The Chronicles of Barsetshire

by Anthony Trollope

  Sir Louis was not going to stand this. He was the first man in the room, and he knew his own importance. It was not to be borne that Lady Arabella should turn to talk to a dirty attorney, and leave him, a baronet, to eat his dinner without notice. If nothing else would move her, he would let her know who was the real owner of the Greshamsbury title-deeds.

  “I think I saw your ladyship out to-day, taking a ride.” Lady Arabella had driven through the village in her pony-chair.

  “I never ride,” said she, turning her head for one moment from Mr. Gazebee.

  “In the one-horse carriage, I mean, my lady. I was delighted with the way you whipped him up round the corner.”

  Whipped him up round the corner! Lady Arabella could make no answer to this; so she went on talking to Mr. Gazebee. Sir Louis, repulsed, but not vanquished—resolved not to be vanquished by any Lady Arabella—turned his attention to his plate for a minute or two, and then recommenced.

  “The honour of a glass of wine with you, Lady Arabella,” said he.

  “I never take wine at dinner,” said Lady Arabella. The man was becoming intolerable to her, and she was beginning to fear that it would be necessary for her to fly the room to get rid of him.

  The baronet was again silent for a moment; but he was determined not to be put down.

  “This is a nice-looking country about her,” said he.

  “Yes; very nice,” said Mr. Gazebee, endeavouring to relieve the lady of the mansion.

  “I hardly know which I like best; this, or my own place at Boxall Hill. You have the advantage here in trees, and those sort of things. But, as to the house, why, my box there is very comfortable, very. You’d hardly know the place now, Lady Arabella, if you haven’t seen it since my governor bought it. How much do you think he spent about the house and grounds, pineries included, you know, and those sort of things?”

  Lady Arabella shook her head.

  “Now guess, my lady,” said he. But it was not to be supposed that Lady Arabella should guess on such a subject.

  “I never guess,” said she, with a look of ineffable disgust.

  “What do you say, Mr. Gazebee?”

  “Perhaps a hundred thousand pounds.”

  “What! for a house! You can’t know much about money, nor yet about building, I think, Mr. Gazebee.”

  “Not much,” said Mr. Gazebee, “as to such magnificent places as Boxall Hill.”

  “Well, my lady, if you won’t guess, I’ll tell you. It cost twenty-two thousand four hundred and nineteen pounds four shillings and eightpence. I’ve all the accounts exact. Now, that’s a tidy lot of money for a house for a man to live in.”

  Sir Louis spoke this in a loud tone, which at least commanded the attention of the table. Lady Arabella, vanquished, bowed her head, and said that it was a large sum; Mr. Gazebee went on sedulously eating his dinner; the squire was struck momentarily dumb in the middle of a long chat with the doctor; even Mr. Oriel ceased to whisper; and the girls opened their eyes with astonishment. Before the end of his speech, Sir Louis’s voice had become very loud.

  “Yes, indeed,” said Frank; “a very tidy lot of money. I’d have generously dropped the four and eightpence if I’d been the architect.”

  “It wasn’t all one bill; but that’s the tot. I can show the bills:” and Sir Louis, well pleased with his triumph, swallowed a glass of wine.

  Almost immediately after the cloth was removed, Lady Arabella escaped, and the gentlemen clustered together. Sir Louis found himself next to Mr. Oriel, and began to make himself agreeable.

  “A very nice girl, Miss Beatrice; very nice.”

  Now Mr. Oriel was a modest man, and, when thus addressed as to his future wife, found it difficult to make any reply.

  “You parsons always have your own luck,” said Sir Louis. “You get all the beauty, and generally all the money, too. Not much of the latter in this case, though—eh?”

  Mr. Oriel was dumbfounded. He had never said a word to any creature as to Beatrice’s dowry; and when Mr. Gresham had told him, with sorrow, that his daughter’s portion must be small, he had at once passed away from the subject as one that was hardly fit for conversation, even between him and his future father-in-law; and now he was abruptly questioned on the subject by a man he had never before seen in his life. Of course, he could make no answer.

  “The squire has muddled his matters most uncommonly,” continued Sir Louis, filling his glass for the second time before he passed the bottle. “What do you suppose now he owes me alone; just at one lump, you know?”

  Mr. Oriel had nothing for it but to run. He could make no answer, nor would he sit there to hear tidings as to Mr. Gresham’s embarrassments. So he fairly retreated, without having said one word to his neighbour, finding such discretion to be the only kind of valour left to him.

  “What, Oriel! off already?” said the squire. “Anything the matter?”

  “Oh, no; nothing particular. I’m not just quite—I think I’ll go out for a few minutes.”

  “See what it is to be in love,” said the squire, half-whispering to Dr. Thorne. “You’re not in the same way, I hope?”

  Sir Louis then shifted his seat again, and found himself next to Frank. Mr. Gazebee was opposite to him, and the doctor opposite to Frank.

  “Parson seems peekish, I think,” said the baronet.

  “Peekish?” said the squire, inquisitively.

  “Rather down on his luck. He’s decently well off himself, isn’t he?”

  There was another pause, and nobody seemed inclined to answer the question.

  “I mean, he’s got something more than his bare living.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Frank, laughing. “He’s got what will buy him bread and cheese when the Rads shut up the Church—unless, indeed, they shut up the Funds too.”

  “Ah, there’s nothing like land,” said Sir Louis: “nothing like the dirty acres; is there, squire?”

  “Land is a very good investment, certainly,” said the Mr. Gresham.

  “The best going,” said the other, who was now, as people say when they mean to be good-natured, slightly under the influence of liquor. “The best going—eh, Gazebee?”

  Mr. Gazebee gathered himself up, and turned away his head, looking out of the window.

  “You lawyers never like to give an opinion without money, ha! ha! ha! Do they, Mr. Gresham? You and I have had to pay for plenty of them, and will have to pay for plenty more before they let us alone.”

  Here Mr. Gazebee got up, and followed Mr. Oriel out of the room. He was not, of course, on such intimate terms in the house as was Mr. Oriel; but he hoped to be forgiven by the ladies in consequence of the severity of the miseries to which he was subjected. He and Mr. Oriel were soon to be seen through the dining-room window, walking about the grounds with the two eldest Miss Greshams. And Patience Oriel, who had also been of the party, was also to be seen with the twins. Frank looked at his father with almost a malicious smile, and began to think that he too might be better employed out among the walks. Did he think then of a former summer evening, when he had half broken Mary’s heart by walking there too lovingly with Patience Oriel?

  Sir Louis, if he continued his brilliant career of success, would soon be left the cock of the walk. The squire, to be sure, could not bolt, nor could the doctor very well; but they might be equally vanquished, remaining there in their chairs. Dr. Thorne, during all this time, was sitting with tingling ears. Indeed, it may be said that his whole body tingled. He was in a manner responsible for this horrid scene; but what could he do to stop it? He could not take Sir Louis up bodily and carry him away. One idea did occur to him. The fly had been ordered for ten o’clock. He could rush out and send for it instantly.

  “You’re not going to leave me?” said the squire, in a voice of horror, as he saw the doctor rising from his chair.

  “Oh, no, no, no,” said the doctor; and then he whispered the purpose of his mission. “I will be back in two minutes.” The doctor would have given
twenty pounds to have closed the scene at once; but he was not the man to desert his friend in such a strait as that.

  “He’s a well-meaning fellow, the doctor,” said Sir Louis, when his guardian was out of the room, “very; but he’s not up to trap—not at all.”

  “Up to trap—well, I should say he was; that is, if I know what trap means,” said Frank.

  “Ah, but that’s just the ticket. Do you know? Now I say Dr. Thorne’s not a man of the world.”

  “He’s about the best man I know, or ever heard of,” said the squire. “And if any man ever had a good friend, you have got one in him; and so have I:” and the squire silently drank the doctor’s health.

  “All very true, I dare say; but yet he’s not up to trap. Now look here, squire—”

  “If you don’t mind, sir,” said Frank, “I’ve got something very particular—perhaps, however—”

  “Stay till Thorne returns, Frank.”

  Frank did stay till Thorne returned, and then escaped.

  “Excuse me, doctor,” said he, “but I’ve something very particular to say; I’ll explain to-morrow.” And then the three were left alone.

  Sir Louis was now becoming almost drunk, and was knocking his words together. The squire had already attempted to stop the bottle; but the baronet had contrived to get hold of a modicum of Madeira, and there was no preventing him from helping himself; at least, none at that moment.

  “As we were saying about lawyers,” continued Sir Louis. “Let’s see, what were we saying? Why, squire, it’s just here. Those fellows will fleece us both if we don’t mind what we are after.”

  “Never mind about lawyers now,” said Dr. Thorne, angrily.

  “Ah, but I do mind; most particularly. That’s all very well for you, doctor; you’ve nothing to lose. You’ve no great stake in the matter. Why, now, what sum of money of mine do you think those d—— doctors are handling?”

  “D—— doctors!” said the squire in a tone of dismay.

  “Lawyers, I mean, of course. Why, now, Gresham; we’re all totted now, you see; you’re down in my books, I take it, for pretty near a hundred thousand pounds.”

  “Hold your tongue, sir,” said the doctor, getting up.

  “Hold my tongue!” said Sir Louis.

  “Sir Louis Scatcherd,” said the squire, slowly rising from his chair, “we will not, if you please, talk about business at the present moment. Perhaps we had better go to the ladies.”

  This latter proposition had certainly not come from the squire’s heart: going to the ladies was the very last thing for which Sir Louis was now fit. But the squire had said it as being the only recognised formal way he could think of for breaking up the symposium.

  “Oh, very well,” hiccupped the baronet, “I’m always ready for the ladies,” and he stretched out his hand to the decanter to get a last glass of Madeira.

  “No,” said the doctor, rising stoutly, and speaking with a determined voice. “No; you will have no more wine:” and he took the decanter from him.

  “What’s all this about?” said Sir Louis, with a drunken laugh.

  “Of course he cannot go into the drawing-room, Mr. Gresham. If you will leave him here with me, I will stay with him till the fly comes. Pray tell Lady Arabella from me, how sorry I am that this has occurred.”

  “Lady Arabella! why, what’s the matter with her?” said Sir Louis.

  The squire would not leave his friend, and they sat together till the fly came. It was not long, for the doctor had dispatched his messenger with much haste.

  “I am so heartily ashamed of myself,” said the doctor, almost with tears.

  The squire took him by the hand affectionately. “I’ve seen a tipsy man before to-night,” said he.

  “Yes,” said the doctor, “and so have I, but—” He did not express the rest of his thoughts.

  CHAPTER XXXVI

  Will He Come Again?

  Long before the doctor returned home after the little dinner-party above described, Mary had learnt that Frank was already at Greshamsbury. She had heard nothing of him or from him, not a word, nothing in the shape of a message, for twelve months; and at her age twelve months is a long period. Would he come and see her in spite of his mother? Would he send her any tidings of his return, or notice her in any way? If he did not, what would she do? and if he did, what then would she do? It was so hard to resolve; so hard to be deserted; and so hard to dare to wish that she might not be deserted! She continued to say to herself, that it would be better that they should be strangers; and she could hardly keep herself from tears in the fear that they might be so. What chance could there be that he should care for her, after an absence spent in travelling over the world? No; she would forget that affair of his hand; and then, immediately after having so determined, she would confess to herself that it was a thing not to be forgotten, and impossible of oblivion.

  On her uncle’s return, she would hear some word about him; and so she sat alone, with a book before her, of which she could not read a line. She expected them about eleven, and was, therefore, rather surprised when the fly stopped at the door before nine.

  She immediately heard her uncle’s voice, loud and angry, calling for Thomas. Both Thomas and Bridget were unfortunately out, being, at this moment, forgetful of all sublunary cares, and seated in happiness under a beech-tree in the park. Janet flew to the little gate, and there found Sir Louis insisting that he would be taken at once to his own mansion at Boxall Hill, and positively swearing that he would no longer submit to the insult of the doctor’s surveillance.

  In the absence of Thomas, the doctor was forced to apply for assistance to the driver of the fly. Between them the baronet was dragged out of the vehicle, the windows suffered much, and the doctor’s hat also. In this way, he was taken upstairs, and was at last put to bed, Janet assisting; nor did the doctor leave the room till his guest was asleep. Then he went into the drawing-room to Mary. It may easily be conceived that he was hardly in a humour to talk much about Frank Gresham.

  “What am I to do with him?” said he, almost in tears: “what am I to do with him?”

  “Can you not send him to Boxall Hill?” asked Mary.

  “Yes; to kill himself there! But it is no matter; he will kill himself somewhere. Oh! what that family have done for me!” And then, suddenly remembering a portion of their doings, he took Mary in his arms, and kissed and blessed her; and declared that, in spite of all this, he was a happy man.

  There was no word about Frank that night. The next morning the doctor found Sir Louis very weak, and begging for stimulants. He was worse than weak; he was in such a state of wretched misery and mental prostration; so low in heart, in such collapse of energy and spirit, that Dr. Thorne thought it prudent to remove his razors from his reach.

  “For God’s sake do let me have a little chasse-café; I’m always used to it; ask Joe if I’m not! You don’t want to kill me, do you?” And the baronet cried piteously, like a child, and, when the doctor left him for the breakfast-table, abjectly implored Janet to get him some curaçoa which he knew was in one of his portmanteaus. Janet, however, was true to her master.

  The doctor did give him some wine; and then, having left strict orders as to his treatment—Bridget and Thomas being now both in the house—went forth to some of his too much neglected patients.

  Then Mary was again alone, and her mind flew away to her lover. How should she be able to compose herself when she should first see him? See him she must. People cannot live in the same village without meeting. If she passed him at the church-door, as she often passed Lady Arabella, what should she do? Lady Arabella always smiled a peculiar, little, bitter smile, and this, with half a nod of recognition, carried off the meeting. Should she try the bitter smile, the half-nod with Frank? Alas! she knew it was not in her to be so much mistress of her own heart’s blood.

  As she thus thought, she stood at the drawing-room window, looking out into her garden; and, as she leant against the sill, her head was s
urrounded by the sweet creepers. “At any rate, he won’t come here,” she said: and so, with a deep sigh, she turned from the window into the room.

  There he was, Frank Gresham himself standing there in her immediate presence, beautiful as Apollo. Her next thought was how she might escape from out of his arms. How it happened that she had fallen into them, she never knew.

  “Mary! my own, own love! my own one! sweetest! dearest! best! Mary! dear Mary! have you not a word to say to me?”

  No; she had not a word, though her life had depended on it. The exertion necessary for not crying was quite enough for her. This, then, was the bitter smile and the half-nod that was to pass between them; this was the manner in which estrangement was to grow into indifference; this was the mode of meeting by which she was to prove that she was mistress of her conduct, if not her heart! There he held her close bound to his breast, and she could only protect her face, and that all ineffectually, with her hands. “He loves another,” Beatrice had said. “At any rate, he will not love me,” her own heart had said also. Here was now the answer.

  “You know you cannot marry him,” Beatrice had said, also. Ah! if that really were so, was not this embrace deplorable for them both? And yet how could she not be happy? She endeavoured to repel him; but with what a weak endeavour! Her pride had been wounded to the core, not by Lady Arabella’s scorn, but by the conviction which had grown on her, that though she had given her own heart absolutely away, had parted with it wholly and for ever, she had received nothing in return. The world, her world, would know that she had loved, and loved in vain. But here now was the loved one at her feet; the first moment that his enforced banishment was over, had brought him there. How could she not be happy?

  They all said that she could not marry him. Well, perhaps it might be so; nay, when she thought of it, must not that edict too probably be true? But if so, it would not be his fault. He was true to her, and that satisfied her pride. He had taken from her, by surprise, a confession of her love. She had often regretted her weakness in allowing him to do so; but she could not regret it now. She could endure to suffer; nay, it would not be suffering while he suffered with her.