The Chronicles of Barsetshire

by Anthony Trollope

  “We will each keep our secret,” said Mary. “Only remember this: should Frank marry to-morrow, I shall have no ground for blaming him. He is free as far I as am concerned. He can take the London lady if he likes. You may tell him so from me. But, Trichy, what else I have told you, I have told you only.”

  “Oh, yes!” said Beatrice, sadly; “I shall say nothing of it to anybody. It is very sad, very, very; I was so happy when I came here, and now I am so wretched.” This was the end of that delicious talk to which she had looked forward with so much eagerness.

  “Don’t be wretched about me, dearest; I shall get through it. I sometimes think I was born to be unhappy, and that unhappiness agrees with me best. Kiss me now, Trichy, and don’t be wretched any more. You owe it to Mr. Oriel to be as happy as the day is long.”

  And then they parted.

  Beatrice, as she went out, saw Dr. Thorne in his little shop on the right-hand side of the passage, deeply engaged in some derogatory branch of an apothecary’s mechanical trade; mixing a dose, perhaps, for a little child. She would have passed him without speaking if she could have been sure of doing so without notice, for her heart was full, and her eyes were red with tears; but it was so long since she had been in his house that she was more than ordinarily anxious not to appear uncourteous or unkind to him.

  “Good morning, doctor,” she said, changing her countenance as best she might, and attempting a smile.

  “Ah, my fairy!” said he, leaving his villainous compounds, and coming out to her; “and you, too, are about to become a steady old lady.”

  “Indeed, I am not, doctor; I don’t mean to be either steady or old for the next ten years. But who has told you? I suppose Mary has been a traitor.”

  “Well, I will confess, Mary was the traitor. But hadn’t I a right to be told, seeing how often I have brought you sugar-plums in my pocket? But I wish you joy with all my heart—with all my heart. Oriel is an excellent, good fellow.”

  “Is he not, doctor?”

  “An excellent, good fellow. I never heard but of one fault that he had.”

  “What was that one fault, Doctor Thorne?”

  “He thought that clergymen should not marry. But you have cured that, and now he’s perfect.”

  “Thank you, doctor. I declare that you say the prettiest things of all my friends.”

  “And none of your friends wish prettier things for you. I do congratulate you, Beatrice, and hope you may be happy with the man you have chosen;” and taking both her hands in his, he pressed them warmly, and bade God bless her.

  “Oh, doctor! I do so hope the time will come when we shall all be friends again.”

  “I hope it as well, my dear. But let it come, or let it not come, my regard for you will be the same:” and then she parted from him also, and went her way.

  Nothing was spoken of that evening between Dr. Thorne and his niece excepting Beatrice’s future happiness; nothing, at least, having reference to what had passed that morning. But on the following morning circumstances led to Frank Gresham’s name being mentioned.

  At the usual breakfast-hour the doctor entered the parlour with a harassed face. He had an open letter in his hand, and it was at once clear to Mary that he was going to speak on some subject that vexed him.

  “That unfortunate fellow is again in trouble. Here is a letter from Greyson.” Greyson was a London apothecary, who had been appointed as medical attendant to Sir Louis Scatcherd, and whose real business consisted in keeping a watch on the baronet, and reporting to Dr. Thorne when anything was very much amiss. “Here is a letter from Greyson; he has been drunk for the last three days, and is now laid up in a terribly nervous state.”

  “You won’t go up to town again; will you, uncle?”

  “I hardly know what to do. No, I think not. He talks of coming down here to Greshamsbury.”

  “Who, Sir Louis?”

  “Yes, Sir Louis. Greyson says that he will be down as soon as he can get out of his room.”

  “What! to this house?”

  “What other house can he come to?”

  “Oh, uncle! I hope not. Pray, pray do not let him come here.”

  “I cannot prevent it, my dear. I cannot shut my door on him.”

  They sat down to breakfast, and Mary gave him his tea in silence. “I am going over to Boxall Hill before dinner,” said he. “Have you any message to send to Lady Scatcherd?”

  “Message! no, I have no message; not especially: give her my love, of course,” she said listlessly. And then, as though a thought had suddenly struck her, she spoke with more energy. “But, couldn’t I go to Boxall Hill again? I should be so delighted.”

  “What! to run away from Sir Louis? No, dearest, we will have no more running away. He will probably also go to Boxall Hill, and he could annoy you much more there than he can here.”

  “But, uncle, Mr. Gresham will be home on the 12th,” she said, blushing.

  “What! Frank?”

  “Yes. Beatrice said he was to be here on the 12th.”

  “And would you run away from him too, Mary?”

  “I do not know: I do not know what to do.”

  “No; we will have no more running away: I am sorry that you ever did so. It was my fault, altogether my fault; but it was foolish.”

  “Uncle, I am not happy here.” As she said this, she put down the cup which she had held, and, leaning her elbows on the table, rested her forehead on her hands.

  “And would you be happier at Boxall Hill? It is not the place makes the happiness.”

  “No, I know that; it is not the place. I do not look to be happy in any place; but I should be quieter, more tranquil elsewhere than here.”

  “I also sometimes think that it will be better for us to take up our staves and walk away out of Greshamsbury—leave it altogether, and settle elsewhere; miles, miles, miles away from here. Should you like that, dearest?”

  Miles, miles, miles away from Greshamsbury! There was something in the sound that fell very cold on Mary’s ears, unhappy as she was. Greshamsbury had been so dear to her; in spite of all that had passed, was still so dear to her! Was she prepared to take up her staff, as her uncle said, and walk forth from the place with the full understanding that she was to return to it no more; with a mind resolved that there should be an inseparable gulf between her and its inhabitants? Such she knew was the proposed nature of that walking away of which her uncle spoke. So she sat there, resting on her arms, and gave no answer to the question that had been asked her.

  “No, we will stay a while yet,” said her uncle. “It may come to that, but this is not the time. For one season longer let us face—I will not say our enemies; I cannot call anybody my enemy who bears the name of Gresham.” And then he went on for a moment with his breakfast. “So Frank is to be here on the 12th?”

  “Yes, uncle.”

  “Well, dearest, I have no questions to ask you: no directions to give. I know how good you are, and how prudent; I am anxious only for your happiness; not at all—”

  “Happiness, uncle, is out of the question.”

  “I hope not. It is never out of the question, never can be out of the question. But, as I was saying, I am quite satisfied your conduct will be good, and, therefore, I have no questions to ask. We will remain here; and, whether good or evil come, we will not be ashamed to show our faces.”

  She sat for a while again silent, collecting her courage on the subject that was nearest her heart. She would have given the world that he should ask her questions; but she could not bid him to do so; and she found it impossible to talk openly to him about Frank unless he did so. “Will he come here?” at last she said, in a low-toned voice.

  “Who? He, Louis? Yes, I think that in all probability he will.”

  “No; but Frank,” she said, in a still lower voice.

  “Ah! my darling, that I cannot tell; but will it be well that he should come here?”

  “I do not know,” she said. “No, I suppose not. But, uncle, I
don’t think he will come.”

  She was now sitting on a sofa away from the table, and he got up, sat down beside her, and took her hands in his. “Mary,” said he, “you must be strong now; strong to endure, not to attack. I think you have that strength; but, if not, perhaps it will be better that we should go away.”

  “I will be strong,” said she, rising up and going towards the door. “Never mind me, uncle; don’t follow me; I will be strong. It will be base, cowardly, mean, to run away; very base in me to make you do so.”

  “No, dearest, not so; it will be the same to me.”

  “No,” said she, “I will not run away from Lady Arabella. And, as for him—if he loves this other one, he shall hear no reproach from me. Uncle, I will be strong;” and running back to him, she threw her arms round him and kissed him. And, still restraining her tears, she got safely to her bedroom. In what way she may there have shown her strength, it would not be well for us to inquire.

  CHAPTER XXXIV

  A Barouche and Four Arrives at Greshamsbury

  During the last twelve months Sir Louis Scatcherd had been very efficacious in bringing trouble, turmoil, and vexation upon Greshamsbury. Now that it was too late to take steps to save himself, Dr. Thorne found that the will left by Sir Roger was so made as to entail upon him duties that he would find it almost impossible to perform. Sir Louis, though his father had wished to make him still a child in the eye of the law, was no child. He knew his own rights and was determined to exact them; and before Sir Roger had been dead three months, the doctor found himself in continual litigation with a low Barchester attorney, who was acting on behalf of his, the doctor’s, own ward.

  And if the doctor suffered so did the squire, and so did those who had hitherto had the management of the squire’s affairs. Dr. Thorne soon perceived that he was to be driven into litigation, not only with Mr. Finnie, the Barchester attorney, but with the squire himself. While Finnie harassed him, he was compelled to harass Mr. Gresham. He was no lawyer himself; and though he had been able to manage very well between the squire and Sir Roger, and had perhaps given himself some credit for his lawyer-like ability in so doing, he was utterly unable to manage between Sir Louis and Mr. Gresham.

  He had, therefore, to employ a lawyer on his own account, and it seemed probable that the whole amount of Sir Roger’s legacy to himself would by degrees be expended in this manner. And then, the squire’s lawyers had to take up the matter; and they did so greatly to the detriment of poor Mr. Yates Umbleby, who was found to have made a mess of the affairs entrusted to him. Mr. Umbleby’s accounts were incorrect; his mind was anything but clear, and he confessed, when put to it by the very sharp gentleman that came down from London, that he was “bothered;” and so, after a while, he was suspended from his duties, and Mr. Gazebee, the sharp gentleman from London, reigned over the diminished rent-roll of the Greshamsbury estate.

  Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury—with the one exception of Mr. Oriel and his love-suit. Miss Gushing attributed the deposition of Mr. Umbleby to the narrowness of the victory which Beatrice had won in carrying off Mr. Oriel. For Miss Gushing was a relation of the Umblebys, and had been for many years one of their family. “If she had only chosen to exert herself as Miss Gresham had done, she could have had Mr. Oriel, easily; oh, too easily! but she had despised such work,” so she said. “But though she had despised it, the Greshams had not been less irritated, and, therefore, Mr. Umbleby had been driven out of his house.” We can hardly believe this, as victory generally makes men generous. Miss Gushing, however, stated it as a fact so often that it is probable she was induced to believe it herself.

  Thus everything was going wrong at Greshamsbury, and the squire himself was especially a sufferer. Umbleby had at any rate been his own man, and he could do what he liked with him. He could see him when he liked, and where he liked, and how he liked; could scold him if in an ill-humour, and laugh at him when in a good humour. All this Mr. Umbleby knew, and bore. But Mr. Gazebee was a very different sort of gentleman; he was the junior partner in the firm of Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, of Mount Street, a house that never defiled itself with any other business than the agency business, and that in the very highest line. They drew out leases, and managed property both for the Duke of Omnium and Lord de Courcy; and ever since her marriage, it had been one of the objects dearest to Lady Arabella’s heart, that the Greshamsbury acres should be superintended by the polite skill and polished legal ability of that all but elegant firm in Mount Street.

  The squire had long stood firm, and had delighted in having everything done under his own eye by poor Mr. Yates Umbleby. But now, alas! he could stand it no longer. He had put off the evil day as long as he could; he had deferred the odious work of investigation till things had seemed resolved on investigating themselves; and then, when it was absolutely necessary that Mr. Umbleby should go, there was nothing for him left but to fall into the ready hands of Messrs. Gumption, Gazebee and Gazebee.

  It must not be supposed that Messrs. Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee were in the least like the ordinary run of attorneys. They wrote no letters for six-and-eightpence each: they collected no debts, filed no bills, made no charge per folio for “whereases” and “as aforesaids;” they did no dirty work, and probably were as ignorant of the interior of a court of law as any young lady living in their Mayfair vicinity. No; their business was to manage the property of great people, draw up leases, make legal assignments, get the family marriage settlements made, and look after the wills. Occasionally, also, they had to raise money; but it was generally understood that this was done by proxy.

  The firm had been going on for a hundred and fifty years, and the designation had often been altered; but it always consisted of Gumptions and Gazebees differently arranged, and no less hallowed names had ever been permitted to appear. It had been Gazebee, Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee & Gumption; then Gazebee, Gumption & Gumption; then Gumption, Gumption & Gazebee; and now it was Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee.

  Mr. Gazebee, the junior member of this firm, was a very elegant young man. While looking at him riding in Rotten Row, you would hardly have taken him for an attorney; and had he heard that you had so taken him, he would have been very much surprised indeed. He was rather bald; not being, as people say, quite so young as he was once. His exact age was thirty-eight. But he had a really remarkable pair of jet-black whiskers, which fully made up for any deficiency as to his head; he had also dark eyes, and a beaked nose, what may be called a distinguished mouth, and was always dressed in fashionable attire. The fact was, that Mr. Mortimer Gazebee, junior partner in the firm Gumption, Gazebee & Gazebee, by no means considered himself to be made of that very disagreeable material which mortals call small beer.

  When this great firm was applied to, to get Mr. Gresham through his difficulties, and when the state of his affairs was made known to them, they at first expressed rather a disinclination for the work. But at last, moved doubtless by their respect for the De Courcy interest, they assented; and Mr. Gazebee, junior, went down to Greshamsbury. The poor squire passed many a sad day after that before he again felt himself to be master even of his own domain.

  Nevertheless, when Mr. Mortimer Gazebee visited Greshamsbury, which he did on more than one or two occasions, he was always received en grand seigneur. To Lady Arabella he was by no means an unwelcome guest, for she found herself able, for the first time in her life, to speak confidentially on her husband’s pecuniary affairs with the man who had the management of her husband’s property. Mr. Gazebee also was a pet with Lady de Courcy; and being known to be a fashionable man in London, and quite a different sort of person from poor Mr. Umbleby, he was always received with smiles. He had a hundred little ways of making himself agreeable, and Augusta declared to her cousin, the Lady Amelia, after having been acquainted with him for a few months, that he would be a perfect gentleman, only, that his family had never been anything but attorneys. The Lady Amelia smiled in her own peculiarly aristocratic way,
shrugged her shoulders slightly, and said, “that Mr. Mortimer Gazebee was a very good sort of a person, very.” Poor Augusta felt herself snubbed, thinking perhaps of the tailor’s son; but as there was never any appeal against the Lady Amelia, she said nothing more at that moment in favour of Mr. Mortimer Gazebee.

  All these evils—Mr. Mortimer Gazebee being the worst of them—had Sir Louis Scatcherd brought down on the poor squire’s head. There may be those who will say that the squire had brought them on himself, by running into debt; and so, doubtless, he had; but it was not the less true that the baronet’s interference was unnecessary, vexatious, and one might almost say, malicious. His interests would have been quite safe in the doctor’s hands, and he had, in fact, no legal right to meddle; but neither the doctor, nor the squire could prevent him. Mr. Finnie knew very well what he was about, if Sir Louis did not; and so the three went on, each with his own lawyer, and each of them distrustful, unhappy, and ill at ease. This was hard upon the doctor, for he was not in debt, and had borrowed no money.

  There was not much reason to suppose that the visit of Sir Louis to Greshamsbury would much improve matters. It must be presumed that he was not coming with any amicable views, but with the object rather of looking after his own; a phrase which was now constantly in his mouth. He might probably find it necessary while looking after his own at Greshamsbury, to say some very disagreeable things to the squire; and the doctor, therefore, hardly expected that the visit would go off pleasantly.

  When last we saw Sir Louis, now nearly twelve months since, he was intent on making a proposal of marriage to Miss Thorne. This intention he carried out about two days after Frank Gresham had done the same thing. He had delayed doing so till he had succeeded in purchasing his friend Jenkins’s Arab pony, imagining that such a present could not but go far in weaning Mary’s heart from her other lover. Poor Mary was put to the trouble of refusing both the baronet and the pony, and a very bad time she had of it while doing so. Sir Louis was a man easily angered, and not very easily pacified, and Mary had to endure a good deal of annoyance; from any other person, indeed, she would have called it impertinence. Sir Louis, however, had to bear his rejection as best he could, and, after a perseverance of three days, returned to London in disgust; and Mary had not seen him since.