have engaged themselves to each other."
"Frank told me so twelve months since."
"And has not Mary told you?"
"Not exactly that. But, never mind; she has, I believe, no secret from me. Though I have said but little to her, I think I know it all."
"Well, what then?"
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 end of it.
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 of 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?"
"Possible; yes, it is possible. You mean, will it be prudent?"
"Well, take it in that way; would it not be most imprudent?"
"At present, it certainly would be. I have never spoken to either of them on the subject; but I presume they do not think of such a thing for the present."
"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!
"But, doctor," repeated the squire.
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 to Mary's birth."
"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 alike about that, so we need have no dispute. You are quite as proud of Ullathorne as I am of Greshamsbury."
"I might be if it belonged to me."
"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 of them! Could they live here? Would that be well for them?"
The squire looked at the doctor for an answer; but he still went on rubbing his calf. Mr Gresham, therefore, was constrained to continue his expostulation.
"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 come."
The doctor could not now go on rubbing his leg. 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 more dearly than he does."
"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 dining-room fire at Greshamsbury."
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? That was now the one thing necessary to be kept in view.
"But, doctor, about the young people; of course they cannot marry, you are aware of that."
"I don't know that exactly."
"Well, doctor, I must say I thought you would feel it."
"Feel what, squire?"
"That, situated as they are, they ought not to marry."
"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."
"But should you not interfere? Is not Mary the same to you as your own child?"
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 another. "What is your objection, squire?"
"Objection! Why, what on earth would they live on?"
"Then I understand, that if that difficulty were over, you would not refuse your consent merely because of Mary's birth?"
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 sound-minded 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 you know that I love Mary dearly."
"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 case would you object to the match?"
When the doctor declared that he expected an honest answer the squire listened with all his ears; but the question, when finished, seemed to have no bearing on the present case.
"Come, squire, speak your mind faithfully. There was some talk once of Frank's marrying Miss Dunstable; did you mean to object to that match?"
"Miss Dunstable was legitimate; at least, I presume so."
"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 what otherwise would be amésalliance. But—"
"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 not hear him.
"Then squire, I will not interfere in this matter one way or the other."
"How on earth can such an opinion—"
"Pray excuse me, Mr Gresham; but my mind is now quite made up. It was very nearly so before. I will do nothing to encourage Frank, nor will I say anything to discourage Mary."
"That is the most singular resolution that a man of sense like you ever came to."
"I can't help it, squire; it is my resolution."
"But what has Miss Dunstable's fortune to do with it?"
"I cannot say that it has anything; but, in this matter, I will not interfere."
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 this 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 Barsetshire had told me!"
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 future 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, as to 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 curate.
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 lover's advice.
"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 would let her come."
"Ask Lady Arabella," said Caleb.
"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 went away on her errand to her mother.
She was indeed surprised at the manner in which her prayer was received. She could hardly falter forth her petition; but when she had done so, Lady Arabella answered in this wise:—
"Well my dear, I have no objection, none the least; that is, of course, if Mary is disposed to behave herself properly."
"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."
"What! at Dr Thorne's house?"
"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.
"Oh, yes! I know that, mamma."
"I will call upon her, and if 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 call to-morrow at twelve. It might fluster her if I were to go in without notice."
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 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 in at the doctor's little gate, the fact was known through all Greshamsbury in ten minutes, and before she had left the house, Mrs Umbleby and Miss Gushing had quite settled between them what was the exact cause of the very singular event.
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 everything that could have been desired by any one less unreasonable than Mary Thorne.