“What, Dr. Thorne?” Now the Countess de Courcy hated Dr. Thorne with a holy hatred.
“Yes; Dr. Thorne. I believe that he knows everything; and advises everything, too. Whatever difficulties poor Gresham may have, I do believe Dr. Thorne has brought them about. I do believe it, Rosina.”
“Well, that is surprising. Mr. Gresham, with all his faults, is a gentleman; and how he can talk about his affairs with a low apothecary like that, I, for one, cannot imagine. Lord de Courcy has not always been to me all that he should have been; far from it.” And Lady de Courcy thought over in her mind injuries of a much graver description than any that her sister-in-law had ever suffered; “but I have never known anything like that at Courcy Castle. Surely Umbleby knows all about it, doesn’t he?”
“Not half so much as the doctor,” said Lady Arabella.
The countess shook her head slowly; the idea of Mr. Gresham, a country gentleman of good estate like him, making a confidant of a country doctor was too great a shock for her nerves; and for a while she was constrained to sit silent before she could recover herself.
“One thing at any rate is certain, Arabella,” said the countess, as soon as she found herself again sufficiently composed to offer counsel in a properly dictatorial manner. “One thing at any rate is certain; if Mr. Gresham be involved so deeply as you say, Frank has but one duty before him. He must marry money. The heir of fourteen thousand a year may indulge himself in looking for blood, as Mr. Gresham did, my dear”—it must be understood that there was very little compliment in this, as the Lady Arabella had always conceived herself to be a beauty—”or for beauty, as some men do,” continued the countess, thinking of the choice that the present Earl de Courcy had made; “but Frank must marry money. I hope he will understand this early; do make him understand this before he makes a fool of himself; when a man thoroughly understands this, when he knows what his circumstances require, why, the matter becomes easy to him. I hope that Frank understands that he has no alternative. In his position he must marry money.”
But, alas! alas! Frank Gresham had already made a fool of himself.
“Well, my boy, I wish you joy with all my heart,” said the Honourable John, slapping his cousin on the back, as he walked round to the stable-yard with him before dinner, to inspect a setter puppy of peculiarly fine breed which had been sent to Frank as a birthday present. “I wish I were an elder son; but we can’t all have that luck.”
“Who wouldn’t sooner be the younger son of an earl than the eldest son of a plain squire?” said Frank, wishing to say something civil in return for his cousin’s civility.
“I wouldn’t for one,” said the Honourable John. “What chance have I? There’s Porlock as strong as a horse; and then George comes next. And the governor’s good for these twenty years.” And the young man sighed as he reflected what small hope there was that all those who were nearest and dearest to him should die out of his way, and leave him to the sweet enjoyment of an earl’s coronet and fortune. “Now, you’re sure of your game some day; and as you’ve no brothers, I suppose the squire’ll let you do pretty well what you like. Besides, he’s not so strong as my governor, though he’s younger.”
Frank had never looked at his fortune in this light before, and was so slow and green that he was not much delighted at the prospect now that it was offered to him. He had always, however, been taught to look to his cousins, the De Courcys, as men with whom it would be very expedient that he should be intimate; he therefore showed no offence, but changed the conversation.
“Shall you hunt with the Barsetshire this season, John? I hope you will; I shall.”
“Well, I don’t know. It’s very slow. It’s all tillage here, or else woodland. I rather fancy I shall go to Leicestershire when the partridge-shooting is over. What sort of a lot do you mean to come out with, Frank?”
Frank became a little red as he answered, “Oh, I shall have two,” he said; “that is, the mare I have had these two years, and the horse my father gave me this morning.”
“What! only those two? and the mare is nothing more than a pony.”
“She is fifteen hands,” said Frank, offended.
“Well, Frank, I certainly would not stand that,” said the Honourable John. “What, go out before the county with one untrained horse and a pony; and you the heir to Greshamsbury!”
“I’ll have him so trained before November,” said Frank, “that nothing in Barsetshire shall stop him. Peter says”—Peter was the Greshamsbury stud-groom—”that he tucks up his hind legs beautifully.”
“But who the deuce would think of going to work with one horse; or two either, if you insist on calling the old pony a huntress? I’ll put you up to a trick, my lad: if you stand that you’ll stand anything; and if you don’t mean to go in leading-strings all your life, now is the time to show it. There’s young Baker—Harry Baker, you know—he came of age last year, and he has as pretty a string of nags as anyone would wish to set eyes on; four hunters and a hack. Now, if old Baker has four thousand a year it’s every shilling he has got.”
This was true, and Frank Gresham, who in the morning had been made so happy by his father’s present of a horse, began to feel that hardly enough had been done for him. It was true that Mr. Baker had only four thousand a year; but it was also true that he had no other child than Harry Baker; that he had no great establishment to keep up; that he owed a shilling to no one; and, also, that he was a great fool in encouraging a mere boy to ape all the caprices of a man of wealth. Nevertheless, for a moment, Frank Gresham did feel that, considering his position, he was being treated rather unworthily.
“Take the matter in your own hands, Frank,” said the Honourable John, seeing the impression that he had made. “Of course the governor knows very well that you won’t put up with such a stable as that. Lord bless you! I have heard that when he married my aunt, and that was when he was about your age, he had the best stud in the whole county; and then he was in Parliament before he was three-and-twenty.”
“His father, you know, died when he was very young,” said Frank.
“Yes; I know he had a stroke of luck that doesn’t fall to everyone; but—”
Young Frank’s face grew dark now instead of red. When his cousin submitted to him the necessity of having more than two horses for his own use he could listen to him; but when the same monitor talked of the chance of a father’s death as a stroke of luck, Frank was too much disgusted to be able to pretend to pass it over with indifference. What! was he thus to think of his father, whose face was always lighted up with pleasure when his boy came near to him, and so rarely bright at any other time? Frank had watched his father closely enough to be aware of this; he knew how his father delighted in him; he had had cause to guess that his father had many troubles, and that he strove hard to banish the memory of them when his son was with him. He loved his father truly, purely, and thoroughly, liked to be with him, and would be proud to be his confidant. Could he then listen quietly while his cousin spoke of the chance of his father’s death as a stroke of luck?
“I shouldn’t think it a stroke of luck, John. I should think it the greatest misfortune in the world.”
It is so difficult for a young man to enumerate sententiously a principle of morality, or even an expression of ordinary good feeling, without giving himself something of a ridiculous air, without assuming something of a mock grandeur!
“Oh, of course, my dear fellow,” said the Honourable John, laughing; “that’s a matter of course. We all understand that without saying it. Porlock, of course, would feel exactly the same about the governor; but if the governor were to walk, I think Porlock would console himself with the thirty thousand a year.”
“I don’t know what Porlock would do; he’s always quarrelling with my uncle, I know. I only spoke of myself; I never quarrelled with my father, and I hope I never shall.”
“All right, my lad of wax, all right. I dare say you won’t be tried; but if you are, you’ll find before six
months are over, that it’s a very nice thing to master of Greshamsbury.”
“I’m sure I shouldn’t find anything of the kind.”
“Very well, so be it. You wouldn’t do as young Hatherly did, at Hatherly Court, in Gloucestershire, when his father kicked the bucket. You know Hatherly, don’t you?”
“No; I never saw him.”
“He’s Sir Frederick now, and has, or had, one of the finest fortunes in England, for a commoner; the most of it is gone now. Well, when he heard of his governor’s death, he was in Paris, but he went off to Hatherly as fast as special train and post-horses would carry him, and got there just in time for the funeral. As he came back to Hatherly Court from the church, they were putting up the hatchment over the door, and Master Fred saw that the undertakers had put at the bottom ‘Resurgam.’ You know what that means?”
“Oh, yes,” said Frank.
“‘I’ll come back again,’” said the Honourable John, construing the Latin for the benefit of his cousin. “‘No,’ said Fred Hatherly, looking up at the hatchment; ‘I’m blessed if you do, old gentleman. That would be too much of a joke; I’ll take care of that.’ So he got up at night, and he got some fellows with him, and they climbed up and painted out ‘Resurgam,’ and they painted into its place, ‘Requiescat in pace;’ which means, you know, ‘you’d a great deal better stay where you are.’ Now I call that good. Fred Hatherly did that as sure as—as sure as—as sure as anything.”
Frank could not help laughing at the story, especially at his cousin’s mode of translating the undertaker’s mottoes; and then they sauntered back from the stables into the house to dress for dinner.
Dr. Thorne had come to the house somewhat before dinner-time, at Mr. Gresham’s request, and was now sitting with the squire in his own book-room—so called—while Mary was talking to some of the girls upstairs.
“I must have ten or twelve thousand pounds; ten at the very least,” said the squire, who was sitting in his usual arm-chair, close to his littered table, with his head supported on his hand, looking very unlike the father of an heir of a noble property, who had that day come of age.
It was the first of July, and of course there was no fire in the grate; but, nevertheless, the doctor was standing with his back to the fireplace, with his coat-tails over his arms, as though he were engaged, now in summer as he so often was in winter, in talking, and roasting his hinder person at the same time.
“Twelve thousand pounds! It’s a very large sum of money.”
“I said ten,” said the squire.
“Ten thousand pounds is a very large sum of money. There is no doubt he’ll let you have it. Scatcherd will let you have it; but I know he’ll expect to have the title deeds.”
“What! for ten thousand pounds?” said the squire. “There is not a registered debt against the property but his own and Armstrong’s.”
“But his own is very large already.”
“Armstrong’s is nothing; about four-and-twenty thousand pounds.”
“Yes; but he comes first, Mr. Gresham.”
“Well, what of that? To hear you talk, one would think that there was nothing left of Greshamsbury. What’s four-and-twenty thousand pounds? Does Scatcherd know what the rent-roll is?”
“Oh, yes, he knows it well enough: I wish he did not.”
“Well, then, why does he make such a bother about a few thousand pounds? The title-deeds, indeed!”
“What he means is, that he must have ample security to cover what he has already advanced before he goes on. I wish to goodness you had no further need to borrow. I did think that things were settled last year.”
“Oh if there’s any difficulty, Umbleby will get it for me.”
“Yes; and what will you have to pay for it?”
“I’d sooner pay double than be talked to in this way,” said the squire, angrily, and, as he spoke, he got up hurriedly from his chair, thrust his hands into his trousers-pockets, walked quickly to the window, and immediately walking back again, threw himself once more into his chair.
“There are some things a man cannot bear, doctor,” said he, beating the devil’s tattoo on the floor with one of his feet, “though God knows I ought to be patient now, for I am made to bear a good many things. You had better tell Scatcherd that I am obliged to him for his offer, but that I will not trouble him.”
The doctor during this little outburst had stood quite silent with his back to the fireplace and his coat-tails hanging over his arms; but though his voice said nothing, his face said much. He was very unhappy; he was greatly grieved to find that the squire was so soon again in want of money, and greatly grieved also to find that this want had made him so bitter and unjust. Mr. Gresham had attacked him; but as he was determined not to quarrel with Mr. Gresham, he refrained from answering.
The squire also remained silent for a few minutes; but he was not endowed with the gift of silence, and was soon, as it were, compelled to speak again.
“Poor Frank!” said he. “I could yet be easy about everything if it were not for the injury I have done him. Poor Frank!”
The doctor advanced a few paces from off the rug, and taking his hand out of his pocket, he laid it gently on the squire’s shoulder. “Frank will do very well yet,” said the he. “It is not absolutely necessary that a man should have fourteen thousand pounds a year to be happy.”
“My father left me the property entire, and I should leave it entire to my son—but you don’t understand this.”
The doctor did understand the feeling fully. The fact, on the other hand, was that, long as he had known him, the squire did not understand the doctor.
“I would you could, Mr. Gresham,” said the doctor, “so that your mind might be happier; but that cannot be, and, therefore, I say again, that Frank will do very well yet, although he will not inherit fourteen thousand pounds a year; and I would have you say the same thing to yourself.”
“Ah! you don’t understand it,” persisted the squire. “You don’t know how a man feels when he—Ah, well! it’s no use my troubling you with what cannot be mended. I wonder whether Umbleby is about the place anywhere?”
The doctor was again standing with his back against the chimney-piece, and with his hands in his pockets.
“You did not see Umbleby as you came in?” again asked the squire.
“No, I did not; and if you will take my advice you will not see him now; at any rate with reference to this money.”
“I tell you I must get it from someone; you say Scatcherd won’t let me have it.”
“No, Mr. Gresham; I did not say that.”
“Well, you said what was as bad. Augusta is to be married in September, and the money must be had. I have agreed to give Moffat six thousand pounds, and he is to have the money down in hard cash.”
“Six thousand pounds,” said the doctor. “Well, I suppose that is not more than your daughter should have. But then, five times six are thirty; thirty thousand pounds will be a large sum to make up.”
The father thought to himself that his younger girls were but children, and that the trouble of arranging their marriage portions might well be postponed a while. Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.
“That Moffat is a griping, hungry fellow,” said the squire. “I suppose Augusta likes him; and, as regards money, it is a good match.”
“If Miss Gresham loves him, that is everything. I am not in love with him myself; but then, I am not a young lady.”
“The De Courcys are very fond of him. Lady de Courcy says that he is a perfect gentleman, and thought very much of in London.”
“Oh! if Lady de Courcy says that, of course, it’s all right,” said the doctor, with a quiet sarcasm, that was altogether thrown away on the squire.
The squire did not like any of the De Courcys; especially, he did not like Lady de Courcy; but still he was accessible to a certain amount of gratification in the near connexion which he had with the earl and countess; and when he wanted to support his family gre
atness, would sometimes weakly fall back upon the grandeur of Courcy Castle. It was only when talking to his wife that he invariably snubbed the pretensions of his noble relatives.
The two men after this remained silent for a while; and then the doctor, renewing the subject for which he had been summoned into the book-room, remarked, that as Scatcherd was now in the country—he did not say, was now at Boxall Hill, as he did not wish to wound the squire’s ears—perhaps he had better go and see him, and ascertain in what way this affair of the money might be arranged. There was no doubt, he said, that Scatcherd would supply the sum required at a lower rate of interest than that at which it could be procured through Umbleby’s means.
“Very well,” said the squire. “I’ll leave it in your hands, then. I think ten thousand pounds will do. And now I’ll dress for dinner.” And then the doctor left him.
Perhaps the reader will suppose after this that the doctor had some pecuniary interest of his own in arranging the squire’s loans; or, at any rate, he will think that the squire must have so thought. Not in the least; neither had he any such interest, nor did the squire think that he had any. What Dr. Thorne did in this matter the squire well knew was done for love. But the squire of Greshamsbury was a great man at Greshamsbury; and it behoved him to maintain the greatness of his squirehood when discussing his affairs with the village doctor. So much he had at any rate learnt from his contact with the De Courcys.
And the doctor—proud, arrogant, contradictory, headstrong as he was—why did he bear to be thus snubbed? Because he knew that the squire of Greshamsbury, when struggling with debt and poverty, required an indulgence for his weakness. Had Mr. Gresham been in easy circumstances, the doctor would by no means have stood so placidly with his hands in his pockets, and have had Mr. Umbleby thus thrown in his teeth. The doctor loved the squire, loved him as his own oldest friend; but he loved him ten times better as being in adversity than he could ever have done had things gone well at Greshamsbury in his time.
The Chronicles of Barsetshire Page 85
