many years your senior. I am neither young nor beautiful, nor have I
been brought up as she should be whom you in time will really love
and make your wife. I have nothing that should make you love me;
but--but I am rich."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You have utterly mistaken me, Miss Dunstable," said Frank.

"If I have, I will humbly beg your pardon," said she.
"But--but--but--"

"You have; indeed you have."

"How can I have mistaken you? Were you not about to say that you
loved me; to talk absolute nonsense; to make me an offer? If you were
not, if I have mistaken you indeed, I will beg your pardon."

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

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

"And am I dishonest?"

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

"I am not against you, Miss Dunstable."

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

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

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

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

"Then, Mr Gresham, what did you intend?"

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

"You never thought of making me your wife, then?"

"Never," said Frank, looking boldly into her face.

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

"Never for a moment," said he.

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

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

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

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

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

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

At any rate, she and Frank again became friends, and, before the
evening was over, they perfectly understood each other. Twice during
this long _tête-à-tête_ 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 now come from her interference. On each
occasion, therefore, she smiled sweetly on the pair of turtle-doves,
and glided out of the room as quietly as she had glided into it.

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

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

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

"Young people," said she, "do you know what o'clock it is?"

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXI

Mr Moffat Falls into Trouble

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, Frank, my darling Frank, don't think of it--it is madness; she
knows it is madness."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In February, Frank again went back to college; having settled with
Harry Baker certain affairs which weighed on his mind. He went back
to Cambridge, promising to be home on the 20th of the month, so as to
be present at his sister's wedding. A cold and chilling time had been
named for these hymeneal joys, but one not altogether unsuited to the
feelings of the happy pair. February is certainly not a warm month;
but with the rich it is generally a cosy, comfortable time. Good
fires, winter cheer, groaning tables, and warm blankets, make a
fictitious summer, which, to some tastes, is more delightful than
the long days and the hot sun. And some marriages are especially
winter matches. They depend for their charm on the same substantial
attractions: instead of heart beating to heart in sympathetic unison,
purse chinks to purse. The rich new furniture of the new abode is
looked to instead of the rapture of a pure embrace. The new carriage
is depended on rather than the new heart's companion; and the first
bright gloss, prepared by the upholsterer's hands, stands in lieu of
the rosy tints which young love lends to his true votaries.

Mr Moffat had not spent his Christmas at Greshamsbury. That eternal
election petition, those eternal lawyers, the eternal care of his
well-managed wealth, forbade him the enjoyment of any such pleasures.
He could not come to Greshamsbury for Christmas, nor yet for the
festivities of the new year; but now and then he wrote prettily
worded notes, sending occasionally a silver-gilt pencil-case, or a
small brooch, and informed Lady Arabella that he looked forward to
the 20th of February with great satisfaction. But, in the meanwhile,
the squire became anxious, and at last went up to London; and Frank,
who was at Cambridge, bought the heaviest cutting whip to be found in
that town, and wrote a confidential letter to Harry Baker.

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

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

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

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

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

But both Lady Arabella and the squire were greatly vexed. The former
had made the match, and the latter, having consented to it, had
incurred deeper responsibilities to enable him to bring it about.
The money which was to have been given to Mr Moffat was still to the
fore; but alas! how much, how much that he could ill spare, had been
thrown away on 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 all but the accepted husband of almost untold
wealth--so, at least, she was informed by her sister-in-law--whereas,
Augusta, was the accepted wife of wealth, not indeed untold, but of
dimensions quite sufficiently respectable to cause much joy in the
telling. Where now were her golden hopes? Where now the splendid
future of her poor duped children? Augusta was left to pine alone;
and Frank, in a still worse plight, insisted on maintaining his love
for a bastard and a pauper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   MR HARRY BAKER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then of course Frank could not do 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 sympathise 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 there was at last, in spite of Harry Baker's best
endeavours, and loudest protestations.

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

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

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

"Harry--Harry; don't let him go--don't let him go," he barely
articulated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, isn't he!" said Harry, shrugging his shoulders. "He must be made
of some very tough article then."

"But my dear boys, I hope there's no danger. I hope there's no
danger."

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

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

"I almost wish I had," said Frank.

"Oh, Frank! Frank! But now tell me--"

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

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

CHAPTER XXII

Sir Roger Is Unseated

After this, little occurred at Greshamsbury, or among Greshamsbury
people, which it will be necessary for us to record. Some notice was,
of course, taken of Frank's prolonged absence from his college; and
tidings, perhaps exaggerated tidings, of what had happened in 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 months' absence. "And when the summer
comes it will be an excellent opportunity for us to go abroad," said
Lady Arabella. "Poor Augusta will require some change to renovate her
spirits."

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

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

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

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

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

"But, Mr Closerstil, I knew nothing about it from first to last."

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

In these days of snow-white purity all political delinquency is
abominable in the eyes of British politicians; but no delinquency is
so abominable as that of venality at elections. The sin of bribery is
damnable. It is the one sin for which, in the House of Commons, there
can be no forgiveness. When discovered, it should render the culprit
liable to political death, without hope of pardon. It is treason
against a higher throne than that on which the Queen sits. It is a
heresy which requires an _auto-da-fé_. 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 the half of our
heart's blood be poured forth in the conflict! out with it, and for
ever!

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

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

We strain at our gnats with a vengeance, but we swallow our camels
with ease. For what purpose is it that we employ those peculiarly
safe men of business--Messrs Nearthewinde and Closerstil--when we
wish to win our path through all obstacles into that sacred recess,
if all be so open, all so easy, all so much above board? 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 such bills before; but 'tis equally true that
he specially begged his managing friend, Mr Nearthewinde, to be
very careful that all was done according to law! He pays the bill,
however, and on the next election will again employ Mr Nearthewinde.

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

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

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

The result of the petition was declared by the committee to be as
follows:--that Sir Roger's election was null and void--that the
election altogether was null and void--that Sir Roger had, by his
agent, been guilty of bribery in obtaining a vote, by the payment
of a bill alleged to have been previously refused payment--that Sir
Roger himself knew nothing about it;--this is always a matter of
course;--but that Sir Roger's agent, Mr Romer, had been wittingly
guilty of bribery with reference to the transaction above described.
Poor Sir Roger! Poor Mr Romer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But when the struggle came, it was to him a fearful one; not the
less fearful because there was no one, no, not one friend in all the
world, to whom he could open his mind and speak out honestly what
was in his heart. To Dr Thorne he might perhaps have done so had his
intercourse with the doctor been sufficiently frequent; but it was
only now and again 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 friend
who could sit with him over his own hearth, in true friendship, and
listen to, and sympathise with, and moderate the sighings of the
inner man. For him there was no sympathy; no tenderness of love; no
retreat, save into himself, from the loud brass band of the outer
world.

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

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

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

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

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

"He's always at it, my lady, always," said Mr Winterbones.

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXIII

Retrospective

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

It was then full midsummer, and it is 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 her before breakfast, walking round their little garden,
she with her hand in his.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But you'll come up now he has gone?" said Beatrice.

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

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

This, however, was a light in which Miss Thorne did not take any
pleasure in discussing the matter. Her ideas of Frank's fault, and
unkindness, and cruelty, were doubtless different from those of his
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 the
Greshamsbury fold in putting an end, if possible, to Frank's passion:
she would give no one a right to accuse her of assisting to ruin the
young heir; but she could hardly bring herself to admit that he was
so very wrong--no, nor yet even so very cruel.

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

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

"It can't be helped, sir," said she, smiling.

"I don't know," said he; "I don't know--it ought to be helped
somehow--I am quite sure you have not been to blame."

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

"I do not quite understand it all," said the squire; "but if Frank--"

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

"You can understand, Mary, how dear he must be to me; but if--"

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

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

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

"But you will be so lonely here."

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh! as for that," said Mary, laughing, "I will not confess to any
offence, nor yet to any punishment; certainly not to any punishment."

"It comes to the same thing in the end."

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

"But, Mary, you must meet the Greshams sometimes."

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

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

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

After that there had been the Christmas vacation, and Mary had again
found discretion to be 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 made a part of the family
circle there assembled. This was out of the question now; and perhaps
the absolute change to old Miss Oriel's house was better for her than
the lesser change to her uncle's drawing-room. Besides, how could she
have demeaned herself when she met Frank in their parish church? All
this had been fully understood by Patience, and, therefore, had this
Christmas visit been planned.

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

The tale, as it was first told, declared that 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 general state of compound fracture. This adventure again
brought Frank into the ascendant, and restored to Mary her former
position as the Greshamsbury heroine.

"One cannot wonder at his being very angry," said Beatrice,
discussing the matter with Mary--very imprudently.

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

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

"Not right, Trichy? I think he was very right."

"Not to beat him so very much, Mary!"

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

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

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

"You are well aware, Mary, that if I could have my wishes--"

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

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

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

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

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

"It seems as though you were finding fault with me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who will be his heir?" As the doctor rode along, he could not quite
rid his mind of this 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 in
a few days to be possessed of such wealth that the Greshams should be
again happy to welcome her at Greshamsbury!

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

CHAPTER XXIV

Louis Scatcherd

When Dr Thorne reached Boxall Hill he found Mr Rerechild from
Barchester there before him. Poor Lady Scatcherd, when her husband
was stricken by the fit, hardly knew in her dismay what adequate
steps to take. She had, as a matter of course, sent for Dr Thorne;
but she had thought that in so grave a peril 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
would have brought to Boxall Hill; and as Mr Rerechild was supposed
in the Barchester world to be second--though at a long interval--to
that great man, she had applied for his assistance.

Now Mr Rerechild was a follower and humble friend of Dr Fillgrave;
and was wont to regard anything that came from the Barchester doctor
as sure light from the lamp of Æsculapius. 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"--all the
medical world at least of Barsetshire; and he had often expressed
his sympathy with Dr Fillgrave and his abhorrence of Dr Thorne's
anti-professional practices. But now that he found himself about to
be brought in contact with Dr Thorne, he reflected that the Galen
of Greshamsbury was at any rate equal in reputation to him of
Barchester; that the one was probably on the rise, whereas the other
was already considered by some as rather antiquated; and he therefore
wisely resolved that the present would be an excellent opportunity
for him to make a friend of Dr Thorne.

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

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

"Oh--yes; we all have, Mr Rerechild; that's certain."

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

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

And then Dr Thorne arrived.

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

"Has he spoken?"

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

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

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

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

"I say, Dr Thorne," said her ladyship, calling the doctor into the
housekeeping-room, in which she and Hannah spent any time that they
were not required upstairs; "just come in, doctor: you couldn't tell
him we don't want him any more, could you?"

"Tell whom?" said the doctor.

"Why--Mr Rerechild: mightn't he go away, do you think?"

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

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

"Wonderful strong constitution--eh, Dr Thorne? wonderful!" said Mr
Rerechild.

"Yes; he has been a strong man."

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

"Yes; pretty well. I've attended him for many years."

"Always drinking, I suppose; always at it--eh?"

"He has not been a temperate man, certainly."

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

"It's very sad to see such an intellect so destroyed."

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

"I'm sure he is," said Dr Thorne.

"Not that he'd make anything of a case like this now--he's not, you
know, quite--quite--perhaps not quite up to the new time of day, if
one may say so."

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

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

"Yes, indeed."

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

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

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

"Oh, no, certainly not, certainly not--that is not with any
certainty; but still he's doing finely, Lady Scatcherd, considering
everything."

"How long will you give him, doctor?" said Mr Rerechild to his new
friend, when they were again alone. "Ten days? I dare say ten days,
or from that to a fortnight, not more; but I think he'll struggle on
ten days."

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

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

"Is out of the question," said Dr Thorne, gravely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, doctor! oh, doctor!"

"My dear friend, there is no hope."

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

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

"Oh, I suppose so; oh yes, oh yes; ah me! ah me! ah me!" And then she
began rocking herself backwards and forwards on her chair, with her
apron up to her eyes. "What shall I do? what shall I do?"

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

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

"I fear there is no chance--as far as my knowledge goes there is no
chance."

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

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

We hear a good deal of jolly widows; and the slanderous raillery of
the world tells 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 how 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 a Xantippe here and there, but Imogenes
are to be found under every bush. Lady Scatcherd, in spite of the
life she had led, was one of them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But young Scatcherd did not fail to find companions at Cambridge
also. There are few places indeed in which a rich man cannot buy
companionship. But the set with whom he lived at Cambridge were the
worst of the place. They were fast, slang men, who were fast and
slang, and nothing else--men who imitated grooms in more than their
dress, and who looked on the customary heroes of race-courses as the
highest lords of the ascendant upon earth. Among those at college
young Scatcherd did shine as long as such lustre was permitted him.
Here, indeed, his father, who had striven only to encourage him at
Eton, did strive somewhat to control him. But that was not now easy.
If he limited his son's allowance, he only drove him to do his
debauchery on credit. There were plenty to lend money to the son of
the 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 then 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
recognised station among other men similarly circumstanced. Juvenile
dukes, and sprouting earls, find their duties and their places as
easily as embryo clergymen and sucking barristers. Provision is
made for their peculiar positions: and, though they may possibly go
astray, they have a fair chance given to them of running within the
posts. The same may be said of such youths as Frank Gresham. There
are enough of them in the community to have made it necessary that
their well-being should be a matter of care and forethought. But
there are but few men turned out in the world in the position of
Louis Scatcherd; and, of those few, but very few enter the real
battle of life under good auspices.

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

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 off to Berlin
to see what could be done with young Hopeful.

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 strait-laced
ass. The father and the son returned together to Boxall Hill, and
three months afterwards Mr Scatcherd set up for himself in London.

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 robbed, his father, in a certain
sense, was proud of him.

Tidings, however, came--came at least in those last days--which cut
Sir Roger to the quick; tidings of vice in the son which the father
could not but attribute to his own example. Twice the mother was
called up to the sick-bed 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 continuance of such life must end in an early
death.

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, of 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 world--perhaps
also in another--had 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 such-like, 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 one-and-twenty he was that most
odious of all odious characters--a close-fisted reprobate.

He was a small man, not ill-made by Nature, but reduced to unnatural
tenuity by dissipation--a corporeal attribute of which he was apt
to boast, as it enabled him, as he said, to put himself up at 7 st.
7 lb. 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 English groom; and his eyes were keen and
fixed, and cold and knowing.

Such was the son whom Sir Roger saw standing at his bedside when
first he awoke to 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
heart-stirring remembrancer of those other 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
with almost a warmer love on Frank Gresham, her foster-son. 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
not appeared very desirous of making his wife happy.

"Ah, Louis! is that you?" ejaculated Sir Roger, in tones hardly more
than half-formed: 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 could take it.

"Why, that's well, governor," said the son; "you'll be as right as a
trivet in a day or two--eh, 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 no
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 covered it
with kisses.

"Bother!" said Sir Roger.

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
breakfast-cup was brought to him, and a few drops were put into his
mouth; but he soon made it manifest that he would take nothing more
of a description so perfectly innocent.

"A drop of brandy--just a little drop," said he, half-ordering, and
half-entreating.

"Ah, Roger!" said Lady Scatcherd.

"Just a little drop, Louis," said the sick man, appealing to his son.

"A little will be good for him; bring the bottle, mother," said the
son.

After some altercation the brandy bottle was brought, and Louis, with
what he thought a very sparing hand, proceeded to pour about half a
wine-glassful into the cup. As he did so, Sir Roger, weak as he was,
contrived to shake his son's arm, so as greatly to increase the dose.

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the sick man, and then greedily swallowed the
dose.

CHAPTER XXV

Sir Roger Dies

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 daily 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 which he chuckled with
ghastly laughter.

Two or three times during 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 of use to him.

"Louis," said Sir Roger, one afternoon to his son; "Louis, I have not
done by you as I ought to have done--I know that now."

"Nonsense, governor; never mind about that now; I shall do well
enough, I dare say. Besides, it isn't too late; you can make it
twenty-three years instead of twenty-five, if you like it."

"I do not mean as to money, Louis. There are things besides money
which a father ought to look to."

"Now, father, don't fret yourself--I'm all right; you may be sure of
that."

"Louis, it's that accursed brandy--it's that that I'm afraid of: you
see me here, my boy, how I'm lying here now."

"Don't you be annoying yourself, governor; I'm all right--quite
right; and as for you, why, you'll be up and about yourself in
another month or so."

"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 bottle."

"I'm all right, governor; right as a trivet. It's very little I take,
except at an odd time or so."

"Oh, Louis! Louis!"

"Come, father, cheer up; this sort of thing isn't the thing for you
at all. I wonder where mother is: she ought to be here with the
broth; just let me go, and I'll see for her."

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
stone-mason in Barchester! How happy could he have died as such,
years ago! Such tears as those which wet that 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
breakfast-table on the morning after his demise. When it chances that
the dead hero is one who was taken in his prime of life, of whose
departure from among us the most far-seeing biographical scribe can
have no prophetic inkling, this must be difficult. Of great men, full
of years, who are ripe for 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 is
done.

The memoir of Sir Roger Scatcherd was progressing favourably. In
this it was told how fortunate had been his life; how, 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 for 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 happy--ever 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 Roger's
experience.

"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 only
fifty-nine when he was taken from us."

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
proof-sheet 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 terms--to speak of him
with a voice that would be audible for twenty-four hours.

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
half-comatose; but towards evening he 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 heart to
Dr Thorne.

"Thorne," said he, "I told you about my will, you know."

"Yes," said the other; "and I have blamed myself greatly that I have
not again urged you to alter it. Your illness came too suddenly,
Scatcherd; and then I was averse to speak of it."

"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 you. I did it that day
after you left me."

"Have you definitely named your heir in default of Louis?"

"No--that is--yes--I had done that before; I have said Mary's eldest
child: I have not altered that."

"But, Scatcherd, you must alter it."

"Must! well then I won't; but I'll tell you what I have done. I have
added a postscript--a codicil they call it--saying that you, and you
only, know who is her eldest child. Winterbones and Jack Martin have
witnessed that."

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
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
twenty-five the heir might make his own will--might 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 a
time.

"Never mind that, doctor, now; but about Louis; you will be his
guardian, you know."

"Not his guardian. He is more than of age."

"Ah! but doctor, you will be his guardian. The property will not be
his till he be twenty-five. You will not desert him?"

"I will not desert him; but I doubt whether I can do much for
him--what 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 I can do, that I will do," said Thorne, solemnly, taking as he
spoke the contractor's hand in his own with a tight grasp.

"I know you will; I know you will. Oh! doctor, may you never feel as
I do now! May you on your death-bed have no dread as I have, as to
the fate of those you will leave behind you!"

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 perfect--for 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 word of consolation. There was no comfort, no
consolation to come to him!

"For three or four years he must greatly depend upon you," continued
Sir Roger.

"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 quite sufficient for him,
married or single."

"Ah!--but, Thorne, I should like to think he should shine with the
best of them. For what have I made the money if not for that? Now if
he marries--decently, that is--some 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 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 advise him to marry."

"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 myself? How can I advise him? That's where it is! It is
that that now kills me. Advise! Why, when I speak to him he treats me
like a child."

"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 up in his bed as though he were actually
going to expend all that remained to him of vigour in the energy of a
moment.

"Gently, Scatcherd; gently. He will listen to you yet; but do not be
so unruly."

"Thorne, you see that bottle there? Give me half a glass of brandy."

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?"

"No, I will not torture you; but you will have water with it?"

"Water! No; the brandy by itself. I tell you I cannot speak without
it. What's the use of canting now? You know it can make no
difference."

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 light doses."

"You will be wanting more before morning, you know."

"Before morning! indeed I shall; a pint or so 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 the day after it!"

"You have been a wonderful man, Scatcherd, very wonderful."

"Aye, wonderful! well, never mind. It's over now. But what was I
saying?--about Louis, doctor; you'll not desert him?"

"Certainly 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 when I was his age."

"You had the advantage of hard work."

"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 only 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 why I should
be."

"I never knew you afraid of anything yet," said the doctor, smiling
gently.

"Well, then, I'll not end by turning coward. Now, doctor, tell the
truth to me; what do you expect me to do for that girl of yours that
we were talking of--Mary's child?"

There was a pause for a moment, for Thorne was slow to answer him.

"You would not let me see her, you know, though she is my niece as
truly as she is yours."

"Nothing," at last said the doctor, slowly. "I expect nothing. I
would not let you see her, and therefore, I expect nothing."

"She will have it all if poor Louis should die," said Sir Roger.

"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 so. Mary, thank God, can
do without wealth."

"Thorne, on one condition I will put her name into it. I will alter
it all on one condition. Let the two cousins be man and wife--let
Louis marry poor Mary's child."

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 lamb--lamb though she was--had, 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 Scatcherd?

"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.

"Why not, Thorne?"

"My friend, it is impossible."

"Why impossible?"

"Her hand is not mine to dispose of, nor is her heart."

"Then let her come over herself."

"What! Scatcherd, that the son might make love to her while the
father is so dangerously ill! Bid her come to look for a rich
husband! That would not be seemly, would it?"

"No; not for that: let her come merely that I may see her; that we
may all know her. I will leave the matter then in your hands if you
will promise me to do your best."

"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 altogether out of
the question. I know--"

"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?"

"She is a pearl of great price."

"Believe me, doctor, money goes far in winning such pearls."

"Perhaps so; I know little about it. But this I do know, that money
will not win her. Let us talk of something else; believe me it is
useless for us to think of this."

"Yes; if you set your face against it obstinately. You must think
very poorly of Louis if you suppose that no girl can fancy him."

"I have not said so, Scatcherd."

"To have the spending of ten thousand a year, and be a baronet's
lady! Why, doctor, what is it you expect for this girl?"

"Not much, indeed; not much. A quiet heart and a quiet home; not much
more."

"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 is
impossible."

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 vehemence.

"You won't do this thing for me, then?" said he.

"Do it! It is not for you or me to do such things as that. Such
things must be left to those concerned themselves."

"You will not even help me?"

"Not in this thing, Sir Roger."

"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.

The doctor poured out and handed to him another small modicum of
spirit.

"Nonsense, man; fill the glass. I'll stand no nonsense now. I'll be
master in my own house to the last. Give it here, I tell you. Ten
thousand devils are tearing me within. You--you could have comforted
me; but you would not. Fill the glass I tell you."

"I should be killing you were I to do it."

"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
make me guilty of murder, would you?"

"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 is 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 you--I 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 to the
brim.

"Come, Thorne, a bumper; a bumper for this once. 'Whatever the drink,
it a bumper must be.' You stingy fellow! I would not treat you so.
Well--well."

"It's as full as you can hold it, Scatcherd."

"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 sufficient in
quantity to have taken away the breath from any ordinary man.

"Ah, I'm better now. But, Thorne, I do love a full glass, ha! ha!
ha!"

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